Monday was Miss M’s “Princess Day.”

Gramma, Aunt Lizzie, and I – along with Pierce, Owen, and PK’s girlfriend, Memphis – took her for a day of full girly-ness.

First stop was the hair salon, where Miss M. had her locks shorn and straightened. (Not permanently straightened, thank heavens. Mommy likes her waves!)

There was shopping. And lunch at Old Country Buffet (one of Miss M’s favorite places) where they made a nice loud announcement wishing her a Happy Sweet Sixteen.

Once we were stuffed almost to the point of being immobile, it was off to the nail salon.

Best hair cut of the day was definitely Owen’s:

He’s had a Mohawk since last fall, when his beloved hero and cousin, PK, got one. This is the first one decorated with blue gel, and he got compliments everywhere we went. Including one he couldn’t resist telling us about over and over. (Whispered) “That guy said, “That’s the shit!”

There was more shopping. And some driving around in circles and loops and figure-eights because we made the mistake of following Aunt Lizzie.

And then it was time to drag ourselves and our stuff home.

I really pity Paris Hilton now. I never realized that all this hair and nail and shopping stuff could be so tiring. Poor girl must be half-asleep all the time, because I was so exhausted when we got back that all I wanted to do was go to bed. At 7pm.

But we totally did not have fun. Not at all.

R-L Bottom: Memphis, Miss M, Owen, Pierce. Top: Aunt Lizzie, Gramma, Me

“My, how the years have flown.”

Cell Phone Self-Portrait by Miss M.

My beautiful girl,

When you were born and the doctor announced, “It’s a girl!” I couldn’t have been more surprised. Sometimes, when I glance across the room, I’m still surprised.

Surprised and humbled, just as I am with your brothers, that I could have had any part in creating such a beautiful soul. Surprised that you’ve somehow grown another inch. Surprised that time has flown by so very quickly.

Parents say this a lot, but it is true – it seems like just yesterday that I was hearing the doctor announce, “It’s a girl!” Just yesterday … that we finally picked a name for you, or rather that you chose your own name.* Just yesterday … that we brought you home from the hospital. Just yesterday … that I walked you to school for the first time. Just yesterday … that you started wearing eyeliner and thinking about boys. Just yesterday…

In the sixteen years since your birth, you have grown into an amazing young woman I am proud to know and whose very presence brightens and enriches our home and our lives.

You are beautiful and intelligent. Good-hearted and generous. Full of laughter and more than a hint of mischief. A young woman who stands strong for her principles, who believes in herself, her own value, and her own power.

Today, you are standing on the verge of adulthood, with all its promise – and all its terrors. I want you to know that even the sky is not the limit for you, my darling child. Dream your dreams, work hard to make them come true, live your life in joy and hope, and there is nothing you can’t accomplish.

I love you, baby girl.

Happy Birthday.

– Mom

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* “All babies should have a story,” my grandmother said. Read Miss M’s story here.

Names have been changed except in cases where I couldn’t think of a cool nickname, so I just give the relationship. And Miss Lizzie better thank me for not using the nickname the brothers gave her!

I love day-trippin’, as I said in the previous post. Yesterday was a blast!

This was a family trip – 11 people total – and we started the day at 730am with breakfast at Gramma and Grampa’s. Eggs, sausage, Belgian waffles, French toast, three different kinds of muffins.

Once everyone had eaten their fill, it was time to put butts in seats.

As you can imagine, with 11 people, seating arrangements were a priority. I figured I’d be driving something, but I didn’t expect to get to drive the new business truck — a Mitsubishi Fuso. I was only driving it as far as Binghamton though, to drop it off to the dealer-authorized repair shop. Made Miss Lizzie (sister #2) ride with me, since I’d never driven it before and because, in case something went wrong, I’d have moral support. Which turned out to be a good thing.

PK drove the van, a Dodge Sprinter, and Grampa drove the Avalon. Owen (the nephew) rode with Grampa in the car, while Miss M, Pierce (the niece), PK’s girlfriend Memphis, along with Gramma, the step-sis, and the step-sis’s boyfriend rode in the van.

The plan was simple – once we reached Binghamton, PK would continue on I-81 while Grampa and I made a three-mile detour to drop off the Fuso. We’d catch up in no time.

Everything’s going nice and smooth. The Fuso is a freakin’ joy to drive. And then…

Just as we’re going through a red light, the jake brake comes on, and the Fuso stutters and DIES in the middle of the intersection. Thank the stars Grampa only got about half a block ahead before noticing we weren’t tailgating him any longer. Seems a clamp had come loose and was pinching the fuel line. Got it fixed/jury-rigged and headed out. Only to have it happen again after only a mile or so.

Got to the dealership — driving very, very carefully so as not to shift anything and pinch the fuel line again. While Grampa dropped off the keys, I talked to Mom and said we were going to be awhile catching up, only to discover we were only maybe 30 minutes behind them.

Seems that what I thought took an hour or more was, in reality, maybe 15 minutes. Time apparently slows to something even slower than molasses in January when people are honking and yelling and old ladies are flipping you the bird.

As Miss LIzzie said, “At least we got the bad over with early!”

Which is true. Something bad always happens on these sorts of trips, and having it done by 9:30am? Woot!

So, onward!

We drove and drove, and caught up with the van just after getting on I-90.

We hit a rest stop about 45 minutes from Herkimer, and had lunch. Which, in our family, is rarely fast-food. Nope. Gramma can move armies and feed them!

We commandeered two picnic tables, had a grill and a two-burner camp stove going. Hot dogs, bratwurst, meatball subs, chips, dip, sandwich fixings. Four kinds of drinks. Pretty soon, everyone was stuffed and it was time to pack up and hit the highway again. This time with me behind the wheel of the Avalon, and Grampa driving the van.

Got to the mine. Watched a little video about what to look for, and then proceeded out into the (very hot – did I mention it was 90 degrees!) open pit-type mine, where we bashed rocks with hammers for about four hours. Tons of fun, except for the parts where I fell and where I bashed a rock only to have a piece of it fly back and slam into my index finger.

The daughter and the niece and I tried the wall of Mine #2 – which had a lot more moisture on the face and little puddles. A young guy near us told us to check the loose stuff on the face and in the puddles, since smaller crystals can fall or simply be ignored by people looking for “big” rocks. The kids all seemed to have a good time. Owen enjoyed using his ball-peen hammer (the ones provided were too heavy for him).

He gave us the laugh of the day, too. Grampa had offered a $1 reward to the first boy and first girl to find crystals. The step-sis won hers about 3 minutes after we got to the mine, while Owen struck paydirt (literally, he hit the ground instead of the rock he was aiming for) about 20 minutes in, and announced, “I’m gonna go get my dollar, and then I’m goin’ to the playground.” Which he did.

Poor Miss M and Memphis, though. The heat gave them migraines, so both ended up retreating to the van, where Grampa (also suffering from the heat) had the air conditioner running.

And so went the day. We all wandered around, moving to different spots periodically, hoping for better luck – or, in the later part of the day, to find some shade. A little after 4 pm., Miss Lizzie, Gramma, Pierce, and I were the last ones still “mining” but the heat had taken its toll, so we started heading back toward the van to get cool drinks and hit the restrooms.

At which point we realized that we were going to look really great going to dinner. Every last one of us was dirty and sweaty. And Grampa was treating everyone to Cracker Barrel. LOL

I couldn’t do much about my clothes, but I did give myself a quick paper-towel wipe-down in the restroom to get the worst of the dirt and sweat off.

The four of us checked out the gift shop and museum and then it was time to head out. In perfect timing, we returned our borrowed hammers just as the rain started. I didn’t drive this time – PK took the wheel of the Avalon, while Grampa drove the van.

After a yummy, button-straining meal at Cracker Barrel, it was back on the road. We got back to the Valley about 10pm, exhausted, dirty, sunburnt, and smelly. An excellent adventure!

These are mine and Miss M’s finds:

As you can see, they’re pretty small, about an 1/8th inch, except for the large one. That’s about 1/2″ long and 1/4″ wide.

Now that summer’s in full swing, thoughts turn to getting away.

I’m not a resort vacationer. Nothing was more stressful to me than the two times we left home for a week or more for a place like Disney World.

Standing in lines with cranky, tired kids, spending boatloads of money on bad food and “prizes” that will probably be thrown away within a month, listening to the kids bicker from Day Two onward, all the while imagining our house has burned down, but no one can reach us. (It’s just one of those irrational fears, since 10-20 people would be calling at once if something actually happened, but still I worry about it.)

Plus having to come home and catch up on all the work that’s been sitting there waiting for me.

Then discovering someone ate half a tuna sandwich before we left, and the other half has been sitting in the trash can, stinking up the house for a week. In July.

Ugh! No, thanks.

I’m a back-to-nature vacationer. I liked hiking, especially hiking to World’s End State Park as a kid at Camp Lackawanna, but now I have to find easier trails, and I can’t carry nearly as much as in the old days.

I like camping – love it, in fact, whether it’s camping on the beach or in the woods. I go into full pioneer mode — cooking over a campfire, taking walks through the woods, telling stories around the fire, the smell of crushed grass scenting my sleeping bag, showing off my one-match campfire and survival s’mores & banana bake skills. However, I’m only good for about 3 days. After that, I want a real bed, a hot shower, a microwave, and a flush toilet. Not necessarily in that order.

Day-trips are my ideal, though. Go out, have fun, come home and sleep in your own bed.

Tomorrow, we’re doing a “whole family” day-trip, to the Herkimer Diamond Mines in Herkimer, NY. Gramma and Grandpa, my sister and I, and a whole lotta kids: my step-sister and her boyfriend, two of my three monkeyshines plus PK’s girlfriend, and my niece and nephew. We’re taking hammers and buckets and other neat tools to whack rocks and hunt for quartz crystals that were, in ages past, mistaken for diamonds.

Fun in dirt! Yayz!

So, what’s your preference – getting away for the whole vacation, day-trips, or something in between?

[I don't intend to make politics a big part of this blog, but this is one of those times when parenting and politics collide. -- Jenn]

Via Shakesville, Reason # 3582668 for Why I Won’t Vote For John McCain.

From a man who cheated on and later divorced the wife who waited through the many years he was a prisoner of war. The mother of the two sons he adopted and the daughter they had together:

Mr. McCain, who with his wife, Cindy, has an adopted daughter, said flatly that he opposed allowing gay couples to adopt. “I think that we’ve proven that both parents are important in the success of a family so, no, I don’t believe in gay adoption,” he said. [New York Times]

Proven? Who’s “proven” this? As a single, straight mom, I call bullshit.

Are gay parents somehow less equipped to give a child a loving home? Are straight parents somehow more equipped?

And what about single parents – straight and gay? I don’t know what you’d think of my kids, Mr. McCain. They’re responsible, caring, law-abiding, generous, ethical human beings. Did that happen solely because I like boys? What about my sister who didn’t choose single parenthood, but had it forced on her by the death of her husband?

There are plenty of examples of why heterosexuals shouldn’t be allowed to have or adopt children, so maybe, just maybe, it could be that what guarantees happy, well-adjusted, successful children — and what makes a good parent — has danged little to do with what happens in the bedroom or even a wedding ring?

Maybe it has something to do with that little thing I call “Love.”

Not the Hallmark card, Kodak commercial, Republican political ad kind, but real love. The caring, committed kind that always seeks to do what’s best for the child. The kind that knows the ability to conceive a child has little to do with the ability to raise that child in an atmosphere of love and acceptance.

The love that gives new parents the strength to get up in the middle of the night to feed the baby and change dirty diapers when it would just be easier to pretend they didn’t hear them cry; that gives a parent the ability to look at their three-year-old’s Sharpie artwork on the freshly-painted wall and not react by slamming the child against that wall; that spends five hours driving around because it’s the only way to get a colicky baby to sleep.

The kind of love that is mean enough to make a kindergartener walk back into a store to apologize and return the candy bar they swiped; that lets a parent hold their teen daughter when she cries about the boy who broke her heart even though they told her the boy was a rotten, no-good, so-and-so; that holds your hair when you throw up after eating a hot dog and a burger, popcorn, funnel cake, fry cake, a candied apple, and two bags of cotton candy at the carnival; that paces the floor of an emergency room after their seven-year-old tried to be Evel Knievel.

The kind that, when their child screams, “I hate you” after being denied something “everyone else has,” says, “I love you, too”; that never says “I told you so” when something turns out just as badly as you predicted; that, when their teenage son comes in two hours past curfew, hugs him in relief then wants to swat him for scaring them to death.

The kind that wants to give a home to a child who would otherwise be left to languish in the foster care system.

I don’t care if that love comes from a same-sex couple, a hetero couple, a single straight parent, or a single GLBTQ parent.

In fact, Mr. McCain, the people who love and raise you don’t even have to be your “parents.” How many people have raised their grandchildren or nieces and nephews or cousins to prevent them from entering foster care? How many people have raised their own siblings after a family tragedy? How many people are raising the child(ren) of one of their friends, or even a friend of their own child?

Do you really believe only a male/female set can care about the life of a child and do their very best for them?

And let me quote Sarah in Chicago, from the comments at Shakesville, who says it better and more succinctly than I:

As a social scientist, I can tell you, the casual link between two opposite-gendered parents and supposed good outcomes for children? IT DOES NOT F[***]ING EXIST!

Every time we control for gender in parenting arrangements, it drops away! Seriously!

These studies that they cite (or think they’re citing) are correlations that show that children in minority groups do better when they have the resources and attention of more than one parent. But what it has more to do with, is poverty levels and access to the provisions that two parents provide in disadvantaged social locations as being better for the outcomes of children.

IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH GENDER.

We have never shown that two opposite-gendered parents are the ‘optimal’ arrangement for rearing children. NEVER. And we won’t EVER. You know why? BECAUSE IT’S NOT THE CASE. You know what provides a good outcome for a child? Love, attention, and having as many adults having input and contributions to a child as possible.

Crossposted at The Lady Speaks

Want to make a nice dinner, but short on time? That’s why the Goddess sent us crockpots! Plus, you can make a great meal without turning on the oven.

Doing most of the prep work a day ahead makes it even easier.

Crockpot Pot Roast

Ingredients:
2-3lb chuck or round roast
1/2-1 bag baby carrots
2 small onions, peeled and cut into quarters
1 can of diced tomatoes
4-6 small potatoes
2 cloves garlic, chopped fine
2 packets beef gravy mix
6 tsp. kosher or sea salt for roast prep [Don't panic!]
2 c. water
Pepper to taste

The day before:
Cut onions into quarters, dice the tomatoes, finely chop the garlic. Place in (separate) ziplock bags and refrigerate till tomorrow.

Again, don’t panic, but use all the kosher/sea salt to cover the roast on all sides. Add to another ziplock bag and leave overnight. (I know. It sounds crazy, but it gives you incredible fork-tender meats and poultry. More on this below.)

The morning of:
In the crockpot, add gravy mix, 1 c. water, pepper, and garlic. Then add veggies, except onions and tomatoes. Set crockpot to “low.”

Remove the roast from its plastic prison, rinse well, and pat dry. Brown the roast on all sides. (Don’t forget the edges!). Stick in the crockpot, on top of the veggies. Tuck onion quarters around the roast. Add 1/2c. water. Cover and ignore until about 30 minutes before dinner time.

30 minutes before:
Add in the can of diced tomatoes. Cover and ignore again while you set the table, check email, yell at the kids or whatever it is you do after work.

20 minutes before:
Remove veggies. Plate the roast and let sit a few minutes before carving.

Dinnertime!

Servings: Feeds my family with a little less than half of the roast leftover – which is usually made into vegetable beef soup or hot beef sandwiches the next day. We’re carrot-lovin’ freaks, so we use the whole bag, but most people will only use half.

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Okay, now you’re saying to yourself, “Salt as a tenderizer?! What?!” Yup. I read this at Steamy Kitchen and thought the same thing.

But hey – what won’t I try to tenderize those cheap cuts I’ve been buying? Plus SK’s post had cool hand-drawn pictures explaining the how and why.

Still, trying it is one thing; ruining an entire roast is a whole other. So, I cut a slice off a round roast I had and covered it with a teaspoon or two of kosher salt. I let it sit for about half an hour and then rinsed it, patted dry, and made a mini stir-fry with some leftover veggies. Oh. My. Gosh! Literally “melt in your mouth.”

It works for pork and poultry, and I suspect it will work great for venison as well.

About the time a woman’s pregnancy starts showing — say 5-6 months along — a silent signal goes out, and she is quickly inundated with advice. Some great, some good, some bad, and some freakin’ horrendous.

What I consider the best advice I’ve gotten has changed over the years as my children aged, but my current favorite is:

“If your child doesn’t periodically claim to hate you, you’re probably not doing it right.”

I heard this a lot during the preschool years, and again during the pre-teen ones and again during the mid-teens. The boys haven’t said it in a long time, but I still hear “I hate you” on a regular basis these days, thanks to the not-quite-sixteen-year-old who would desperately love to convince me that fifteen years, eleven months is “almost exactly the same” as sixteen. It’s almost a badge of honor to be such a “horrible, rotten mother” that her daughter isn’t allowed to go on car dates even though “everyone else is allowed to!”

The worst advice I ever got?

“To make sure your children respect you, you should spank them every single day.”

No, seriously. I got that one in a parking lot when I was hugely pregnant with my second child and trying to convince an overtired two-and-a-half-year-old that he absolutely had to wear shoes if he wanted to go into the store. The woman in the car next to mine suggested I give RC a “good slap across the face” and implied not doing so would result in his growing up to be a sex-and-drug addict with a drinking problem who would kill us all in our sleep, probably while singing show tunes.

It’s got to be one of the few times when I didn’t just think, “Holy hell, you’re insane” but said it out loud, while still near the crazy person.

So, what’s the best and worst advice you’ve ever gotten about parenting?

I wish you all a safe and joyful holiday.
Please remember: kids and fireworks do not mix!

Love Hamburger Helper™, but can’t afford the price? Make your own!

As the title says, it’s quick and cheap – two things a mom loves – and it tastes great.

Mom’s Burger Casserole

1/2 – 1 lb lean ground beef, depending on family preference
2 packets beef gravy mix
1 bag egg noodles
1/2 small onion, chopped
1 clove fresh garlic, chopped fine
2 cups water
Salt/pepper to taste

To Make: In a saucepan, brown onion and garlic in a bit of oil until soft. Add burger and one packet of gravy mix. Stir until well mixed and mostly browned. Mix in 2nd gravy packet and add both cups of water. Stir well. Reduce heat to low.

Boil water in a second pot for egg noodles. When the water is rapidly boiling, add noodles, stirring constantly until water begins boiling again. When noodles reach desired softness, drain, and place in serving dish. Add burger sauce immediately and toss.

Substitutions: If you like cheesy mac, use 1 packet of gravy mix and one packet of cheese from boxed macaroni and cheese or 1 cup fresh grated cheddar. Like stroganoff? Add sour cream before tossing.

Servings: I have no idea. It feeds two sons with huge appetites, a 16yo daughter, and a mom. In RDA terms, that’s probably 6-8 servings.

Welcome to The Mom Speaks!

I hope that in the future this can become a great community of moms – and grandmoms – who can offer their expertise, share lots of laughter, and hand out tissues and chocolate when needed.

I’m sure you’re wondering who on earth I am. Well, I’m the mom of two sons: 21-year old RC and 18-year-old PK; and one daughter – the fabulous “Miss M” who will be sixteen in a month. We live in scenic, rural northeastern Pennsylvania nearly on the New York border.

Somehow, I managed to get my children this far without anyone having been arrested, put in rehab, or being killed by me. Not even after using my favorite – expensive – skin lotion to lube the Slip’n'Slide, or getting a third speeding ticket in two weeks, or having their first auto accident at age four… rolling my SUV into his father’s car. (Try explaining that to the insurance agent!)

I learned a lot of things the hard way, but what really got me through was the moms who’d already been there and done all that, who showed me what to do – and what not to do – without taking over or making me doubt my abilities as a mother.

Without my mom and aunts, older cousins, and friends, I would never have survived those early, sleep-deprived weeks with a newborn, the terrible two’s, the first days of kindergarten and the first emergency room trips — and all the later trips — talking about puberty and then having “The Talk,” and dealing with dating, sex, and responsibility issues during my childrens’ pre-teen and adolescent years.

I’m not sure where this blog will go or what wild territory it might cover, but I’m going to start off with my small stock of tips and tricks for dealing with children of all ages (especially your own), some advice for new moms of all ages, easy recipes and ideas for saving on your food budget, as well as hints for cleaning and dealing with clutter.

I’ll also be sharing a lot of my favorite stories about my kids, like the time my oldest decided to try jumping off the porch roof using a sheet as a parachute. Or the time my daughter misheard the lyrics to a song and asked me if I’d be throwing my panties in the fountain of youth. Or the time, my middle child misheard the state trooper who’d pulled me over for a broken taillight and thought I was about to be arrested.

I’ll probably even throw in some other stuff I’ve learned through the years about dealing with divorce when you have children, throwing birthday parties that don’t break the bank, ending (or at least easing) the homework and supper-time hassles, and learning to accept that perfection is an unattainable goal.

Parenting isn’t easy, but just having another voice to say, “You’re doing fine,” can make it a little easier.