We have so drunk the koolaid. We dragged our sniffly hineys out of bed this morning and rushed to get out of the house for this:

Last night: riding lesson, girlchild in the ring holding the reins, no one holding a lead line. She played hide-n-seek with her instructor, Miss S. McP and Helena, a gorgeous big white Arabian, chased Miss S around the ring. It was a sight to behold.

It turns out that my daughter is living out more than just my childhood dreams. My mother is about to start riding lessons out there, too.

This morning, though, first place in two events (walk/halt and lead line), which sounds ultracool, but in reality, is because all three wee girls won first place in these events. Watching the bigger kids canter and jump was so fun.

It was a big night for the Heels family, plus I finally realized that I am never going to take a picture during daylight hours and if I want to put some pictures here, they’re going to happen at night. Let’s be honest with ourselves: my daylight pictures aren’t much better than the nighttime ones.

Now.

At dinner tonight, McP howled in despair when she bit into a piece of toasty garlic bread and her tooth “cracked.”

Cut to much wobbling of the tooth (front center bottom) by her, me, the Husband and the waitress (who has known McP since McP was a wee babe stuffing feta cheese into her craw). Also, because he won’t be left out, cut to the boychild shoving wonderful Greek pizza into his own craw and mimicing McP’s open-mouthed tooth waggling. Surely we were a sight.

The waitress offered to pull the tooth and McP gave her a very teary snake eye and then looked over at me–I knew she didn’t want to be rude to the waitress but that there was no way she would let the woman pull her tooth. I said, “It’s okay to say no!”

So she said no. She was teary and obviously freaked out. McP kept wiggling her tooth with her tongue and it turned a bit bloody and she said, “Is my tooth out?”

But it wasn’t. The waitress said, “Yaoughta letcher mama pull it for yah.” McP looked at me–she was shaking and very teary now. I said, “I will try if you want me to, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

She agreed and we decided to take our comedy routine outside, and stopped to grab napkins on the way. Even after three people had had their grubby paws in her mouth, McP required me to grasp her tiny tooth with napkins and not my hands (”Gross, mama”), so I used a napkin, told her to open wider and to please, please not bite me and tugged.

And nothing.

She was still shaking and tears were leaking out and I said, “I will try again, but I am not going to hurt you to do this, okay?”

And she nodded. So, I tugged. By this point, I was shaking myself and very near tears because first tooth loss, instigated by myself? Teary and scary.

It took the tiniest of tugs to pull the tooth and there was blood everywhere (she looked like a prizefighter), and she cried and laughed and jumped up and down and ran into the restaurant and shouted “IT’S OUT! MY TOOTH IS OUT!” I sort of stumbled back inside, shaking and half crying and oddly proud and watched my daughter make a spectacle of herself.

And then we finished our dinner while McP hopped up to look in the mirror at her mouth over and over again. Of course, she promptly lost the damned tooth in the car after dinner, but I took her seat apart and got out a flashlight after we got home and unearthed that sucker because I will be ratFINKED if my kid’s first tooth gets lost in my car, of all places. I mean, if she swallowed it in her sleep, I could let it go, but to just let it rest, uncelebrated and invisible, in my car? No way. I can now catalogue the flotsam and jetsam beneath my backseat and I am ashamed to tell you that despite semi-regular vacuuming, you could feed a small family off the food crumbs down there. Blech.

But, more importantly, my gap-toothed child and the back of my large dog, Miss Libby, who insisted on getting in on the fun:

She’s a happy girl tonight. We tucked the tooth into a glassine envelope, taped it shut and put her tooth fairy pillow out on her bed. The first lost tooth awaits the tooth fairy, who will (so I have heard) be leaving a gift and some cash in exchange for the lovely little sharp-edged tooth.

My girl is growing up.

More pics, now. At least six weeks ago, I received a wonderful surprise airmail package from Australia from L and B, of the Burnt Offerings blog. They sent local goodies:

The Wombat Stew Cookbook is a kiddie cookbook and it’s beautifully illustrated. We think we will try the Bandicoot Ginger Biscuits first. I kept the mailer they sent because the postage (which probably doesn’t show up well in the photograph) is gorgeous. I had to fight the kids for custody of the Tim Tams and preserved the now-empty packaging in the fridge until I got a pic of it tonight. I think the boychild learned to say “coocoo” for cookie about when he discovered Tim Tams.

I will be honest and tell you that I haven’t gotten up the nerve to try the Vegemite just yet. I figure that one of the benefits of having a small screamy child is that you can test drive certain things with them and vegemite is one of them. Perhaps over the weekend.

Notice, finally, the card that B’s mother made. It has a white paper liner and is made of a layer of very heavy navy blue cardstock topped with a white card wrapped like a present with navy/royal grosgrain ribbon on it and a silk flower with tiny beads in the center. It’s a work of art.

I was very surprised to receive a package from Down Undah and I thank you both so much, L and B!

I have about 20 more pictures of things I’ve received in the mail (the vintage button swap from Apron Thrift Girl, a secret surprise gift from persons unknown, a vintage tea towel swap from Paisley Wallpaper), things I’ve made (the pink cotton clapotis, the mermaid doll, the wee kitty) and a unicorn McPantses made with some supervision, but I decided not to shoot my photography wad in one post, so more for later.

Well, in the deep south, a tiny whiff of a tiny bit of fall is in the air at about 6 a.m. and 6 p.m. That whiff is enough to make me want pumpkin muffins and butternut squash risotto, so here you go:

Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Muffins

1 2/3 c whole wheat flour
1 c sugar
1 T pumpkin pie spice
1 t baking soda
1/4 t baking powder
1/4 t salt
2 lg. eggs
1 c. plain pumpkin (half of 1 lb. can)
1/2 c (1 stick) melted butter
1 c (6 oz.) chocolate chips (chocolate chips make everything better, you crazy “no pumpkin with chocolate chips–eeeeu-gross-naysayers”)

Mix dry ingredients in large bowl. In another bowl whisk until well blended: eggs, pumpkin and butter. Stir in chocolate chips. Pour over dry ingredients and fold in until just moistened. Bake 20 to 25 minutes or until puffed and springy to tough. Grease muffin cups or use paper baking cups. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes.

Makes 12 regular or 48 miniature.

(Naked muffins–minus ccs–were one of the Crabcake’s first foods. These freeze fantastically well.)

Thank you, Mary, for my favorite muffin recipe ever. Everyone at my house likes these, and that’s an accomplishment given the screamy child and the non-sweet-eater Husband.

Butternut Squash Risotto

7 T unsalted butter
2 T minced fresh sage
6 c vegetable or chicken stock
2 c butternut squash puree
2 T olive oil
2/3 c caramelized onions
2 c Arborio rice
1 t minced fresh rosemary
1/2 c dry white wine
1/2 c grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
Salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste

In a small saucepan over medium heat, melt 4 Tbs. of the butter. Add 1 Tbs. of the sage and heat until the butter browns. Strain the butter into a small bowl and discard the sage. Cover the bowl to keep the butter warm.

In a large saucepan over medium-high heat, whisk together the stock and squash puree. Bring just to a simmer, 8 to 10 minutes; maintain over low heat.

In a large saucepan or risotto pan over medium heat, warm the olive oil. Add the caramelized onions and rice and stir until the grains are well coated with the oil and are nearly translucent with a white dot in the center, about 3 minutes. Stir in the remaining 1 Tbs. sage and the rosemary. Add the wine and stir until it is absorbed.

Add the simmering stock mixture a ladleful at a time, stirring frequently after each addition. Wait until the stock is almost completely absorbed before adding more.

When the rice is tender to the bite but slightly firm in the center and looks creamy, after about 30 minutes, stir in the remaining 3 Tbs. butter, the cheese, salt and pepper. Add more stock if needed so the rice is thick and creamy. Let stand for 2 minutes. Drizzle with the reserved sage butter and serve immediately. Serves 6.

Williams-Sonoma Kitchen. I will confess that I haven’t made this yet, but it’s on my weekend list. My sister thinks it’s divine and worth the time it takes to make it. Didja notice how they slip in the carmelized onions on you? If you’re doing that, you might as well make extry onions for Ina’s onion dip and if I’m going to mention it, I might as well hunt down the recipe for you.

Pan-Fried Onion Dip
(Makes two cups)

2 large yellow onions
4 T unsalted butter
1/4 c vegetable oil
1/4 t ground cayenne pepper
1 t kosher salt
1/2 t freshly ground black pepper
4 oz cream cheese, room temperature
1/2 c sour cream
1/2 c good mayonnaise

Cut the onions in half, and then slice them into 1/8-inch thick half-rounds. (You will have about 3 cups of onions) Heat the butter and oil in a large sauté pan on medium heat. Add the onions, cayenne, salt and pepper and sauté for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low and cook, stirring occasionally, for 20 more minutes, until the onions are browned and caramelized. Allow the onions to cool.

Place the cream cheese, sour cream, and mayonnaise in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment and beat until smooth. Add the onions and mix well.

Taste for seasonings.
Serve at room temperature.

The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook
By Ina Garten

(Alton Brown recommends using an electric griddle to make carmelized onions and he’s got a good point there. The griddle will stay at a constant temp, which is perfect for low and slow carmelization. Plus, I could use a griddle for pancakes, etc., and now you have seen me rationalize a moderately expensive small appliance. I have tons of cabinet space, so…)

I cried at the end of tonight’s episode.

(It helps that the Husband is at work, so no one is around to laugh at me for crying.)

Perfect outcome. Richly deserved. I think the designers headed to Bryant Park are better than any designers who’ve been on the show thus far.

I send out a special kudos to Alabama native Michael Knight. Gotta love the man who makes us look good!

A group of people who know in their hearts what their calling is are sort of finding their way right now and I love that. I hate that I have to wait a few more weeks for the finale, but I can manage.

Ohhhh, first, woe is me. Mrs. Tiffin, I’m sorry I fussed at your darling boy. It really was all Shula’s fault and I didn’t feel sorry for poor Leigh* until someone commented that the person she really feels sorry for is poor Leigh’s mother. I can almost feel her heartbreak myself.

(Still, though, I think the kicker should consider taking a year off and backpacking. I hear that Amsterdam offers delights unlike any other.)

Happy, though, is the gal who is about to cut out Olive and Archie from charcoal, chalk-striped suiting fabric, to be paired with camel flannel on top. While I pondered the shoe fabric situation, the Husband said, “How about that gangster fabric over there?” He was referring to a gorgeous raw silk black/white fabric that is buttery soft. I also have a couple of yards of it in pink and lavendar.

Fabric hoarders come out on top, I tell you. But somehow, I have yards and yards of black linen and no white, ecru or khaki linen–I cut out an a-line dress pattern for the boychild this morning and now I don’t have the fabric I wanted to use for it.

Per Ring around the Rosies’ suggestion (see sidebar for blog link), I snagged a new sewing machine two weeks ago and me and my Huskystar 219 have found love at first stitch.

I have sewing to do. Once again, no daylight photos, though.

* It’s still not a boy name. Neither is “Marion.” I know a boy named Marion. That’s just mean, people.

Oh, Leigh Tiffin, woe is you. What have you done, boy?

You choked worse than a virgin trying out her first blowjob.

You have pretty much guaranteed that you will never get laid ever again in the state of Alabama and possibly in the entire southeast. I suggest you consider backpacking through Europe for a few years and then return to the U.S. quietly.

Any member of our family could have made the kicks you missed today, including the sixteen year old vertically-challenged, seven pound grumpy cat.

Sleep with one eye open, you walk-on doofus. Pretend I worked the phrase “no talent assclown” in here somewhere, okay?

The Husband would like me to say that he doesn’t entirely blame you for your colossal choke session because you are but a babe in the woods, a true 18 yr old freshman, and that he blames Shula for playing a friend’s son (and, consquently assuring that the son should never play again), but I disagree. I think it’s all your fault,

Love,
Heels and The Husband

p.s. “Leigh?” Seriously? What were your parents thinking? Yeah, that’s right. I am even making fun of your name. I went there.

I am torn. Shall I continue to list rules of life, Angsty Mom-Style, and be preachy (because that is so annoying), or shall I just leave things alone and let the first five rules stand as they are?

I have 15 rules written in a notebook and I have edited, with assistance, the list into what I think matters the most when it comes to living simply, happily and well, particularly in this day and age when the media wants mothers to argue, to want more More MORE! and to remain in some strange suspended animation state of minor misery. I don’t know about you, but I eat more, shop more and waste more when I’m moderately miserable. The world has a lot to gain from angsty moms and works hard to keep us that way, which makes us gullible suckers, doesn’t it? Damn the man! (I love Empire Records.)

I feel like I have a little bit of an audience on this topic, and the first five rules I listed were pretty well-received, so there you have it.

Angsty Moms’ Guide to Calming Down, Relaxing and Enjoying Life, Part Two:

6. Is this the hill you’re willing to die on? I love this rule and like my other favorite rules, it was given to me by a friend. She asked me last year, as I was agonizing over the whole work and eat and be miserable or stay home and suffer thing, if the choice to work or stay at home was the hill I am willing to die on. Obviously, a year plus later, we can see that it’s not the hill; it’s not my hill. I often think some little issue in my life is that hill, but as the Husband kindly pointed out some time ago, every issue is the hill I’m willing to die on, whereas his issues are few (name change with marriage, which didn’t bother me–I didn’t know it was important to him until about a year ago–and a couple more things I was willing to compromise on). But, sooner or later, you might need to take a stand about something. I can’t predict what that something will be, but I suspect your gut will roll over, clench up and let you know. There will be a hill that you’re willing to die on. What you do with the issue is up to you, but my understanding is that if you don’t satisfy your gut, your gut is probably going to rebel, and a rebellious gut isn’t convenient at all.

7. Stop. Yep. That’s it. Stop. Every day after work, I need five minutes to myself. I have to feed the dogs because they bark until I do. I have to pee desperately. I don’t know why it’s so, but every evening upon entering my residence, I must urinate. I also have to change clothes because the boychild is waiting to cover me with sweet, grubby grabby marks. Then, after my five minutes, where I rush as quickly as humanly possible, I need to get into the kitchen to survey the counter damage and deforest the wilderness that’s grown overnight (where the hell do all those cups come from?) and start thinking about feeding people.

My after work schedule doesn’t mesh with the kids’ schedule at all. All they want is me (and the Husband), with them, preferably on the floor. Last week, I looked at the kitchen, sighed at the perpetual mess and headed to the boychild’s room to Stop. I sat on the floor while the girl climbed into my lap (which makes the boy scream like a pterodactyl) and the boy shoved her over to make room for himself. We stayed on the floor for almost an hour and the kids hugged each other and held hands and smooched and rolled all over me and themselves.

I can’t remember what we had for dinner and I know we ate late that night, but I do remember thinking about Natalie Merchant singing “These are the days to remember.” Usually the Husband and I look at each other while the household is in total uproar, laugh and say that line, but when I stopped the routine that comforts me and eases us into the nighttime, to just watch my kids and hang with them, I got the full shivery wash of how good things are.

8. It’s not about you. People say the stupidest damned things, don’t they? The internets are full of tales of mommy drive-bys and assvice and all sorts of stupid, silly, inappropriate things that people lob at you like little word grenades that stop you in your tracks. Your mother does it. Your mother in law does it. Your acquaintances do it. Your doctor does it and common strangers who neckbreathe at the grocery store do it, too. “Oh, he still takes a pacifier?” “Oh, you use daycare?” “Oh, you don’t work?” “Oh, you drive a blue car?”

Why does the person in line behind me at the grocery store care if I work or stay at home or drive a blue car? What business of hers is it?

Flashbulb: she doesn’t care. People work out their own issues with statements like that and I am willing to bet a limb that 90% of what people say (particularly the barbed, insulting statements) have nothing to do with the person to whom they are speaking.

It’s not about you. It rarely is. I will say that if it’s praise about your abilities, you can go ahead and pat yourself on the back, though. Of course that part’s about you!

(But I think even that might not be about you.)

Sally Quinn, Washington bitch-goddess socialite and author of a book about parties, says something funny that stuck with me when I first read it. She said that when she’s meeting someone new, she never worries about whether or not the new person will like her. She worries about whether or not the she will like the new person. I like that. It’s a lot to live up to if you’re meeting Sally Quinn, but if you can apply it to yourself, it takes a lot of pressure off social situations, where most of what people say is about them and not you, anyway, doesn’t it? The converse to “it’s not about you” is the adage that the best conversationalists are the ones who listen. Reporters know that a great way to get people to talk is to be quiet–many people are compelled to fill silences.

When you’re secure with the fact that even the barbs and minor insults and drive-bys aren’t truly aimed your way, I think the art of conversation becomes much easier.

9. Take a small step. Also known as: you are in charge of your own life. It’s so easy to lose yourself in momhood and to wake up one day and say, look at that–all I am is a mother and a wife and a taxicab and an employee and wow, ten years ago I had big plans but here I am now.

From that thought stems tremendous guilt. Motherhood, after all, is enough, isn’t it?

Sure it’s enough, as long as you still exist. Last year I wrote about unfulfilled women missing out on the whole “something more” in their lives and how I am that woman, but I also readily admit that I control the reins when it comes to personal fulfillment. It’s up to me to take the small step to make the changes I want and it’s up to you, too, if you’re dissatisfied with your role as wife/mother/taxi/employee.

Losing yourself to a daily existence is the lazy way out. There are a million ways to reclaim basement space in your brain while your family and your life still occupy the split level and most of the attic and fifteen minutes a day is a great start.

Honestly, and I say this to myself as much (if not more) as I say it to you: eventually misery becomes boring. If you are suffering because you’ve lost whatever makes you you, you’re probably boring the everlovinghell out of everyone around you, too. Make a tiny change for yourself and then claim a little more when you are ready. Creep up the basement stairs and clean out the front closet. Get a job. Quit a job. Take French class. Run a mile. Walk a mile. Go. Stay. Stop. Breathe. No one can do it for you.

10. It is not always your duty to conform. If I have mostly “solved” number 9 for myself, I can admit that this one is an issue for me. Right now, the problem (which isn’t that big a problem, but which still causes me some angst) is that people like to give me a loving hard time about taking a vacation, which is all well and good and funny, but the clincher is that I need to leave my kids behind.

That’s my issue, got it? Not yours. (Get yer own.) I do not care about the dynamics of your vacations.

Now. Back to my issue. People are all over the Husband and me about how we need to take advantage of the doting grandparentage available to us in two states and cast off our troubley children and run away into the sunset together.

I tell people, hey, I am away from my children 40ish hours a week. I like to put them to bed at night. I will leave them overnight when I am good and ready (and we have left the girl a few times and she spends the night with the grandparents every once in a while). This, however, is confounding and bewildering to the free world. I do not care what everyone else does–if everyone else jumps off a bridge… It’s a small thing, but it’s my thing. Back off.

I know you have your thing. I promise to try to remember that before I try to talk you into doing my thing instead, okay?

And that concludes the second five things in my list of life rules for angsty moms. I shall now list the first five things over again for a refresher.

1. Don’t bother trying to keep up with the Jones. They can’t keep up with you either.
2. The only mommy war that matters is the one within yourself.
3. You cannot be the mother to the free world.
4. Apologize.
5. Never care more about someone else’s problems than she does.

Stay tuned for part three, because I think the last five rules are outstanding.

A craftay blogger posted very recently about making penguins–there are pics, too. The penguins are tall and skinny and round and they’re the perfect answer for what to do with the parts of the black cashmere/silk sweater I’m going to cut up.

(My sweater has a holey elbow.)

I can’t find the blog to save my life now.

Okay.

Phew.

Check out these penguins. I think very plain black sweater sleeves might lend themselves well to some sort of penguin effort on my part.

I wonder if two sleeves could make three varied-in-size penguins, maybe like a penguin family? One tall guy, one wee short penguin kid and a penguin mom? That way I could do two out of the sleeve with the holey elbow and one out of the good sleeve.

On a related note, I really need a new thin, black cardigan, completely plain.