This Hofmann Life

Travel Adventure 1: Getting There

2012-02-26T14:15:00.000-05:00

At the hotel--too excited to go to sleep!

At 3:30 a.m. the next morning. I told you we didn't have a brush.

Well, we made it to Palm Springs and back. Barely, but we did. I’ll split our travel adventure into two posts—(1) getting there, and (2) being there.

On Saturday morning, things totally went our way. We got to the airport on time, checked in, and made it through security. Sure, Charlotte fell apart when TSA took her shoes, her mini football, and her snack container. Much screaming and crying commenced, and I consoled her the best I could, telling her to blame the government.

We FINALLY got to our gate (it takes forever to get anywhere at Dulles), which was overflowing with people. There, we learned our flight was delayed due to mechanical problems on our 400-year-old plane. We had an extremely tight connection in San Francisco, along with a few other folks, so the United agent told us to get back-up flights set ahead of time. At the counter, the agent looked at our flight and said whoever booked it did it wrong—we had an “illegal” connection (under 30 minutes) in San Francisco. (United cancelled our original flight and redirected us through Denver. I refuse to fly through Denver during February, so I called and fussed and insisted on flying through L.A. or San Francisco. Oops.) The agent informed us all other flights to Palm Springs were booked. All we could do was hope for a delay on the next flight, and then figure everything out in San Francisco.

Eventually, our flight West left—about 45 minutes late. Not terrible, but we were already screwed. Charlotte slept for the first hour (we brought her car seat on the plane), and enjoyed eating snacks and watching DVDs for the next bit of time. By hour three, she was antsy to move about. I took her to the back of the plane to change her wet diaper, only to learn that on this enormous plane, NONE OF THE BATHROOMS HAD CHANGING TABLES. Which, United Airlines, I find RIDICULOUS. Fortunately, a flight attendant said I could use their seat in the back, which drops down from the wall. This would have worked, but Charlotte didn’t weigh enough to keep the seat down. So, two older women who were hanging out in the back held down the seat while I changed Charlotte. It was very nice of them, and I thanked them profusely, but seriously. When you have several hundred passengers on each flight, you need an effing changing table.

Back at our seats, Charlotte fussed and fussed. We did everything we could to entertain her. Six full hours is a LONG flight for a two-year-old. At one point, we turned her car seat to face us and threw her football back and forth. This kept her happiest.

Finally, finally, finally, we landed in San Francisco. I grabbed Charlotte, leaving Chris to deal with the car seat, and barreled out of the plane (they let everybody with connections get off first). I ran to the departures screen, and our plane to Palm Springs was gone. We had totally missed the flight.

So, we got in a long line to talk to a less-than-perky United agent. We already knew it, but all flights to Palm Springs were booked through the weekend. After much research, we decided to take an early-morning flight to Ontario, California, about an hour-and-a-half away from Palm Springs.

By now it was about 4 hours or so past Charlotte’s bedtime, but she was happily entertaining herself on the single chair in the customer service area. She even found another toddler girl to play the “Hi.” “Hi.” staring game with.

United arranged for us to stay in a nearby hotel, and they gave us $45 in vouchers for airport dining. So, the logical thing was to eat dinner at the airport. Just so you know, at SFO, $45 will buy exactly: 1 banana, 1 fruit cup, one plate of questionable Chinese food, 1 burrito, and 3 bottles of water.

We didn’t have our luggage, and I was running low on diapers. So, we found a health and beauty store and bought a FOUR-DOLLAR DIAPER. One diaper. Four dollars. Thanks, United, for flying crappy old planes and booking layovers incorrectly! I should send them a bill. (Which would also include contact solution, toothbrushes, and toothpaste.)

So, the next step was waiting for the shuttle to take us to the hotel. For 30 minutes, we stood out in the wind, in our sunny Palm Springs clothes. Fortunately, I had packed a light windbreaker for Charlotte, but Chris and I were screwed. And cold.

Finally, the shuttle arrived. It then stopped at two other places, had a temporary mechanical difficulty of its own, and eventually we arrived at the hotel. There, we stood in another slow-moving line. Finally, we got into our room.

Charlotte took everything in stride, viewing the whole debacle as a grand adventure. By now, she was a good five hours or so past her bedtime, and although she was dead tired, she was totally having fun. Thank goodness. My love for her overflowed—bless her little adventurous heart. She was—truly—amazingly fantastic.

Because we had no luggage except for our carry-ons, we were pajama-less. I put Charlotte to bed naked (but with a diaper). Once she got past the excitement of a new bed in the SAME room as Mommy and Daddy, she pretty much passed out. Chris and I set three different alarms and tossed and turned all night.

At 3:30 a.m., all three of us were up. We showered the best we could, with the hard hotel soap and all, and put on the icky clothes from the day before. I had no make-up or even a brush, so getting ready took no time at all. Charlotte, lucky girl, had clean clothes (except for socks), as I had packed a bonus outfit for her in case of a poop explosion. Sometimes having people assume you’ll accidentally cover yourself in poo pays off.

We caught the shuttle back to the airport, checked in, and dropped another $20 at the airport Starbucks (1 milk, 1 cinnamon roll, 1 cup of coffee, and 1 yogurt). An hour-long flight to Ontario, and voila. We were FINALLY in Southern California.

Fortunately, once we got there, things got better. I’ll tell you about that in my next post.

Valentine's Day

2012-02-17T08:01:00.002-05:00

I know. Every photo from Charlotte's school parties involves a profile shot of her eating.

I'm not a huge fan of Valentine's Day, but I'm not one of those people who detest it. It's just sort of one of those days that has a whiff of something a little special about it--like St. Patrick's Day.

This year, as we have been SO BUSY lately, Chris and I decided to not "test" our mutual love with cards or flowers or chocolates or--gasp--a DATE. Nope, our focus was on merely survivng the week. We agreed that neither of us would make any effort, nor expect any effort made for us. See, this is how we express our love--by making things as easy on the other person as possible. It was perfect.

Of course, as I'm learning, having a child means you still have to do SOMETHING. When I was a wee lass, my mum would put together fun Valentine's Day baskets for my brother and me. Lots of sugar was involved, along with--always--a toothbrush. Although I have yet to be a Good Mom and mark February 14th in a similar way for Charlotte, I did make 13 valentines for her classmates (12 kids in the class max, but there are a couple part-timers).

And I attended her Valentine's Day party.

As I mentioned in my previous post, this was NOT something I had time to do, but I can't stand the thought of my girl looking around the classroom full of parents and with a trembling bottom lip, wondering where her mommy is. And Chris was triple-booked at work with meetings. And there was that whole rock-paper-scissors business.

So, I went. As I walked through the door, I told myslef it was TOTALLY worth it. That the mountain of work I was neglecting could wait. The room was beautifully set up with lots of pink and red, and festive V-day placemats and plates full of cupcakes and cookies were placed at each spot at the kids' tables. Jolly music was blasting, and I spied my little girl dancing her heart out. Gleefully.

Then a little boy shouted, "Charlotte, your mommy is here!"

Charlotte stopped dancing, looked up, and her face contorted into sheer anger. She plopped onto the ground and burst into tears, yelling, "NO! NO! NO!"

Just the reaction I was looking forward to when I walked in.

"Charlotte girl, what's going on?" I said.

She continued to scream and cry, her face as red as the as the festive frosting on the cupcakes. This kid was peeved.

"I think she thinks you're here to pick her up," her teacher said.

Well, of course! I finally understood. She was all excited for her party and she thought Mommy was here to take her home. She thought she was about to MISS the party, and she had been so pumped up for it.

"Charlotte, we're staying!" I said. "Mommy came early so she could go to your party too!"

Charlotte didn't hear me. She was screaming too loudly.

Finally, I pulled out a chair and hoisted my girl into it, so she faced a mountain of treats.

The screaming immediately ebbed. I took that opportunity to sit down next to her. Again, I told her I was there for her party. We were staying. I don't know if she thought, "Boy, that tantrum really worked--I got to stay!" or if she realized she had, um, misunderstood the situation. But the rest of the party was perfectly delightful.

So that was our Valentine's Day. Not terribly romantic and pretty much all about Charlotte, but most things these day are indeed all about Charlotte. And hey, that's mommyhood. That's just fine.

Still Here

2012-02-12T13:37:00.000-05:00

I know it's rare for me to keep my thoughts to myself blog-wise for 2 weeks, but rest assured, we are still here. This blog is still live. Life has been BUSY lately, but here are a few bullet points:

The new work schedule did not work out as we had hoped. While it's slightly better, the increased cost (gas, parking) of not carpooling garnered, in our opinion, only "marginal" benefit. So, we're back to the old schedule.
We're both drowning at work. This reduced the question of "Who has to go to Charlotte's Valentine's Day party?" to a high-stakes game of rock-paper-scissors. I lost, despite having handled Halloween, Thanksgiving, and the holiday party. Hrmph.
Our computer crashed. Completely. Although everything got backed up onto an external hardrive about 2 months ago, I lost a couple months worth of major yet now completely forgotton revisions to my manuscript. I have not yet started coping with this loss. I'm still in denial, but it weighs on me. Heavily. I devoted countless Charlotte naps and lack of sleep to work that has disappeared. This happened the day after I informed my writing group I had to take a temporary hiatus until spring, and I can't help but think this is punishment for a decision I wasn't terribly thrilled with in the first place.
If you really miss my blogging THAT much (awwwwww), head over to Bookish and reads some book reviews.

Charlotte's Birthday in Pictures

2012-01-31T15:15:00.001-05:00

In light of our upcoming cross-country flight to Palm Springs, we had an airplane theme. The pink decorations are clearance-section Christmas decor that I got at Target for 90% off (which means that whole look cost me a whopping $2.40). The runner is from Charlotte's cocktail party (last year) that her Nana made her. Bummer you can't see the bejeweled embellishments on the ends.

Planes. I bought a plane template (intended for quilting, I think) from an Etsy vendor, then I cut these from scrapbook paper.

And used them to decorate.

It took two tries, but I finally got a made-from-scratch pink plane cake. After plane failure #1 (cake stuck in wings), I told Chris cake #2 was coming out of a box. He begged me to try again from scratch, so I did. It's not the most beautiful cake, but goodness, it's insanely yummy.

For dinner, Charlotte got her favorite: Chicken nuggets.

Opening her first gift.

Light-up Sketchers! I've been waiting to give these to her for ages.

Her "big" gift from Mommy and Daddy was a portable DVD player. Again, we've got that long flight ahead of us. . . . She also got a Handy Manny DVD to go with it.

We gave her the Tiana doll she had pined for at Christmastime, but we mean parents had said no . . . .

And Uncle Jason, in an act of retribution, gave Charlotte a drum and rhythm set. (We gave our niece one about 5 years ago, and he promised payback. And of course she LOVES it.)

Omi and Grandpa got into the spirit of the airplane theme and gave Charlotte some plane picture books and this talking airplane toy.

Obviously, a hit.

Blowing out candles.

Cake! Note the use of the left hand for feeding. Hmmmm.

On the night of her actual birthday, we opend Round 2 of gifts after we all got home from school and work. The school informed me that all the kids sang "Happy Birthday" to Charlotte during circle time, and she was SO proud to wear her new twinkle toe shoes to school. She was a smidge tired at the point of this picture, but she insisted on putting on the pink jacket her Omi sent her. And, well, the blanket.

A happy, low-key, family-oriented birthdy for our girl. Maybe next year we'll throw an actual party. I want to do pony rides in the backyard, but SOMEBODY (who came up with no other options for a rural-area, late-January party) doesn't want his lawn screwed up. I've got one year to convince him . . . .

Two!

2012-01-30T09:16:00.000-05:00

Dear Charlotte,

Today you turn 2 years old! That means that you’ve been alive for 730 days—higher than you can count!

You learned so much during your second, oh so active year. You learned to walk, run, feed yourself, use a straw, kick a ball, and to say “MINE!” You gave up pacifiers (that thumb is just SO much tastier, no?), moved into a big-girl bed, decided you no longer liked avocados, and served as the Niners’ good luck charm until last week’s fateful game when you went to bed before kickoff. You moved up into new classes at school (twice!), switched to a forward-facing car seat, and tackled your first ocean waves.

Little girl, you were very, very busy during your second year. You ran from spot to spot, danced your heart out, sang even when you didn’t know the words, splashed through each bath, barreled down the driveway on your car, and wore out countless pairs of shoes. You always accessorized, with hats or jewelry, and you even experimented with make-up (shhh—don’t tell Daddy I let you).

Words tumble out of you now—mostly as demands: “Daddy, SIT!” or “Mommy, UP!” are a couple of your favorites. But you also say useful words, like “help” and “please” and, one of your most-used words, “more.” And let’s not forget the crucial noun–verb combination of “I pooped.” You say “all done” when you’re not, and “water” for milk, but on the whole, we get what you’re saying.

A picky eater you are not, but you do have your favorite foods: chicken nuggets, bananas, cheese, strawberries, crackers (except the Earth’s Best ones—don’t worry, I’ll get the cheap-o, non-organic crackers next time, little one), Indian-style lentils (weirdo), and broccoli. You don’t like cooked fish, but you slurp up sushi. And though I had to question your parentage, you seem to dislike mashed potatoes. Even with gravy. (Gravy!) By this, I am stupefied.

You’ve discovered time-out, exiled in the yellow living room. You hate it and you cry. Here’s a friendly reminder, sweet, sweet girl: You’re not allowed to stand on your chair during dinner (or breakfast or lunch), and you’re not allowed to bite.

You’re as curious as ever, and you love taking things apart and putting them back together. Tools fascinate you, as do lids, caps, and Velcro. You can maneuver around an iPhone, and you love to film yourself. You laugh and laugh!

Charlotte girl, you’ve done so much in your busy second year. You’ve made us so proud and so happy. You’re the spunkiest, silliest, most determined little girl in the whole wide world, and we’re so glad you’re ours.

Happy birthday, baby girl. Your mommy and daddy loooooooooove you!

Crafty

2012-01-27T09:15:00.001-05:00

Well, now that Christmas is over (okay, it’s way over) and surprises won’t be spoiled, I can unveil the craft projects we gave as gifts. Christmas 2011 was insanely busy for me, so I neglected (translation: just plain forgot) to take photos of everything. Sorry.

Project 1: Papa’s Little Moose

The photo used for the moose project. Well, I cropped it to show more Charlotte and less backyard, but you get the gist.

This probably doesn’t really count as a craft project, but it required about 19 steps to pull off, so I’m counting it. First, on a sunny day that wasn’t too hot or cold, and I dressed Charlotte in the camouflage moose outfit my dad gave her last year. (My dad does moose-hunting trips in Canada every couple of years.) We added her moose slippers (yes, my child has moose slippers) and took a fantastic photo of our girl, running (as is typical) with giant grin on her face (also typical). I uploaded the image to Costco, placed the print order, picked it up and was thrilled that it turned out. (You never know.) I framed the photo in a large, rustic-looking frame, then wrapped it with rustic-style wrapping paper. (Can wrapping paper be rustic? Well, this paper was.) Then I added a moose ornament to the outside of the package. This was, of course, to Papa from Charlotte. He loved it.

Project 2: Domestic Goddess Gift Baskets
For Grandma Belle and Chris’s mom, I was a tad crafty in that I wanted to put together gift baskets that fit their personalities and that also had a little sass. Sure, you can buy PRE-MADE gift baskets, but where’s the fun in that?

I started with some Barefoot Contessa and Williams and Sonoma baking mixes. I then found the CUTEST purple and magenta dish towels at Crate and Barrel (I loved them so much, I bought myself the same ones). I actually managed to find PURPLE spatulas on Amazon, and by pure dumb luck, I discovered two purple baskets at Michaels. Each was also given an Etsy-made, vintage-style apron. (Not purple, unfortunately.) I tried wrapping the first one in wrapping paper and failed, utterly. So, I added extra tissue paper to add some mystery, then cellophaned. And of course forgot to document the end result with the camera.

Project 3: Hot Chocolate and Cookies

The hot chocolate portion of the gift.

For Chris’s employees, I wasn’t TOO crafty but was still somewhat crafty, creating these cute little hot chocolate (with mini marshmallows!) concoctions with quite crafty homemade tags that essentially explained “add hot water.” I plopped them into a festive Crate and Barrel mug and voila! Part One was complete.

Part Two involved a plate full of home-baked goodies: peppermint bark and various kinds of cookies. Per usual, I wrapped each plate in cellophane and added a big bow (again, not pictured--it was oh so late when I finished and documentation seemed too much at the time). Multiplied by a dozen co-workers, it was a lot of work but also a big success.

Project 4: Shell Frames

In the meantime, for grandmas, great-grandmas, and Auntie Cheryl, I made photo frames (these gifts were technically from Charlotte, but her glue gun skills aren’t quite there yet). I painted the frames blue and then sprayed them with a sealant that made me woozy from fumes. With the shells Charlotte’s pudgy little hands collected on the North Carolina beach this summer, I decorated each frame using a hot glue gun. Finally, I put in a photo of Charlotte at the beach, along with a note explaining to the gift-receiver that she had collected those shells herself.

Ta dah! Done. I don’t have a ton of time for crafty endeavors, so getting to do these four projects was fun for me and felt like a larger accomplishment than it probably was. Now, I’m not one of the Jesus-is-the-reason-for-the-season purists who views anything store-bought as sacrilegious and reflective of consumer culture run amuck, but I do think putting some time and creativity and love into gifts makes them a tad more special and in keeping with the spirit of Christmas.

Going Bananas: Part II

2012-01-22T11:02:00.000-05:00

So, to continue from my previous post: Lately, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that we we’re doing just ain’t working. Thus, on Wednesday morning, about 3 minutes after my boss got in, I plopped down in her office and made my case for changing my work schedule.

“As much as it kills me to give up my compressed Friday,” I said (I get every other Friday off by working an extra hour each day, “days are too long for Charlotte. I drag her out of bed every morning, and I think getting that extra hour in the morning could help things run more smoothly. She’d also spend less time at school that way.”

I asked for a 2-week trial run to pin down the best timing. My boss did not hesitate and backed me up, and I felt much better about this whole working mommy thing. Maybe I just needed to tweak my schedule. Yes, it will cost more (gas, parking) with us not carpooling, but we need to at least try it.

The week dragged on. On Thursday, I had the joy of (mandatory) all-day training on Microsoft Office 2010 in downtown DC. This irritated the crap out of me, as I needed the desk time at work to actually complete my work, plus half my family works for Microsoft—I’ve been working with every new version of MS Office pretty much within hours of it being released. I didn’t need training on how to customize my toolbar. As Charlotte had been battling a cough and waking up fairly often throughout the week, I struggled to keep my eyes open in the class as we oh so slowly practiced how to click our mouses (mice?).

That previous paragraph had nothing to do with anything. I just wanted to complain about it.

On Friday, Charlotte’s immune system finally caught up with us. The child woke up with a fever. I had an all-day thing planned with a print vendor in Southern Maryland, full of meetings (and a tour of various types of printing presses, which was actually super fun and interesting and totally worth being a Bad Mommy). Chris knew I had to go into work, so he stayed home. I left Charlotte in tears (both of us), her crying “Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY!” and feeling like my mommy heart was balled up in maternal pain. Oh, it killed me. It shouldn’t have—there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with a sick toddler staying home with her daddy. Luckily, Chris had left his computer at work, which meant he couldn’t try to work during the day! Hooray!

Chris texted me updates throughout my meetings, and the pediatrician diagnosed an ear infection.

I got home as fast as I could that evening (it goes a lot faster when you don’t have to stop at school), and all was well. I slept in Charlotte’s bed with her on Friday night (she has a double-sized mattress on the floor), which eliminated the late-night crying for “MOMMY!” So, we all managed to get some sleep.

Last night, Charlotte slept solo and only woke up twice.

I’m thrilled it’s still the weekend, Charlotte is on the mend, the Niner game is today, and that it snowed Friday night. I can’t wait to try out my new work schedule tomorrow and drive to work during daylight. It was a loooooooong, sleep-deprived, weird week last week, but it nudged us to make some changes. Here’s to NOT going bananas THIS week (and GO NINERS!!).

Going Bananas: Part I

2012-01-21T15:05:00.001-05:00

Do you ever get the sense that you’re TOTALLY OVERREACTING but you just can’t stop yourself from making something utterly tragic and IMPORTANT?

I had such an experience on Tuesday morning. Chris had a meeting all the way in Fredericksburg, so I was going to take Charlotte to school. It was my telecommute day, so I decided to let her sleep in. I was up by 5:45 a.m., out of the shower shortly thereafter, and working away until she woke up, around 7:15 or so.

I got her dressed and ready for school. We loaded the car and were off!

The morning was disgusting—cold, cold rain and lots of traffic. I glanced at the clock, mildly concerned. I’d get Charlotte to school in time to eat her breakfast, right? What time does breakfast end? 8:30? We should be there in time.

We inched forward. F-I-N-A-L-L-Y we got to school. Outside Charlotte’s classroom door was a sign: “Breakfast will not be served after 8:15 a.m.” Uh-oh, I thought. We’re cutting it close. We walked in and I glanced at the clock.

8:19.

Charlotte zipped to her cubby to take off her coat and then to the sink to wash her hands. “Breakfast time is over?” I asked her teacher, fully expecting her to say, technically, yes, but go ahead and feed Charlotte.

Instead, she said, “Breakfast is over.”

I looked at the clock again, double-checking that it really was only 8:19. It was.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I thought breakfast was served until 8:30.” (I did.) “Can I quickly give Charlotte her banana?”

“No, breakfast time is over.”

“But Charlotte hasn’t eaten breakfast yet,” I said, cursing myself for not just giving her the damn banana in the car. “What time is snack time?”

“9:30,” the teacher replied.

I looked at the clock for the umpteenth time. “I don’t think she can wait that long. It was my mistake—I thought she had until 8:30.”

“Breakfast ends at 8:15.”

“Yeah, I get that now,” I said and sighed. “But 9:30 is a long time for her to go without eating, and she’s not going to understand why doesn’t get breakfast.”

“Well, maybe you can take her to the office and she can eat in there?”

I pondered this. I’d have to explain what I was doing with the myriad office staff (though in retrospect, it would have given me a good opportunity to give the director a piece of my mind), but more importantly, Charlotte wouldn’t understand being sequestered for her shunned banana time. She was already confused that she was not the first kid there.

“Fine,” I said. “She’ll just have to last until 9:30.” I was beyond pissed, being treated like a two-year-old who needed to be taught a lesson—especially when Charlotte was the one to get screwed over.

I’m a hopelessly chronic rule-follower. I drive Chris batty with my insistence that we only cross roads at designated crosswalks, my refusal to take a stroller on an escalator, and so on. He always mocks what he views as a too-high regard for the rules.

And we (I) go to very great lengths to follow the school’s billion rules, some of which they have purely for accreditation reasons, others so that they can run a smooth business. I get it. But I carefully label every effing item that goes through those doors. I fill out medication authorization forms when I simply change brands of diaper rash cream, and I get doctor’s notes for every single piddly thing, even when I know that there is NOTHING wrong with Charlotte—in fact, I got TWO notes for her last so-called rash that was verified as NOTHING by the doctor TWICE. And let’s remember that every pediatrician visit requires taking time off work, plus a co-pay. Tragic? No. Highly annoying? YES. But these are the rules, and I strive to follow them. The daycare–family relationship is precious and not something worth threatening because of what I view as unnecessary doctor’s notes.

So, me asking for the rules to be bent just this once so my child could eat a banana for breakfast was not something I chose to do lightly. But this was my little girl.

Clearly, I lost. As though she were trying to break Mommy’s heart in two, Charlotte started toward the table, where she usually eats her breakfast. “Sweetie, let’s play,” I said, praying that she didn’t fight it. “Let’s pick out a toy.”
Charlotte, weirdly, clung to me. She looked so sweet and innocent and totally confused. I got her settled with a toy, and kissed her goodbye.

I think her teacher knew that I was very, very unhappy. “I’ll give her an extra snack, okay?” she said, throwing out what I assume what a peace offering.

I nodded and made a beeline for the parking lot, tears (ridiculous, I know) already stinging my eyes. By the time I was safely in my car, I was in full-blown, hiccup-y sobs.
And I cried. The. Entire. Way. Home.

Now, was I really crying over a banana? Well, yes. And no. I was frustrated that I had driven an hour to get Charlotte to school and I still had to get home to my inbox and email and authors. I was frustrated that I had rushed for no reason. I was frustrated I had failed to get Charlotte fed. I was frustrated that I couldn’t just say “screw you” to her school, because it really is a great school and her teacher is very good at what she does. And I was frustrated that I need to have the sibling (Charlotte) in place so that we can get a future baby into the infant class—finding good infant childcare is harder than you can possibly believe. And I was frustrated that I was letting a kid who doesn’t yet exist affect my judgment about what to do for my child who actually does exist.

CMH Day: Part 2

2012-01-16T22:00:00.001-05:00

"Reading" her new book.

The haircut, plus a bit of accessorizing (thanks, Auntie Cheryl!).

CMH Day was a success! (And no, I’m not trying to trump MLK. Geez. We’re celebrating Charlotte’s birthday early because this working stiff has to work on January 30th, okay? Just because I didn’t quote MLK on my Facebook status AND called today CMH Day doesn’t mean I don’t dig the guy. He just happened to be born in January, like my Charlotte.)

We started the day with a haircut. I told Karen that we needed bangs, but lord-have-mercy-PLEASE don’t give her the perennial toddler mullet.

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” Karen said. “People start these kids’ bangs way in the back of their heads, and it just looks . . . bad.”

“The toddler mullet,” I said again, nodding.

Thus, Karen gave Charlotte just the right amount of bangs and trimmed the back. Voila.

Next, we went to Chick-fil-A for the best fast-food-style chicken nuggets in the world. Despite being a mom for (almost) 2 years, I’m utterly inept at juggling a kid plus tray. I’ve never taken Charlotte to a fast-food restaurant sans Chris. (And really, the last time she went to a fast-food restaurant period was this summer in North Carolina. So all those people who say working moms fill their kids with fast food because they’re so strapped for time? I just proved you wrong.)

(Now, let me get back to telling you how I filled my kid with fast food.)

(But it was [sort of] her birthday.)

(And Chick-fil-A’s nuggets are all-white meat, and their waffle fries are hardly processed at all.)

(Just saying.)

So, as I held the tray with one hand and Charlotte’s hand with the other, I realized I was one hand short to get a booster seat or high chair. “Eh, whatever,” I said to Charlotte. “You’re practically two! Let’s eat like a BIG big girl today, yes?”

She looked up at me with those big brown eyes that told me she had no idea what I had just said, but she was game.

So, we slid into a booth, pulled the table a bit more toward us, and ta da! She was eating lunch like a little person! A big girl! After I stared at her, shaking my head at how fast she’s growing up like the overly sentimental nut job I am, Charlotte and I enjoyed a genuinely mommy–daughterish lunch. Even if she did steal one of my chicken nuggets when I turned around. Seriously, she was so perfect and we had such a good time together that I realized we should do this way more often. Fast food really IS the way to go.

Next, we went to Barnes and Noble. Charlotte ran into the store shouting “Book! Book! Book!” while I chased after her. She then stopped dead in her toddler tracks and pointed to what appeared to be some sort of canine-related memoir. “Doggy!” she cried. “Doggy! Doggy! WOOF!” Eventually, I steered her to the children’s section and we picked out what I expected to be one book but what turned into three. And wow, buying three books NOT at Amazon adds up. Quickly.

At home, the kiddo napped, and when she got up, we had snack time, coloring time, Lego building time, dolly time, unload the dishwasher time (she LOVES to help unload the dishwasher), and we Skyped with Nana and Papa, who happened to both be at home for CMH/MLK/Snow Day. We also read her new books about 87 times.

Sometimes I view days like these as trial runs for if I ever chose to be a stay-at-home mum. It was fun, not having to be anywhere (except a hair appointment), and having Charlotte fed and dishes done before Chris even got home. But of course I have no more insight than I did before, as it was totally fake. I still had lunches to prepare for tomorrow, email to check, and the sweet, sweet knowledge that I most likely would not be the one changing that child’s next poopy diaper. And there’s the glaring fact that most things are lot more fun when you only do them once in awhile, rather than day in and day out.

CMH Day

2012-01-13T17:01:00.000-05:00

In our house, MLK Day will be CMH Day, because I’m CMH’s mommy and I said so.

Poor Chris has to work, so I decided to celebrate Charlotte’s 2nd birthday (which occurs in 2 weeks) early, as I must work on her actual birthday.

Here’s the CMH (that is, Charlotte Marie Hofmann) Day plan:

Painting nails with Mommy.
Haircut with Karen. ( I give up trying to avoid giving Charlotte bangs. Until she learns to not yank out the hair bands and bows and do-dads that keep her hair out of her face, the only way she’ll be able to see is with BANGS.)
A trip to Barnes & Noble to pick out any (board) book the birthday girl wants.
A Charlotte–Mommy lunch at Chick-Fil-A for her favorite non-banana food in the world, chicken nuggets.
If the weather is good, we’ll stop by a park for swing time.

I’m pretty excited. And if Charlotte knew it was coming, she’d be excited too.

Bookish

2012-01-11T19:02:00.000-05:00

I have lost my mind, y’all. For some time, I’ve played with the idea of creating a blog devoted to written words. I’ve always wanted to do such a blog, but SO MANY book review blogs already exist that it seemed . . . lame. How could I make mine different? In short, what’s the point?

As I posted my 2011 list of books, my favorite post of the year, I happily saw the oodles of site hits, and I enjoyed the conversations I had with others about all things bookish as a result. And then I was a little bummed I’d have to wait until NEXT year for another book list post. WAH!

Thus, I’ve created Bookish, which is connected (sort of) to This Hofmann Life. My mommy blog is a mommy blog. I originally started it to keep our families and friends up to date on Charlotte, as our kin (let’s bring back the word “kin,” yeah?) all live on the West Coast.

Then in May, I started Reader’s Ink, the online book club. While it has been fun, I feel like I sort of “interrupt” the mommy nature of This Hofmann Life with book club announcements and such. All book club–related things will now occur on Bookish.

Finally, as you may know, I write (well, I aim to write), and I think some of the posts I have swirling around in my head that are more writing-related would be more appropriate on Bookish. I don't want to lose the mommy nature of This Hofmann Life, but I want to write what I want to write without feeling like I'm cluttering the mommy blog with bookish things. Ya know?

Like This Hofmann Life, I expect Bookish to morph into its own quirky brand of wordiness, but for now I’ll say that I intend book reviews to generate the bulk of it (I HATE WAITING UNTIL JANUARY TO POST MY ANNUAL LIST). I’ll also add some writing insights or accounts of banging my head against my keyboard, nuggets of wisdom or stupidity from the unjust world of publishing, and maybe even a grammatical reminder here and there (not they’re or their) to remind dear readers that IMPACT should not be used as a verb, no matter how IMPACTFUL you think it makes your sentence. And the like.

So, if you enjoy words and would like to read about something other than Charlotte’s poop schedule or room décor, head over to Bookish.

In the Bag

2012-01-10T10:33:00.000-05:00

You want to know a way to get on my bad side?

Tell me my kate spade handbag is an overpriced sack. Or, point out that a plastic bag from Safeway will hold just as much. Or, tell me how I could have gotten an adorable satchel in adorable pleather at Kohl’s for an adorable $14.99—unless, of course, I have a coupon.

Let’s back up. Some time ago, I grabbed my handbag (see photo) as I prepared to hoist myself out of the car and onto the curb while Chris slowed down a smidge to drop me off at work. I dug around for my keys so I could actually enter the building. I pulled them out, and they dripped with milk.

After a little more digging, I found the culprit: Charlotte’s sippy cup, milk not entirely finished, lid not attached correctly, upside down. I hadn’t realized my spawn had dumped her cup in my handbag.

As I got into my office, I emptied the bag and found large puddles of milk at the bottom. I salvaged my wallet and keys. My lunch was already protected by a plastic grocery bag, as I had always—ironically, it appears—feared my lunch leaking into my handbag. I also lost about 30 business cards, but who gives a hoot about those? I get about 3,000 at a time. No biggie.

BUT MY BAG!

Eventually, I regained perspective. I could have it dry cleaned. Frankly, after being used every single day since I got it, the poor thing was due for a deep cleaning.

So, that evening, I dropped it off at the drycleaners in town. “How long will it take?” I asked.

“Three weeks,” the very nice business-owner said.

“Three weeks?!”

She nodded apologetically.

I sighed. Fine.

And so I parted—temporarily—with it.

Now, technically, I GET that it’s just a handbag. But you see, it’s a very, very special handbag.

When I was about 5 or 6 weeks pregnant—I mean, the pee stick had barely turned pink—I was in L.A. for a college reunion with my Oxy girls. While there, I met up with my aunt (who is like my second mom) in Old Town Pasadena, at one of my very favorite restaurants, a Greek place called Café Santorini. I told her I was pregnant. Though I shall keep the actual conversation between Her and Me, she was glad.

As we left, my aunt said, “You know, a kate spade opened up on Colorado Boulevard.”

Uh-oh. “Really?”

“Really. Wanna peruse?”

“Well, duh.”

We entered, and straight ahead of me sat a pretty handbag with a cute striped bow, big enough to hold page proofs and other work-related things with sassy yet classic style.

“You like?” my aunt asked. I thought she was just making conversation.

“Oh yes,” I said. “It’s freaking adorable.”

She plucked the bag from its shelf and plopped it onto the counter by the cashier with a bit of theatrical flair. Because, well, she’s my aunt. And theatrical is how she rolls.

“Happy Getting Pregnant With Charlotte,” she declared, whipping out her credit card. She had already predicted that I would have a girl. And that I would stick with my favorite girl name—Charlotte. And that the pregnancy would proceed just fine.

Now, did I mention that the only other people who knew the state of my uterus at this point included Chris, a friend at work, and my Oxy girls (who would have noticed a tequila-free margarita right quick)? Not even our parents knew. My mom would arrive in DC a week later, and I wanted to see her reaction LIVE, and logical Chris wanted reassurance that Embryo Charlotte was viable (i.e., good heartbeat, implanted at a good spot, both of which are determined at the first ultrasound, also a week later) before telling his parents.

My point? At the Pasadena kate spade, Embryo Charlotte’s existence was very secretive and rather surreal. And very, very new.

But it was fun to celebrate the beginning of my girl’s life, even if she was smaller than a kidney bean.

SO. You can imagine my glee when I came home from work and found a message from the drycleaners that my handbag—my kate-spade-auntie-cheryl-charlotte-hofmann handbag—was in. I zipped over and picked it up.

And oh, happy sigh. I highly recommend having your handbags meticulously cleaned. It’s back! And with nary a sign of spilled milk from Embryo-Turned-Big-Girl Charlotte.

"Do You Have a Few Minutes To Talk About Charlotte's Behavior?"

2012-01-08T14:22:00.000-05:00

I’m officially a less-than-stellar mommy. On Friday, I had a long conversation with Charlotte’s teacher, and let’s just say that my daughter is:

Inpatient
Willful
Territorial
Temperamental

We’ve been battling some tantrums at home lately, and Charlotte is acting out at school. Through the Mommy–Daddy lens of adoration, we saw these traits as signs of spiritedness. And I do believe that our little girl is incredibly spirited. But the fact of the matter is that she’s ruling the roost, and Mommy and Daddy need to take back control.

Literally since she was born, Charlotte has been headstrong and determined, knowing exactly what she wants and fighting for it. As I was birthing the darling thing, my OB-GYN laughed (laughed!) at Charlotte’s wriggling head, doing her part and fighting fighting fighting to be born. On Day 2 of life, I had a complete meltdown with the hospital’s lactation consultant, as my girl’s bizarrely strong sucking reflex had wreaked havoc on Mommy, doing more damage in less than time than the consultant had ever seen.

Charlotte is my first and only baby—I had no one to compare her to, but I started to realize that part of her personality was doing everything in the extreme. She inhaled milk or formula, and later food. Couldn’t eat it fast enough. (That still holds true, by the way.) She set school records in both spit-up and poop explosions. She turned colds into massive ear infections, and a stomach virus into a very threatening, hospital-stay-required infection.

She bolts from place to place. She does not walk. She bolts. I still carry her across parking lots, as I fear her ripping out of the death grip of my hand and getting hit by a car. The one time I thought “this is ridiculous—she’s almost two. I should let her walk,” she did precisely what I feared—she somehow broke free, and thank goodness an oncoming SUV immediately braked.

Everything Charlotte does seems to be punctuated with a fat, definitive period after it. Charlotte does not set a cup down on the table; she slams it. She doesn’t like a trickle from the bath faucet to play with; she wants the water on full-blast. She doesn’t step down the stairs one by one; she jumps from stair to stair; she does not close cupboards or drawers; she bangs them shut. She does not lazily roll around on her bike or car; she barrels down the driveway at a terrifying speed.

Since she was a baby, and as a young toddler, her teachers described how she entered each day with such gusto and joy, fascinated with and unafraid of new experiences. Everything in the world was good and fun, except going to the pediatrician’s office. (She’s like a dog going to the vet—she stiffens and howls as we pull into the parking lot. But she’s getting much better!)

The trouble is, the spiritedness that makes Charlotte so lively and goofy and fun is morphing into the terrible twos.

The long and the short of it? She’s being disruptive, throwing tantrums, and being, well, naughty.

Some of this is due to Charlotte’s temperament—I truly believe that our child is wired a certain way that makes her “extreme” in how she goes about doing things. Watching Charlotte do anything is like watching a video on fast-forward. It’s exhausting.

And, as all you know-it-alls out there already know, Chris and I deserve a lot of the blame. We’ve gotten so used to accommodating her demands that we do it without thinking. We do things faster to keep her from going nuts from impatience; we do meals on her time-table; we stop what we’re doing, always, when she wants us to.

Some of this, I’ll admit, I do because I work during the day—I don’t want Charlotte to have to fight for my attention at home. But perhaps I’ve overdone it. I always make sure we have one-on-one play time, story time, silly time, and even mommy–daughter cartoon time. As much Charlotte–Mommyness as I can squeeze in. So, would making her wait 2 minutes for dinner while I unload the car be THAT tragic? She’s hardly neglected. The truth is, we’ve gotten very used to letting her rule. I’ve joked that she’s our little dictator. But, um, she actually is.

Chris makes mistakes too. I won’t list them.

This weekend, we’ve worked hard to not screw up our child, rewarding patience and ignoring tantrums. Charlotte has learned the word “help” (which sounds like either “hep” or “hell” when she says it), and we’re encouraging her to say “help” when she needs help with something (e.g., putting on a lid, taking off a sock, catching a runaway pea) instead of OH MY GOODNESS SCREAMING AND FREAKING OUT ABOUT IT. To my great, great delight, she has actually said “help” many times (not all, but many) since learning it, and I think she’s gratified that she can get the help she needs without spending the energy to have a fit. I’ve also included her in the preparation of her meals, which hopefully shows her that it takes some time to spread peanut butter and jelly on bread.

In short, I believe we’re heading in the right direction. In fact, we've had a great weekend, and l was struck (as I often am) at how great our Charlotte is. We just have a few tweaks to make. Tweaks we probably wouldn't have been aware of, that could possibly resolve themselves with time, were she not in school and required to function now in a class full of (older) kids.

Do I want to break her spirit? Oh, heavens no. Charlotte’s ballsy exuberance is who she is, and we love that about her.

Her teacher did, of course, mention that a sibling would help things.

Right.

Like we hadn’t already thought of that.

2011 Book List

2012-01-06T10:18:00.001-05:00

Well, I did it. For the first time since I began keeping track of my annual reading (2006--can I be any nerdier?) I hit 50 books. For some people, this number is teeny tiny, and for others (Chris comes to mind), this number is huge. Regardless, it beats the hell out of my whopping 24 books of 2010.

How, you might wonder, does a full-time working mom read 50 books in a year? Glad you asked. For starters, I don’t read newspapers or magazines. Sure, I’ll read an article someone might forward to me, and I’ll read certain columnists, but I’m not one of those people who tackles an entire newspaper or magazine with a cup of coffee. I much rather read books. There’s a reason I no longer work on periodicals, folks—I don’t particularly care for them.

Second, I watch very little TV. Embarrassingly little. I cannot hold my own in a conversation with my peers on various TV shows, as all I watch is How I Met Your Mother, Mad Men, and Up All Night (and I’m about eleven episodes behind on Christina Applegate’s working mommy adventures). Oh, and House Hunters. But that’s more of a have-it-on-while-I-make-dinner sort of show.

Third, like Rory Gilmore, I always have a book with me. Always.

Fourth, I started a book club this past spring, which forced me to read at least one book per month. And, well, This Mommy functions in work and life through deadlines. Give me a deadline for something, and I usually find ways to (miraculously) meet it.

Finally, I just love it. And, well, I think everybody makes time for the things they really love. Right?

During 2010, certain books made greater impressions on me, in large part due to the circumstances in which I read them. The same is true this year, but to less extreme degrees—for example, I was not trapped in a cold apartment with a 3-week-old, clutching a gothic mystery as my only escape. to the outside world. However, Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld was mostly read on my Kindle as I rocked my sleeping, ear-infected baby (I dared not wake her by getting up) in January, for hours at a time. The Oyster House by Heidi Jon Schmidt was a delightful Atlantic Coastal story that I got to read on the beach in North Carolina.

Anyway, this year started strong as Elizabeth Strout once again knocked my socks off, this time with Olive Kitteridge, the only book that I gave a 5-star rating. Chasing Superwoman by Susan DiMickele resonated deeply with me, and My Hollywood by Mona Simpson also resonated big time. The Chosen One, by Carol Lynch Williams, and The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak, were the strongest young adult novels I read.

Despite being a relatively negative person (just being honest here), I tend to look for the positive in books I read. Writing is hard! So, even if I didn't love a book, I look for those elements I think work well and I work them into my ratings. Also, in the event my ratings seem inflated, keep in mind I seek out books I expect to be above average. I mean, why read junk? Thus, the only book I read that truly sucked was A Scattered Life by Karen McQuestion. Don’t read it. ‘Tis crap.

Now, with that long-winded intro out of the way, I give you the 2011’s one-whole-year-in-the-making list of books, with the always necessary commentary, in the order I read them.

1.   The Girlfriend’s Guide To Surviving the First Year by Vicki Iovine (parenting) Rating: 4
Oh, where would motherhood be without Vicki Iovine? I read her first book, The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy, when I was at the end of my pregnancy with Charlotte, and I literally peed myself laughing. Sure, I had a fetus playing soccer with my bladder, but the book really was that funny. To mark the end of Year One of Charlotte (and because I didn’t realize Iovine had written this book—doh!), I finally read this guide to surviving the first year of motherhood. Oh, how I wish I had had this book when Charlotte was born! Yes, it’s just as funny as her first book, but on a (quasi) serious note, I NEEDED this book during those first weeks and months. Iovine portrays the first year as pretty terrible, which it is. There is, however, something to be said for reading this book at the END of the first year. With only a couple weeks to go until Charlotte’s first birthday, I found myself reading sections, thinking “Oh yeah! I forgot how awful that part was!” I felt a strange pride that our little family of three made it through. I docked one point because (a) let’s be honest, this is not great literature, and (b) Iovine devotes too much time to discussing how to lose the baby weight (which I think gets WAY too much attention in everything new mommyish).

2.   Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld (contemporary literature) Rating: 4
I know of several people who read Prep and didn’t particularly care for it, but I genuinely enjoyed this novel. Our heroine, Lee, is of Midwestern, working-class origins and finds herself almost accidentally at a hoity toity East Coast boarding school. We follow her for 4 years through excruciating self-consciousness and insecurity. Sittenfeld creates an realistic, complex character in Lee, along with quite a few others, and I found myself identifying with her a lot more than I’m comfortable admitting. Prep offers little plot, similar to Sittenfeld’s later novel, American Wife, but the book moves forward in a believable, day-to-day fashion that successfully emulates how time goes by.

3. The Hemingses of Monticello by Annette Gordon-Reed (history) Rating: 4
Thomas Jefferson has always been my favorite U.S. president, mainly because I find him so paradoxical and complex. I went to grad school at “Mr. Jefferson’s university,” the University of Virginia, lived in Charlottesville, and have spent a fair amount of time at Monticello. Jefferson is near and dear to my heart for various reasons. However, as everyone knows, Jefferson had slaves. Gordon-Reed’s book forced me to really face and think about how Jefferson dealt with slavery. More importantly, the book gave identity and, one could argue, voice to the (in)famous Sally Hemings, plus the rest of her family.
     Gordon-Reed does an incredible job of providing historical and legal context for the Hemings–Jefferson relationship. She cautions against assuming the slave owner forcibly raped Hemings, although the evil of slavery certainly conjures that image. As Gordon-Reed puts it, that assumption “too easily uses the fact that [Hemings] was born a slave (and a black person) to presume an irreparably damaged, completely cowed, and irrational personality over one who had the capacity to know her circumstances and to intelligently use her knowledge to assess the risks and possible rewards of taking a particular action—in other words, to think” (pp. 361–362). Why did 16-year-old Hemings get to think and negotiate with Jefferson? In France, she could have claimed freedom—and she knew it. Instead, she returned to Virginia and thus to legal slavery, implicitly trusting that Jefferson would indeed protect her from hard work and free all her (their) children when they turned 21. Although this does not negate the sheer power imbalance between Hemings and Jefferson, it does force us to consider that perhaps the two of them, well, liked each other. Of course, they could never marry. And of course she was entirely dependent on him and his whims.
     Gordon-Reed also gives immense insight into Jefferson himself, and she truly succeeds at illustrating his complexity, his historical context, and his cultural context (Virginia was no Massachusetts—or France, for that matter.) She deals with him fairly—one could even argue gently—but in countless ways, sometimes overtly and sometimes through a simple example here or there—she never, ever lets the reader forget the tragedy of slavery and how profoundly it affected each enslaved individual, even under such a “benevolent” legal owner as Jefferson.
     This is no small historical study, as it provides almost 700 pages of material to ponder, but it’s really worth the time it takes to carefully read. Some have accused Gordon-Reed of being too speculative in her writing, but I disagree. When there is simply no way to know this or that fact, she bluntly admits it. When she does speculate, she uses every single historical piece of context and evidence available to steer the reader away from making assumptions on the basis—and distance—of our 21st-century view.
     Oh, and Martha, Jefferson’s deceased wife, was Sally Hemings’s half sister—his sister-in-law, in other words.
     Chew on that for a bit, eh?

4. Mentoring Leaders by Ellie Gilfoyle, Ann Grady, and Cathy Nielson (management) Rating: n/a
Discusses how to approach mentoring relationships, particularly through the use of stories. Most relevant for those within education or health care contexts, but of some use within businesses or other organizations.

5. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo by Steig Larsson (contemporary literature/mystery) Rating : 3
A journalist tries to crack a decades-old cold case of a disappeared heiress. Judging by the insane popularity of this book, I seem to be one of the few people who felt very lukewarm about it. Larsson gets a couple points for creating an adequately complex mystery, but it takes too long to get going. Next, the writing falls a bit short and was at times a tad clunky, but the genuine quality of writing is difficult to accurately determine when reading translations (this time, from Swedish). I suspect the main reason this novel is so inexplicably successful is due to the gore and violence (against women—it’s always against women, no?), which probably taps some overall cultural fascination with ickiness. Me, I can live without it.

6. Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout (contemporary literature) Rating: 5
Well now. This year, we got to our first 5 of the year much faster than last year. Of course, it’s the same author who gave 2010 its only 5-star rating, so I hurried things up a bit by just going straight for a book I knew had a decent author behind it. Here, Strout strikes gold again, presenting 13 stories through the points of view of various coastal Maine townsfolk to portray the character of Olive Kitteridge. Strout is insanely talented. Her subtle, detailed attention to how couples, parents, friends, and teachers and students interact is just dead on. Each person has his or her own unique voice (though we always stay in third-person narration), showing a different shade of Olive. She is one of the most complex characters that I have ever read, and I rooted for her, cried a bit for her, and also got mad at her. Like, for real. THAT’s how talented Strout is.

7. The Luxe by Anna Godbersen (young adult) Rating: 4
I admit, I bought the book because of the fabulous ball gown on the cover. But this cheap marketing trick actually delivers. The Luxe is a surprisingly good (and lengthy) young adult novel, set in turn-of-the-century Manhattan. Think Cruel Intentions, 100 years prior. Full of scandal, pretty dresses, forbidden love, and deception, this sexy YA novel is utterly entertaining and well-written. I’m a tad embarrassed that I liked it as much as I did, but the historical detail is so spot-on (cut-glass decanters, not just “decanters”!) and Godbersen imbues scenes with surprising nuance—and sass. And the plotting? Perfectly paced. I’m totally going to read the sequel. Don't judge.

8. Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson (young adult) Rating: 4
An award-winning young adult novel, Speak is stuffed with teen angst as Melinda sort of, kind of stops talking after a Bad Event happens at a party in which she calls the cops, becoming a social pariah. A well-written almost-classic (originally published in 1999). I docked a half point because this is so obviously an “issue” YA book—that is, it clearly centers on an Important Teen Issue. Also, there’s a whiff of Mom here. Angst-filled as this novel is, I couldn’t buy Melinda as a teen. She always sounded like a character, written by somebody’s mom, to communicate a coming-of-age lesson. Still, a well-done book. But not a 5.

9. The Happiest Toddler on the Block: How to Eliminate Tantrums and Raise a Patient, Respectful, and Cooperative 1-to 4-Year-Old by Harvey Karp (parenting) Rating: 4
This is one of those books all toddler parents read, it seems, and for good reason: it’s practical, logical, and the techniques WORK. First, Karp explains how toddlers’ brains work: they don’t. They’re growing so fast and taking in so much information at once that our kids have the attention spans of mosquitoes, they’re as temperamental as our menopausal mothers, and as inpatient as, well, toddlers. The best advice you can glean from Karp is the concept of “feeding the meter,” meaning that the more time you devote to completely focused, one-on-one play and attention with your toddler, the longer your kid can go without you having to be RIGHT THERE and throwing a tantrum. Attention, attention, attention is what the toddler wants, and Karp shows how to wield it in such a way that your kid strives to get your attention by being GOOD, not EVIL.

10. The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister (contemporary literature) Rating: 4.5

This is an excellent novel, especially for foodies. Chef Lillian hosts a cooking class for a mix of characters (one chapter devoted to each, of course), and each of them find whatever psychological fix they need through her class. Although Bauermeister’s words get excessively simile-laden, the style somehow works for this novel. It’s very well written, and the characters are nicely developed. I docked a half point because Lillian’s story of how she came to cook was a bit clichéd (the abuelita-type old lady that helps her discover spices). Overall, extremely enjoyable. Recommended!

11. The Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving (contemporary literature) Rating: 4
I’m a fan of Irving, and his books tend to be long tomes that twist and turn in bizarre ways. This novel is the weirdest and wackiest of the three Irving novels I’ve now read (the other two being The World According to Garp and A Prayer for Owen Meany). To explain the plot is pointless—this is Irving we’re talking about, after all, but essentially the book centers on a strange family that sets up several hotels in odd locations. I enjoyed the novel less than the other two Irving books I mentioned, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad—not at all, in fact. The characters are endearing and Irving has such a unique, ironic tone with which he writes that is so distinctly Irving. Worth a read.

12. A Parchment of Leaves by Silas House (contemporary literature) Rating: 4
I read Clay’s Quilt by House, which I enjoyed, so I looked forward to this novel. House is a master of non-cheesy regional dialect (Kentucky, in this case). Set during WWI, Saul marries a Cherokee woman and has a kid. His brother becomes creepily obsessed with Saul’s wife, so all those bonds of kin that are the foundation of Appalachian life get messed up. A unique, nicely done little novel.

13. A Scattered Life by Karen McQuestion (contemporary literature) Rating: 2
Self-published doesn’t always mean crappy, but self-published (for Kindle) A Scattered Life is quite crappy. A bored housewife with an overbearing, judgmental mother-in-law gets a silly job (tinkering in a bookstore, not a real one that would actually pay bills—geez) and then a wacky woman with oodles of kids moves in next door, presumably to pull our main character out of her shell, but this really never takes flight. In short, an amateur effort by an amateur author. Of course, it sold so many (again, KINDLE) copies that the film rights were bought and McQuestion is presumably now wealthy on the basis of her crap novel. There’s truly no justice in the publishing world. That said, it provides a VERY good lesson to consumers of the pitfalls of electronic and self-publishing, and utterly illustrates the importance of a publisher who maintains quality control. And for that, this book is useful. Crappy, but useful.

14. For the Fame of God’s Name, edited by Sam Storms and Justin Taylor (Religion) Rating: 4
A collection of essays in honor of bigwig preacher John Piper, this 544-page book tackles such theological conundrums as why good people suffer (and the larger question—why DON’T some people suffer?), the character of God, and so on. Very well-written, scholastically approached, and superbly edited and produced (publisher probably gets credit there). I docked one point because every single contributor is male. This is not surprising, given the extremely conservative nature of the writings, including your obligatory insistence on the “complementarian” view of marriage, that is, women complement men, both at home at in the church (only men shall be leaders—that sort of B.S.). Still, I don’t have to agree with everything to make this a well-done tome of theological and religious ideas and study, right? Worth a read.

15. Bossypants by Tina Fey (autobiography) Rating: 4

It’s no secret that I have a girl crush on Tina Fey. I heart her, and for so many reasons. This book was worth the relatively steep Kindle price for the chapter on breastfeeding alone. I would have paid double. Fey’s self-deprecating humor, spot-on wit, and sheer irony make this a fabulously entertaining read. It’s not a perfect book—sometimes she actually tries to be almost serious, which is jarring. You’re sort of waiting for a punch line that never comes, but such instances are rare. Totally recommended.

16. Half the Sky: Turning Oppression Into Opportunity for Women Worldwide by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn (women’s studies) Rating: 4.5

Like Holocaust literature, this is one of those books that hurts to read. Unlike Holocaust literature, Kristof and WuDunn provide solutions to the world-wide problem of female exploitation and oppression. The authors cover it all: sexual slavery, genital mutilation, broken fistulas from children having babies (and without medical care), poverty, child brides, Islam, the genocide of female babies, AIDS, and education. Despite the litany of unbelievably difficult topics, each highlighted with actual women/girls with heartbreaking stories, the authors present very real, practical ideas that can nudge progress in the right direction. As someone who majored in women’s studies, I’ve read my fair share of books and articles that decry this or that global problem—without fully taking into account the immense trickiness of local culture and economic factors. The authors use actual studies and evidence (what a concept!) to demonstrate what sorts of interventions work. In other words, throwing money at a problem (the usual way lots of well-meaning folks or organizations aim to help) often does not work. Help must work within a particular culture, even if it slowly changes it (for the better—I don’t think declaring infanticide of girl babies as absolutely wrong makes me ethnocentric). Highly, highly recommended for every single reader who cares about women or people beyond U.S. borders.

17. A Novel Bookstore by Laurence Cosse (contemporary literature) Rating: 3
The premise? A couple of pretentious readers decide to open a bookstore that sells only good novels, which are deemed good by a super secret committee of authors/readers. A few committee members start getting attacked, which launches the world’s slowest moving mystery EVER with a completely unsurprising ending. The text reads clumsily, which could be due to the translation from the original French. Most of the literary references are to French literature, which I’m not familiar with, short of Flaubert, Dumas, and Foucault (yet no mention of Derrida that I can recall, which I found sort of odd). Danielle Steel was thrown under the literary bus, which was gratifying and earned a point. Anyway, the pacing was off, the forced first-person narration seemed gimmicky and pointless, and the characters—especially the girlfriend—were unlikeable, self-indulgent bores who affected starving Parisian artist personas (“I’m soooo deep, I think such profound thoughts I can’t sleep—love me! Love me!”), which came across as clichéd and eye-roll worthy. An interesting approach to the ideas of taste and the purpose of literature, but this book would not have appeared in the story’s bookstore.

18. Call of the Wild by Jack London (American literature) Rating: 4

I’ve read several dog-perspective books (Art of Racing in the Rain; A Dog’s Purpose), and this one, originally published in 1903, is the grittier of the three (although Call of the Wild is narrated in third-person, er, third-dog, point of view). Buck, a mixed-breed sled dog, runs up against lots of adventures and challenges, good owners and bad owners, mostly in the Alaskan wild. First, who doesn’t love a good, old-fashioned American adventure story? Second, who doesn’t love reading from the point of view of a dog? Recommended.

19. The Summer Guest by Justin Cronin (contemporary literature) Rating: 4
Set in a rustic fishing camp in Maine, a super rich old guy dying of cancer makes one last visit to the camp he has visited every summer for the past 30 years. Lots of characters and points of view tell the tale, and of course everybody eventually gets woven into to each other. Enjoyable, yet pretty slow-moving—in a happily lazy sort of way. A good summer read, especially if you’re vacationing somewhere with cabins, trees, and fishing poles.

20. Vivaldi’s Virgins by Barbara Quick (historical fiction) Rating: 4
In an 18th-century Venice convent/orphanage for girls, which doubles as a music school, a young violin prodigy seeks to find out the circumstances that left her orphaned and to hone her musical gifts. Loosely based on an actual female prodigy studying under Italian composer Antonio Vivaldi, Anna Maria is a sweet, likable character, with ambition and competitiveness. Quick does a fantastic job developing Anna Maria’s character realistically within the cloistered environment, describing the nuances of competitive and artistic girls, and generating relationships among the girls and nuns.

21. Toddler 411 by Denise Fields and Ari Brown (parenting) Rating: 4
This is one of those rare parenting books that has lots of information without any agenda or gimmick. Stuffed with information aimed specifically on toddlers, you have everything from autism screening checklists to the first coherent explanation I’ve gotten as to why toddlers get so many ear infections and how ear tubes actually work. The only quibbles I had: First, the authors argue for straw vs. normal sippy cups, as apparently toddlers try to suckle rather than suck, potentially creating mouth problems. You can’t toss in something like this without some evidence (beyond anecdotal, which is all we get) or some direction in getting a toddler to figure out the straw. Second, their information regarding toddler feeding is too closely connected to the hype surrounding childhood obesity, and again, not supported by current evidence as to what actually works to generate healthy eaters. “Insisting” a toddler eat her vegetables, for example, ain’t gonna work. On the whole though, this is the only (informative, not-for-fun) parenting book on toddlers that I’d recommend. It covers EVERYTHING, has a version specially designed for Kindle, and it’s searchable to boot.

22. Brick Lane by Monica Ali (contemporary literature) Rating: 4

A young Bangladeshi woman, Nanzeen, marries (in the pre-arranged sort of way) a Bengali immigrant living in London who is twice her age and thoroughly unlikable and full of himself—but in a remarkably nuanced, extraordinarily written development of character. Within a depressing apartment and very circumscribed life, Nanzeen grows up, has children, contemplates an affair, and tries to stay in contact with her sister, who has a life worse than her own. Themes of identity and assimilation run though the novel at multiple levels and from many angles, entirely through characters.

23. The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott by Kelly O’Connor McNees (historical literature) Rating: 4
This was the first official Reader’s Ink book club book, so that makes it special, no? The premise: During one summer in New Hampshire, Louisa May Alcott, the author of Little Women, among other books, falls in love with a guy who, while tempting, threatens to derail the writerly life she seeks. Although a few storytelling hiccups occur here and there (e.g., accidental shifts in point of view, inadequate motivation for a couple plot points), this is a thoroughly enjoyable book.

24. The Girlfriends Guide to Toddlers by Vicki Iovine (parenting) Rating: 4
I’m a HUGE Vicki Iovine fan, and I adored The Girlfriends’ Guide to Pregnancy and The Girlfriends’ Guide to Surviving the First Year. I very much enjoyed Iovine’s third book, and her depiction of toddlers is adorable, hilarious, and SPOT ON. That said, by book three, she does seem to be losing a bit of steam, and a couple chapters seemed to lean toward filler, such as the section devoted to play dates. Of course, I’m anti-play date, as I’m a working mom with not a lot of time to hang out a park for 2 hours, and my kid plays with kids the whole live-long day at school. But still, super entertaining. You can tell Iovine adores toddlers, no matter how naughty they get, which I appreciate. Toddlers are awesome.

25. My Hollywood by Mona Simpson (contemporary literature) Rating: 4.5

Simpson’s subtly satirical yet jarringly perceptive study of the dynamics between nannies and employers, working moms and working dads, nannies and other nannies, mothers and their kids, and working moms and stay-at-home moms is nothing short of brilliant. We meet Claire, a composer, and the nanny of her son, Lola. Each chapter switches from Claire’s point of view to Lola’s and back again. Lola’s voice and character absolutely shine—she’s an amazingly complex character. Claire meanwhile grapples with having the “less important” job because she makes less than her husband and continually allows his job to trump hers when somebody besides Lola needs to tend to the kid or the house (oh, I’ve been there!), an implicit yet defeating agreement between dually working spouses that Simpson sums up as: “You can have your turn, only later” (p. 169, italics in original). Or, take this example from when Claire is at a school-related event, and the moms introduce themselves: “Our instructress kept referring to our work (what I still lived for, cried over) as ‘background.’—for example, ‘Her background is in dance.’
     ‘I was a lawyer, but now I’m writing poetry,’ Helen said, when it was her turn.
     ‘Composer,’ I said next.
     ‘Poetry, music,’ the instructress repeated.
     The ideal mother: great legs and a background in ophthalmology (MELISSA, MOM OF SIMON, 3). No wonder parties in our twenties felt giddy: a secretary interested in journalism could, in the span of a few years, tip over to a background in journalism. Background was just preparation for these small chairs. . . . I used to watch the successful girls leaping on the green field, twirling batons. They made beautiful shapes, blurry cartwheels against the sky. But for what? These women were the well-rounded girls grown up, motherhood making the end of good-at-everything” (pp. 140–141). I also loved that the novel takes place in Southern California—Santa Monica, Pasadena, Eagle Rock, even Glendale!—my old stomping grounds—that I MISS! An insanely smart, provocative book that probably nobody will adequately appreciate. Highly recommended.

26. Faith by Jennifer Haigh (contemporary literature) Rating: 4.5
Set in Boston 2002 during the height of the attention focused on priests accused of molesting children, the sister of a priest who is accused narrates the story of his saga, how her family reacts to it, and her own vacillation between faith and doubt. Haigh superbly creates her characters, flaws and all. Haigh also does an exceptional job making Boston itself permeate accents, dialect, family relationships, jobs, class, Catholicism, and so on—the city itself is a main character. Highly recommended.

27. Little Men by Louisa May Alcott (American literature) Rating: 3.5
Some have suggested Louisa May Alcott was a one-hit wonder in writing Little Women, and so far, that’s totally true. Prior to reading Little Men, I had also read Alcott’s An Old-Fashioned Girl, and both suffer from unbelievable preachiness. In Little Men, we meet Jo March, now Mrs. Behr, who runs a school for boys. In each chapter, she applies a teacherly behavioral trick or expounds on some educational philosophy that, though probably quite novel in 19th-century America, is just sort of annoying. Still, I did appreciate how much Alcott seemed to genuinely love children—their spirit, imagination, wackiness. That is where Little Men shines, which pulls it above the wretched An Old-Fashioned Girl.

28. Skippy Dies by Paul Murray (contemporary literature) Rating: 4.5
This was the second Reader’s Ink book club book. Pushing 700 pages, this book of adolescent boy humor, death, lust, and about 400 other themes has a lot more to it than meets the eye. Set at Seabrook, an all-boy Catholic school in Dublin, a boy named Skippy dies. Like, on the first page. The rest of the book backtracks to find out WHY. Murray’s prose is unpredictable, ironic, vulgar, and poetic—often within the same sentence. The themes are big: past vs. future, young vs. old, love vs. hate. And more. Totally recommended.

29. Minding Frankie by Maeve Minchy (contemporary literature) Rating: 3
In Ireland, a bit of a screw-up (Noel) finds out he’s about to be a daddy, due to some quick fling approximately 9 months prior. The mom is terminally ill, and dies 20 minutes after Frankie is born. To ward off the cranky judgmental social worker, the whole village of wacky characters pitches in to help raise the baby. The concept is charming, but there’s nothing remarkable about this book. Nothing terrible, nothing spectacular. One particular gripe is that the novel contains an insanely large number of characters, and an equal number of subplots, told mostly via backstory which can make for tiresome reading.

30. Left Neglected by Lisa Genova (contemporary literature) Rating: 3.75
A busy, workaholic mom gets in a bad car accident. When she comes to, she learns that the part of her brain is damaged to the point that she has zero awareness of anything on the left part of her body. Highly readable, adequately enjoyable, and the topic is very original (the author is a neuroscientist by day, by the way). And I truly liked the depiction of working-mommy guilt, which actually really softened the character. Overall, though, this book never really sang.

31. A Dog’s Purpose by W. Bruce Cameron (contemporary literature) Rating: 4
The third selection for the Reader’s Ink book club, this adorable story follows canine Bailey through multiple lives as he tries to discover his purpose. Bailey’s views on cats are hilarious (and true), and the narration is so charming and sincere that you will fall in love with him and thus should avoid pet stores and animal shelters for at least 30 days after finishing. Oh, and like all dog stories, there shall be tears. In fact, every time Chris found me sniffling in bed, he asked, “Did the dog die again?”

32. The Distant Hours by Kate Morton (contemporary literature) Rating: 4.5

Oh, how I love books like this one. A gothic tale, through and through, we meet Edie, a London book editor, who stumbles upon an old letter of her mother’s. This takes her to Milderhurst Castle, where a set of old-lady twins dwell and where Edie’s mother had temporarily lived as a child during WWII. At close to 600 pages, the mystery unwinds slowly and with great detail. Although some detail is a bit excessive, Morton creates fascinating characters and tells an intricately fabulous story. Perfect for a stormy night or a winter day by a fire. And on the final pages I had honest-to-goodness goosebumps—and I was sitting on a beach on a summer day. Loved it.

33. Conversations With Lillian Hellman, Edited by Jackson R. Byer (autobiography/literary criticism) Rating: 4

I have a soft spot for cranky yet spunky playwright Lillian Hellman (1905–1984), and this large collection of interviews follows her career up to the early 1980s. The topics range from her views of the theater to communism to McCarthyism to her own writing. Interestingly, the nostalgia with which Hellman looks back on some parts of her past invokes an even greater sense of “old” Hollywood. I had to research all sorts of wacky Hellman factoids and transcribed lots of interviews for what is, in my (totally biased) opinion, the best biography on Lillian Hellman to date (and I've read several): Lillian Hellman: A Life of Foxes and Scoundrels by Deborah Martinson. As for this collection, some content is repetitive as Hellman tells some stories over again to a different audience, but in general it’s a fun read to get lost in her slightly alcoholic, cigarette smoke–filled world.

34. The House on Oyster Creek by Heidi Jon Schmidt (contemporary literature) Rating: 4
I liked this book much more than I expected to. Charlotte (best name ever!) and her much older, brainy and unlikeable husband inherit a home on Cape Cod, near a working-class town that depends on oyster farming to keep the locals afloat. Locals vs. tourists clash, and of course Charlotte finds herself falling for one of the calloused-handed oyster farmers. Pity that she’s married. The writing is fantastic, the dynamics among all the inhabitants are nuanced and complex, breaking away from stereotypes. I also really loved the depiction of the relationship between Charlotte and her toddler daughter, Fiona. It seemed just-right quirky and totally genuine. Recommended.

35. Girls in Pants: The Third Summer of the Sisterhood (young adult) Rating: 3.75
This third book of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series brings us to the summer before the girls depart for their freshman year of college. Plots are thin and sentences are pushed and stretched and, well, rather annoying lyoverdone. Yet, I still like the characters enough, because after all, this is the Sisterhood and we love the Sisterhood. Still, my least favorite in the series, so far. We shall see how book four does.

36. Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson (contemporary literature) Rating: 4
The fourth book for the book club, Major Pettigrew won me over. The premise? After being widowed for some time in the English countryside, old-fashioned Major Pettigrew begins falling for Mrs. Ali, a Pakastini immigrant. The prose is subtle, ironic, and very funny, and the themes are big: young vs. old, identity, “philosophical rigidity,” and then some. The book is deliberately slow-paced. One friend of mine read it while sipping earl-grey tea, which would be a delightful way to more fully enjoy this darling read.

37. Chasing Superwoman: A Working Mom’s Adventures in Life and Faith by Susan DiMickele (religion/women’s studies) Rating: 4

Well, now. Prior to a just-published book on a similar topic (which perhaps I'll read in 2012), this book was—to the best of my knowledge—the only book on the market aimed working Christian women. (Hundreds exists for women who work as stay-at-home moms.) You might recall my mudslinging post on Skippy or Jif, and in response to that hoopla, I downloaded this book onto my Kindle. And read it. Sane, calm, matter-of-fact, and sincere, DiMickele acknowledges that many moms work outside the home. (WHAT?!) She writes of how she left her old church when the minister expounded on mothers working as the root cause of all America’s flaws (he later apologized and referred to himself as a fool) and she also gives voice to the really irritating fact that the church—at least, the more conservative church—just doesn’t know what the hell to do with us. And there are often few ways for working moms to insert themselves into the church and participate, when everything “okay” for women to do involves children, takes place during the day, and often requires a whole lot of buy-in that staying home is your God-ordained, only option. (Note: My [current] church is not like this, which is why it’s my church.) Importantly, DiMickele doesn’t pit SAHMs against working moms—she fully supports that many, many mothers feel “called” to be home. She simply goes the extra mile and shows that not ALL women choose that path, and that there’s a whole lot of good that working moms can do “out there” in the workplace. Most importantly, DiMickele makes a call for women to support each other, especially working mommies.

38. The Girl Who Would Speak for the Dead by Paul Elwork (contemporary literature) Rating: 4
Within a pair of somewhat odd, 13-year-old twins, the sister (Emily) discovers she can crack her ankle in such a way that she convinces folks she’s communicating with the dead. But once she starts tinkering with people’s grief, things begin to spiral from fun to not so fun. Set in 1925, this delightfully mysterious, atmospheric story is beautifully written. Worth a read.

39. On Prayer and the Contemplative Life by St. Thomas Aquinas (religion) Rating: 3.5
Written by the 13-century Catholic priest, philosopher, and theologian, St. Thomas Aquinas, this is no easy read. The fact I’m Protestant, not Catholic, made the going a bit tough, as some concepts presented were entirely foreign to me, such as, well, sainthood. St. Augustine (with whom I’m more familiar) then gave his two cents here and there. Overall, I walked away from this with greater understanding of Catholicism, and, perhaps not too surprising, evidence that Catholics and Protestants have SO much in common. Lots of nuggets to glean, even 700 years later. However, read this one sitting UP. And, preferably, with medieval choral music playing in the back ground.

40. Remarkable Creatures by Tracy Chevalier (historical literature) Rating: 4.5

Set in the early 1800s in a seaside town, a spinster and a young, uneducated woman (Mary Anning, who existed in real life) befriend each other as they discover fossils of extinct creatures. Such new ideas—extinction—create some turmoil in the town and the scientific community at large. A wholly entertaining, literary look at early fossil hunting and science.

41. Apartment 16 by Adam Nevill (thriller) Rating: 3.5
In an old, hoity-toity collection of London flats, Apartment 16 is haunted. Nevill starts out strong with intense suspense and scariness and then we unfortunately veer off into the grotesque. The icky. And, well, with that, we lose the artful building of plot and suspense. The novel is mostly well written and the plot fully fleshed out, but overwritten scene after scene of ugliness took much away. Really, one or two vile scenes would have sufficed.

42. Evolution: What the Fossils Say and Why It Matters by Donald Prothero (science) Rating: 3.5

Published by Columbia University Press but intended for a lay audience (albeit an educated one), this tome of current fossil research and discovery is vital reading for anyone genuinely interested in how creatures—human and nonhuman—got here. Prothero debunks myths and contextualizes quotes or studies that creationists have taken out of context. Although Prothero rightly criticizes the sheer anti-intellectualism and often slimy tactics that many (possibly well-meaning) creationist advocates have demonstrated, his scorn does get old after awhile. Perhaps the final chapter, in which Prothero makes a plea to the reader, is the most profound. Citing the U.S.’s dwindling knowledge in science, particularly among schoolchildren, Prothero shows exactly why understanding science—even within the context of deep faith—is so vitally important for our country, our kiddos, and the future of, well, humanity. Recommended, with the caveat that I had to check this book out from the library no less than 3 times to finish it.

43. Silent on the Moor by Deanna Raybourn (mystery) Rating: 4
Call me shallow, but I love the Lady Julia Grey mysteries. This, the third in the series, was a little thin on mystery, but in typical Raybourn fashion, the atmosphere, wit, and characters are so fully entertaining, that the book succeeds. Though not a perfect novel, I found myself excited to return to reading it at the end of an evening, and that is why I recommend it.

44. NurtureShock: New Thinking About Children by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman (parenting/sociology) Rating: 4

This is probably the most level-headed and practical parenting book I’ve had the luck to read. Bronson and Merryman look at actual research and undo all sorts of myths about children. For example, praising your kid for a job well done? Doesn’t help them. You should praise their EFFORT. Baby Einstein? Total crock. And so on. I found myself reading parts out loud to Chris, I found it so interesting. Highly recommended for anyone with kids, grandkids, who works with kids, or who has even a fleeting interest in child psychology.

45. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak (young adult) Rating: 4.5

Narrated by Death, The Book Thief takes place in Germany during WWII. Liesel, essentially orphaned after her parents are arrested, lives with a new family, makes a dear friend, and steals books as she comes of age. Although the rhythm of the book (remember, Death is our narrator) takes some time to get used to, I eventually eased into it and found the novel to be one of the most breathtaking young adult books I’ve read.

46. The Gift of Rest: Rediscovery the Beauty of the Sabbath by Sen. Joe Lieberman (religion) Rating: 3.5
I deeply admire the Jewish faith, and I think Senator Lieberman is a pretty decent guy. I respect anyone ballsy enough to get elected as an independent. At any rate, I heard him on POTUS during a morning commute, plugging his new book about the Sabbath in his typical soft-spoken tone (you know, the antithesis of Michele Bachmann—but I digress). And, well, the Sabbath is one of those things I love in theory and fall short of in practicality. Lieberman takes the reader through a typical Jewish Shabbat, step by step, with a few personal anecdotes thrown in. I certainly wasn’t blown away, but I came away with a much better understanding of Sabbath/Shabbat and felt more compelled to, well, at least TRY to do more on Saturday, less on Sunday.

47. Keeping the Moon by Sarah Dessen (young adult) Rating: 4
A high-school outcast has to go to a small North Carolina beach town for a summer and live with her wacky aunt. There, she gets a grip on who she actually is,and comes of age. I’ve been meaning to read one of Dessen’s books forever. As I started this one, I couldn’t figure out what the big fat deal was with Dessen, but as I progressed and then finished, I realized that she IS very good. The writing is tight, believable, and has depth. The voice is genuinely teen, not adult-trying-to-write-teen, which also gives her a gold star. I plan to read more of Dessen.

48. Sex, Mom, and God: How the Bible's Strange Take on Sex Led to Crazy Politics--And How I Learned to Love Women (and Jesus) Anyway by Frank Schaeffer (religion) Rating: 3.75

What a strange book this is. Schaeffer, who grew up within the bigwig evangelical circles, and was even a hyper-conservative evangelical leader himself as an adult, eventually comes to believe his upbringing has been a crock and he’s now on a mission to expose the seedy underside of flawed religious people. The tone is patronizing, and some of Shaeffer’s connections are weak, but on the whole, the writing is actually very, very good. He shines when discussing his hilarious, sex-obsessed yet wholly pious mother, or on the inner workings of fundamentalist/conservative Christian circles, but his opinions get old by the time he expands to politics at large. Still, some dead-on observations I’ve witnessed my own self: On strong women in Evangelical circles: “The male pastor is just a necessary figurehead kept there by smart, sincere women whose only creative outlet is their religion because religion is all they were ever allowed to ‘do’ with a clear conscience, other than have babies” (p. 30). And finally, Schaeffer deftly (if a bit snidely, but who can blame him?) examines the huge rise in women practically BEGGING to “submit” to the “head,” of their family, the husband/father. Of course, Schaeffer exposes one woman (her name escapes me now—doh!) who hugely promoted this lie, insisting women stay home, give up careers, and coddle their menfolk. The delicious irony? She (ahem) made a CAREER out of it, cranking out books, starting a business, and speaking all over the country. Huh. Of course, perfectly respectable theologians and others have made this much less wacky and far more “respectable” than is imaginable: “Neoconservative intellectuals like Neuhaus helped set the stage for the Quiverfull [think “Meet the Duggars”] and Patriarchy Movements [Titus women who think women must submit and stay home]. They gave a gloss of intellectual respectability to what was nothing more than a theocratic, Far Right wish list.” Finally, Schaeffer’s most poignant example of why evangelical/fundamentalist/super conservatives might want to back off and bring the rhetoric down a notch: “Another name for uncertainty is humility. Nobody ever blew up a mosque, church, or abortion clinic after yelling, ‘I could be wrong’” (p. 73). In the end, hugely interesting but sort of annoying. A strange, strange book that I didn't really like but that really made me think.

49. The Chosen One by Carol Lynch Williams (young adult) Rating: 4.5

Set in the Utah desert within a polygamist cult, a young 14-year-old or so girl is betrothed—by the cult leader—to her old, abusive, icky UNCLE. Thus, she must get out of it. A brave book to be written by a Brigham Young University alum. Highly recommended to anyone interested in young adult literature.

50. The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown (contemporary literature) Rating: 3.75

Three sisters—daughters of a Shakespearean professor at the local college—come home for various reasons, which also coincide with their mother’s breast cancer. There, the dynamics of their sisterly rivalry unfold, as do their stories. Trouble is, it seems that the vast majority of the novel is told in backstory, and the sisters are really unlikeable. Not weird—weird I like. No, just unlikeable. What was unique to this book was a plural first-person (first-people?) narrator(s), from the perspective of the sisters. But it felt a little gimicky and robbed the individual sisters of their voices.

There you have it. Bring on 2012!

Christmas

2011-12-30T09:55:00.002-05:00

Whew. That was a mighty busy Christmas season we just had. Here’s the condensed, bullet-point version:

Pick up Ma, Pa, and Grandma Belle at airport. Charlotte displays utter disbelief at the moving walkways. Mums backseat-drives the entire way home.

Nana and Charlotte commence Christmas baking. Dad, Chris, and I make our adopted family gift delivery. Due to language barriers and a bit of awkwardness, we leave only about 75% certain that we delivered gifts to the correct family. We then go to Virginia to Costco because stupid Maryland doesn’t allow the sale of wine outside of liquor stores (or restaurants, I suppose).

We discover that one case of wine purchased the day before will likely not see us through to the 29^th. Go to Total Wine & More in Virginia for more vino. Coerce Dad into putting together Charlotte’s from-Santa wagon, down in the basement. And, for some reason, Chris chooses this day to install timers on the bathroom fans. Fortunately, we had a contractor (Pops) on the premises.

I bake my cranberry upside-down cake that nobody eats. Mums bakes her Bernice rolls that everybody eats. Christmas Eve dinner (prime rib), followed by the packed Christmas Eve service. Charlotte, for the most part, behaves. During “Silent Night,” Chris holds the candle near Charlotte and her candlelight-lit face makes her look like an angel. I love her. At home, we open gifts and then set up the Santa splendor for Charlotte to discover on Christmas morning.

Christmas morning, Charlotte opens more gifts. Papa (turns out our girl can’t say Grandpa, but Papa is easy peasy) hauls Charlotte around the ‘hood in her shiny new wagon. Attend Christmas Day service. Play with Chris’s new Kinect, including my 87-year-old Grandma Belle. Admire her, greatly. Stuff ourselves with turkey during Christmas Day Night dinner. Declare Chris Best. Chef. Ever.

Day after Christmas. Mums and I leave house before 7:00 a.m. to hit the sales. Obtain amazingly awesome parking spot at Nordstrom. Return cute shoes into which I couldn’t stuff Charlotte’s chubby feet. Buy baby gift for a new baby boy. Find the Crate and Barrel mixing bowls for which I’ve pined a whole year HALF OFF. Also find pants for work at Banana Republic. Open store credit card to save an extra 35%. Incur wrath of Chris. Hit Michaels and stock up on wrapping paper for next year, 60% off. Feel smug at my bargain-hunting prowess.

The next day, realize I have caught Charlotte’s cold. Design most awesome deck ever and visit lumberyard with Dad. Chris, Dad, and I pound out budget and terms at the local watering hole. Chris and I realize we’re getting awesome deal because, well, we’re related. High five. Dad pays bar tab--a business expense.

Dad submits paperwork and deck design to the town for approval. Go to Frederick to kill time and shop. At Red Robin, Dad spies a boy one day older than Charlotte (his mama said so) and says, totally serious, “Charlotte could take him.” Sure, that kid was taller, but Charlotte is . . . well, sturdier. Dad and Chris also come down with Charlotte’s cold.

Take everyone to airport at the ass-crack of dawn. Am rather blue, dropping them off. Begin taking down decorations. And writing blog posts about Christmas.

So, there you go. A very lovely Christmas. Photos (of course) below!

Baking with Nana.

Tea party with Papa.

Helping Papa put together the new bike (from Nana and Papa--complete with helmet, which our speed demon NEEDS) that they let her open early. (She had A LOT of gifts to get through.)

Christmas Eve table. (I'm obsessed with table decor.)

Christmas Eve, after church.

A gift from Fauntie Meghan and Funcle Bryan.

A Belle doll!

What Santa left.

Christmas morning. I sooooo wish I was not in this photo, but Mr. Chris took only ONE photo of Christmas Morning.

The Kinect, which Chris received from his parents. Quite the hit, as you can see.

Busy.

2011-12-19T22:42:00.003-05:00

So I haven’t posted a post in a week. Well, what to write? Let’s knock this off the list, and then I’m GOING TO BED.

The past few days have been so insane that I lost 3 pounds in one weekend. I managed to keep Charlotte fed, though. That’s what matters. (My weight correlates pretty much perfectly with my stress level. Always.)

Some highlights: Hit three Christmas parties, one of which required a babysitter. And a babysitter = kid-free cocktail at the local bar. ‘Twas glorious.

On Friday, I swung by Chris’s work to hear the Washington Master Chorale perform (for about 40 minutes, before hitting Charlotte’s Hanukkah party). Geico, great patron of the arts it is, allows them to rehearse in its cafeteria. In return, they perform for the staff at yuletide. The chorale was fantastic, and I couldn’t help but be awed by the power of music—and sacred music in particular. Here we were, in quite possibly the ugliest room ever, full of outdated décor, fluorescent lighting, and that depressing low-cost institutional aura. And yet, O Holy Night makes for a damn near transcendent experience. Nope, you don’t always need a grand cathedral and powerful organ, do you?

I showed up 1.5 minutes late to the Hanukkah party. I brought the requisite juice boxes and thought I was doing pretty well because I got the Juicy Juice kind and apparently they’re 100% juice. Well, the other mom who brought juice boxes had some super organic grape juice with an environmentally friendly pouch and ergonomically astute straw punch-in design. They had already been passed around, so . . . my terror of forgetting juice boxes and showing up empty-handed was for nada. Eh, oh well. And how did the party go? Well, take 12 two-year-olds, fill them with sugar, and then let them loose.

Chaos, my friends. Chaos.

At one point, a bunch of kids wanted to play dress up, so they all grabbed sparkly tutus (boys included—and I was pleased to see that not a single parent or teacher tried to put them in something more “boyish”). Yes, all donned tutus except for my child. She grabbed the suit jacket and proudly marched around the room like a mini executive. Fear not, she did not forget her softer side. Eventually, she added a blue tutu. So very fashionable.

I made plates of baked treats for 11 of Chris’s analysts. Per usual, they were wrapped in cellophane and tied with gaudy ribbon. This year, because I lack sense, I added yet another project—mugs of hot chocolate stuff. How to explain? Well, I’ll write a Christmas crafts blog in January and catch you up.

Finally, although I finished my shopping forever ago, I volunteered to “adopt” a family through our church. This requires shopping. (More shopping.) At a lot of stores. Yesterday, I squeezed in Wal-Mart trip after church and before a Christmas party. I went to bed way too late and raced around this morning to load up the car, get some birthday cards in the mail, pack lunches, and so on. While attacking my before-Christmas workload at (duh) work, I got a call around 3:00 from Charlotte’s school. Weird rash. Bumps on legs. Must see pediatrician before she can return.

Chris and I carpooled, so I called him right away and miraculously, he answered. I scheduled the last appointment of the day at the pediatrician’s office and raced to pick up Charlotte and then hit the doctor. She’s fine. We got the necessary note and came home (after stopping at the library to pick up a dozen books. Literally.).

Chris and I (but mostly Chris) raced to get Charlotte fed and bathed. He forced me to SIT and eat a half tuna sandwich. It was probably for the best. Then, after kissing my girl goodnight, I grabbed some Christmas cookies and headed out to shop, about 40 minutes away. (I told you I live in The Sticks.)

Target, Sports Authority, and Bed Bath and Beyond later, I declared success. I even found the Pokeman cards. (phew)

My folks and Grandma Belle arrive Wednesday and I have NO CLUE how I’ll get everything ready in time, but I’ve decided to quit stressing and just proceed. After all, what one might view as a stressful trip to shop tonight involved a beautiful starry drive through the countryside at night, with the very best sort of Christmas music blaring.

Now, I sleep.

Loading up on sugar. And excessively hoity toity grape juice.

Her executive duds. Is it just me, or does she already look a little stressed? Corporate life is HARD.

She was looking for the hood portion of her jacket. If her coat has one, this jacket must as well! On the plus side, you can now see the blue tutu.

Sunday Awesomeness

2011-12-13T08:28:00.001-05:00

Advent Sunday*

plus

help making blueberry pancakes

plus

making a late dinner with my Best Guy

plus

good red wine

equal = SUNDAY AWESOMENESS.

*Yes, this is our church, but no, it is not currently snowing in these here parts.

Announcing the January Book

2011-12-09T09:21:00.000-05:00

Let’s announce the January book, in case I totally forget until . . . January. (It’s been one of those weeks!)

Mama Opp picked the January novel, The Violets of March by Sarah Jio. Set in the Pacific Northwest (as Mums also is, for what it’s worth), a woman who has it all suddenly doesn’t, so she seeks to figure it all out on Bainbridge Island. She then unearths some mystery diary (of course she does) and discovers ties to her own history (of course she does.)

The reviews are very good, so I’m looking forward to reading what I’m told is an “absorbing” story, and I’m especially looking forward to the fact it’s set in my home state.

The library doesn’t have this book (doh!), so Mums has promised to bring me her copy when she visits at the end of December. Perfect timing, eh?

The Cliché of Frazzled Womenfolk

2011-12-08T13:07:00.007-05:00

I’m taking some time during my lunch hour today to type to you, dear readers, and gain some perspective.

Christmas is fun. Christmas. Is. FUN.

Well, here’s my confession: Christmas (as in the season, not Christmas itself) is kicking my ass this year.

At work yesterday, I looked at my wall calendar (which features a dopey, happy Brittany spaniel frolicking toward something most likely bird-related) and counted days.

And panicked.

Work has picked up, and I have a gazillion projects to get well-positioned before Christmas break. Well, actually, just two (no exaggeration there), but they’re big and, as my mom would say, covered in hair.

I then looked at my frighteningly long domestic to-do list on my iPhone and panicked further. I had let myself think I was in excellent shape, having already bought/wrapped/shipped oodles and OODLES of gifts to Nevada and California. Christmas shopping is done. I had the Christmas cards printed and stacked on my craft table. All crafts for gifts? Completed. The annual Christmas letter? Written, proofread, printed. The menu for this year’s baked goodies for family and all of Chris’s analysts? Totally planned. Extra cleanings scheduled (before and after my family leaves)? All set. Invitations for Christmas parties? All RSVP’d.

But.

Chris has been working incredibly long hours lately, all through the weekend and late into the evenings. Not only does this leave Mommy to do everything after working all day, but it makes her resent resent resent that corporation and the people who are being jerks and making his life difficult. And despite all his work, Chris is trying to help me with Charlotte and the household. My point is that by the time I get Charlotte fed and bathed and to bed; the car unloaded; dinner fixed, insulted (I’m not a great cook, so the best I can hope for is a “it’s not bad”), and eaten; dishes cleaned up; and three lunches made for the next day, it’s 9:00. I can’t even think about wrapping gifts or addressing cards. All I want to do is go to bed.

Then last night, after all-day downpours, we discovered three leaks in the ceiling of the office, where the bay window roof attaches to the house. Awesome. (Yes, we are past the 1-year warranty. Why do you ask?)

I then launched into a massive dishes clean-up and discovered that whatever Chris did to sautee the fish (he made dinner last night), it had coated the entire stove in what appeared to be an inch of thick, thick grease. (The cleaners had just come, by the way.) This peeved me. I mean, we have a splatter guard for a reason. Then, as I worked on dishes, I kept stepping on what felt like a dried pea or something on the floor mat, but I couldn’t find what it was. Inexplicably, this absolutely pissed me off. THEN I found Charlotte’s plastic princess placemat at the bottom of the sink of dishes, about a thousand times dirtier than it would have been if a certain husband had just wiped it down after the kid ate, and I snapped.

Freaking snapped.

Lots of unlovely words spilled out of my mouth, and nobody was safe—nobody. (Though Chris’s charming employer got the brunt of it).

Anyway. At the end, we decided to skip a potluck on Sunday, as the idea of making yet another dish to bring to something, getting another pointless gift for another pointless gift exchange (we live 45 minutes from Target, y’all—little things like realizing you need a generic gift sends organization and planning into a tailspin), and coordinating Charlotte’s naps and bedtime to accommodate it all just seemed like something we could skip this year. Seeing Sunday afternoon, plus all the prep (dish, gift), free up all of a sudden helped my mood.

And, well, Chris yelling, “Just. Go. To. Bed!” and finishing the last half of the dishes also helped.

Christmas is supposed to be fun and happy and magical, which I actually think is contributing to my anxiety. I felt myself getting overwhelmed, because I love Christmas and want everything to be just perfect, especially with us hosting for the first time in the new house. I don’t want to miss any of Charlotte’s second Christmas. I find myself resenting my job, as this time of year, I’d really rather be stringing cranberries in front of the fire with my kid than working. (There, I said it.) And by the time I get home, I’m so pooped, I don’t want to “do” Christmas. I just want to be lazy in front of the tree. (Which I love.)

Sigh.

At any rate, frazzled womenfolk during the Christmas season are practically a cliché—I’m certainly not in a terribly unique position here. It's just that when you have to do everything in 8-minute increments, realizing you forgot to buy the candy canes that you need for 14 different things becomes a large—laughably dumb, but large—problem.

I know, I know. I need to lower expectations. But every year, when I tell Chris, “Honey, I just can’t do the giant baked goods extravaganza for your employees again—can’t we get them gift cards?” I’m told that’s it’s tradition. And that (heh) he’ll help. When I beg to just give Charlotte’s teachers cash instead of going to Harris Teeter to hunt down Amex gift cards (with three $7 activation fees!), I’m told it’s “tacky.” (Really? Who has ever opened an envelope and said, “Oh, no. CASH. Blech.”)

Honestly, though. Let’s get some perspective. Hofmann Family Christmas is in good shape. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m no longer AHEAD of schedule but rather ON SCHEDULE that is worrying me I’ll get BEHIND schedule.

And you know working moms. We live and die by our schedules.

But here’s one thing: God bless Charlotte’s Hanukkah party at school (our name for the winter party—huge Jewish contingent in the, um, rather wealthy area where her school is, and the school is decorated with dreidels and menorahs—and one tiny holiday-neutral snowman. Let’s be honest. It’s a Hanukkah party. And my, those blue and silver decorations are pretty!). At her school, all things for the Hanukkah party must be store-bought.

Sure, I had to rework my work schedule to make sure I can get there next week. But you know what? All I have to bring are juice boxes.

(Note. Was just informed by Chris that he has to pick up the SUV at the shop tonight, which is by Trader Joe’s. That means he can buy all the weirdo baking ingredients I need AND get candy canes AND handle the car pick-up AND (wait for it . . . ) PICK UP DINNER! All I have to do is get Charlotte. Yipee! Those envelopes might get addressed tonight after all.)

You Be the Judge. Wait, Don't.

2011-12-06T09:29:00.001-05:00

One of the few Ashley-maintenance things I do is get my eyebrows done about oh, twice per year. I aim for four, which is still too few, but I can only get halfway there.

In downtown DC, Debbie—who has had control of my brows since 2007—is famous. She’s the BEST. And at $15, she’s also a bargain.

However, getting to see Debbie is a pain. Worth it, but a pain. So, not too long ago, on one of my early days, I got off work at 3:45 and had an appointment to see her at 4:15. After a metro ride to Farragut North, I got to my appointment just in time. And waited. And waited. And waited.

I was peeved. I needed to get back on the metro and get to Friendship Heights to meet up with Chris so we could go pick up Charlotte. As I looked around the salon, my ire grew. I had to pick up my child! Sure, they could run late for a twenty-something professional who works across the street and lives in Dupont. At worst, she’ll just be late to a spinning class. Me? I had real obligations! I HAD TO PICK UP MY DAUGHTER!

Enter Wrong Judgment #1: If you are female and hanging around a salon on L street during early evening hours, you must not have a child, nor anything to worry about. Oh, and ALL children-saddled women live in the ‘burbs. (Or, in my case, The Sticks.)

I waited and waited, furiously texting to Chris my apologies that I’d be late and articulating my pissed-off-ness, text-whining about how pointless it is to even make an appointment.

“Helloooooo!” a cheerful voice finally said, interrupting my text bitch-fest. Debbie! I love Debbie. I really do. So, I softened a tad. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, taking a look at the terrifying mangled forest that constituted my eyebrows. “My daughter was up all night with a 105-degree fever. Her throat was so sore she couldn’t swallow, so I sat up with the poor thing with a bowl for her to spit in.”

I. Felt. Terrible.

Sometimes people are not blowing you off. Sometimes they have sick kids.

Debbie continued, “I had to cancel my morning appointments, so a couple got rescheduled for this evening. I’m really sorry.”

I wanted to shake my head in a don’t-worry-about-it gesture, but that seemed unwise with all the hot wax involved. “Don’t give it another thought,” I said instead. “Life happens.”

“Oh, it sure does,” Debbie said with her usual Debbie perkiness. “Her fever broke and she’s doing better now, but my daughter was crying, ‘Mommy! Don’t go to work!’ But I told her, ‘I’m sorry, sweetie. I have to.’”

Thanks, Debbie. Break my heart in freaking two.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have a toddler, and when she gets sick, juggling work and her needs at the same time is insanely difficult. I totally understand.”

And I did. Obviously, I had been wrong wrong wrong. I broke the Working Mom Code, assuming I was the ONLY person with a schedule to keep, the ONLY person with a kid to factor in, the ONLY person who has to keep other people waiting for something because my child has gotten her fortieth ear infection. The Working Mom Code clearly states that working moms get a FREE PASS when it comes to anything kid-related. Your son is sick? Send me your chapter manuscript next week. Your labor is being induced on Monday? Don’t do the peer review you already promised to do—I’ll give you another opportunity next year. And yes, I do hear your 4-year-old screeching in the background during our call. I don’t mind. Really. In fact, put him on the phone. I’ll talk to him for a minute, and maybe that will help.

Lord knows I use the Mom Card ALL THE TIME. I can’t participate on that call unless it’s earlier in the day—Charlotte has a Halloween parade. Or, if her school calls to announce a fever, I’m gone within 2 minutes. Everyone who’s waiting on something from me will just have to wait. I no longer apologize (though I did in the past); I explain.

I could see it on Debbie’s face—she had her bright Debbie smile, but it was pretty forced this time around. Obviously, she was torn between keeping her clients happy and holding the spit bowl for her daughter. She was in the midst of a shit day, and on no sleep to boot. And at the end of her shit day, after all of her efforts, she’d probably have irritated clients and a less-than-thrilled ten-year-old.

Now, I think everyone should abide by the Working Mom Code, which itself applies to everyone—for example, if that person wrapping up your sandwich doesn’t exactly offer you a smile, consider that perhaps he has a sick wife at home, no health insurance for her care, and instead of being there while she’s sick from chemo, he’s stuck here making sandwich after sandwich for people with health insurance who never say they want mayo until it’s too damn late so he can at least bring home seven bucks an hour because that’s better than nothing.

You just don't know what other people are silently up against.

But the Prettiest Sight You'll See . . .

2011-12-03T17:00:00.000-05:00

"But the prettiest sight you'll see is the holly that will be on your OWN FRONT DOOR!"

At the tree farm.

Helping Daddy saw down the tree.

A hay ride! Hooray for living in The Sticks!

Decorating the tree.

Finding the perfect spot for that ornament--probably about 1 inch away from all the others she hung. (We call that the "Charlotte cluster" of the tree.)

And another for the Charlotte cluster . . . .

All decorated!

Chris SWEARS that his 55" montrosity did NOT ruin my mantle decor. I beg to differ. At any rate, we have all three stockings hung. Charlotte's is the one on the far left. Chris's is on the far right, which I made him many years ago, before we were even married. I offered to get him a less hokey one, and he refused. And of course I was flattered by that.

A close up of the mantle garland, which I put together COMPLETELY from scratch every year. Also, you can see Charlotte's stocking hanger, slightly hidden, which bears her pretty name.

45 feet of garland later, I finished decorating the banister!

The really beautiful stuff, no? My Christmas Goofy (great sentimental value from my college years--don't judge!) and the Geico snow globe, which we've put out to be a tad snarky for 5 years now.

The dining room. This is the table, until Christmas Eve . . . . . .

Is Christmastime not the VERY BEST season of the whole dang year? We’re only a week into the Official Christmas Season (now that we’ve gotten pesky Thanksgiving out of the way), and we Hofmanns are having SO much fun.

Last Saturday, we went to a giant farm to hunt down this year’s Christmas tree. Charlotte had a ball, traipsing through the wilderness (sort of) to find our tree. She was practically giddy. When Chris lay down to saw the tree, he asked Charlotte, “Do you wanna help?”

I imagine that he was kidding, as saws and toddlers seem to be an unwise combination, but Charlotte LOVES to help. (In her old class at school, she was known as the official class helper, and as we moved furniture earlier that day, she got on the sides of mattresses and beds and tried to lift when we did. She even made Daddy-like grunting noises.) So, Charlotte dove in—LITERALLY—to help Daddy bring down that tree. Meaning, she dove onto Chris and quasi-wrestled him as he sawed. “This—is—so—helpful,” Chris said with an impressive amount of enthusiasm as Charlotte bounced on him and that saw went back and forth. (I think she thought the back-and-forth movement was the necessary action. I (as well as an older couple nearby) laughed and laughed. I did not help—I took photos instead. (You’re welcome.)

Next, Chris hauled what he has now countlessly declared “the heaviest tree ever” toward a dirt road. There, our savior in the form of a tractor came by. The farmer hoisted what apparently is the Heaviest Tree Ever onto the trailer bed (with ease, I might add), and we Hofmanns hopped on and sat on some hay bales.

We then enjoyed a jolly, bumpy tractor ride all over the farm. Charlotte giggled and giggled, kicking her feet back and forth. I just loved watching her soak up all the outdoor fun, with one hand firmly holding on to Daddy and the other one gripping Mommy.

We paid for our tree, returned home, and set it up. I put on lights, but due to the tree’s insane fullness, we realized we needed to buy more lights. The four strands of 98-cent lights I had bought 5 years ago just didn’t cut it. We bought more strands, and finally got it adequately golden and lit up.

The next day we worked on more décor. I bought 45 feet of garland for the banister, which of course I spruced up with my own ornaments and picks. Now, as some of you know, I’m not too crazy about our banister. The stain color was the worst decision I made when we were building the house. (I have a reaaally good excuse, and it WAS the ONE time I listened to the staff designer, but these are things for a different post.) But with all that lit up garland? Why, I’m currently IN LOVE with our banister. Perhaps it shall stay up all year!

I decorated the mantle with the same garland I used in the DC condo for what used to be a loooong window sill. Last year, for a million percent off at the after-Christmas sales, I bought these subtle stocking holders, which I adore. They’re personalized with each of our names and are sturdy and HEAVY but don’t detract from my precious mantle décor. (I cannot say the same thing for the ugly TV.)

So, there we go. This is the first Christmas we’re hosting in our house, and I had the best time making everything festive and purdy. No matter how many pretty streets and windows and stores and houses you see, all dressed up for Christmas, the prettiest one is always your own. (Happy sigh.)

Thanksgiving

2011-11-27T06:40:00.005-05:00

The friendly turkey (and owl) Charlotte made at church.

The demonic turkey Charlotte made at preschool.

All six burners at work. If only we needed to cook something on the griddle!

Keeping herself innocently occupied while Mommy and Daddy ran around the kitchen. Her new fetish? Handbags. As you can see.

This year's table.

Charlotte also got a fancy(is) table setting! She even sat on my (eek) nice upholstered dining room chairs, instead of the made-in-China kitchen chair booster seat. And yes, I did indeed lay a (matching dark green) towel beneath her. I'm not stupid.

Mommy and Daddy's table setting. I'm pretty sure the bread plate is in the wrong spot, but when you're sitting next to a toddler, you put the china out of reach.

Many people mocked the idea of my double dishwasher when we had them put in. But you know what? It's BRILLIANT. The best tweak I made to this kitchen. By FAR. Clean up = a breeze. In ONE round.

We had a lovely, low-key Thanksgiving with just the three of us this year. Chris, as you know, is a darn good cook, so he handled the turkey, stuffing, mashed pototoes, green beans, and the all-important GRAVY. Mmmmm. Gravy.

I did the homemade rolls, pumpkin pie (crust and filling from scratch, of course), and cranberry sauce. Oh, and the table setting. I love, love, LOVE setting festive tables. As you know.

While the three of us dilly dallied together in the family room, drinking our morning coffee (or milk, for those under two) and periodically having Charlotte make her "gobble gobble!" sound, I asked my girl a question.

"What are you thankful for, Charlotte?"

"DADDY!" she cried.

"Daddy?" I clarified.

"Yeah!" she answered. Like, duh.

I grinned and snuggled my goofball girl into me. "Me too," I said. "But you rank pretty up there, too."

Doubled Up

2011-11-23T10:20:00.001-05:00

Well, my big girl is getting bigger! As you might know, Charlotte has been sleeping on her crib mattress on the floor for many months. Now, we’re moving her into a double/full-sized bed. See, she transitioned from crib to freedom with shocking ease. Charlotte stays put on her bed, even if she’s peeved about going down for a nap. She’ll occasionally roll off, but it’s rare. Our biggest problem is that Charlotte is an incredibly active sleeper and kicks off her covers. Fortunately, fleece jammies carry her through to morning most of the time, but I suspect the really cold weather will cause a lot of late-night, Mommy-I’m-cold wake-ups.

In the meantime, Mommy and Daddy decided that we were tired of feeling like stiff old people every morning, so we’ve invested in a new Tempur-Pedic, king-sized bed. This had always been the long-term plan, as our bedroom is really designed for a king-sized bed (we currently have a queen) and we knew Charlotte wouldn’t be sleeping on a crib mattress forever. A queen seemed like a tad too much for a toddler or little girl, but with all family members on the West Coast, keeping multiple guest beds on hand is necessary.

So, we bought the new bed, which required new furniture: bed and nightstands. I had no problem with our old furniture, but a queen bed simply cannot hold a king mattress. And, well, not that our current nightstands ever matched our bed in the first place, but the fancy new ones actually will. We had been eyeing them forever, we desperately needed nightstands in the guest rooms (which is where our old ones will go—well, I might put one in Charlotte’s room), and THEN THEY WENT ON SALE. Like, WAY on sale.

Which means. We need to move the double bed from the kid #2/guest bedroom into Charlotte’s room so we can move the queen bed in the OTHER guest bedroom into it, so we can move our current bed plus furniture into the room. In other words, move the blue room furniture to the pink room to allow the yellow room furniture into the blue room to allow the brown room furniture into the yellow room to allow the new Tempur-Pedic and furniture into the brown room. Crystal clear, eh? Well, just trust me then.

In short, Charlotte is getting the double bed. I’m ridiculously excited—there’s something just so little girl about it. The mattress is very high, so we’ll just put it on the floor, probably sans box spring, for the time being. Why no toddler bed? I’ve never loved the idea of toddler beds, as they just seem like another temporary yet expensive item to buy. We bought Charlotte’s new bed initially to serve extra guests (sometimes we have two sets of guests staying here at a time), fully intending it to become hers. Thus, we bought a good one to last her until college. (I don’t like to buy things multiple times. Except table linens.)
Now, you might ask, why rush the double bed for Charlotte? If you need to make room, put one of the beds in the craft (green) room.

Ha! Let me remind you that it is Christmastime. And I have 1,432 projects currently going on in that room, not to mention it’s also the official gift-wrapping/gift-storing/box-packing-to-send-West room. Santa’s workshop, if you will. No room. Pathetic, but true. Second, I don’t think we’re rushing. Frankly, Charlotte could use more room to wiggle around in at night.

Now, for the fun stuff. With new beds come new bed linens. Chris, predictably, was shocked that you can’t get non-sandpaper king-sized sheets for $12.99. After looking at Macys, Costco, Bed Bath and Beyond, JC Penney, Crate and Barrel, Bloomingdales, and even Nordstrom and Restoration Hardware, we found a perfect set at TARGET. (I love Target. I. LOVE. TARGET.) The perfect burnt-orange color, a high thread count, non-sateen (Chris is weirdly anti-sateen), and for waaaaaay less than most other places. And in the meantime, I picked up a $30 set of snowflake flannel sheets at Target that TOTALLY CLASH with our duvet, but I don’t care. I love whimsical flannel.

So, I was feeling pretty proud of myself and my economical sheet-buying after the big expenses of the new mattress and furniture. But after a quick perusing through my linen closet, it occurred to me: I have ONE set of sheets for the double bed. One. Something tells me that having a single set of sheets for a child who is mere months away from potty training is a massive problem. So now I get to find another set of sheets—this time for a little girl!

Oh, I’m so excited. I love crap like this. (Can you tell?) My mom is making Charlotte a quilt for her bed (we picked out fabric when she was here in October), so we’ll probably just wing it with blankets until it’s done.

So, Mums? How’s that quilt coming?

Announcing the December Book

2011-11-23T08:19:00.001-05:00

Oh, I am LATE in announcing the Reader’s Ink book for December. I’m sorry. ‘Tis been a busy month. Fortunately, things will TOTALLY slow down in December. Right? Right.

For December, Julie has selected The Little Giant of Aberdeen County by Tiffany Baker. The premise? A child grows at a super fast rate, making her the town weirdo. The reviews are very good, and I’m super anxious to get started on this one. Discussion begins January 1. Or, if we’re being honest, January 2 or 3. Join us!

In the meantime, we’re reading The Book Thief, and discussion on that one starts in a little over a week.

3 Days: The Weekend

2011-11-22T09:41:00.002-05:00

The past weekend had a strange rhythm to it, continually shifting from calm to busy, happy to sad. On Friday, I attended Charlotte’s Thanksgiving luncheon at school. You might recall that her Halloween party was sort of ruined by a snippy mommy. So, for Thanksgiving, I found a solution: sit with the daddies. (A goofball dad took a photo of his son “to send to Mommy on her business trip to make her feel guilty.” Ahhh, working families. Sometimes I forget we’re not the only people in the world juggling work and kids.)

After returning Charlotte to her classroom so she could take a much-needed nap, I met up with Chris, who took the afternoon off (as did I, per the Thanksgiving lunch), and we grabbed some appetizers and cocktails in Bethesda. We had a delightfully grown-up time, NOT entertaining Charlotte, NOT picking up Cheerios off the floor, NOT keeping her from eating crayons, NOT reminding her to use her indoor voice. We then picked Charlotte up from school early, and an evening trip to Costco finished off our exciting Friday night.

Saturday was busy as usual, but we spent the day with a heavy sense of trepidation. Josh’s memorial party (yes, party) was that night in DC. Chris and I hadn’t been downtown—without Charlotte—together since the kid was born. We intended to get sushi beforehand at a restaurant in Tenleytown, but as if to prove how long it had been since we ventured into the District, the sushi restaurant was gone. A busy Indian restaurant took its place. So, what the heck? We sat at the bar (no reservations and in a bit of a hurry) and had a fantastic, spicy meal. We were rather subdued, though, each of us battling a gnawing unease.

We finally headed to the memorial, downtown near the Capitol building. The city was so familiar, I found myself forgetting we had a kid (yikes) and half expected to return to the condo. At the memorial, we saw a ton of people we hadn’t seen in a long time, which was nice. But the occasion was a sad one, not to mention utterly surreal. Afterward, a small group of friends and us went to Capital Grille on Pennsylvania Avenue (oh, DC—how we’ve missed you). The Capitol building was bright-whitely lit against the sky, the streets were empty, and the night certainly had a whiff of A Night Out about it—which seemed wrong. The boys ordered scotch, the womenfolk ordered wine, and we toasted Josh.

Around midnight, we knew we couldn’t keep the babysitter waiting until dawn, so we called it a night. Fun fact: you can get from downtown DC to our rural area in The Sticks in 32 minutes with no traffic, few deer, and a slightly above-legal speed.

A $100 babysitting tab later (sigh), we settled into bed, still rather discombobulated, even though it was past 1:00 a.m. While it was good and necessary to pay our respects to Josh and his wife, and to see old friends, we still lacked closure. My guess is that it will come in bits and pieces as time passes.

Sunday, our Perfect Child slept until 7:30 (for which I've gotten her two extra Christmas gifts), and we ran errands in a bit of a fog. Charlotte was spectacular all day, flitting about like the very busy girl she is. She filled the house with lots of pitter-pattering and honking laughs—the best sounds. The day was gloomy, as were we, so I turned on almost every light, which seemed to fuel Charlotte’s jolliness even further. And my, that girl can perk us up. I love her.

The Niners won. The Seahawks won. And after Charlotte went to bed, Chris and I had a fancy homemade dinner and a nice bottle of wine from our favorite winery to mark our 4-year anniversary (three days late, but whatever). Despite being very tired, we lingered with our wine glasses, contemplative and peaceful. Life goes on.

The Fourth

2011-11-17T15:19:00.001-05:00

This year, I thought I'd share the less lovey-dovey wedding photos. Here, we have some pre-wedding jitters. Weddings are stressful.

Looks like Paul is the only one looking forward to this wedding. They were stuck in traffic. Chris was stressed. Hence the flask.

Ah. Reunited! Together! SMILES! Almost-wedded BLISS.

As of today, Christopher Charles and I have been blissfully (right?) wed for same amount of time it takes to get a (real) 4-year degree.

In other words, we have a college-degree’s worth of marital knowledge. Why, one might EVEN call it my “M-R-S. DEGREE.”

There’s irony for you. Of course, Chris would then have his “MR. DEGREE.

Hey, do you want an example of a labored metaphor? See above.

In the meantime, what have I learned in four years? Cue “Pomp and Circumstance” and I shall recite:

You get flowers and a 5-star restaurant on your first anniversary. A fancy home-cooked meal (on a budget, what with house being built and Baby coming and all) on your second. A quick sandwich together on your lunch hour for your third. And nada for your fourth. Because, well, planning takes time. And it landed on a Thursday. But you know what? That’s fine. We know we love each other.
Division of labor. It cannot be fixed. It cannot be balanced. All you can do is hire somebody (cleaning ladies) to pick up the (his) slack.
If you “let” him cook all the time pre-kid, he’ll continue it forever.
Never, EVER learn how to work the lawn mower. I’ve gone 30+ years without ever mowing a lawn.
On that note, claim the Diaper Genie is too complicated for you, so he always changes the bag. This worked for a whole year until business trips and poopy necessity required me to (sigh) change it myself. Now I'm the only one who does it.
Tread lightly when it comes to cooking eggs. He’s weird about them for a reason. Accept it.
Through the baby monitor, or crouched on the stairs, eavesdrop on him reading to and putting to bed your daughter. Your heart will melt. And you will forgive that for the 12th day in a row, he has not put away the laundry you so carefully and lovingly folded.
Happily ever after? Why, happily ever after is now!

Happy four years, Mister! (Hey! Let's do the NICE kind of frozen pizza tonight! Yes? Yes!)

(Note. Since writing this post, Christopher Charles has informed me that he has cleared his schedule for Friday afternoon. Thus, after I attend Charlotte's Thanksgiving luncheon like the good little wife of 4 years I am, I shall meet him someplace urban and cool for anniversary cocktails! Huzzah!)

Logging On

2011-11-16T09:46:00.001-05:00

I’m hearing more and more about these disturbing things called “homework logs.” And “reading logs.” And school projects parents and kids are expected to complete TOGETHER.

Hrmmmm. Charlotte is not quite two, but I’m already looking ahead to her entering the public school system. And those scary little homework logs. And what seems to be confusion between parental tuned-in-ness and parental make-sure-it’s-done-right-and-on-time-ness.

I think we’re in the midst of a bizarre phase of overachieving child-rearing that is wacky. The MORE we do for our kids—the longer we breastfeed, the more stimulating activities we sign kids up for, the more organic their food, the more we question every single thing the pediatrician says—the more we LOVE them. Or, translation: the better parents we are.

But I want to make the case for LESS. Hear me out.

When I was at Costco a couple weeks ago, I passed a man who apparently had run into an acquaintance, and he was talking annoyingly loudly and with perverse pride about how (overly) involved he was in his kid’s life. “I go through each of her classes, and say ‘What homework do you have’ and I sit there and make sure she does it and ……” A disinterested adolescent whom I assume was the child in question stood with her arms crossed, in that charming way that moody teen girls do.

Ever judgmental about other parents’ child-rearing practices, I rolled my eyes. What’s the point of trying to get a kid into college if he or she won’t be able to function once they get there?

My parents were not perfect, but self-sufficiency is one thing they nailed in raising my brother and me. Part of this contribution to our independence was the simple fact that both parents worked full-time. We were responsible for rolling out of bed, getting ready, and getting to the bus stop on time. My dad views our 8-year never-missing-the-bus streak one of his greatest parental accomplishments. We never missed the bus. Not once. (We were home alone in the mornings and early evenings beginning when I was in fourth grade. Rather young, I now realize.) What would have happened if we missed the bus? “Oh, probably nothing,” my dad now admits. But of course Tyler and I thought the ramifications would be absolutely horrifying. So we never risked it.

As for schoolwork? Why, that was our responsibility. Tyler was innately smarter than me, so he could maintain high grades with good test scores, charm, in-class participation, and plain old smarts. He just had to add a tiny bit of homework, and voila. A lovely little transcript. Me? I had to work at it. Hard. Regardless of how we approached schoolwork, my parents were hands off. Sure, if we needed help or a trip to the library or craft store (is there any greater waste of time than creating freaking shoebox dioramas?), the parental units stepped in. But remembering deadlines and due dates, project components, and homework was purely my responsibility. So, I took responsibility for it.

And you know what? It meant that my successes were MY successes. My parents never acted like academic success was worthless—to the contrary, they LOVED it when I succeeded. They were proud. And because each success belonged to me and me alone—my smarts, my effort, my drive, my creativity—I built on each success, moving steadily forward. I knew I could do what I needed to do.

And by the time I arrived at a competitive liberal arts college, I was ready. I did very, very well in college.

I’m currently reading NurtureShock, and a chapter delineates how much evidence shows children’s future achievement to be highly correlated with their “stick-to-it-ness”—their work ethic, their determination to keep working at something to get it right. I think there’s a lot of truth in that. And I'm sort of stunned that my dad in particular picked up on it. Before this trendy book. For example, while oodles of my school friends were getting paid for grades ($100 for each A, $50 for each B, and so on), my dad ABSOULTELY refused.

“For starters,” he said, “Grading is subjective. Different teachers grade differently. Second, grades don’t mean shit.”

Imagine saying this to your bookish adolescent, whose sole talent is getting good grades and making teachers happy.

Dad would continue, “I’d much rather see you work your ass off in an AP class and get a C than coast through a different class and get an A. Grades. Don’t. Mean. Shit.”

And I can’t believe I’m typing this, but my dad was right. In high school, I did consistently well writing papers. It drove some of my classmates loony, and I was told—on several occasions (and in college, too): “It just comes easily to you.”

No, it didn’t. As a high schooler, I’d stare at my computer screen, trying to concoct the perfect sentence. The perfect argument. The perfect paper. In college, I started papers weeks in advance, as I needed a ton of time to flesh out thoughts, do my research, rework sentences, finesse the style. In college and grad school, I wasn’t writing about concrete things, like geology. These weren’t reports. I had to sift through extraordinarily complex theory, philosophy, politics, historical context, and connect it all back to whatever literature I was dealing with at the time. Not easy. Sometimes, I just had to take the time to think think think through something tricky. And it occurred to me, in reading NurturShock, that the reason I was good at writing was due in large part to my stick-to-it-ness. And not once in high school, college, or grad school did I request an extension. If I got sick, well, at least my paper was already almost finished.

Chris and I have discussed how best to handle Charlotte’s school years, and I’m sure we’ve got a complicated road ahead of us. School is different now than when we were kids. We’ll have to negotiate through the excessive child-centered cesspool of dependency, among a billion other things, and do the best we can. It frightens me.

But hear this: Nurturing independence does NOT equate to disinterest or lack of involvement. After all, my mom read to my brother and me for years. I want to read books to Charlotte when she’s thirty! But I cannot justify robbing her of the satisfaction of knowing she alone achieved a job well done. And on the flip side, she needs to be allowed to fail. Ensuring that she does every little school-related thing correctly not only short-changes her sense of accomplishment, it creates a false environment. The real word does not function with mommies and daddies checking to make sure you saw all your patients, or correctly engineered that building, or remembered to show up for a deposition. In real life, you can fail. You WILL fail, now and then. How will you proceed?

The long and the short of it is this: Charlotte will be given every advantage. She lives in a safe neighborhood, has access to top-notch education from preschool through college, has parents who adore her and each other, and all of her material needs will be met. Thus, that kid needs to be equipped not to squander it. To whom much is given, much is expected.

And that? That is why I don’t want to sign any homework logs.

Lost It

2011-11-14T08:37:00.001-05:00

Well, it happened. We lost our kid. Fortunately, there were no moments of panic, or frantic running around, or desperate, shrill shrieks of “WHERE IS CHARLOTTE?” Because, stellar parents that we are, we didn’t realize she was missing.

Yesterday at church, Chris and I hosted fellowship hour (the hour in between first and second services). It entails bringing food and drinks, making coffee, and cleaning up the hall after. No biggie. Besides, Charlotte had a blast running around and basking in the center of attention.

After the second service, we cleaned up. In the hall area, there are very few areas for Charlotte to get into trouble but plenty of space to run around, so Chris and I had a vague idea of where she was at any given time. Mostly. Finally, it was just Chris and me in the hall, plus the pastor and a church member hanging out and talking. I was wiping down a table when a teenager who occasionally babysits for us approached me carrying Charlotte. “I saw Charlotte wandering around outside and she was about to run into the street. I figured I should bring her in,” she said.

“What?!” I cried. I looked at Charlotte, happy as a clam and totally nonplussed by any potential drama, and I saw the wide open door to the hall. Everything instantly clicked. Well, duh. Charlotte loves being outside more than anything, and a beautiful late autumn day had lured her into sunshine.

Still. I was mortified. “Chris, I thought she was with you!” I said.

“I thought she was with YOU!” he replied.

The vision of Charlotte wandering into the street horrified me. And we had had no clue she was even gone. “We are terrible, terrible parents,” I said. “Oh. My. Goodness.”

The pastor, who of course witnessed our parental failure, just laughed. “It happens to everybody,” he assured us. “In fact, my parents lost me in an airport in Nairobi when I was a toddler.” I won’t lie—that made me feel better. Besides, it’s not like Charlotte was bolting toward an eight-lane highway. Just a lazy country street, here in The Sticks.

Anyway, we’re able to laugh about it—no harm done. And really, even with only a couple people left on the church grounds, somebody—who knew Charlotte—stepped in and brought her back to us.

It takes a village, eh?

Josh

2011-11-11T11:21:00.001-05:00

I haven’t posted for longer than usual—things have been rather crappy lately.

On Tuesday, we learned that a dear friend of ours unexpectedly passed away, after a short illness—an illness so brief we didn’t even know about it. To say the least, we were—and continue to be—stunned.

What to say about Josh? He and his wife, Alison, were among the very first people we connected with after moving to the East Coast. Chris and Josh first hit it off over their mutual love of MASH reruns and The Economist. Josh and Alison were at every party, dinner, happy hour—everything. When I think of our DC life, I think of them and that scotch-is-always-a-bad-idea-after-vodka-and/or-wine-but-let’s-drink-it-anyway circle of friends. Terrifyingly smart, incredibly witty, Josh seemed to believe that he invented the concept of globalization, and once a report he authored was referred to in some Congressional this or that, there was no stopping it.

When some DC friends got hitched at Lake Tahoe, Chris’parents graciously let us, Josh, Alison, and our friend Jason use their vacation home there—they even hosted a barbeque at their house in Reno. And so the DC contingent was represented at Marc-Anthony and Kelli’s wedding. It is firmly etched into my brain the stellar idea the three guys had to take a dip in the lake on a breezy May day. Lake Tahoe is one of the deepest, coldest lakes there is, and those boys yelped and squealed like little girls. It took them ages to thaw.

Chris and I are in shock. It seems impossible that vibrant, brilliant person is no longer with us. I can hear the sound of his voice, clear as day. We’re sad—pure and simple. After years of education and hard work, Josh had hit his stride in his career. He and Alison had bought a house. Now, he leaves behind a fantastic, brilliant wife. And he didn’t get a chance to be a dad.

And I’m sad for Chris, who has lost a good friend. Even after Charlotte was born, the guys would plan happy hours and scotch-tastings in the city, which Chris—despite living in The Sticks—wouldn’t miss.

On Tuesday, I looked through lots of old photos, most of which cracked me up (two words: PROM PARTY) as well as made me cringe for letting parenthood get so much in the way of adult life. I flirted with the idea of adding some to this post, but I’d rather not do so without people’s permission. So, imagine 80s prom fashion, a slightly out-of-control downtown housewarming party, and a swanky Lake Tahoe wedding. Oh, and Halloween. Lord have mercy, HALLOWEEN.

In true Josh style, the memorial will involve drinks after. As that small scotch circle started arranging it, I mentally took roll to determine who would be there (and women are only included so we can drive our boys home after). Marc-Anthony and wife? Check. Jason and mistress? Check. Chris and me? Check. Josh and Alison? Oh. Wait. That’s right. And we remember all over again.

In the meantime, Chris has been in San Francisco most of this week and won’t be home until (sigh) late Saturday night. (He was in Chicago most of last week, and yes, I AM sick of him traveling. Why do you ask?) I miss Chris and wish he was here so we could just be sad together.

This just sucks.

Carrying the Banner

2011-11-03T09:01:00.000-04:00

In Charlotte’s new class, we had to make a “family banner” that celebrates all things Hofmann—from Charlotte’s perspective, of course.

Above is the end result. Nothing too fancy, but hey. The school will laminate it and it will be fancier. We concocted a family motto, per the instructions, and it took a LONG time to come up with one that was (a) clever, (b) true, and (c) appropriate for a preschool wall. We settled on “Happy Hofmanns Make a Happy Home.” Simple and to the point. But not terribly clever. Alas.

We also listed our family’s favorite things: snow, Seahawks, 49ers, Christmas trees, and Handy Manny (on the Disney Channel—it’s a family obsession).

Of course, Charlotte is (I think) the only child in her entire class of 12 darling children without a sibling, and sibling involvement was supposed to make up a large part of the banner. So, what to do? First, we framed the whole thing as All About Charlotte—meaning, we BECAME a family when she entered our lives. Next, we added photos of grandparents—after all, they’re family! Our family of three might be teeny tiny, but she has an omi, nana, and two grandpas who think Charlotte is the very definition of awesomeness.

All three of us traced our hands, I wrote “Charlotte Hofmann” in glitter glue (and totally regretted it, because it looks pretty crappy), and we added the all-important NFL logos.

I have to admit, I felt great familial pride by the time we (I) finished it. (I swear I’m not going to be one of those moms who does everything for her kids, but come on. Charlotte can’t even hold scissors yet.)

So, GO HOFMANNS! (Note: Opps are implied—half her DNA comes from that tough Opp stock, after all.)

Monkey See, Monkey Do

2011-11-01T10:16:00.001-04:00

Mommy's helper.

Let's get the gunk out!

Putting on the top. She LOVED fitting it just right.

I accidentally bought a carving kit for jumbo-sized pumpkins, and a jumbo pumpkin this is not. I had to wing it, and this was the best I could do.

Cute little monkey!

Of course there's snow in the background of our Halloween photo. Is that not normal?

Playing with her pumpkin.

At the school party. The juice boxes (provided by moi, I'll have you know) were a huge hit. Charlotte doesn't typically get to drink juice.

Snack time. At which point, I realized we needed to get her out of her costume STAT.

My PATHETIC video of the parade. I was holding Charlotte's hand, walking in heels, and trying to keep steel doors from smacking into my child. So, this is pretty much the worst Halloween Parade Video you'll ever see. You're welcome.

We had a BUSY Halloween! The photos pretty much show it all. Yesterday, I escaped from work early to attend Charlotte’s school party. It’s a good thing I did, because the second I got there, Charlotte grabbed onto my hand AND DID NOT LET GO. Until, of course, snack time. (She didn’t nap very well yesterday.)

The hand-holding caused a bit of a problem when the kids gathered for a class photo. We temporarily parted, and my daughter screamed and burst into tears. Fortunately, another little boy also refused to get in the picture, so Charlotte wasn’t the only one.

We did the parade, and Charlotte had her thumb stuck in her mouth the entire time. We then did party snacks, and I had a charming conversation with another mother, which I stupidly let ruin the party for me.

“[Child] is such a good eater and SO MUCH BIGGER than the other kids his age. He’s in the 90^th percentile for height and 75^th for weight, and he towers over the kids,” That Mother said, with (in my opinion) excessive pride. I mean, really. A kid grows how he or she grows. “And he’s the youngest kid in the class!”

Charlotte’s teacher smiled and shook her head. “No, Charlotte H. is our littlest one now.”

That Mom raised her eyebrows. “When is her birthday?” she asked me.

“End of January,” I said.

That Mom shook her head. “[Child] is younger. He just turned two in September.”

“No,” I said very carefully. “Charlotte hasn’t turned two yet. She’ll be two on January 30^th.”

That Mom gaped. “She’s not even TWO yet?”

“No,” I said.

“I am shocked,” she said. "Absolutely shocked. The staff cited all sorts of rules and policies, saying [Child] could absolutely not move into this class until he was two. I mean, in the other class, it was just ridiculous. He was a giant amongst all these . . . all these . . . . all these BABIES.”

At the word “baby,” Charlotte’s head snapped up. (Babies are her favorite thing in the world.) And at the word “babies,” which dripped with disdain, I could easily read between the lines. BABIES. Like, MY child. Who apparently was holding back her precious son's intellectual development.

So, I shrugged. “Policies were never mentioned to us. They asked if we’d be open to moving her up a little early, and we decided to give it a try. I really don’t think it was anything beyond a slot opening up,” I said, trying to clarify that we’re not so deluded that we think Charlotte is just SO ahead of her peers that she simply must be challenged more.

“Well, I just can’t believe it,” That Mom said. “Apparently the rules don’t apply to everybody.”

I shrugged again. “I honestly don’t know. We were surprised, yes. But Charlotte does well when she has big kids to imitate.”

That Mom glared at me, clearly disenchanted with the notion of her child inspiring mine. We started cleaning up and I took the opportunity to bolt to the paper towel dispenser and thus end the conversation. When I got back, That Mom had changed topics, telling everyone how [Child] ate so much more than other kids—because he’s just the Best Eater Ever. I kept my observation to myself that Charlotte had packed away about twice as much as that other kid.

We were one of the last to leave, as Charlotte took forever to finish eating. As I gathered up her stuff, I looked around her room and examined the birthday chart. Two January birthdays were listed. Charlotte, January 30, 2010. And another little girl, January 16, 2009. She’s in a class with a child an entire year older. Charlotte is the only 2010 kid.

I looked over at my sweet Charlotte, who had applesauce covering the front of her shirt. Of course she did. No bibs in this class. But she still needs a bib. Heck, she needs help getting hoisted onto the little chairs at the tables, at least until she grows another 2 inches or so. About two-thirds of her classmates are potty-trained, but potty-training isn’t even on the horizon for our girl. Earlier, I had counted plastic plates with a little boy to distract him from the “But where’s MY mommy?” until she came, and in doing so, I thought about how Charlotte can’t count yet. (We count EVERYTHING, but it simply hasn’t clicked.) In short, I seriously second-guessed our decision to move her up to the next class. I really hadn't realized what a big deal it was to dodge the two-year rule and Charlotte's clinginess in class was not helping my thought process.

Anyway, I felt very much in a funk the entire drive home and the rest of the night. Chris assured me that Charlotte is probably indeed a little overwhelmed with all the newness, but yesterday was also her very first official day in the new class, and there was a parade and Halloween party to added to it. Perspective, he reminded me. She loves the routine, the big-kid playground, and the do-it-yourself aspect of her new class. Getting covered in applesauce is hardly tragic. Right?

Anyway, Halloween continued. We had lots of trick-or-treaters, and I’m convinced our neighborhood has the cutest kids ever. Freaking adorable. There was even a Steelers football player, which Chris found hilarious. I gave the Steeler candy anyway, then yelled “Go Seahawks!” as he bolted across our lawn.

Now, it’s November. Time to start listening to Christmas music!

Weirdness

2011-10-31T08:30:00.000-04:00

Lots of weirdness lately in these here parts. I’ll give you a bulleted list.

It snowed. Significantly. In October.
Chris expressed great concern about the Christmas dress I picked out for Charlotte, arguing it wasn’t Christmas-y enough. He found a red plaid one and said, “See? Isn’t this one nice?” (We’re sticking with the one I picked out.)
The inside of the pumpkin I carved was half frozen. Fun fact: Pumpkin slush makes it easier to clean out, but you might get frostbite in the process.
We put away Charlotte’s high chair, down in the basement. Sad.
I asked Charlotte if she was ready for her nap. The little weirdo nodded, hopped off my lap, climbed upstairs, and put herself to bed. This was a first.

Halloween photos and such to come, probably in the next post.

See? Snow.

Autumn, Focaccia, and the Ghost of Gouda

2011-10-28T11:26:00.002-04:00

I am not a food or recipe blogger. There are thousands of such bloggers out there who can take better photos and produce prettier food than I can.

I only like to blog about food or cooking if I can make a story out of it. Enter: Sweet Potato Rosemary Focaccia.

Now, Chris, Charlotte, moi? We’re a young family. Chris and I have been dating/engaged/married—together, in other words—for 8 years. Married for (almost) 4 years. Our traditions are works in progress.

One tradition is our Annual Autumn High-Five. This blessed annual event takes place when the two of us go outside in the morning, shiver with a little chill, and decide that the weather has finally moved into crisp autumn days—meaning, WE SURVIVED ANOTHER SWELTERING MIDATLANTIC SUMMER. This is a major accomplishment for two displaced West Coasters. We converse: Do we agree that summer is officially over? And that it’s just nippy, cooler days ahead? Yes? Then we do it. And by it (get your minds out of the gutter—I’m looking at you, Lauren, Meghan, and Molly), I mean we HIGH FIVE.

Our Annual Autumn High-Five was particularly cool and sophisticated when we lived downtown and we’d high-fived it out on Massachusetts Avenue during our walk to the metro. But you know what? Crazier people than us roam them DC streets.

Now, the Annual Autumn High-Five is the green light for fall foods. And one of those fall foods is my sweet potato rosemary focaccia, which comes on the heels of the Annual Autumn High-Five and that I make only once per year. (See how I brought that whole story full circle? Let’s see your average recipe blogger do that.)

Waaaay back in fall 2005, when I had mostly finished my master’s thesis was sadly unemployed with way too much time on my hands (I couldn’t even afford cable, so not even TV could distract me), I filled my days running along the Potomac in an attempt to feel daily accomplishment, applying to jobs, interviewing, and recovering from lots of rejections when potential employers “decided to go with someone with more [any] experience.” Oh! And reading Martha Stewart Living magazines.

I decided to try a pretentious Martha recipe, but I had to pick one that was CHEAP. I selected the sweet potato rosemary focaccia, and I remember going to Trader Joe’s to buy the gouda. This was such a big splurge for me that I actually remember buying gouda cheese 6 years ago. Because buying this gourmet food item was such a big deal at the time, I still think of gouda as expensive. Like, prohibitively expensive. Thus every year I experience surprise when I discover it ain’t as pricey as I expected.

This year, as I prepared to make my focaccia, I swung by the Whole Foods in Friendship Heights to collect ingredients. Funny enough, the “bargain bin” of cheese odds and ends had lots of gouda pieces—for, like, pennies—and I figured that the gouda just gets grated. Did I need to spend extra, just for a neat little wedge lined in wax? No. So, I collected about three pathetic lumps of bargain cheese, then moved over to the good stuff (I planned to mix plain gouda with smoked gouda). I picked out a beautiful, nice-sized wedge of maple apple smoked gouda. I flipped the wedge to see the price: $4.55. For quite a bit of cheese. Fancy cheese. At Whole Foods. Still, the Ghost of Gouda haunted me. I expected it to be somewhere around $14. Because gouda was expensive. Right?

As you can see, I have a very complicated relationship with gouda cheese. It brings up all sorts of bizarre budgetary flashbacks.

Needless to say, I bought the effing gouda at Whole Foods. When I retold my gouda saga to Chris, he said, with great guilt, “I should have bought the gouda for you. That first time.”

“Not really,” I said. This girl stood on her own two feet, thank you very much. Even when it came to gouda.

“But, I mean, I ate it and everything.” This was true. “I should have bought the ingredients.”

“Really?" I said. "You were making an entry-level salary that first year in DC, living in one of the most expensive areas in the country. Sweetie, you couldn’t afford gouda any more than I could.”

So, you see, our first focaccia was considered a FANCY autumn meal. I lit candles, poured $3 wine, and turned off the fluorescent lights of my 3-foot-long galley kitchen in my 16th-floor Alexandria apartment. And you know what? This is actually a really fond memory of mine. Chris and me, against the world. Not yet knowing anyone. Him in Arlington, me in Alexandria. Not sure how everything would turn out, and hunkering down in a cozy dining room (that I decorated spectacularly, in spite of my meager budget).

See the recipe below, pictures below that. During the past 6 years, I have changed this recipe so much that I’m not stepping on Martha’s precious copyrighted toes.

Recipe:

Buy about 4 medium yams/sweet potatoes. Peel, poke with a fork, throw on a greased cookie sheet, and bake at 400 degrees for about 20 minutes. Let cool. They will not be fully cooked yet. They shouldn’t be—they’ll finish baking later.
Mix two packets of yeast into 1 ¼ cup warm water. Add 2 1/4 tsp sugar. Let sit until foamy, about 4 min.
Add 3 ½ cups flour, 2 tbs olive oil, and 2 tsp salt to yeast mixture. Knead in stand mixer with a dough hook for 4–5 minutes, on low–med speed.
Transfer dough to oil-lined bowl. Cover with oiled plastic wrap, and let rise somewhere reasonably warm, about 20 minutes or so, or until doubled in size.
In the meantime, slice the relatively cooled yams (a little less than ½-inch thick). Chop lots of rosemary. Like, tons. All that you can find. Roast 1 cup of chopped walnuts. Grate 2 cups of gouda cheese. Ready? Here’s where it gets fun.
Stretch out the now-risen dough on to a big jelly roll cookie sheet (sprayed with Pam). Stretch and pull it into all four corners. Brush a layer of olive oil on the dough, cover with paper towels or plastic wrap, and let rise somewhere warm for another 30 minutes.
Next, remove covering, liberally salt the oiled dough, spread rosemary, and then add sweet potato slices, pressing them into the dough here and there. SALT THE YAM LAYER. This is crucial, or your yams will taste like nada. Sprinkle gouda and walnuts. If you’re me, take a picture. Have your husband lift the cookie sheet so he can feel how heavy the sucker is.
Bake at 400 degrees for 5 minutes. Rotate pan, bake for another 10–15 minutes. Take out, slice with a pizza cutter, and enjoy.

Before going into the oven.

Fresh out of the oven.

The Pumpkin Patch

2011-10-26T10:53:00.000-04:00

Being unbelievably adorable during the hayride.

Yep, still cute.

The pumpkin graveyard.

Weightlifting.

She has not yet learned to NOT pick up a pumpkin by its stem.

Looking at goats with Daddy.

I owed Charlotte a trip to the pumpkin patch. Big time.

First, we planned to go two weekends ago, when Nana was here. Unfortunately, it poured and we decided to reschedule.

Then, this past week, we planned to go again. This time, Charlotte’s school was doing a field trip. I was even going to chaperone, so I could be THAT sort of mom—the type willing to rework her morning schedule and then change from jeans and sneakers into dress pants and heels in the car. Alas, storms moved through our area yet again, and the school cancelled the field trip.

On Saturday, I was determined. We would go to the pumpkin patch. We would do the hayride. We would buy a pumpkin.

Now, I’m not sure what pumpkins look like for all you West Coasters, but in these here parts, the excessive rain has generated not only a big fat pumpkin shortage, but also pretty darn small pumpkins. Not TINY, but not . . . big. You know?

Well, no matter. We went to a farm a couple miles from our house (an advantage of living in The Sticks). Hundreds of (already picked) pumpkins greeted us, and Charlotte broke away from me and ran to the pumpkin collection, yelling, “Ball! Ball!”

“Pumpkin,” I corrected her. “But a pumpkin is round like a ball, isn’t it?”

Charlotte had zero interest in a vocabulary lesson. Instead, she approached a good-sized pumpkin and lifted it.

LIFTED it.

My 28-pound child can lift a pumpkin. She waddled around with it for a bit, then decided it was too heavy to claim indefinitely and dropped it with a thud. She then turned to a full-grown man she did not know and tried to take HIS pumpkin, yelling, “Mine! Mine! Mine!”

“Charlotte!” I cried. “That pumpkin belongs to him. You can pick a different pumpkin.” I pried her pudgy hands off the man’s pumpkin. Fortunately, the stranger laughed while I apologized, instead of criticizing my child-raising skills—which, at this point, probably deserved some criticism.

I turned to Chris, who had been standing in line for some pie and a hot dog during all of this. He was cracking up. I think he was a little proud.

Next, we did the hayride through the sprawling farm and to what I referred to as the pumpkin graveyard. Like I said, it’s been a rough year for East Coast pumpkins. After the hayride, we looked at all the animals. (Mean mommy that I am, I wouldn’t let Charlotte feed or pet them. GERMS! Luckily, she’s enthralled but terrified by live animals, so she didn’t fight me on the no-touch rule.)

Back at the main part of the farm, we let Charlotte pick out her pumpkin—a somewhat lopsided, squatty little pumpkin that I think is adorable—and we bought 8 pounds of butternut squash, as This Mommy has two butternut squash lasagnas to make (you know the drill—one to eat, one to freeze).

A fun, autumn-y day.

One Year Ago

2011-10-22T08:59:00.001-04:00

I debated whether or not to even write this post, but Charlotte and the autumn leaves keep reminding me, so what the heck?

One year ago, my little family of three embarked on the 4 crappiest days of our lives. And you know what? It all turned out fine.

My almost-9-month old, you will recall, got quite sick and admitted to the hospital, per the saga already written here.

I recently re-read that post, and I’m glad I wrote it. As time passes, it’s easy to forget how absolutely terrified Chris and I were. How awful every second felt. How I started calling my dad instead of my mom to give updates (no offense, Mums) because my mom’s tears and shrill “She’s STILL bleeding in her diaper?!” threatened to sever the last thread of sanity I had.

I remember living in a multi-day daze. I didn’t leave the hospital except to go home very late at night twice (on Chris’s turns to stay overnight). I remember driving into my small town, totally pooped, and seeing the main restaurant in town all gussied up in autumnal splendor, its patio area lit with gold twinkle lights and stuffed with people. Happy people.

And I remember feeling absolutely shocked that life had been going on this whole time, outside the hospital.

I remember coming home the very first night, around 2:00 a.m., and I couldn’t go into Charlotte’s nursery. She had never been absent before. I remember seeing her (dirty) bottles on the counter (we had left it a big hurry—my house was a mess), and I felt sick to my stomach. Those bottles had been made that morning, when the sun had been bright, before I had any clue what the day had in store for me. Now, cleaning up seemed absolutely beyond my capabilities but the mess still bugged me.

I remember making coffee the next morning (I had promised Chris!), and that seemed like a monumental accomplishment. I remember pulling into the hospital parking lot, thinking I cannot believe I’m here to be with my own baby. I remember walking in on tired Chris and miserable Charlotte, her face absolutely flushed with fever, her arm splinted with an IV, and thinking, how did we get to this point? How is this happening?!

I remember rocking, rocking, rocking, rocking Charlotte, in between the horrible needle pricks and other exams. I remember her panic and terror every time the hospital room door opened, and always with good reason.

Chris had taken the photos below, a couple of which I didn’t even look at for a couple months. They’re just pictures, I know, but at the time they hurt to look at. At least for me.

But, in honor of one whole year passing, I want to celebrate this little girl’s toughness, and the promise that 99 out of a 100 times, kids bounce back just fine. I still cringe when I look at these pictures, as I can’t see them without remembering how scared we were. Remember, we didn’t know what was wrong, and the testing and questions dragged on for DAYS, as our girl’s symptoms progressively worsened.

I look at Charlotte today and wish that, during the darkest, scariest hours at the hospital, I could have had a 10-second preview of her a year later. Then, we didn’t know that she’d still get to participate in her first Halloween parade at school (barely, but she did!), she’d eventually sleep through the night again, the bruises from the IVs (lots and lots of IVs) would eventually fade, and she’d go on to play in the snow in Tahoe, play on the beach in North Carolina, and essentially be the happiest, goofiest, liveliest, sparkliest little girl ever. (Oh, and did I mention healthy--aside from lots and lots of ear infections?)

I cannot adequately articulate how quickly everything dwindles to absolute nothingness when your baby is on the line. Work, households, showering, eating—for Chris and me, all that mattered was what we loved a million times more than our two lives combined: that brown-eyed girl.

So then. A MUCH happier late October this year for our family! We remember the hard time, which was, in retrospect, quite brief and temporary, and we're grateful for the reminder from dear, goofball Charlotte Marie of what matters most.

In triage, soon after the morphine and before the barium enema. The poofy thing on her arm is a diaper they wrap around the splint that holds her IV in place.

Day 2. Things continued to go downhill.

My very sick girl. It was difficult to get her into a position in which she was comfortable, hence the awkward angle here. To boot, the IV machine made every movement very difficult and the tubes plus cord weren't long enough for me to get her into her more familiar nursing position--something I deeply resented the room set-up for.

About an hour after her diagnosis--already sitting up!

Playing. The difference pre- and post-diagnosis (and treatment) was incredible.

No more IV for Charlotte! FREE! I think this is the day we came home.

Transitions

2011-10-20T09:07:00.002-04:00

Charlotte’s transition to the next class (2–3-year-olds) began this week. According to the director, her current teacher, and her upcoming teacher, our girl is doing a fantastic job so far.

The school takes two full weeks to transition children into the next class, which makes me feel SO much better about any move. For starters, it gives us a chance to detect any signs of stress or difficulty adapting before the move is official. Second, it’s just plain humane.

Charlotte is moving to a brand new classroom that’s much bigger than her current one and with twice as many (12) children. BIGGER children. We’re told that on her first day, she went over for activities and circle time. She was a bit hesitant, so to let her get acclimated to the new environment, the teachers let her roam and explore everything the cool new room had to offer while the other kids did their more formal thing. Apparently, this tactic paid off, as Charlotte loves nothing more than exploring something new. From then on, her hesitation coming into the new room evaporated.

Yesterday, Day 2, Charlotte stayed in the new room through snack time. She mimicked the big kids, watching how they collect their snacks and clean up after (in her current class, everything snack-related is done for them). According to her new teacher, she watched the big kids very carefully and once she caught on, she didn’t hesitate to jump in and fully participate in the big-kid way. The teachers gave her lots of kudos, which Charlotte totally eats up. She LOVES to be helpful, and Chris and I are currently pondering how we might exploit this trait of hers.

On Day 3, Charlotte will stay through lunch, and I’m confident she’ll do great. She’s apparently concentrating very hard on figuring out what she’s supposed to do, and holding back until she gets it, but the teachers are giving her lots of support.

You can see why the two-week transition is so great for the kids (and parents!). We’re staying hyper-alert for any sign of distress, but so far, so good. I’m a bit concerned that once she goes to the new class all day, she’ll get sort of mentally exhausted trying to learn the new routine, adapt to all the new faces (though a few are familiar), and acclimate to the new 1:6 teacher-to-kid ratio. I’m examining my schedule to see if I can shorten her days somehow, even just once or twice per week. Our schedules are very tight as they are, so any changes will require giving up carpooling, which means spending more on gas and parking. But, with the lower tuition, this might be an okay trade-off. We shall see.

In short, we’re so ridiculously proud of Charlotte. Her jolly little disposition just shines in the preschool environment, and though wary (a sign of great intelligence, we’ve decided) of change, she’s not against it. She’s open to new things, new experiences, new people. She works so hard to figure things out and does not easily give up. (I can hear the choruses of “Stubborn! Stubborn! Stubborn!” echoing out there. Shush.)

Oh, our sweet, goofy girl. I love her!

Busy Mommy Trick #3: Peas, If You Please

2011-10-18T08:29:00.001-04:00

Remember those teeny tiny containers you bought when you were so excited your baby was old enough to eat solids? So you, oh devoted mommy, made your own baby food (because this was your first child and it seemed important at the time but in retrospect, eh, Gerber would’ve been fine)? And remember how they were the PERFECT portion size for your new little eater . . . . for about 2 weeks? And then these darling little containers got relegated to the back of your Tupperware cabinet? REMEMBER?

Bust ‘em out! Because those small containers are the perfect size for a toddler’s side of peas (or corn, but peas are more nutritious and my kid likes the two equally—although sometimes I do a corn/pea mix, if I’m feeling very adventurous).

The plan is simple: Buy frozen peas or corn at the store (organic, if that’s how you roll), microwave or steam according to package directions, season with a bit of salt (sometimes I throw in a frozen garlic cube or herbs as well, which Charlotte digs and I think expands her taste palate), and separate into your previously under-used containers.

If you have a school who insists you label everything (like I do), label them.

Then freeze.

These look tiny, but a surprisingly large amount of peas fit in there, and like I said, they’re the perfect toddler side-dish size (maybe even a smidge big—but I have a very good eater to fill up). I use these equally in Charlotte’s lunch or with her dinner, and it’s so nice to instantly have fresh(ish?) veggies for the kiddo. (I do something similar with broccoli and green beans, but those require bigger containers.)

I can’t help but think these are healthier than the pre-packaged toddler veggies sitting on a store shelf. And they’re definitely cheaper.

Best of all, you get some use out of those adorable little containers again!

Announcing the November Book

2011-10-12T08:47:00.001-04:00

The November book, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, was selected by Reader’s Ink member Carol.

This is our first technically young adult book, though it’s of the hefty (not bubblegum)YA type. I’m quite thrilled by this, as I love the YA genre.

The premise? Set in Germany during World War II, a young girl steals books to suit various needs. Oh, and Death apparently narrates the story. So, I am intrigued to say the least, and I look forward to reading this one.

Discussion begins December 1. In the meantime, Reader’s Ink is reading Remarkable Creatures by Tracy Chevalier. Discussion for that one begins November 1.

Happy reading, y’all!

Moving Up--Again!

2011-10-11T10:39:00.000-04:00

Excuse me, have you seen my baby?

I saw snippets of her, while I rocked and held super sick Charlotte. But now Charlotte is all better and back to her little-girl self. And no longer my baby.

Recently, the director of Charlotte’s school contacted me. She said that she thought Charlotte was ready to move into the next class, and she wanted know my thoughts.

Huh? Charlotte doesn’t turn two until January 30, so we figured she’d move up in February at the earliest, but probably around March or April of next year.

So, this came as a surprise.

Now, our (no longer baby) girl will move up November 1. We considered December as well, but the difference is a mere month. And, well, let’s be honest. The older class has significantly lower tuition. SIGNIFICANTLY lower.

With the kid-to-teacher ratio bumping up to 6:1 (from her current 3:1), child care gets less pricey. As you can imagine, Chris has been on cloud nine. Charlotte’s current tuition rivals our mortgage. It rivals COLLEGE tuition. And when people (Dad) bug me to bring forth another child (grandchild), I list numbers. Very, very high numbers. Obviously, tuition constitutes an ENORMOUS slice of the Hofmann financial pie. That usually quiets him.

Then Mums starts in.

Anyway, the fact that we get a couple extra months of lower tuition is amazing. We didn’t plan on it.

So, last week, we met with the school staff to further discuss the move. Charlotte is very young. She’s bright, curious, sociable, and happy in the school environment. She transitioned to her current class like a pro—she had a ball doing the big-kid things. Best of all, they inspired Charlotte to DO bid-kid things. For example, she had zero interest using utensils to eat. She wouldn’t use them . . . . until she watched one little boy eat his yogurt with a spoon. If he could do it, so could she. Charlotte grabbed her spoon from the teacher’s hand and fed herself. And from then on, she wouldn’t allow anyone to feed her. She insisted on doing it (messily) independently.

The idea of dropping Charlotte off in the next classroom boggles my mind. I mean, this room is for, like, REAL preschool. It goes out into the big-kid playground (oh, she’ll LOVE that!). It has 12 children!

My baby girl, so grown up. Such a big girl! I just can’t believe it.

My Hope for an Underachiever

2011-10-01T18:55:00.004-04:00

Thursday afternoon, right after I got home from work. (We took this photo to send to the very worried grandparents, who live very, very far away.)

Friday. Chris thinks this picture is super creepy. It sort of is, isn't it? Anyway, we always buy Charlotte a toy for being a trooper when sick, taking her meds, and basically, to buy a smile. She's going through a major baby obsession lately, so I got her a baby dolly complete with a jacket, shoes, a pacifier, and stroller. I put it together so it would be waiting for her (non-creepily) when she woke up from her nap.

A hit! Not feeling stellar, but look what ibprofen can do? I heart ibprofen.

Such a doting mama. Baby lost her pacifier, so Mommy Charlotte is putting it back in.

Saturday afternoon. Desperate to leave the house, we took a family trip to CVS (about a 1/2 mile away) through the rain to pick up the new prescription. And yes, those are pajamas under her raincoat. Don't judge her.

What day (night) is it? Saturday, perhaps?

As you can imagine, we've been in a bit of a fog as our world continues to revolve around Charlotte's fever, mood, and ear-tugging.

Since the last time I posted, we hit fevers of 105 degrees. We have seen some improvement since then (thank goodness), but Friday night I was suposed to make the judgment call as to whether or not Charlotte was adequately responding to the antibiotics. I decided (along with Chris) that she was not. So, I contacted the pediatrician the way he told me to (he's out of town right now, which is just swell). FINALLY I heard back and learned that a new prescription had been sent to the local pharmacy. Even though it's only a 1/2 mile away, we made a Big Family Trip to CVS. I mean, all three of us had to get out of the house. HAD TO.

Charlotte did better this afternoon, but she's just not as well as she should be by this point. I believe she has also developed a second ear infection, as ear tugging in the right ear has commenced. And that's new.

The pediatrician assured me that I can keep giving her ibprofen at the max dose for a 27-pounder SAFELY for days to come, so that put us more at ease. The child is miserable without it, so we give it every 6 to 8 hours, without fail.

Chris and I are tired (so very tired) and also tired of worrying, but we're optimistic. I do think that Charlotte turned a corner this afternoon, and I think the new antibiotics will seal it.

I asked my mom if this was normal--does every kid cause this much drama with their illnesses? "Oh, hell no, honey," she said. "You kids got sick all the time, but we never had these extremes with you guys. Charlotte is just an overachiever."

A good friend of mine reiterated the extreme, overachieving nature of Charlotte's illnesses. She sent Charlotte the followng email:

Dear Charlotte,
Getting sick is not a competition. You don't need to try and set a personal record with every illness. It's OK to just be normal sick without hospital trips, high temperatures, and resistance to antibiotics. As the child of Hofmanns and Opps, I know overachieving is in your DNA, and I look forward to hearing about all of your successes in the future. But, for now, go for the below average illnesses. Underachieve with relish.

Agreed. Oh my goodness, agreed. Underachieve, kiddo. Underachieve with relish.

But It's Just an Ear Infection

2011-09-29T21:04:00.001-04:00

I’m so tired I could cry.

Amazingly, I haven’t yet.

Charlotte has her first ear infection of the season, which you would think is no big deal (I mean, it’s just an ear infection), but HOLY MOLEY.

This girl is SICK.

And is it just me, or does every single little illness with her turn into a saga?

Yesterday morning, Charlotte woke up with a 103-degree temperature. She appeared to be trying to rip her ear off, so it didn’t take a genius to figure out that she had an ear infection. I stayed home, took her to the pediatrician, and yep, ear infection. Quite a nasty one, apparently.

Her fever kept spiking in between ibuprofen doses, and was a 104 by the time Chris got home. I’m certain it would’ve gone higher, but This Mommy medicates. I know, I know. Kids and high fevers go together. But when your child is shaking, she’s so hot that you feel like you’re cuddling a sunburn, and she’s disoriented and crying, you give the kid some relief, and you don't go the au naturale route.

And then we began the longest night ever. As we entered her room to give her the 10:00 dose (otherwise she keeps sleeping as her fever climbs and climbs, which terrifies me), Chris took her temperature with the forehead thermometer.

“Holy [bad word]!” he cried. “106!”

I ripped Charlotte’s blanket off her and woke her up while Chris ran to Charlotte’s bathroom.

“Where’s the rectal thermometer?” he yelled. I could hear him trashing the previously well-organized drawers. “Maybe the reading is wrong—maybe she was sleeping on that side of her head and it’s extra hot!”

“I took it to North Carolina!” I cried, cursing myself. “IT DIED WHILE WE WERE THERE, REMEMBER?!”

“We need a normal thermometer! Forehead thermometers aren’t accurate enough!”

“I KNOW!” I didn’t bother reminding him that his excessive temperature-taking in North Carolina was what killed the back-up thermometer in the first place.

At this point, Charlotte was crying and miserable. I was 60 seconds from throwing the kid in the car and heading for the hospital. Chris took her temperature again and again. Finally, 104 degrees. And that, for the first time that day, seemed low.

We gave her more ibuprofen, but she continued to cry and moan. Finally, I scooped her up, put her in the guest bedroom bed, and climbed in next to her.

That at least calmed the crying. Of course, I didn’t sleep at all, as I kept checking her forehead and listened to her labored breathing. Every 2 hours, Chris came in to check her temperature. He had set his alarm to wake up every 2 hours, fearful that her temperature would climb without us realizing it.

At 5:30 a.m., it was time for me to get up and get ready for work. As I slipped out of bed and Chris slipped in to take my spot, Charlotte realized I was leaving. She began to cry and moan “Mama!” and I almost slit my wrists. I’m told she quieted soon after, though, and Daddy took care of her all day while I went to work. I had a busy, crucial day ahead of me. Too bad I hadn’t slept.

I got to work by 7:45 and managed to not fall asleep behind the wheel as I nursed my precious coffee.

Work was insane and rushed and nutty, but I managed to escape during my lunch hour to buy a new thermometer, grape baby Tylenol, and cherry baby Tylenol at Safeway. Oh, and some diet Pepsi for a caffeine boost and a yuppie Odwalla fruit smoothie for an immune system/blood sugar/calorie boost. (I always lose weight when Charlotte is sick, and lack of real food + sleep deprivation + being used as Charlotte’s personal Kleenex = the only combination of events that get me sick.)

Back in the office, I got the crucial things done that needed to be done. I don’t know how, but I did. I was out of there by 2:45 and on my way home to my sick girl and “when-can-you-leave-work???” guy.

At home, Charlotte and I snuggled in our Mommy–Charlotte way, Daddy took a much-needed break, and another dose of antibiotics was given to Charlotte (with much kicking and screaming, of course).

Tonight her fever hit 105, which concerns me. She’s sleeping now. I’ll stay home with her tomorrow (Friday), and I’m taking the day off (i.e., NO TELECOMMUTING), so I’m looking forward to caring for her without the burden of checking/keeping up with work email and keeping projects moving. (Relieved sigh.) I'll be in touch with her pediatrician--we might move to a stronger antibiotic.

Hopefully tonight will be smoother, but it's looking doubtful. I’ll move her to the guest bed again and sleep beside her.

All this drama . . . for an ear infection. Sheesh.

Gumbo

2011-09-27T08:52:00.001-04:00

I love to bake. Love it. But cooking? Why, cooking requires using intuition, judgment, and ingredients more expensive than flour, baking powder, sugar, and butter.

Cooking is risky.

Fortunately, Chris is a fabulous cook. If you’ve eaten at our house, you know I don’t exaggerate. Me? I can generate about 14 different kinds of low-risk casseroles. And if I have some sort of jarred sauce (masala, I’m looking at you) from Trader Joe’s, I can add meat and veggies to make something exotic and healthy and yummy. But Chris? He can make fancy things. Like, from scratch.

Well, awhile ago I got it into my head that I wanted to make seafood gumbo. So, this weekend I bought the ingredients, donned my (super cute!) apron, said a little prayer, and made . . . .

. . . seafood gumbo.

The okra was a bit overcooked, and the genius at Whole Foods gave me chicken sausage instead of pork, but overall . . . success!

Also, I doubled the recipe, because as any mama knows, freezing meals ahead of time makes you feel like Super Woman come some random Wednesday night when nobody has any oomph to cook.

Finally, total disclosure: I come from the land of minute rice, so when I gave Chris a 15-minute warning that he was in charge of rice, he said (not very nicely), “Rice takes a whole hour to cook!”

“Then use the stuff from Trader Joe’s,” I said.

“ALL RICE takes an hour to cook!”

Hence the overcooked okra (and thank goodness I had held off on tossing in the shrimp, fish, and crab meat). Fortunately, a pitiful trembling chin on my part sweetened up Mr. Rice Takes an Hour To Cook. I mean, I only cook with noodles. How could I have known? And we had gotten that hyper healthy brown rice that you measure out from the container in the limousine-liberal (oh yes, I’m bringing politics into my cooking), yoga-fied, organic grain aisle. It doesn’t come with DIRECTIONS! (Fun fact: Whole Foods is owned by libertarians.)

Chris apologized for his rice snobbery and even contritely chopped the parsley.

Anyway, Chris declared it quite good, and it was. Charlotte didn't get to try any, as an allergy to shell fish runs on Chris's side of the family. Thus, Maryland-born as she may be, the girl does not get to try crab or any other shell fish until she has the vocabulary to say, "Mommy, my throat is closing up and my whole body itches."

The recipe is below the photos, if you want to give it a whirl. I’ve changed it enough that I don’t think I’m breaking any copyright laws. Besides, my way is better. (I added the step of the rue, and tweaked a few other things.) Note: I think it requires a lot more flour for the rue than the recipe calls for, but I like a thicker gumbo. If you like yours more brothy, stick to the recipe.

AND ALLOW A WHOLE HOUR TO COOK THE RICE.

About 84 ounces of Chris's precious homemade chicken stock, which he so benevolently insisted I use.

"Whassthat?" Mommy's little helper.

Sausage.

Before adding flour for the rue.

Pantry/freezer items.

Fresh basil and thyme from Chris's garden. And don't judge the pilsner glass. A Seahawks game was on, y'all.

Shrimp, peeled, deveined, and cut into thirds.

One VERY full pot.

The end product. I think Chris's leg is what really makes this picture.

And the dish ran away with the spoon . . . negotiating to get my wooden spoon back.

Recipe

Serves 6

1/4 lb sweet or spicy sausage

1 tablespoon Olive oil

1 small onion, chopped

1 stalk of celery, chopped

1/2 green bell pepper, cored, seeded, and chopped

3 14-oz cans of chicken broth (or steal some homemade from your spouse)

1 28-oz can crushed tomatoes

1 11-oz bag frozen okra

2 tablespoons flour

1 tablespoon salt

1/4 tsp pepper

1 tablespoon dried thyme (or use fresh)

1/2 tsp dried oregano

1/2 tsp dried basil (or use fresh)

2 tsp cajun or creole seasoning

1 tsp Worcestershire sauce

4 scallions, finely chopped

1/2 pound shrimp (peeled and deveined)

1/2 lb crab meat

1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley

1 bay leaf

1 fillet (1/2 pound or so) white fish (I used Alaskan cod)

1. Put sausage in saucepan, fill with water to cover. Bring to a boil and cook for 3-4 min. Drain, set aside. Slice when cool.

2. In large pot or medium-high heat, heat oil. Add onion, celery, and green pepper and cook until softened, about 5 min. Add flour and stir to make rue. Add chicken broth, tomatoes, okra, and reserved sausage. Cover, bring to a boil. Continue cooking, covered, over high heat for 5 min.

3. Add salt, spices, and Worcesthire sauce to pot. Cover and cook over high heat another 10 min.

4. Add scallions, shrimp, crabmeat, and fish. Reduce heat to medium and cook for 5 min. Remove bay leaf, stir in parsley, and remove from heat. Cover and let sit for 5 min. Serve over rice.

Thanks.

2011-09-23T19:26:00.000-04:00

I have to say, I did not anticipate the fantastic response of my previous post, Skippy or Jif. Whatever.
The comments I received via email, Facebook, and in person stunned me. They were so . . . nice. I had worried I was adding to the drama, but I so wanted to say what I felt really needed to be said. Of course, I dreaded backlash. After all, I had just seen first-hand the cheap shots some moms were willing to make at other moms. I wasn’t sure how much more I could read or hear.

Happily, common sense, class, and decency have reigned, thanks to you, dear readers. Thanks for reading the post, and being so sweet.

I admit, the beginning of this week was a highly emotional couple of days. As is probably totally obvious from that post, the only reason I could have had reacted so strongly (I truly felt a wave of total ick wash over me, like before I vomit or faint) was because particular comments needled a very sensitive spot of mine: mommyhood.

On Monday night, I barely slept. My mind raced with millions of thoughts, snarky one-liners, and this hugely unpleasant pit in my stomach I couldn’t get rid of. I wasn’t sure how you all would respond, to be honest. But I knew something had to be posted. It had to be. These grown-up mean girls were just counting on having the last word, on standing on their self-righteous high horses at the expense of working moms.

On Tuesday, I adjusted my Facebook settings so that I don’t accidentally see this sort of crap any more, and I posted the post.

And you all were lovely.

As I posted somewhere, I don’t know of any mom who has made stay-home/childcare arrangements easily. So many factors—SO MANY FACTORS—are at play. Many of them conflict.

Yet, despite such (unnecessary, really) drama, on Tuesday night, I felt genuinely peaceful. Women had backed each other, made some pretty sound arguments here and there, and in the end, just declared over and over again: Skippy or Jif. Whatever.

Thanks.

Skippy or Jif. Whatever.

2011-09-20T12:21:00.002-04:00

Charlotte's first day of school. Ever. Obviously miserable.

Napping at school. Obviously distressed.

Playing with a friend and obviously exhibiting poor, violent social skills. And a teacher who obviously can't stand her.

My obviously maladjusted, unhappy, poorly raised child.

That was irony in those captions, for those who tend to be too literal.

A weird day today, for myriad reasons (Monday, but I shall post on Tuesday so as to not disrupt Ask5for5). One weird thing? Freaking Facebook.

Apologies for the length of this post. A lot of cutting and pasting occurred.

A Facebook friend posted an article that had an obvious agenda (title: “The Dark Side of Preschool”) that cited a study that suggested kids attending daycare/preschool more than 4 hours per day have poorer social skills and more maladjustment than children in "maternal care." Comments started rolling in, as some folks were quite pleased by this article.

Awesome. Another strike against working moms. I posted my opinion, as follows:

“Many studies support that high-quality daycare improves social skills and cognitive skills. I only have one kid, but she’s ridiculously happy and well-adjusted. She doesn’t have tantrums. She can cope without getting what she wants. Her day is comfortingly structured and she’s deeply loved by her teachers. Her class ratio is 1:3, with a class total of 6. She watches no TV during the week. She loves circle time, her buddies, craft projects, and the playground. She can survive without me, knows Mommy always comes back, can transition to new activities, and is flexible. Charlotte goes RUNNING into her classroom in the morning because she’s so excited to get there. Is daycare/preschool the only option? Of course not. Is it the best option? For some kids, probably. For others, probably not. But vilifying daycare and the teachers who devote their careers to providing outstanding, loving care to young children is wrong.

The article is another bullet aimed at working moms. I mean, really? The “dark side” of preschool? Come on. But you know what? It’s hard and even lonely being a full-time working mom. She has few allies, has many stressors and demands, and not a soul acknowledges the sheer amount of WORK it takes to keep everything moving smoothly, for the sake of the family. In short, the working mom gets undermined by all sorts of folks who simply don’t like the idea of women having babies AND jobs—and especially not (gasp!) careers. The idea that we place our children in “outside” care at great risk is false and detrimental to working moms, and insulting to early childhood teachers. Well, it’s insulting to working moms too, but then again, we’re used to it.”

Someone “took issue” with me saying that being a working mom is hard. I was told feminism (the word used with great disdain) took care of that, and now the world “caters” to working moms. Well, now I had to write another post to clarify:

“If society really catered to the working (outside the home) mom, the post office and banks would have better hours, mother’s ministry groups wouldn’t meet at 10:00 a.m. on Thursday mornings, child care would be tax deductible (more than the current pittance that hasn’t been altered since the early 80s), maternity leave would be paid, all offices/warehouses/factories would have rooms with locks, an outlet, and a refrigerator for nursing moms, onsite childcare would be more common, flex time would be better, and so on. Things are better now than they were for my mom’s generation, thanks to that f-word, feminism, and I can’t get fired for getting pregnant. I consider that a positive.

And absolutely, affordable child care is crucial and would be greatly improved by tax credits or at least a worthwhile deduction. Beyond that, I don’t have much of a solution. It’s a major problem, and keeping quality child care out of reach for so many undoubtedly contributes to some moms staying home when they otherwise wouldn’t, or moms stuck between a rock and a hard place who must put their kids in less than stellar centers.

The “hard” I was talking about, however, is the desire to be a good mom as well as a good employee in a job or career you value. The wish for more hours in the day. The desire to be able to speak freely and admit “this is really hard!” without feminism thrown back in your face. The difficulty of leaving your baby at school for the very first time, in somebody else’s arms, wondering if you’re doing the right thing. The suggestion from others that you most certainly have NOT done the right thing. The idea pushed that the only way to be a good Christian mother is to give up the career you’ve worked so hard for. Continuing to breastfeed while working. The fact that everybody understands how hard stay-at-home moms work (and they do), but working moms are portrayed as having martini lunches every day while somebody else “raises” their child. And oh my goodness, having important deadlines at work and getting a call that your kid is sick and needs to be picked up right away and balancing a sick kid and work for the rest of the week. Yeah, as a matter of fact, THAT’S HARD. Would I trade it in to stay home? No, not at this point, for various reasons. Maybe I will with #2, maybe not. I dunno.

I’m sorry this comment is so long, but I feel like SAHMs get a lot of friendly support for the daily challenge of raising babies, but working moms are either entirely overlooked or vilified as selfish, power-hungry career girls. And deliberately portraying the “majority” of childcare/preschools as BAD feeds that bias.”

This is ALL I wrote on this thread that comprised 23 comments. I swear.

This led to the next post, written by someone else but directed at lucky me: “Having seen "the village" [I assume this is some sort of daycare center in WA state] I wouldn't allow them to raise my child/children (which is happening when the majority of the child's awake hours are being spent with someone other than Mom or Dad)! You kid yourself if you think that the teachers love your kid as much as you do...NOT even close! Most of them treat the kids...at best...mediocre. I worked in childcare and preschools before having kids...some teachers are abusive with a smile on their face. Favoritism happens...A LOT!!!! Those children are NOT smarter, happier, or better adjusted.

Also, you are kidding yourself if you think the world caters to stay-at-home Moms. NOT even close!!! We are constantly being told by others to get a job. Your "feminism" has made our "job" something others look down upon. Sorry, but daycares, preschools, public schools, etc can NOT replace real parenting...and real parenting doesn't just happen between 5pm and 9pm!!!”

Then: “I don't see how it is possible when both parents work to meet the needs of 1 child...let alone more than 1. And I am not talking about just clothing and food...but their need for love, attention, understanding, etc. In the teen years, they NEED someone at home...watching out for them, helping them through the hormones, etc. Honestly, being a one income home with 8...soon to be 9 children, I don't see why 2 parents NEED to work...unless they are just more interested in the new car, expensive purse or shoes, etc. than in their children. I dunno...maybe its just what I see when I see the "working women"! I'll just stick with my paid off 12 passenger van, $30 chicken purse, flip flops, and raising my children. :)”

And then, toward a different unfortunate poster who suggested that MAYBE mothers could have a job and not raise a serial murderer, this same poster said: “So [unfortunate poster’s name], you think it is possible to send your child to school/childcare for 8-10 hours per day (the majority of their awake hours) and be a spouse and be a friend and be a daughter and be a sister...and you really think your child is getting what they need from you? You really think you are making a bigger impact on them than the daycare teacher and daycare kids? REALLY??!!??

Sorry, but you feminists have been fed a line of bull. You CAN'T have it all! Sorry!

BTW, [original poster’s name] don't let the feminists bully you into taking this down! It just hurts for them to hear the truth...but honestly, it may help someone that is "on the fence"!”

Then, from the original poster: “This article is mainly for married couples where both parents work and are using daycare/childcare all of the time. Yes I fully understand that single parents need help but i wonder at the many working women who complain complain complain about not having a "good enough" daycare. Do they NEED to work? Or are they just working to pay for that fancy school? Why is their child really in that program? Is it for the child or the mom? Is the mom/dad depending on that program to raise their child for them? Sadly I have met many who do expect just that. A teacher can only do so much, they are trained to educate for certain subjects not be the morality or manners police.”

At this point the mean mommies started hyper-clicking “LIKE” on everything that insulted moi, my mom, and hundreds of thousands of other working moms. Why, I could just feel the Christian love flowing.

Next poster: “WHO is your child's teacher? Who does he/she spend most of his waking hours with? A LOT of two income families could choose to make the sacrifices necessary to keep their children at home with the mother. We make it on one income just fine. A lot of times it really comes down to priorities. I hear woman all of the time say they just couldn't handle staying home with their children. Well it's a good thing they didn't live in Bible times. That is THE MOST RIDICULOUS excuse I have ever heard. It is the flesh that doesn't want to do it. We have bought into the lies of Satan hook, line & sinker. He is stealing women's God given role as wife & helpmeet by tempting us with our own fleshly desires & selfishness. We are now involved in a real life wife swap in our culture where a man's wife goes to work for another man to help him be successful & that woman sends her children to a differnet man's wife to be taken care of.....it's nutty!!!”

Let’s take a break. OBVIOUSLY I was wrong when I suggested that working moms face a bit of a dearth of support when it comes to, well, being working moms. I mean, the world loves us. LOVES US!

Sheesh.

This whole thing had started for me when I made the incredibly huge mistake of tinkering with Facebook during my lunch hour instead of reading my book club book. Then I read some of the responses that Facebook so thoughtfully emailed me. I had an actual physical reaction—a person, who doesn’t even know me, suggested TO ME that I was “kidding myself” to think my child was happy and well-adjusted, which is how I read it as my vision literally clouded as I literally thought I was going to throw up in the literally puny garbage can by my desk.

“Your turn!” chirped my co-worker as she walked past my office, indicating that my boss was ready to do my performance evaluation.

“Um, okay,” I managed to say, trying to switch gears. And not cry.

I would not cry. I would not cry. I would not cry.

I entered her office, sat in the chair, and was told how awesome I was. No joke, the word “spectacular” was actually used. That was nice.

“Charlotte’s really lucky you’re her mom,” my boss said. (Don’t ask how we got from my job performance to Charlotte. We just did.)

I said nothing.

I would not burst into tears during my performance review. I would not burst into tears during my performance review. I would not burst into tears during my performance review.

I’m happy to report that I did NOT burst into tears during my performance review.

“Thanks,” I said, eventually. “Some stranger just suggested that Charlotte’s teachers are mediocre at best, daycare is child abuse with a smile, and she’s doomed to maladjustment. And unhappiness.”

“Has she met Charlotte?”

“Obviously not.”

I’m glad my review took place today. It was nice to have that reality check of, “Hey! Here's an opinion that actually matters!” It’s nice to do a good job, be told you did a good job, and then have it on record in HR. It’s especially nice when mean-spirited people suggest you absolutely suck at the job you value most: mommy.

I’ve used this word before, but I can’t seem to get it to resonate outside my head: It’s LONELY being a working mom. It seems that stay-at-home mommies have their clubs and support networks and play dates and a whole cadre of people who support their choice to stay home and they help each other out to get through the crappy parts. Working moms? I’m not super close to any working moms, short of my own mom. And, well, her kids are grown and gone.

It’s isolating. And having people tell you point-blank that it’s NOT isolating is cruel. It seems that nobody stands up for working moms.

When I try, I’m mocked, misunderstood, and called a “feminist” (like it’s a bad thing) because I had the gall to make decisions for my family that differ from someone else’s.

Obviously, most stay-at-home moms do NOT have these smug, self-righteous attitudes. They probably recoiled just as much as moi when reading the above comments. They are probably shaking their heads and rolling their eyes. They really just don’t care whether I work or not, just like I really don’t care whether they work outside the home or not. I mean, really! Who the heck CARES?

I respect stay-at-home moms. How can I not? Being a parent is the most important job a parent will ever have. Maybe one day I’ll be a stay-at-home mom. Maybe I won’t. Regardless of my employment status, nobody has the right to tell me that I’m not a “real” parent because I work outside the home.

Nobody has the right to suggest that I don’t take being a mommy seriously.

When I was about 7 years old or so, I was home sick from school, so my mom (who worked full-time) and I watched Oprah (this was the fantastic 80s Oprah who still milled around the audience with a microphone) while Mums ironed a massive pile of clothes.

The argument was about staying home or working. One woman passionately said, “If a mom chooses to work instead of staying home, then her child knows that he or she is not loved.”

My mom hit mute. She set down the iron. She faced me. “What that woman said is not true.”

I looked at her. She didn’t have to tell me. Sure, I knew some moms worked outside the home, others didn’t. Mine did.

And it never, EVER crossed my mind that she didn’t love me. The woman sewed my Halloween costume during her lunch hours, cut my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into flower shapes, snuggled with me, read zillions of books to me, and always, always made me feel deeply, astoundingly loved by her.

The fact she wore bright yellow high heels and suits with ugly 80s shoulder pads seemed totally irrelevant. I trust that Charlotte will find the difference totally irrelevant as well.

As I got back to my desk after my performance review, I had an e-mail waiting from me from a very good friend, a stay-at-home mom no less, who apparently had been watching this bizarre mommy war on Facebook unfold.

I opened it. “You are wonderful and fantastic!! . . . .Someday women will stop bashing other women over each other's choices... Stay at home or not, Skippy or Jif, etc etc. What works for each family is for them to decide.”

And at that point, I went ahead and let myself cry. Why can’t all moms be like this?

Now, I was going to end my post there, but I think it needs to be reiterated that the nasty comments are not the views of most stay-at-home moms, even the very religiously conservative. I think a bad batch of ignorance met up with some insecurity, and voila.

And, I like the support SAHMs give each other, and I’d like to see similar support among working moms. Sometimes we hide out, afraid to admit that some days are really crappy, some days we want to throw in the towel, and some days we pull off something amazing at work and get a nice little high out of it. Why can’t we talk about that?

As my friend said, Skippy or Jif. Whatever. Makes no difference. Both make pretty darn good peanut butter.

A Hungry Child Can't Wait: Ask 5 for 5

2011-09-19T08:31:00.000-04:00

Guest Blogger: Sarah Lenssen from #Ask5for5
Family photos by Mike Fiechtner Photography

Thank you This Hofmann Life and nearly 150 other bloggers from around the world for allowing me to share a story with you today, during Social Media Week.

A hungry child in East Africa can't wait. Her hunger consumes her while we decide if we'll respond and save her life. In Somalia, children are stumbling along for days, even weeks, on dangerous roads and with empty stomachs in search of food and water. Their crops failed for the third year in a row. All their animals died. They lost everything. Thousands are dying along the road before they find help in refugee camps.
At my house, when my three children are hungry, they wait minutes for food, maybe an hour if dinner is approaching. Children affected by the food crisis in Ethiopia, Kenya, and Somalia aren't so lucky. Did you know that the worst drought in 60 years is ravaging whole countries right now, as you read this? Famine, a term not used lightly, has been declared in Somalia. This is the world's first famine in 20 years.12.4 million people are in need of emergency assistance and over 29,000 children have died in the last three months alone. A child is dying every 5 minutes. It it estimated that 750,000 people could die before this famine is over. Take a moment and let that settle in.

The media plays a major role in disasters. They have the power to draw the attention of society to respond--or not. Unfortunately, this horrific disaster has become merely a footnote in most national media outlets. News of the U.S. national debt squabble and the latest celebrity's baby bump dominate headlines. That is why I am thrilled that nearly 150 bloggers from all over the world are joining together today to use the power of social media to make their own headlines; to share the urgent need of the almost forgotten with their blog readers. Humans have the capacity to care deeply for those who are suffering, but in a situation like this when the numbers are too huge to grasp and the people so far away, we often feel like the little we can do will be a drop in the ocean, and don't do anything at all.

When news of the famine first hit the news in late July, I selfishly avoided it. I didn't want to read about it or hear about it because I knew I would feel overwhelmed and uncomfortable. I wanted to protect myself. I knew I would need to do something if I knew what was really happening. You see, this food crisis is personal. I have a 4-year-old son and a 1 yr-old daughter who were adopted from Ethiopia and born in regions now affected by the drought. If my children still lived in their home villages, they would be two of the 12.4 million. My children: extremely hungry and malnourished? Gulp. I think any one of us would do anything we could for our hungry child. But would you do something for another mother's hungry child?

My friend and World Vision staffer, Jon Warren, was recently in Dadaab Refugee Camp in Kenya--the largest refugee camp in the world with over 400,000 people. He told me the story of Isnino Siyat, 22, a mother who walked for 10 days and nights with her husband, 1 yr-old-baby, Suleiman, and 4 yr.-old son Adan Hussein, fleeing the drought in Somalia. When she arrived at Dadaab, she built the family a shelter with borrowed materials while carrying her baby on her back. Even her dress is borrowed. As she sat in the shelter on her second night in camp she told Jon, "I left because of hunger. It is a very horrible drought which finished both our livestock and our farm." The family lost their 5 cows and 10 goats one by one over 3 months, as grazing lands dried up. "We don't have enough food now...our food is finished. I am really worried about the future of my children and myself if the situation continues."

Will you help a child like Baby Suleiman? Ask5for5 is a dream built upon the belief that you will.

That something I knew I would need to do became a campaign called #Ask5for5 to raise awareness and funds for famine and drought victims. The concept is simple, give $5 and ask five of your friends to give $5, and then they each ask five of their friends to give $5 and so on--in nine generations of 5x5x5...we could raise $2.4 Million! In one month, over 750 people have donated over $25,000! I set up a fundraiser at See Your Impact and 100% of the funds will go to World Vision, an organization that has been fighting hunger in the Horn of Africa for decades and will continue long after this famine has ended. Donations can multiply up to 5 times in impact by government grants to
help provide emergency food, clean water, agricultural support,
healthcare, and other vital assistance to children and families suffering in the Horn.

I need you to help me save lives. It's so so simple; here's what you need to do:

Donate $5 or more on this page (http://seeyourimpact.org/members/ask5for5)
Send an email to your friends and ask them to join us.
Share #Ask5for5 on Facebook and Twitter!

I'm looking for another 100 bloggers to share this post on their blogs throughout Social Media Week. Email me at ask5for5@gmail.com if you're interested in participating this week.

A hungry child doesn't wait. She doesn't wait for us to finish the other things on our to-do list, or get to it next month when we might have a little more money to give. She doesn't wait for us to decide if she's important enough to deserve a response. She will only wait as long as her weakened little body will hold on...please respond now and help save her life. Ask 5 for 5.

Thank you on behalf of all of those who will be helped--you are saving lives and changing history.

p.s. Please don't move on to the next website before you donate and email your friends right now. It only takes 5 minutes and just $5, and if you're life is busy like mine, you probably won't get back to it later. Let's not be a generation that ignores hundreds of thousands of starving people, instead let's leave a legacy of compassion. You have the opportunity to save a life today!

Charlotte–Mommy Day: Fall Kick-Off

2011-09-18T17:04:00.000-04:00

Ready to go!

Oh, wait. We need to figure out how vents work first.

On Friday, Charlotte and I celebrated another Charlotte–Mommy day. Frankly, I missed the little darling.

Lately, I’ve had to wake up Charlotte in the morning (well, sort of, as she pops up like a jack-in-the-box when I open the door). She’s going through some sort of growth spurt or something that is making her need a lot more sleep. So, I felt awful about waking her up.

To boot, I apparently got a little too used to being with Charlotte 24/7 during vacation. Because I just missed her. I do think this was also due to me missing our morning time that used to be so typical, now that she preferred to just SLEEP.

Finally, there’s croup making the rounds at school. I thought it would a good idea to avoid it.

So, I kept her home. We had a lovely day, with the possible exception of getting our flu shots at the pediatrician’s office. Sweet girl that I have, she fell apart and screamed and cried as MOMMY got her shot. Honestly, I was rather flattered. I told her I appreciated her concern but that I was quite alright. But at that point, the needle was now heading for her chubby thigh, so she didn’t hear me.

We watched a few minutes of cartoons in Mommy and Daddy’s bed with coffee (me) and milk (her). We read oodles of books, we played, and then we went to Nordstrom to get a birthday gift for cousin Kylie. At this point, we were so close to Friendship Heights (part of DC, ye West Coasters) that we met up with Daddy and went—get this—TO A TRENDY SUSHI RESTAURANT. With an almost-two-year-old! Sure, we were there the second the restaurant opened at 5:30, since we’re no longer cool enough to eat out at a normal hour, but we were delighted to discover that we were still cool enough to go someplace, well, cool. Blessedly, they had high chairs. Blessedly, the server was super sweet to Charlotte and brought her fancy sliced strawberries and cucumbers (and she loved asparagus tempura). And, blessedly, our child hardly embarrassed us at all. (Note: I’m not a big supporter of toddlers going to fancy restaurants. However, this was more trendy than fancy, and although quiet, we got there before all the cool kid-free folks arrived. And we have enough sense not to let her run around. In other words, we’re hypocrites.)

I love Charlotte–Mommy day. I’m gonna make a date with that little girl again soon!

Announcing the October Book

2011-09-17T13:48:00.000-04:00

Auntie Cheryl got to pick the book for the Reader's Ink book club, and she selected Remarkable Creatures by Tracy Chevalier. (You know the drill--click on the Reader's Ink icon if you want to join the book club.)

The premise? Two working-class women discover fossils in 19th-century England, which causes quite a stir. Fictionalized (duh) but based on fact, this promises to be an interesting read. In fact, I had this on my to-read list, so AGAIN one of the book club members reads my mind. It's quite convenient.

Read it during October--discussion begins November 1st!

9/11

2011-09-11T14:15:00.003-04:00

Every public area and countless homes in our small town are covered in American flags today. This is the front of ours.

September 11th was the first major “where-were-you-when” event of my generation. You know where you were, I'm sure. You’ve remembered it every year for the past decade.

I was sleeping in my dorm room in Los Angeles. My roommate, Lauren, got a call from her dad around 6:00 a.m.—an extremely early hour for college students. Thoughtful roomie that she was, she went out into the hallway to answer it (something my thoughtless freshman-year roommate would have NEVER done, by the way). Through the 90-pound door, I could hear her freaking out. My stomach flipped and I woke up more fully—I thought surely something tragic had happened to one of her family members, so I started preparing myself to help her with whatever had happened.

She returned to the room. “A plane crashed into the World Trade Center!” she cried.

I’m not proud of my response: “Oh. Okay.” Not really understanding the scope of the problem and more focused on the fact that all her family members were alive and accounted for, I turned back over to go to sleep.

Lauren’s cell phone rang again. “The PENTAGON?” she shrieked. “A plane crashed into the PENTAGON?”

At this point, I shot out of bed. This was much, much bigger than I had realized.

Our country was under attack.

Still, rule-abiding student that I was, I went to my first class. I was one of very few, and Professor Wyatt dismissed us within a few minutes of arrival.

As I walked through the quad, feeling the need to do something but having no clue WHAT, a girl to my right was on the phone, hysterical. Both her parents worked in the Trade Center, apparently. She had yet to get a hold of them. (Eventually, she did. They were fine.) Another girl’s sister also worked at the Trade Center, but for some reason had felt strongly compelled to go to Starbucks and buy a blueberry muffin, thereby avoiding having ever entered the building. And she didn’t even like blueberry muffins.

That evening, I called home. I have no memory of talking to my parents, but I did speak to my brother.

"Are you watching the footage on TV?" he asked me.

"No." I lived in a dorm. I didn't have a TV. I had seen parts on the TV in the dorm common room and the TV set up at dining area. But unlike so many, I hadn't spent hours and hours glued to the TV.

"People are jumping from the buildings," he said, in the smallest voice. "Ashley, they're just . . . jumping."

I attended the vigil on campus. I don’t remember much about it, other than the sun was setting, I worried about dripping wax from my candle, and a Muslim student who was so horrified by the attacks practically pleaded with students and profs that this is not Islam. This, at one of the most liberal, most “tolerant” colleges in the country. May will (or already did) tell me I was naive, but I believed his horror was sincere. It’s like when backward churches protest military funerals. You want to stomp your feet and insist, this is not Christianity.

Almost a year after 9/11, I went to Ground Zero for the first time, during a visit to New York with my aunt and uncle. My aunt hung back, adamant that she didn’t want to go there, and I think she eventually just agreed to meet me elsewhere—probably Filene’s—but I had to see it. I had to walk past all the makeshift memorials and approach the railing and look DOWN into the enormous hole. I needed to better grasp the size, the scope, the hugeness of it.

In Arlington, Virginia, Chris’s first apartment looked out onto the Pentagon. The plane that crashed would have come in from the left. During the many times I sat out on his balcony, I thought about it. The space of air through which a plane deliberately plummeted and crashed to kill Americans was just right there, in front of us, all the time. It seemed impossible.

But 10 years ago today, like millions of Americans, I did what felt most comforting, most logical, most necessary. Before leaving for college one year earlier, the mom of a good friend had given me a book of prayers, each day with a verse and prayer of some sort. On September 11th, my soul was full of sorrow and my mind bare of words. I wanted something canned, pre-made, already nicely articulated—eloquence seemed to matter, I guess. So, I reached for that books and thought about the day. What day was it? Remember, 9/11 was not yet so nine-elevenish. I had to stop and think about the date.

September 11. I flipped to that part of the prayer book. I cried as I read the verse for that day—how had the book editors known? “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil: for Thou art with me” (Psalm 23:4).

I wrote in the book “September 11, 2001,” so I’d remember the exact date—again, not realizing that 9/11 would be what this day would be called forever. It’s still there, on that page.

Busy Mommy Trick #2: The Munchkin Snack Container

2011-09-07T11:27:00.000-04:00

I love you, Munchkin Snack Container.

Does a product count as a BMT?

It does when it’s as BRILLIANT as the Munchkin Snack Container! (See BMT #1, the Weekday Clothes Organizer, if you're curious as to what BMTs are.)

Our good friend Chrystal, a busy (and incredibly talented) floral designer and mum of a toddler and a newborn, recommended this handy little device, back when Charlotte was a wee little 11-month-old. We took her word for it, bought the containers, and they really are every bit as fantastic as she said they were.

The rubbery, flexible tops are genius—GENIUS. They hold snack foods IN while active toddlers (or older children too, I’d imagine) run around and flail their arms. No spills! Added bonus: If you have an ambitious eater (as we do and Chrystal does) who grabs giant handfuls of something at a time and tries to stuff it ALL into her mouth all at once, those tops limit how much a kid can pull back through the opening, drastically reducing your terror that your child will choke.

Of course, a particularly bright and determined child will figure out how to hold the top parts open in just the right way to maximize her handful grab, but the important thing is that it significantly slows her down to the point where she will SWALLOW before inhaling another mouthful.

Target sells these snazzy containers for about $4 for a pack of two. Buy them, and bask in the delight of no longer finding goldfish crackers in every possible crevice of your house or car.

North Carolina

2011-09-05T12:38:00.001-04:00

My happy, beautiful girl!

Collecting pretty shells.

Playing in the waves.

An early morning walk with Daddy.

Morning, at high tide.

Rising sun. With coffee in hand, of course.

The house we rented. Three small bedrooms, two tiny baths, mere steps to the ocean. Nothing fancy but more than enough space for our little family.

How can I sum up our trip to North Carolina? The adorable shape of Charlotte’s little footprints in the sand? Hearing her squeal as a wave tickled her feet? Reading on the beach? Drinking a glass of wine, hand in hand with my guy at sunset?

We’re so grateful that we made it to the beach last week. As Hurricane Irene finished dumping her rain and knocking over trees, we Hofmanns left at daybreak, not knowing if we’d be able to check in or not. The realty office wouldn’t open until 9:00 a.m., but we couldn’t wait until then to leave. If we did, we’d miss our check-in window that afternoon.

So, we hit the road full of hope, but we also knew better than to get TOO excited. At 9:00, I called the realty office from the road, but I couldn’t get through. I tried again and again. Not good. Once it was late enough on the West Coast, we called Chris’s folks, and they got online to the realty office’s site. There, they said that the phone lines were down due to Irene, but all tenants were to report at 4:00 that day as planned. I did my happy dance in the front seat, and southward we continued.

The drive was interesting, as obviously a hurricane had barreled through 24 hours earlier. Trees had crushed cars, debris covered off-ramps, and you could see where a particularly strong gust of wind had broken through, as a whole line of trees would be toppled. Interestingly, I saw very few trees actually fallen on houses. Oodles of close calls and a couple blocked driveways, but from what I could see, homes had fared quite well.

Check-in was blissfully uneventful. By the time we arrived, water and power had the town fully up and running. Finally, finally, FINALLY, we entered our rented house and were greeted by a beautiful high-tide view of the ocean. Then I promptly had to change a poopy toddler’s diaper, which was an appropriate reminder that, vacation or not, mothering duties are inescapable!

The weather last week was perfect—tons of sun. Charlotte took some time to warm up to the idea of sand (I couldn’t figure this one out, as she practically LIVES in the sandbox at school) and the waves terrified her, at least at first. Eventually she got over it and thought the waves were super fun and not at all scary, but it took a long time of mommy holding her while we jumped over the waves, over and over again.

Honestly, Charlotte’s naps were the most glorious part of each day. We’d bring the baby monitor onto the beach, and then Chris and I could be bums like everybody else, him reading the Wall Street Journal and me reading a book. Of course, playing with Charlotte on the beach—once she was no longer so freaked out—was amazing. I thought I’d explode with glee myself, just watching my girl run freely along the beach, stopping here and there to collect a pretty sea shell or splashing in a tidal pool full of sun-warmed water and slippery mud.

Unfortunately, Chris got a bit of a cold or something, which he quickly passed on to his daughter. On our last night there, Chris and Charlotte were hacking all through the night and the littler one kept waking up crying. I knew she wasn’t feeling too good, so I dragged my pillow to her room, where we had moved a twin-sized mattress to the floor in between two twin beds. I sleepily plopped down onto her bed and Charlotte fell asleep straightaway against me, staying that way until—blessedly—dawn.

We ate out for dinner only once, which is one of the spectacular things about renting a house: you can cook your meals there! We had planned to go out at least one more time, but toward the end of the week, Charlotte was a bit edgy as she fought her cold, and expecting cheerful toddler behavior seemed like a bit of a stretch. So we stayed in.

At any rate, we had a wonderful time. Sure, I had to remind my two Hofmanns that mommy was on vacation too, so could we stop assuming she was the maid? And yes, managing a toddler keeps you from totally checking out and relaxing. However, Charlotte went to bed at 6:00 p.m., which allowed Chris and me to have cocktails or wine on the deck, enjoying the ocean and each other. I told him that I’m a coastal girl at heart—I’ve always loved open water. Always.

“I don’t want to go back to stupid inland Maryland,” I maturely told him.

“Um, Maryland is a coastal state,” Chris said. “Hello? Chesapeake Bay?”

“That doesn’t count,” I said. “It may as well be Nebraska for as difficult as it is to access some ocean waves.”

He didn’t buy it, but he did humor me and promise that if and when we’re ever in a position to buy a vacation home, we’ll seriously consider this little stretch of North Carolina coast, hurricane insurance cost be damned.

The next day, as I sat on the beach reading during one of Charlotte’s blessed afternoon naps, I read an interview with an aged Lillian Hellman, who described her love of living near the coast: “Water is wonderful. Life goes on in it all of the time, all year around. There’s always movement.” I loved getting to read that a couple feet from the ocean. And I totally agree. It’s almost like the ocean acts as a buffer from feeling like life is . . . stagnant?

Anyhoo, we loved Topsail Island. It’s utterly unpretentious (no Hamptons or Martha’s Vineyard crowds here, y’all) and folks are just quite genuine. And you can’t forget you’re in the South, with a capital “S.” Why, the local diner had the Ten Commandments on the wall behind the cash register, and the sign on the front door said, “In God We Trust—AND JESUS CHRIST.” Fortunately, we had our wedding bands on to display our child was indeed conceived in wedlock, so we felt pretty comfortable going right in. Our server was about 80 years old and super sweet, and as we left, she put her hand on Chris’s shoulder and said, “Y’all come back now, ya hear?” Like, for real.

Now we’re home, and we return to work and school tomorrow. Sad, I suppose, but we’re so glad we had the time on the coast that we did. We absolutely intend to return next year, but you know how it is. Life and hurricanes can always disrupt the most well-made plans . . .