These were so good I decided to forgo the usual supper recipe. But I guess you could have them for dinner if you'd like!
Pumpkin Pancakes
2 cups Bisquick
1 cup milk
2 eggs
1/2 cup canned pumpkin
1 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
3 tbsp. flaxseed meal
1/4 cup golden raisins
Mix all ingredients together in large mixing bowl. Add more milk if pancakes are too thick (you want batter to be almost thin because of the raisins). Cook over low heat on griddle or frying pan (low heat will ensure pancakes won't burn but will be cooked around raisins).
Enjoy!
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Glow-in-the-dark Funkins
So I'm not an obsessive Martha fan or anything, but the show came on when the TiVo shut off, and I found myself totally intrigued by these pumpkins! They take me back to my GenX college days! The best part is, if you use foam pumpkins, you can keep them for years. I think I might even have a black light still floating around the garage somewhere...
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Thursday, October 25, 2007
"Screamfree Parenting"
On the today show yesterday, they featured the author of a new book, ScreamFree Parenting. It seems like a fantastic concept, and one I try to practice daily but never seem to follow through on. The excerpt available on msnbc.com is hilarious to read, and I'm curious to find out what the techniques actually are. I think I just may buy this one...
Tips on taming temper tantrums
Tips on taming temper tantrums
Old Mother Hubbard...
I've gone to the cupboard too many times and found nothing it seemed I could make a meal out of. But then I found this great site, www.cookingbynumbers.com, and fell in love. It's a blast to use. You just check the boxes of what you have in your pantry and fridge, and it spits out recipes you can make with what you have. It couldn't get easier!
Monday, October 22, 2007
The Contents of my Diaper Bag
My keys (somewhere in here, I swear)
A pacifier that may or may not be sanitized, depending on how desperate I am
An old grocery list
Antibacterial wipes
Coupon organizer full of old coupons
Lipstick in the wrong color
Nursing cover-up, otherwise known as "Very Large Napkin"
My wallet, with exactly one dollar in cash and way too many debit card receipts
Antibacterial wipes
One very stained teddy bear
One Happy Meal toy, missing a leg
One pair cartoon underpants
Two crayons, one yellow, one melted
Sixteen stale Cheerios
Antibacterial wipes
And the one thing there doesn't seem to be room for...diapers.
A pacifier that may or may not be sanitized, depending on how desperate I am
An old grocery list
Antibacterial wipes
Coupon organizer full of old coupons
Lipstick in the wrong color
Nursing cover-up, otherwise known as "Very Large Napkin"
My wallet, with exactly one dollar in cash and way too many debit card receipts
Antibacterial wipes
One very stained teddy bear
One Happy Meal toy, missing a leg
One pair cartoon underpants
Two crayons, one yellow, one melted
Sixteen stale Cheerios
Antibacterial wipes
And the one thing there doesn't seem to be room for...diapers.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Sunday Night Suppers: Chicken Pot Pie
This is a great, quick-fix supper the kids will love with enough gourmet flavors for the grown ups. Cook the chicken ahead of time (in the a.m.) to make it even faster.
Chicken Pot Pie
1 pkg. refrigerated pie dough (2 crusts)
1/4 onion, diced
1/2 tsp. minced garlic
2 boneless chicken breasts, seasoned to taste, cooked and cubed
1 cup sliced fresh mushrooms
1/2 cup sliced carrots
1/4 cup chopped celery
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1/4 cup (or little less) milk
1 tsp. dried rosemary
salt and pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 350. Unroll pie dough, setting one aside for top and using the other to line 9" pie dish. Saute garlic and onion in a little olive oil, adding mushrooms when onions are just turning opaque and cooking until mushrooms are just softening up. Layer chicken, carrots, and celery in pie pan, topping with onion/mushroom mixture. In separate bowl, mix cream of mushroom soup and milk, stirring until just mixed. Pour over pie. Sprinkle with rosemary, salt, and pepper. Top with remaining pie crust, cutting slits to vent. Cover rim of pie with foil to prevent burning. Bake at 350 for 40 minutes, or until crust turns golden brown.
Enjoy!
Chicken Pot Pie
1 pkg. refrigerated pie dough (2 crusts)
1/4 onion, diced
1/2 tsp. minced garlic
2 boneless chicken breasts, seasoned to taste, cooked and cubed
1 cup sliced fresh mushrooms
1/2 cup sliced carrots
1/4 cup chopped celery
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1/4 cup (or little less) milk
1 tsp. dried rosemary
salt and pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 350. Unroll pie dough, setting one aside for top and using the other to line 9" pie dish. Saute garlic and onion in a little olive oil, adding mushrooms when onions are just turning opaque and cooking until mushrooms are just softening up. Layer chicken, carrots, and celery in pie pan, topping with onion/mushroom mixture. In separate bowl, mix cream of mushroom soup and milk, stirring until just mixed. Pour over pie. Sprinkle with rosemary, salt, and pepper. Top with remaining pie crust, cutting slits to vent. Cover rim of pie with foil to prevent burning. Bake at 350 for 40 minutes, or until crust turns golden brown.
Enjoy!
Saturday, October 20, 2007
The Poop Hits the Floor
Potty training. If two words could define our life right now, it would be those. We've put it off long enough. We have no more excuses. It's got to be done.
I just wish it were that simple. I swear I've house-trained dogs faster than this. Why is it such a fight? Does exerting his independence have to carry over to where and when they poop? Is it so hard to understand that crap inside your pants is not a good thing? For anybody?
We've been training for, oh, forever now and I still don't think we've made any progress. We bought tiny potties, seats that fit over the potty, standing, sitting, even going on the grass. He's seen other kids potty, and he's certainly peeked under enough stall doors to see other people going potty. We've bought pull-ups -- ones that stay wet, ones with learning designs, ones that get cold and covered with snowflakes (?) when they pee. We've bought Diego underwear, Cars underwear, and we've let him go with no underwear.
This morning he decided it would be alright to poop under the piano. No, even I cannot believe that my life has sunk to this; I used to swear over Cosmos that talking about my kid's poop would never become part of my life. Now I just laugh at myself, brush the spit-up off my shoulder, and move on. I try not to do this in public, because then I look crazy, especially if my kids aren't around. But where and when he poops has become the center of our lives, more so now that I've lied to the preschool.
"Of course he's potty-trained," I said with a smile, as if all three-year-old boys never have accidents. The truth is, I cannot make his little butt sit on the toilet for the life of me, and I'm wondering how I'm going to schedule his day so that he has 21 possible pooping hours to choose from and doesn't use one of the three he's in school.
My question is, have you been here before? How did you handle it? Please leave a comment. And if you're going through the same thing, leave a comment so I know I'm not losing my mind. And if you don't have kids or your kids are grown and gone, thank your lucky stars that your daily conversation doesn't include the word "poop." Except, of course, the expletive version. Which I think I'm about to use now...
I just wish it were that simple. I swear I've house-trained dogs faster than this. Why is it such a fight? Does exerting his independence have to carry over to where and when they poop? Is it so hard to understand that crap inside your pants is not a good thing? For anybody?
We've been training for, oh, forever now and I still don't think we've made any progress. We bought tiny potties, seats that fit over the potty, standing, sitting, even going on the grass. He's seen other kids potty, and he's certainly peeked under enough stall doors to see other people going potty. We've bought pull-ups -- ones that stay wet, ones with learning designs, ones that get cold and covered with snowflakes (?) when they pee. We've bought Diego underwear, Cars underwear, and we've let him go with no underwear.
This morning he decided it would be alright to poop under the piano. No, even I cannot believe that my life has sunk to this; I used to swear over Cosmos that talking about my kid's poop would never become part of my life. Now I just laugh at myself, brush the spit-up off my shoulder, and move on. I try not to do this in public, because then I look crazy, especially if my kids aren't around. But where and when he poops has become the center of our lives, more so now that I've lied to the preschool.
"Of course he's potty-trained," I said with a smile, as if all three-year-old boys never have accidents. The truth is, I cannot make his little butt sit on the toilet for the life of me, and I'm wondering how I'm going to schedule his day so that he has 21 possible pooping hours to choose from and doesn't use one of the three he's in school.
My question is, have you been here before? How did you handle it? Please leave a comment. And if you're going through the same thing, leave a comment so I know I'm not losing my mind. And if you don't have kids or your kids are grown and gone, thank your lucky stars that your daily conversation doesn't include the word "poop." Except, of course, the expletive version. Which I think I'm about to use now...
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Helter Skelter
My memories of my mother are of this calm, serene woman who exuded warmth. A nurturing, gentle soul, the only one you wanted when you woke in the middle of the night. I can count on one hand the number of times she lost her temper with me. A woman who would say, "That's okay. It's washable!" whenever I would spill something on the brand-new carpet. Not "What the heck are you doing with Juicy-Juice in the living room!!" or "Do that one more time little lady and I'm not buying anymore juice!" In short, I had the mom I'll never be.
I thought of this today while I was driving out my driveway after getting the belt of my leather car coat stuck in the car door while rushing my two screaming kids to somewhere not that important. I also thought of this while dabbing pink Fruitopia off my white turtleneck after hitting the McDonald's drive thru that I had promised Carter as a bribe for running preschool errands with me. I also thought of this while ordering my son to take the nap he doesn't need just so Mommy can get a few seconds alone with a cup of hot cocoa and one of the hundreds of catalogues that have begun pouring out of my mailbox.
I don't remember my mom acting anything like me. She was calm and gentle. Like I said, serene. I'm a friggin' hurricane. I do everything too fast. I eat too fast, talk too fast, drive my car too fast. I'm a hundred places at once. I'm not your typical mother. I get bored doing crafts, I don't have the patience for coloring, and besides a fondness for William H.'s Macy's narration on Curious George, I don't really like much of what has to do with kids. My mom, on the other hand, took me everywhere I ever wanted to go without complaining. She hosted endless sleepovers. Flipped piles of pancakes. Listened patiently to everything I had to say
(which was a lot, in my case).
I am not my mother, which is what some women would kill for. The problem is, I want to be like her. I want to have her patience. I want to be calm. I don't want to be this whirlwind of a mother who drives like a maniac and would rather listen to the Beastie Boys than Barney. I want to be soft and kind and nurturing. But I am a little girl grown up, when the little girl was fussy and opinionated and hot-tempered. And she hasn't changed much.
My definition of a mother is my mother, not me. And perhaps that is what's wrong with my picture. My mother didn't have two kids. She didn't have boys. She was a decade older than I was when she got pregnant. She came from a different time, she grew up in a different world. But she loved me for who I was, not who she hoped I would be. She never tried to make me into anything different. She delighted everyday in the person I was becoming. And if she were here now, she would probably expect me to act exactly as I do. And I hope she'd be proud.
My mother used to have a saying for me:
There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good,
She was very, very good.
And when she was bad,
She was horrid.
I guess things haven't changed much...
I thought of this today while I was driving out my driveway after getting the belt of my leather car coat stuck in the car door while rushing my two screaming kids to somewhere not that important. I also thought of this while dabbing pink Fruitopia off my white turtleneck after hitting the McDonald's drive thru that I had promised Carter as a bribe for running preschool errands with me. I also thought of this while ordering my son to take the nap he doesn't need just so Mommy can get a few seconds alone with a cup of hot cocoa and one of the hundreds of catalogues that have begun pouring out of my mailbox.
I don't remember my mom acting anything like me. She was calm and gentle. Like I said, serene. I'm a friggin' hurricane. I do everything too fast. I eat too fast, talk too fast, drive my car too fast. I'm a hundred places at once. I'm not your typical mother. I get bored doing crafts, I don't have the patience for coloring, and besides a fondness for William H.'s Macy's narration on Curious George, I don't really like much of what has to do with kids. My mom, on the other hand, took me everywhere I ever wanted to go without complaining. She hosted endless sleepovers. Flipped piles of pancakes. Listened patiently to everything I had to say
(which was a lot, in my case).I am not my mother, which is what some women would kill for. The problem is, I want to be like her. I want to have her patience. I want to be calm. I don't want to be this whirlwind of a mother who drives like a maniac and would rather listen to the Beastie Boys than Barney. I want to be soft and kind and nurturing. But I am a little girl grown up, when the little girl was fussy and opinionated and hot-tempered. And she hasn't changed much.
My definition of a mother is my mother, not me. And perhaps that is what's wrong with my picture. My mother didn't have two kids. She didn't have boys. She was a decade older than I was when she got pregnant. She came from a different time, she grew up in a different world. But she loved me for who I was, not who she hoped I would be. She never tried to make me into anything different. She delighted everyday in the person I was becoming. And if she were here now, she would probably expect me to act exactly as I do. And I hope she'd be proud.
My mother used to have a saying for me:
There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good,
She was very, very good.
And when she was bad,
She was horrid.
I guess things haven't changed much...
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