She won’t remember this

29 Jul

She won't remember sleeping in her crib...

Among the many things she won’t remember…sleeping in a crib

In the many, many hours I’ve spent caring for my daughter as a stay-at-home mom–some of them exhilarating, like watching her take those first (four) tiny steps, and others routine (dare I say boring?) like feeding her Cheerios for the millionth time–I often have the same thought:

She won’t remember this.

She won't remember waddling into our neighbor's house on Halloween

She won’t remember waddling into our neighbor’s house on Halloween.

While it’s clear she’s able to remember much more than she could in babyhood, it’s unlikely (impossible?) that she’ll remember much–or anything–about the Terrible/Terrific Twos. In some ways I suppose this is good. I’m glad she won’t remember the three or four panicky minutes we lost her at the Children’s Museum and another mom found her crying in the Noodle Forest–the one place we didn’t look because it was the one place she never played. But that means she also won’t remember that really fun time at the zoo when all the big cats were roaring or any of her birthday tea parties that we put so much thought and time and love into or the first time she hiked the entirety of the Pinnacle Peak trail (1.75 miles! UPHILL!) and her Daddy and I were so proud that we did an impromptu happy dance in the middle of the trail. She won’t remember waddling up and down the street in her chicken costume last Halloween (THE cutest chicken ever) or seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. Even the day-in-day-out stuff probably won’t make it into the long-term memory bank, like when we chase her in her hooded owl towel EVERY NIGHT after her bath (as if we won’t catch her and she won’t have to go to bed) or going to her weekly playgroup or grooving to “Jumping and Counting” at our local library music class.

And you know what? It doesn’t matter.

She won't remember seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time

She won’t remember seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time.

Not because the first few years are all about growth and development and making brain connections and other building-blocks-of-life-important stuff. They are and it is. Not because even though she won’t remember, I will (and I have a thousand pictures in case my memory needs jogging). I will remember it, some of it anyway–even if it does become a bit foggy (I always find it funny–and somewhat comforting–how much our own moms don’t remember). But because spending so much time with my daughter has taught me this: There is only right now.

It doesn’t matter that she won’t remember…because she lives in the present.

She won't remember the million times I chased her around and around and around the kitchen island

She won’t remember the million and one times I chased her around and around and around the kitchen island.

This is never more true than 2. Their attention spans are short. So, so short. If they push another child on the playground and you tell them no pushing! 10 seconds after the fact they won’t know why they’re in trouble. What’d ya talking about mom? I’m playing happily in the sand right now. The live in the here and nowand maybe we should too.

As adults, we’re often too distracted by the past or future to give our full attention to the present. And while we know we should pay more attention to the task at hand, toddlers live it.

It’s easier for them. They have to. They have to pay attention to everything because they’re figuring everything out. 

She won't remember holding my hand as she walked the entirety of the Pinnacle Peak Trail for the first time (1.75 miles! Woot!)

She won’t remember holding my hand as she walked the entirety of the Pinnacle Peak trail for the first time (1.75 miles! WOOT!)

Our lives are more complicated because we have more than block-tower-building going on–namely because we’re taking care of them–but when you spend 50-plus working hours a week with someone who rarely thinks about the next five minutes, it starts to rub off on you. There really is just now. So we might as well make the most of it. Neither of us will likely remember the epic doll dance party we had in the family room yesterday afternoon or the half-hour we spent chasing a friendly dragonfly in the backyard the afternoon before that. But in those moments we lived–really lived–not at all concerned or distracted by the events that came before or after.

I can think of no better way to make the most of these so-called longest shortest years…before they’re just memories.

Or more likely just a big happy blur.

Chocolate-chip Buttermilk Pancakes

There are two things I really hope she does remember from her early childhood: Pa’s JIFFY blueberry-cornmeal pancakes and my chocolate-chip buttermilk pancakes. She eats both regularly–THIS is the stuff childhood memories are made of. 

Just another Saturday morning…

Makes 8 pancakes, but we often double the recipe and freeze the leftovers.

1 cup flour

1 tablespoon sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 cup buttermilk (regular milk works fine; don’t let it stop you from making these on a lazy Saturday morning!)

1 beaten egg

2 tablespoons cooking oil

A handful or two of chocolate chips

In a medium bowl, combine the flour, sugar, baking powder and soda, and salt. Make a well in the center and set aside. In a small bowl or mixing cup, combine the buttermilk, egg and cooking oil. Add egg mixture all at once to the flour mixture and stir until just moistened. Batter will be thick, but you can thin it out with additional buttermilk if necessary. Finally, toss in some chocolate chips (a handful or two will do; roughly the same ratio as if you were making chocolate-chip cookies).

Pour 1/3 cup batter per pancake onto a medium-hot griddle and cook until golden brown on both sides. Eat while the chocolate chips are still melt-y and gooey! Sticky-fingered kids make happy kids!

Adapted from Better Homes and Gardens

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“I do it my own”

15 Jul

Wild child among the wildflowers

Wild child among the wildflowers

Since Emily turned 2, there are five little words that echo through our four walls like a broken record:

“I do it my own”

That’s 2-year-old speak for “Please don’t help me; I’ve got this, mom. I’m gonna do it allllll by myself, m’kay?”

And she does.

She takes off her own socks and shoes (she’d put them on too if she could). She brushes her own teeth and combs her own hair. She empties the dishwasher (she puts all the plasticwear–mostly hers–on the counter and leaves the breakables for me). She climbs into her car seat all by herself and proceeds to buckle herself in. She hoists herself (very carefully) into the bathtub. She even memorized her bedtime story so she could “read” it to me–on her own.

All the while spouting: I do it my own.

Her second favorite saying?

“I help”

Even princesses have to do the dishes…

Really, this is just another way for her to do things on her own. “I help, Mommy” usually means I’m gonna get some “help” in the kitchen. Stirring, measuring ingredients and sneaking tastes. She is really quite capable. While she can’t really “cook” yet, she’s a master of assembly. A pro at layering lasagnas and filling enchiladas with shredded meats and cheeses. Of course, we makes messes. Lots of ’em. But thankfully she helps me clean up too.

“I help, Daddy” likely means she’s going to dig random holes in the backyard or mow the lawn with her bubble mower alongside a hard-working daddy. All the while giggling and having the time of her life.

I love her independence. Her confidence. Her free spirit. She’ll run up to a group of first-graders on the playground, say “hi!” and proceed to laugh at jokes she doesn’t understand. (Basically she’s like that awkward person at a party who elbows her way into a conversation and laughs at the tail end of a joke. I love her for that.)

"Helping" Daddy with yard work

“Helping” Daddy with yard work

And for the most part, we step back and let her “do it her own.” We watch. We wait patiently as she discovers something new and boasts “I did it!” We give her space to learn things about herself and the world she lives in. We stand nearby “in case you need us” we helpfully offer. We don’t catch her every fall or worry about every scrapped knee, but we’re always within arms reach when she bites of a little more than she can chew.

Which is often.

Because 2-year-olds have HORRIBLE judgment. They don’t have the life experience or brain development or simple maturity to make the best decisions. Case in point: Emily decided it would fun/interesting/and maybe a little bit ornery of her to dump half a bottle of really sudsy baby shampoo on the guest room carpet. Then she blamed it on the cat. Ha! (But the joke’s on her because that’s going to be her room when she gets older).

Messes aside, when it comes to health and safety, we intercede. She is growing up fast. And that’s OK with us. We wish neither to speed it up or slow it down, but rather enjoy this moment in time…this phase that will come and go just like all the others have before it.

She’s forging ahead–doing it on her own–with a little help from Mommy and Daddy. ;)

P.S. Cherries are finalllly on super sale! Baking this pie this weekend. 

P.P.S. I know it’s been HALF A YEAR, but I plan to be back in this space again soon. :)

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Mamas, We Are the Lady’s Maids of Downton Abbey

22 Jan

Mirror

It’s Downton season, mamas. PBS is suddenly in vogue. Evening tea is a weekly ritual. And everyone is taking those silly quizzes to find out Which Downton Abbey Character Are You?

Let me spare you 5 minutes. If you have young daughters, the answer is: Lady’s Maid.

True, you may think that you’re the lady of the house, with the master bedroom and a formal title (either Mama or Mommy or Mommeeee or Mmmamamama!), but the real lady of the house is probably your 2-year-old daughter.

At least she is in ours.

Her bedroom may be the tiniest, but it’s likely the most thoughtfully decorated, highly-curated and Pinterest-worthy room in your manor. There may even be a mini chandy.

She rings the “gong” each morning–actually just a cry for Mommy–to change and dress her. It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m ready to start my shift, as Downton fans know, the gong waits for no one. Sending a substitute, such as the head butler (aka Daddy), simply won’t do.

The little lady needs her Lady’s Maid.

Patmore and Daisy

Downstairs, I temporarily morph into a downstairs cast member, and take on the dual role of head cook and kitchen maid. I make Cheerios like it’s nobody’s business and cut up fresh fruit for the lady of the house. When she devours the whole thing with enthusiastic mmmm’s, I feel like Mrs. Patmore. When she ceremoniously dumps it on the floor, I feel like Daisy the kitchen maid.

When mealtime is over, I’m back to being a Lady’s Maid. I’m at her beck and call around the clock, catering to her every whim and desire. I try to sneak in a cup or two of tea now and then, even the Downton servants, after all, are allotted proper tea breaks. But the lady always seems to need me to attend to a Very Important Matter–such as building a giant Mega Bloks tower– before I can finish a cup.

During her nap, I tend to her frocks. This little lady has a wardrobe that rivals any duchess of York–or my own. She has so many shoes, tops, dresses, leggings and coordinating hair bows that figuring out how to combine them all is a full-time job in itself. Fortunately, the lady has more than a few opinions on what she wants to wear-or more often, not wear–so this task does not fall solely on me.

I spend most of my efforts washing, de-staining (always with the de-staining!), mending (that’s a lie; I outsource that to Grandma because I’m a Lady’s Maid Who Can’t Sew), and matching tiny socks with their coordinating Disney Princesses.

Then, there are the dinner parties. We don’t sit down to a Downton-style dinner every night, but we do entertain regularly and the hostess with the mostess likes to be the belle of the ball. During a dress rehearsal for her birthday party–a multi-course Mad Hatter-style tea–I inquire whom she wants to invite. After thinking it over for a moment, she thoughtfully replies: Woof! Attention Doggies of Downton, you are more than welcome at (or under) the dinner table this year.

Downtown opening credits

Anytime we set the table for more than our family of three, out come the stuffed toys. They occupy formally empty chairs nearly as fast as I can set the table. Multi-colored plastic bowls and toy measuring cups get mixed up with the Wedgewood china, and an old baby bottle is set out for the lady’s doll. The lady of the house greets each guest with toothy toddler smiles and ensures they’re thoroughly entertained throughout the evening–that is until it’s time for her to go to bed–at which time I, the Lady’s Maid, will draw our hostess a warm bath and tend to her nightly ritual of bath, story and bed.

If a day in the life of a Lady’s Maid seems daunting, fear not. The position of Lady’s Maid is an esteemed one on Downton Abbey; the women who hold the title work hard to achieve such status and have arrived, in a sense. Miss Baxter even waxes poetic about her good fortune in becoming a Lady’s Maid to a countess–and I think I know why.

It’s hard work, yes, but rewarding beyond comprehension. That’s why I’m proud to call myself a Lady’s Maid. It’s a badge of honor I wear on my daily mom uniform of Comfy Casual Chic–and I can’t help but beam with pride when I think about what it means to be a mom. I feel fulfilled, grateful and, most of all, happy in my work.

In other words, being a Lady’s Maid is like having a perma-pregnancy glow.

And on those days when being a Lady’s Maid feels especially taxing or overwhelming–and I just want to run away with the chauffeur (also Daddy) for a kid-free weekend–I have this thought:

Someday all too soon my little girl will grow up and leave the abbey–and I’ll be the lady of the house again.

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All-the-Blueberries Buttermilk Waffles

18 Jan

Blueberry waffles 003

Oh, Joy, you’ve done it again.

I have so much to tell you about. Coconut-dipped chocolate donuts (yes! I made donuts! in my very own donut pan!). Our favorite great-aunt’s artichoke quiche (yes! I made quiche! and more importantly–pastry dough!). Very good lemon pound cake with lemon poppy seed buttercream (poppy seeds! Another Joy the Baker winner).

But the kitchen still smells of these absolutely heavenly, fluffy, hearty blueberry waffles so I had to share. It’s the perfect Belgium waffle, really. And a serious contender for this year’s Mother’s Day brunch (thoughts fellow mamas?).

Speaking of, I’m working on a fun piece about motherhood and Downton Abbey that I’m pretty excited about. I may even try to get it published somewhere. Stay tuned . . .

But for now, you get waffles.

All-the-Blueberries Buttermilk Waffles

Makes 3 Belgium Waffles

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

3 tablespoons sugar

1/3 cup melted unsalted butter

2 large eggs

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 1/4 cups buttermilk

1 heaping cup fresh blueberries, plus more for topping

In a large bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and sugar.

In a medium bowl, whisk together melted butter, eggs, vanilla and buttermilk. Add the wet ingredients, all at once to the dry ingredients. Stir until just incorporated. Stir in the blueberries; an enthusiastic almost-2-year-old “helper” makes an excellent assistant. ;) Try not to over-mix the batter. If a few lumps remain, that’s OK.

Make the waffles!

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Italian Cream Cake and 90-something Birthdays

7 Nov

Denver Oct. 2014 015

I have one regret about our favorite great-aunt’s 90th birthday: I didn’t make her a birthday cake.

Yes, there was a late (and rather last-minute) flight the night before, a then 8-month-old baby to contend with and blah, blah, blah. Still, I wish I’d made her a birthday cake so nobody had to pick up a sheet cake at the supermarket.

So we made plans to come out for her 91st birthday. And instead of luncheon at the Denver Botanical Garden with a plethora of party-goers, we had an intimate dinner of crepes on a lovely fall day at a relative’s house–with homemade birthday cake.

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This is the first cake I ever made–and I made it for the lady who taught me how. It is not a simple cake. Far from it actually with the whole three-layer thing, whipping and folding in of egg whites, chopping of pecans and maraschino cherries, and just generally having lots of steps and special ingredients (imitation butter flavoring, anyone?). But it is a special cake. One that has been made for 50th wedding anniversaries and other important life milestones. You know, like 91st birthdays.

Denver Oct. 2014 028

It’s my favorite cake too. And every cake I’ve made thereafter has seemed, well, like a piece of cake. It tastes especially delicious on birthdays and decorated with conversation hearts on Valentine’s Day. Then again most recipes passed down from a loved one taste especially sweet.

Of course, there’s nothing sweeter than seeing these two together:

Denver Oct 14 (cellphone) 035

Can’t you feel the love?

Italian Cream Cake

Makes enough for a large party, but don’t worry, the leftovers won’t go to waste ;)

For the cake:

1 cup butter (the original recipe calls for half butter, half shortening)

1 2/3 cup sugar

6 eggs, separated, at room temp

1 cup buttermilk

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon cream of tarter

2 cups flour

3/4 teaspoon vanilla

1/4 teaspoon imitation butter flavoring

2 cups shredded coconut

1 cup pecans, chopped

1/2 cup (or more) maraschino cherries, quartered

In a small bowl, combine flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside.

In a large bowl, cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add egg yolks one at a time and beat well after each addition.

Add buttermilk, alternating with dry ingredients, ending with flour mixture.

Stir in flavorings (vanilla and butter flavoring), coconut, pecans and cherries (it helps if these are chopped and ready to go)

In another large bowl, beat egg whites with cream of tarter until stiff peaks form. Gently fold into cake mixture.

Pour batter into 3 well-greased round pans* and bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let cool completely before removing from pans.

For the frosting:

1/2 cup butter, room temp

8 oz cream cheese, room temp

4 cups powdered sugar

1/4 teaspoon imitation butter flavoring

3/4 teaspoon vanilla

Cream butter and cheese. Gradually add sugar and flavorings until smooth and creamy.

*It helps if you line the bottom of pans with wax paper, flipping it over to grease both sides.

From the kitchen of a very special great-aunt

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When Mommy and Daddy are away…

28 Sep

The redhead will PLAY!

when mommy and daddy are away

And that’s what she did the first time we left our sweet baby girl with my parents for 24 hours. She was 18 months, I’d stopped breastfeeding the month prior, and we’d been dreaming of a little getaway for the two of us for some time.

But where would we go? What would we do? And–more importantly–who could we con into watching her? The promise of some summer East Coast business trips that didn’t pan out had me drooling–and I mean DROOLING–over the prospect of a cross-country flight ALL. BY. MYSELF. Just me, a window seat, a gigantic stack of magazines, maybe a cocktail (or two), and zero responsibility for another human being other than myself. I didn’t care that most of the weekend would’ve actually been eaten up by travel time; I longed, ached even, to get on that plane. You mamas know what I’m talking about.

But when it came down to it, we really wanted to spend what little time we had together, not slingshot-ed back and forth across the country in a metal tube. And when we fortuitously got our hands on a copy of Phoenix Magazine’s summer staycation issue, we thought YES. Spending the night at a local resort meant our total travel investment would be 30 minutes max, and yet we could feel like we were miles away if we settled on a part of town other than own. We’d be nearby in case of emergency–and for everybody’s peace of mind.

So we sold the idea to my parents–and promptly booked a room at the Arizona Biltmore before they could change their minds (come to think of it, we may have booked the room first and then crossed our fingers they’d say yes). But no matter. It was actually happening.

Emily didn’t have the best week leading into it, which made me all the more excited about our 24-hour vaca…and nervous that she’d give her caretakers a horrible time and we’d never get to do anything like this ever again. But our tantrum-happy tot was nothing but smiles and giggles for Grandma and Grandpa–and she was so busy playing that I’m not even sure she missed us all that much.

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As the very wise Molly Wizenberg of Orangette said of leaving her toddler behind on her book tour:  I want her to have sturdy attachments to people who aren’t her parents. We’re blessed with grandparents, aunts, uncles–our entire immediate family actually (on both sides!!)–in the state (most within a 15-minute radius of our house). And she looooves her “nanas” and “pas” and aunties and uncles and cousin “Dan Dan.” They say it takes a village. THIS is her village. And why we can never leave AZ.

I’m not sure who had more fun. Her? Us?? The grandparents??? I can speak for myself (and Eric) that while we missed our darling girl (and talked about her frequently, as we’re wont to do on date nights ), it was a nice change of pace not to be “Mom” and “Dad” for 24 hours. I wore high heels. No one flung food at me. I didn’t have to plan my day around anyone’s nap schedule (other than my own). There was a dive-in movie and lobster rolls at a swim-up bar. We even went down the water slide a few times for the heck of it. I had a mimosa at breakfast.

I’m not sure we would’ve fully appreciated the staycation experience pre-kid. But, wow, post-kid, it was A-M-A-Z-I-N-G.

And we were glad to see our little redheaded ray of sunshine the next day. She was so excited to show us where she slept (Hey! Did you know there’s a special sleeping room at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s?? No? OK then, I’ll show you and pretend to tuck you in for the next 20 minutes.). She and I had a better week that week. And that staycation vacation feeling happily lingered…

b&w biltmore

PS: A GIGANTIC thank you to my amazing parents. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Emily’s lucky to have such awesome grandparents!

PPS: For the other 364 days of the year: THIS

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On Birthdays and Boston Cream Pie

20 Jul

17 mo 012

I’ve had this blog for almost 3 years and somehow it does not include my Boston Cream Pie. What?!!!

However, it does include the spooktacular Boston “Scream” Pie Halloween rendition.

It’s my MIL’s favorite birthday pie cake…and also my grandmother’s…and occasionally gets requested by my sister.

I’ve dubbed it THE BIRTHDAY PIE.

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Eating leftover birthday cake for breakfast like a grown-up. Because that’s what grown-ups do, right?? #dontmindthechocolatebeard

I love making birthday cakes. And baking for others in general. It’s such an–often literally–sweet way to show someone you care about them. I am always reminded of this NPR essay from the This I Believe archives (listen to it–it’s good). We relive our past and honor those who came before us when we bake treasured family recipes, and pave the way for the future when we try new recipes–destined to become family favorites and part of new traditions.

And so I bake. Birthday cakes for family. Cookies for playdates. Pumpkin pie for my pumpkin-loving husband.

Despite the dishes, it all adds up to a pretty sweet life–especially the eating-cake-for-breakfast part. ;-)

Boston Cream Pie

Part 1: The Cake

I love, love, love this hot-milk sponge cake.

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

3/4 cup sugar

5 large eggs

1/4 milk

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

In a small bowl, whisk together flour and baking powder. Set aside. In a large bowl, beat sugar and eggs until light-colored, tripled in volume and the consistency of softly whipped cream. Meanwhile, heat butter and milk in a small saucepan until butter is melted.

In roughly 3 additions, gently fold the flour mixture into the egg mixture. Reheat the milk mixture until it’s piping hot and fold it in until well combined. Pour into 2 greased 9-inch round cake pans and bake for 20 minutes until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. The cake should also lightly spring back to the touch when done. Let cool at least slightly before removing from pan.

Part 2: The Filling

Since the pastry cream* needs to be refrigerated, you can make it first if you please–or even the day before.

1/3 cup sugar

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

2 tablespoons cornstarch

4 large egg yolks

1 1/3 cups milk

1 teaspoon vanilla

In a medium bowl, beat sugar, flour, cornstarch and eggs on high until thick and pale yellow, at least 2 minutes. Meanwhile, bring milk to a simmer in a medium saucepan. Gradually pour 1/3 of the hot-milk mixture into the egg mixture, stirring to combine. Scrape the egg mixture back into the pan and continue to cook over low to medium heat until the mixture is thickened and begins to bubble–whisking constantly to avoid scorching it. Then, continue to cook for 45 to 60 seconds.

Remove from heat and stir in vanilla. Pour into a clean bowl and cover the surface with a piece of wax paper to prevent a skin from forming. Let cool, then refrigerate before using.

*I know it sounds fancy, but it’s really not hard to pull off!

Part 3: The Chocolate Glaze

Here’s the part where I tell you to just throw some chocolate and maybe sugar and a little bit of liquid in a double boiler and see what happens. ;-)

6 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped

6 tablespoons freshly brewed coffee, milk or water

6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter or less, cut into small pieces.

The ingredients listed above appear in the Joy of Cooking’s Bittersweet Chocolate Glaze Recipe–which I always use but almost never follow. The key is to melt the chocolate, add some sugar to make it sweeter if desired (sometimes I start with an unsweetened baker’s bar so the added sugar is a must), add some liquid (usually milk) until it is meltly and smooth. Remove from heat then add as much butter as seems reasonable (almost never more than 1/2 stick) and drizzle the whole thing over the cake, letting it drip down the sides as pictured above. You can’t mess this up.

That’s it! Refrigerate until serving, but let come to room temp for 20 minutes or so to take the chill off. All recipes adapted from The Joy of Cooking.

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Sweet 16

26 Jun

Long time no write! You’ll be happy to know that Eric and I made our book bar date happen (mentioned here) and we HIGHLY recommend it. But this post isn’t about that. I thought it’d be fun to catch up on Emily’s day-to-day (like this post and this post of yore). She is constantly changing, a little redheaded blur that buzzes past me and is on to the next thing before I can capture the thing she just did. So here’s a peak into RIGHT NOW–a time capsule if you will–before she wakes up in the morning and changes all over again.

P.S. There’s a recipe for Pineapple Upside-Down Cake at the end…because I can’t help myself.

My midafternoon smoothie companion: Proudly making messes daily

Sixteen months is learning something new every day. EVERY DAY. Sixteen months is running through the house, although sometimes I wish you wouldn’t. Hence sixteen months is also full of falls and scratched-up knees, which almost never slow you down. Sixteen months is a handful of spoken words (mama, dadada, woof, Ga for Garfield, uh-oh…The Important Stuff), a couple of signs (more and all done), and what seems like an unlimited vocabulary of words that you know and respond to accordingly. Sixteen months is also pointing…and often pointing and screaming.

Every backyard needs a “Little Mermaid”

Sixteen months is afternoon dips in the backyard splash pool and sprinklers, and an insane amount of fun at the Valley’s many splash pads. Sixteen months is discovering that the AJ’s fountain makes a decent splash pad in a pinch (and why Mommy met her friend there without you the other week). Sixteen months is making friends and figuring out how to interact and play with the little people you see regularly. Sixteen months is knocking over another redhead when you randomly decided to give her a hug (but don’t worry–it scared you way more than her) and holding hands with a Valentine birthday twin at the aforementioned splash pad. Sixteen months is sharing toys (most of the time, anyway) and occasionally hitting another kid on the head with one of them.

A sticky situation: Please sign here, here, here and here.

Sixteen months is tantrums. Tantrums when we take something away from you. Tantrums when we tell you no. Tantrums when you’re overtired. Daddy calls them NBA flops. Sixteen months is doing almost anything to snap said toddler out of tantrum (getting on all fours and barking like a dog usually works…so do cookies). Thankfully, sixteen months is also full of “Happy Hours.” No, not that happy hour, although there’s plenty of those for Mom and Dad after bedtime (may I suggest KBC Blueberry Wheat Ale this summer?), but the magical 5 o’clock hour where no matter the day you’ve had, you turn into the happiest, silliest, hyper little girl for the home stretch of your day–standing on your head, trying to get us to chase you, basically having the time of your life. This is such a welcome change from the witching hour that used to take place at this time. Thank you for that.

Big girl car seat = no nap transfers (but still grateful for an extra nap wherever and whenever and however I get it).

Sixteen months is dropping a nap, but luckily sweet 16 still means a solid 12 hours of sleep. Sixteen months is hugs. Arms-wide-open-and-coming-at-you hugs. For Mom. For Dad. For grandmas, grandpas, aunts and uncles. Even for other moms who invite you over for playdates. Sixteen months is still sucking on your left two fingers to help you drift off to dreamland (whatever does the trick) and wearing a size XL SleepSack…and destroying one of them at 15 months when you decided it would be more fun to smear Vaseline ALL OVER IT instead of taking your afternoon nap.

THIS is the face of 16 months

Sixteen months is nonsensical sentences that make perfect sense to you and to your dolls and stuffed toys. Sixteen months is the beginning of make-believe play–especially feeding your toys and changing their diapers (you will make an excellent mother someday). Sixteen months is feeding yourself with a spoon–something you did the very first time we fed you solids–but now masterfully feeding yourself Cheerios, applesauce, yogurt, and most recently an ENTIRE SCOOP of ice cream. Sixteen months is messes. Lots and lots and LOTS of messes. In part because sixteen months also means tossing your food overboard when you’re through. Sixteen months is also googling “how to get Play-Doh out of carpet.”

Daddy’s Little Helper

Sixteen months is helping unload the dishwasher (and having mild heart attacks when you hand me something breakable), standing on your stepstool to load the washing machine dirty sock by dirty sock (it’s a slooooooow process), fetching the newspaper and putting it on the kitchen table, and even picking up and throwing away trash. Sixteen months is imitating face washing, putting on makeup, brushing your teeth (which I actually wish you would do) and trying on my shoes.

Taking selfies to pass the time…Emily thinks this is HILARIOUS.

Sixteen months is Mom and Dad thinking about spending our first night (or two) away if a willing grandparent would pretty pretty please watch you (#shesnotsobad). Sixteen months is balancing some side work with being a playgroup captain…and (most days) feeling like I can have my cake and eat it too. Sixteen months is beaming with pride each time you do or say or discover something new. Sixteen months is as sweet as can be–and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And so, let’s eat cake!

Pineapple Upside-Down Cake

Guess who made this cake to celebrate a made-up holiday from my childhood?? Now THAT’S sweet. ;-)

2 tablespoons butter

1/3 cup packed brown sugar

1 8-ounce can pineapple slices, drained and halved (we used fresh-cut square chunks)

4 maraschino cherries, halved

1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour

2/3 cup granulated sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

2/3 cup milk

1/4 cup butter, softned

1 egg

1 teaspoon vanilla

Melt 2 tablespoons butter in a 9-inch round cake pan. Stir in brown sugar and 1 tablespoon water. Arrange pineapples and cherries in pan. Set aside.

In a medium bowl, stir together flour, sugar and baking powder. Add milk, 1/4 cup butter, egg and vanilla. Beat with an electric mixer on low to medium speed until combined. Spoon batter over fruit and bake for 30 to 35 minutes or until a knife inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool in pan for 5 minutes, then invert onto a serving plate. Serve warm.

From Better Homes and Gardens

Psst! Feel like a trip down memory lane? Here’s are similar-ish posts from one month, two months, six months, ten months and one year.

 

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Desert Date

18 Apr

This post is a month old–what else is new old?

Truth is, I’m not in this space as much as I’d like. I think this rambunctious 14-month-old has something to do with it:

Just a kid in a candy store. We were SUPPOSED to be hanging out with our friends at a splash pad playdate. Instead, I spent the better part of an hour chasing Emily in and out of this nearby candy store before giving up and heading home. #likeamagnet #whyidonthavetimetowrite #thehair

But last month’s date’s been on my mind, compliments of the full moon. (Yes, we’re doing monthly dates. No, it wasn’t a New Year’s Resolution. Yes, we talk about our kid while we’re out. And it’s awesome.)

Chiluhly 2014 031

Last month found us at the Desert Botanical Garden for the Chihuly exhibit. We’d been tipped off that the 4-8pm time slot would enable us to see the glass installations by day and also lit up at night, but through no fault planning of our own, we serendipitously wound up there on the night of the full moon.

Best. Date. Ever.

Eric was in photography heaven (and so were the crowds of photography students who actually planned to be there for the full moon) so I’ll let his photos (mostly) speak for themselves:

Needles among the cacti

Neon hills

One of these things is not like the other…

Perhaps this one was beamed down from an alien spaceship…I can feel those creepy-crawlies.

This one reminds me of a Dr. Seuss novel. (See, I told you we talk about the baby on date night.)

The fireball

Day…

…Night

Saguaro silhouette

Boating party

Goodnight Moon. (Yet another kid’s book reference…)

This month’s date was a little less romantic (at a D-backs game with our families, but without the baby!), but we have big plans to check out Central Phoenix’s not-yet-opened Changing Hands’ First Draft bookstore/bar (!!!) in May. Books? Beer? No baby? We’re there.

Psst! Wanna see the glass works of art for yourself? The exhibit runs through May 18th. 

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In Old News, Cabbage Gratin

28 Mar

No alcohol was consumed during this photo shoot ;)

Apparently this blog has a reputation for untimely St. Patrick’s Day posts (see herehere aaaand here).

But isn’t that the Irish way? I stayed up past my bedtime many nights on our trip to the emerald isle, patiently sipping Guinness in a pub as I waited for the Celtic music to start at 9:30pm (as the guidebooks promised), only to have the guitar players and tin whistlers saunter in at 9:45 or 9:50. On a particularly late night, even one of the musicians grew tired so naturally a fellow bandmate hollered to the barmaid: Get her an Irish coffee without the Irish!

That’s Ireland. And I love it so.

Eric made this cabbage gratin to use up the leftover cabbage from our St. Patrick’s Day festivities, and while it may not look it, it was amazing. Like a cross between a quiche and, well, a cabbage I guess. I told Eric it tasted like something I’d order in a tearoom, which is pretty much the highest compliment I could give.

Our Irish lassie…1 year ago

But back to the booze. We didn’t take posed pictures of Emily during her first year with a lovie or special object to show how much she’s grown (arguably, though, she’s still one highly-photographed little lady). The closest thing we have to measure her increasing stature is a bottle of whiskey from her first St. Paddy’s Day, way back when she was just a wee lassie of 1 month old. Now that bottle is just a little taller than her knee. 

As the Irish say: Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir. Or, time is a great storyteller. 

Cabbage Gratin

A delicate and subtle dish that makes about 6 servings

3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese, divided

6 cups cabbage (about a pound), cooked and shredded (and ideally leftover from St. Patrick’s Day)

2 large eggs

1 cup milk

1/2 cup sharp cheddar cheese

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon ground cardamom (optional)

Butter a 2-quart gratin dish and layer with 1/2 cup Parmesan cheese. In a large bowl, whisk together eggs, milk, cheddar cheese, flour, salt and cardamon. Add the cabbage to the mixture, pour into the gratin dish, and sprinkle with remaining Parmesan. Bake at 375 degrees for 50 minutes or until golden brown. Put your 13-month-old down for a nap and enjoy on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

Adapted from–where else–The Joy of Cooking

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