View from the Prairie Box

Dear Livia,

Someday you might be married and you might have a three year old. In that day, in those moments where you either want to ring her neck or find a noose for yourself, remember that you were once a three year old as well. If you have actually survived to adulthood, know it’s a testimony to the amazing grace of God.

You and I are involved in one of the most trying experiences of my life—tantrums. I never thought you, my sweet and contented little baby, would throw tantrums, ever, in your toddler years. I wish I could acknowledge that I have substantial patience and self-control to guide and discipline you in the midst of the fits you throw. But I do not. Indeed, my lack of patience and self-control is incredibly frustrating. I used to think I was a good person. Now I know it’s not true. (That’s only partially said in jest.)

You tripped at the doctor’s office today.

You spilled over, twisted a bit in front of the large aquarium, and something about that ticked you off in a major way. Immediately your piercing screams filled the waiting room and every adult looked to see a shrieking, writhing, crazy child on the floor. I took you to the women’s restroom, warned you to calm down, then spanked you. It was so not fun, in every way imaginable.

When I take a moment to breath in and out, to let go of my frustration, I focus again on how incredibly precious and smart you are. You bring incredible joy to Daddy and me. You surprise us constantly with your attention to detail, your ability to tell and re-tell stories you’ve heard, your sweet spirit, and your love of laughter. You say the funniest things these days and have quite the circle of imaginary friends who are ready to play at your beck and call. You love going to Sunday School and Children’s Church and you’re constantly asking to play with your real live friends as well.

Livia, you remind me on a daily basis that we’re all diamonds in the rough. Lots of rough edges—on you, me and Daddy – that need smoothing out. We discipline you, then recognize the same rebellious, temper tantrum-producing spirits within our own bodies. We’re your parents, so you must learn to obey us, but we’re the same as you. Fallen, in need of a Savior to rescue us from ourselves. God’s grace is abundant, my dear girl. May you depend on Him, just as we do, as you grow.

Love,
Mommy

I figure if Kristen can win moola via Blingo, then why not me? Check it out.

…then you’ve got to have the right equipment.

I tend to have unusual encounters with strangers while grocery shopping. I blogged about this once before and only made a brief mention of the experience that scarred me for life. Long story short, I was around 21 years old and a much older black dude kept pursuing me at a Schnucks in St. Louis. Didn’t matter that I was married, he followed me around the store and kept inviting me over for dinner. I was terrified and was shaking by the time I got home to Jeremy that night.

Today I’m much more amused than shaken, but kind of perplexed as well. Now 29 years old, with obvious wedding bands on the ring finger of my left hand, I was approached by yet another much older man. He flattered me, and oh so kindly offered to help my poor confused self find the groceries I was looking for. I told him I didn’t think my husband would appreciate that. He dropped some more flattery and said he didn’t want to be creepy, then walked away. We saw each other twice more in the store, and I was fully prepared to be direct in the rudest way possible if he bugged me again.

Picking up chicks in Walmart? For real, people. Match.com or something, but just leave me alone in the canned veggie aisle!

My one exception to this rule to is Dennis Haysbert. If he wants to help me locate diced olives, I suppose I’d let him.

Feeding: Wives (and kids) who were so generous as to lend their husbands to the hard work of tearing out concrete from our backyard.
Paying: Some dude to complete the above activity with the help of a Bobcat.
Watching: Our yard, not to mention the concrete, get torn to shreds.
Sleeping: Away a large chunk of Saturday in order to heal from strep.
Baking: Yummy chunky brownies from a box.
Glowing: In the light from a firepit at a final fun night with our friends who are moving this Friday.
Feeling: Very sad about the moving of the good friends.
Enjoying: Livia’s first times attending Sunday School and Children’s Church with big kids.
Wishing: All the best to Bethany as she prepares to marry Andrew H.
Tearing Up: At the sweet memories and prayers at Bethany’s bridal shower.
Plucking: Concrete chunks from our sidewalk-less, parking spot-less backyard.
Planting: Pots on our front porch with coleus, some kind of impatiens and some cute little blue flowers whose name I can’t recall.
Watching: 24! while…
Drinking: A Mike’s.

Ingredients

• 1 egg
• 1/6 c vegetable oil
• 1/2 tsp EACH oregano, garlic powder, dry mustard, salt and pepper
• 1 loaf bread dough
• 4 oz pepperoni
• 1/2 lb Italian sausage
• 1/2 c cheddar cheese
• 1 c mozzarella cheese

Directions

1. Preparation: Place beaten egg, oil and all spices in a bag. Put the meat and cheese in a bag and keep the dough separate. Freeze.
2. Thaw. Roll out the dough, spread the oil spices on top, then add meats and cheeses. Roll like a log, seal the ends and sides. Bake 350 for 30 min.

**I’ve written this up as a freezer meal (because that’s how we do it), but you can alter the preparations for a fresh meal as well. I spray my baking pan with Pam and then also spray the top of the bread dough before baking. A friend of mine butters the top and adds parmesan cheese. This recipe is versatile and can be doctored up according to your tastes. Add green peppers, mushrooms, onions, black olives, etc for more flavor.

I have strep. Again.

Argh!

This stupid bacteria is not only making me a tired, sick woman, but it’s also costing us a bit of cash. There are the $10 copays for doctors’ visits (five times total now for the Tredways), the $10-$25 copays for antibiotics, replacement costs for toothbrushes and toothpaste, and, this is the one that really gets to me, replacement costs for my beloved Burt’s Bees chapsticks. I hoard that stuff like nobody’s business and I *just* purchased two new tubes — and used both because one has papaya in it and is a pink color and I’m the kind of girl who likes tinted chapstick.

So on one hand is the hard cash issue, on the other is the friend issue. Some dear friends of ours are moving in about nine days and it would be so great if I could help watch their kids this week while they prepare to leave Nebraska. Another family is moving across town as I write this post, and again, it would be such a blessing to them if I could watch their kids. Then again, I’ve never known a virus to ask permission regarding the timing of affliction. So why not this week?

The good news? Liv is strep-free. And as vivacious as ever. At least I have entertainment in the midst of feeling like crud.

You just never know who or what may be roaming the city streets of Lincoln, Nebraska. Photo taken from inside our garage last Saturday.

I love bubbles.

But I don’t love the mess that bubbles make.

I’ve recently discovered there are some moms out there who are fastidiously neat. As in, they are so tidy that they keep their children from any potentially messy situation. I’m not like that. If you looked around my house you’d know this due to innumerable dust bunnies, dirty/clean piles of merging laundry and overflowing bathroom trash. I don’t mind it when Liv tattoos herself with markers and it doesn’t bug me when she is covered in dirt from the garden. But a sticky bubble mess totally gets my goat.

So really, I wasn’t all that upset when two three year olds and one four year old dumped out ALL our bubbles on the front porch last Thursday. Because now when I’m asked to blow bubbles, I can just say, “No. We don’t have any.”

What a mean mom.