Snap Crackle Pop!

"I think rice crispy treats would be awesome right about now," The Boy announced.  "I really do."
"Ugh," Ruthie said, "I've had enough of rice crispie treats."  She and I had made two batches of it for VBS.  I showed her the super-fast microwave method along with my secret added ingredient: vanilla.  Ok, I guess it's not much of a secret anymore.  The recipe on the box doesn't include it, but after making an estimated 52 batches during my sophomore year of college for coffee night as an RA, I started experimenting to alleviate the boredom. To be honest, I won't eat rice crispie treats anymore.  It was the "snack" to serve and anyone who spent anytime as an RA at Uarts in the early 90's at least (can't speak for my predecessors or those who have served since then) knew how to make rice crispie treats in their sleep. 

"I'm not making them," Ruth said as her brother tried to charm her into whipping up the dessert of his hankering. 
"You could make them," I said.
"How?" He asked.  Mind you, I made sure The Boy knew how to make eggs, pancakes, and grilled cheese figuring that would get him through most of his bachelorhood when he leaves the home.  He's not been interested in cooking, and I'm not interested in forming new battle grounds just to teach him survival skills.  I'm apologizing to his future girlfriends and wife, but a mom's gotta choose her battles when it comes to her teenage son and I'll go for respect, opening doors, paying for dinner over teaching him how to cook it. There's always time for that.  My husband learned to cook when I went back to college in 2004. He's a better chef than me, by far, even if he makes more dirty pots and pans than necessary.  So, I should have realized that, even though he'd be using the microwave, I was going to have to get up off the couch, pause the chick-flick Ruth and I were watching, and help the helpless.

"First," I said, "You're going to take a stick of butter. Cut three tablespoons. The butter wrapper is marked with lines."
"Why don't I just chop it off at the three tablespoon line?"
"Because it won't melt as well. "
"That just doesn't make sense. It's butter. It'll melt."
"So says He Who Has Never Baked Anything In His Life."
"Fine. I chop the butter into three pieces."
"Three tablespoons."
"Three tablespoons, three pieces. Whatever."
I looked at him.
"What?"
"Put the entire bag of mini-marshmellows into the largest glass mixing bowl (I do have to be very specific with mr. literal) and then drop the three tablespoons of butter in to the marshmellows. You're going to microwave it for a minute. Take the bowl out. Stir.  Put it back in for 30 more seconds, stir.  Add a splash of vanilla, stir. Then add the rice crispies until you have strings of marshmellow forming."
"OK," He said, "Let me repeat this.  I'm gonna put the ENTIRE bag of mini-marshmellows into the bowl"
"Glass bowl.  You don't want to put the metal bowl in the microwave."
"I know that. I'm not an idiot."
"Just making sure."
He rolled his eyes. I let him. I was harassing him on purpose because it was fun.
"And I'm going to add the three TABLESPOONS" he emphasized for my benefit, "of butter. Then microwave for a minute. Stir. Microwave for 30 more seconds and stir. add vanilla, stir, add crispies.  And smoosh it into the pan."
"A greased pan."
"You didn't say that."
"Yeah, you've gotta grease the pan."
"Why?” 

(Many years later? I’m posting these drafts I wrote years ago).  The Boy cooks for his wife and child. And hes really good at it.  He brings us food that he’s attempted and its usually good!    He is the primary cook in that house.   Apparently? We taught him something.  

To all the Moms

I salute you.

I do.

Whether you work or stay at home or stay at home and home-school? I give you top props.


We lost something in the movement towards being recognized as human beings and not ornaments on a man's arm (the feminist movement). We did become something more thanks to our foremothers who worked tirelessly to allow us to own property, the vote, etc. I'm not complaining.  But somewhere along the way we lost the value of just being Mom. Or rather, there's no value if we're Just Mom and not Super Mom.

I can't tell you how much I struggled against the ideal of being Super Mom in today's culture.

"You talk about your kids too much. You need a Hobby. Or A Job." I was told when they were small.

I'm older and wiser and if that was said to me now?  I'd say, "I have a Job. It's called Being Mom."

What I've learned? A Job doesn't stop a Mom from being a Mom. I worked evenings when Jeremy came home and could take over parenting duties.  I took jobs to help supplement the income, sure, but mostly it was to keep me sane.  Adult conversation, folks. I was desperate for adult conversation. Staying home with the kids is not for the faint of heart, lest you think it's running around in PJ's and eating bon-bons while watching TV. 

Can I just say, I'm tired of that stereotype? I'm tired of the assumption that because a mother chose to raise her children that a) she's not educated enough to get a job (oh yes, I heard this one a lot in the last 17 years) b) she's too lazy to get a job c) she's not really 'working.'

As my children become more independent, I have been able to work my Job(s) around their schedules so I can continue to make them my priority. 

Splitting hares.

Who ever coined the phrase "Dumb Bunny" obviously didn't have a house rabbit.

Tonight Oswald was running and playing and getting into general naughtiness, his usually evening routine. He begged for his nightly corn-chip. And after his fifteen minutes of freedom were up, Jeremy got up from the couch to put him back in his cage.

Lately, Oswald has taken to playing "jello rabbit" when it's time to go back in his cage, which is when he turns his body into one furry lump that seems positively boneless. It makes it hard to pick him up, so Jeremy started giving Oswald a gentle nudge with his hands and this usually motivates Oswald to run towards his cage.

Fool him once, shame on us. Fool him twice, shame on him, so tonight he tried a new strategy.  Pancake rabbit.  Jeremy nudged. Oswald flattened himself out. He nudged again. The bunny became flatter, front and back legs sprawled out so the rabbit could get get even closer to the floor.  So Jeremy took his hands, placing them behind Oswald's front legs, no easy feat with them stretched out far in front of the rabbit, and gave a gentle push forward towards the cage.  Rabbit stayed stretched out and nearly flattened. Jeremy pushed another two inches towards his cage. 

At this point, we were just laughing and Jeremy was not really making any concerted effort to get Oswald into his cage. We wanted to see how far it would go. Bunny was totally annoyed, ears flat, and insistent on keeping himself pressed as close to the floor and stretched out as possible.  It looked like Jeremy could have just pulled Oswald along and dusted the hardwood floors with his furry little body.  As soon as Oswald got within six inches of his cage, he stood up and backed up into Jeremy's legs, his ears still flattened against his head, as if to say "Oh no. I'm not going back in there!" 

So Jeremy continued in the same vein, nudge the rabbit, the rabbit pancaked himself to the floor in one flop, Jeremy pushing the rabbit along the hardwood towards his cage.  Eventually, Jeremy meant business and gave a slightly harder nudge that made Oswald hop into the cage. 

Realizing he had been tricked into his flight instinct, Oswald quickly turned around and tried to keep Jeremy from closing the cage door. He put two paws through the grid of the door and pushed. Jeremy pushed back. As the door closed, Oswald stood up on his hind legs and tried to shove his paws, his nose, any part through the narrowing gap of the once opened door.  Jeremy latched the door, and Oswald put his two front paws through the bars and twitched his nose from one side to the other looking at us with hope that we'd take pity on his prisoner status and let him back out.

Sorry pal. You'll have to wait til tomorrow when Ruth wakes up, I thought.  She'll free you.