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  • A Dab of This...

Honey, where’s the instruction booklet on this kid?

5/25/2015

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PicturePicture courtesy of ww.publicdomainpictures.net
     In this age when ovens can receive and reply to text messages, society doesn’t want for knowledge, though in some cases we need to exercise it more. A few seconds on the computer, tablet, or cell phone and we’re zipping down the information highway gathering facts like Pacman after frightened ghosts. But shortly after the last dinosaur roamed the earth and before the cell phone (my generation), people quenched their thirst for knowledge through experiences, advice from elders, or by reading it in a book or instruction manual.  
     A few months after marriage, I became pregnant but didn’t obsess like some other young women.  I didn’t bronze the pregnancy test or save it for the baby book, and didn’t pick out curtains for the nursery the first time my face and the toilet bowl became acquainted. I’d grown up on a ranch and bore witness to cows and horses giving birth--they made it seem simple. And besides, there were hundreds of books on the subject, and any of them could answer questions I might have. Wrong. During the fifth month of pregnancy I found none of them could explain why my ankles seemed to have traded places with my knees, and why, on a good day, roadkill could have won a beauty contest against me. And nothing explained that labor hurt worse than an impacted tooth.
     Raising the baby will be simpler, I always thought. Again, I was wrong. Teaching our dog to tap-dance would have been easier. Nothing I read explained why Jonathan withheld his spit-up until I was wearing white, or resisted loudly passing gas until we were in public and a large crowd was present. No one believes the baby did it. But all that paled in comparison to one morning when Jonathan was six months old.
     Beads of perspiration formed on my forehead as I watched Jonathan thrash and scream in his crib. My most recent parenting book had assured that taking a quick trip in the car was a great way to calm a fussy baby. That option was out. I’d already driven around the block so many times I was convinced my neighbors thought I couldn’t find my way home, or I was practicing to be a NASCAR driver.
     No, it was time to call in the experts.I took a deep breath, and swallowing my pride I called the biggest authority I knew on the subject of child-raising...my mother.
     Regardless of age or gender, just the thought of reaching out to one’s mother in times of need is a comfort. I turned into a sobbing mass of gelatin the minute I heard Mama’s voice. Between gasps, I explained that either Jonathan was ill, or he was forming a plan to take over control of the family by driving me insane. And based on the fact he’d kept me sleep-deprived, I was beginning to lean towards the latter.
     “Don’t be a goose,” Mama admonished. “How old is he now? Have you started him on solids? If that’s the case,  he might be constipated.”
      “I-I have,” I stuttered. “That must be it.  What can I do?” I twisted the phone cord around around my finger, hoping the solution wasn’t my mother’s cure-all for everything...a soapy enema. If I must, I must, but I didn’t relish the thought of my shirt being painted with my child’s bowel movement.
      “Simple. Prune juice.”
      I made a face. That was something elderly people were given when they were in the rest home, and for me during some points in my pregnancy, but not babies. “Are you sure?”
      Mama’s voice took on that listen-up-or-you’re-in-trouble tone. “Yep, a tad of that will get the plumbing flowing again,” she assured. “Just dilute it so…”
      I didn’t bother to listen to the rest. In my opinion, Mama prattled on a great deal about many things, and I didn’t have time for a lecture today. As luck would have it, I had a bottle of the juice hidden in the recesses of my pantry, visible to only dust bunnies and the occasional visiting house spider.
      I handed Jonathan eight ounces of straight prune juice in his bottle. “Drink up, Buttercup.” It impressed me that he drank the stuff without a whimper. Another eight ounces will really do the trick. I gave the baby another serving.
      One lesson that I learned as a new mom was to seize a chance for fun when I could. I was overjoyed when my husband John took Jonathan and me out for an early supper that night.
      Every woman, at some time in her life has the fantasy of people staring when she enters a room. I was perplexed when  we walked into our favorite Mexican restaurant and caught the stare of a gentleman near the door. A look of complete revulsion blanketed his face as I walked past, carrying Jonathan. I knew my lack of sleep left me with bags big enough to check in at the airport, but I didn’t think I looked that bad.
     His wife was the opposite, offering me a smile. “How can you act like that’s normal? It’s disgusting,” the man said.
     Anger turned to confusion as I saw the woman pat her husband’s arm and say, "Don't worry about it dear. She probably doesn't realize it yet."
     I slid into a nearby booth. Realize what?   I didn’t have to speculate for long.  A thick layer of disgusting smelling, salsa verde colored goop covered my arm and the front of my shirt. An equally large trail of slime stretched up Jonathan’s back, beginning at the diaper and ended at his neckline--it was his bowel movement.
     “John,” I hissed.  "We have to leave. We have to leave now!"  I flipped Jonathan around and showed John the mess.
     For once, I didn’t have to repeat myself.  "Let's get out of here," John croaked.
     My stomach churned like a washing machine. In my lifetime, I’d cleaned many a stall on Daddy’s ranch, and in six months changed enough diapers to fill a dumpster; but to have it plastered on my body, that was different.  I held Jonathan at arm’s length as we raced through the restaurant. Everyone who didn’t see our entrance had the pleasure of seeing Jonathan's back as we made our hasty retreat.
     At the door, we bumped into a young couple that gazed dumbstruck at our son. Flashing the couple a winning smile, John said, “Whatever you do, don’t eat the green chicken enchiladas!"

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Seriously...Cereal?

5/17/2015

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Picture
    Recipe is at the bottom of the post.


      As much as this pains me, I have to admit it; I'm not very organized. My mother could plan a club meeting, chat on the phone, bake a cake, all while helping me with homework. I'm doing good if I can remember where I placed my keys shortly after arriving home. So  through the years I've come to the conclusion that either Mama was an orginizational genius, or I have the attention span of a fruit fly.
      So, is it any wonder that every time I venture to the store I leave my well-intentioned shopping list on the kitchen table? On most grocery store days I do well to remember to change out of my pajama bottoms, especially if the boys are at home. My kids are sweethearts, and love each other dearly, but when it's errand day and a trip to the store is included, it's every kid for themselves. As a result, I have honed negotiating skills that'd make a S.W.A.T. team leader envious.
      After this last trip, I discovered a forgotten box of Apple Jacks cereal from the previous journey. At the time, my younger son Joseph was convinced his life wouldn't be the same if he couldn't get the breakfast food. I'm not fond of kids' cereals, but yes, occasionally I do indulge, like my mother did for me.  But Joseph's and Apple Jack's relationship was short-lived when we arrived home and he saw that gasp, my Honey Bunches of Oats cereal had dehydrated strawberries, something he loved. So, poor Apple Jacks sat alone and forgotten on the top shelf for two weeks, unopened.
     True, my organizational skills are lacking, but I detest waste. I made it my goal to find a use for this food. After a bit of searching, I found a recipe on Hidden Ponies blog. 
     I tweaked it a bit. Because I'm using a sugar cereal, I cut back on the sugar in the recipe drastically. I used margarine unstead of butter, and that gave me a denser, but a little more moist result. Gotta say that I'm pleased with the result.  See the recipe below,


Apple Jack Cookies

  • 1/2 cup sugar
  • 1/2  cup coconut palm sugar
  • 1 cup margarine, softened
  • 2 eggs
  • 1 tsp vanilla
  • 2 cups all-purpose flour 
  • 2 tsp. ground cinnamon
  • 1 tsp baking soda
  • ½ tsp baking powder
  • 1 tsp salt
  • 3 cups mixed cereal
  • 1 cup quick cooking oats
  • ½ cup shredded coconut


 

Instructions
  1. Preheat the oven to 350º. Mix sugars, butter, eggs and vanilla in large bowl. Stir in all remaining ingredients. Using a 2 tablespoon cookie scoop, drop 2” apart onto a lightly greased cookie sheet. Flatten each ball to approx. 2” in diameter. Bake 6 minutes, rotate cookie sheet and bake approximately 6 minutes more, or until golden brown.  Cool 2 minutes before removing from cookie sheet.



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You Get Back What You Dish Out

5/15/2015

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Picture
     When I was a child I entertained my mother with my antics and wild imagination. Okay, I'll be honest--I tortured the poor woman. I had tea parties with chickens where Purina Chick-Starter was the food of choice for all involved. And I married in kindergarten to my (at the time) best guy friend. That lasted all of ten minutes when my grandmother caught us sealing the deal with a kiss in the bushes. I had to give the ring back (made of chewed gum and a pebble) and listen to Mama lecture about why little girls shouldn't kiss boys.
     When I was five, I told the ladies at church that Mama gave me cat food as a snack (it was really Cracklin' Oat Bran), brought a horse into her house ten years later, and in later years would ride the same horse across the pasture, no saddle or bridle. It's no wonder  why by the time I left home, Mama's once perfect face was contorted into an expression of permanent alarm, and her jet-black hair was painted with gray streaks. She'd get her revenge by regaling my boyfriends with stories of my adventures.
     "Wait and see," she'd say as I laughed. "You get back what you dish out."
     I never understood what she meant, or thought that for one moment it might be parent's curse until I had children of my own. Both put me through the parental wringer.  As infants, both Jonathan and Joseph waited until we were in public to loudly pass gas. No one ever believed the baby did it.
     And Being a parent has been an educational experience. Thanks to my boys, I've learned that cell phones don't float in water, and a family Dalmatian can be the victim of dot-to-dot sessions, performed with a marker. There have been portraits on crumpled paper, created with my best makeup. Once, Joseph announced my bra preferences in the middle of Target, and I've had to rescue my underwear off the family dog on more than one occasion, sometimes in front of company.
     My mother was right. I did get back all the antics that I gave her and more. But because of my children, I received the ability to enjoy the little things in life, to love deeper, and find humor in any situation. I wouldn't trade that for the world.

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    Picture

    A little info about me...

     Award-winning  author (and sometimes illustrator) Debbie Roppolo grew up in the Blackland Prairie region of Texas, where miles of grassland and her horse stimulated very imaginative adventures and served as writing fodder for later years. She had to do something with those memories; having tea parties with chickens was too good to keep to herself.

         She has written for several of the Chicken Soup books in addition to various magazines and newspapers. Her children’s book titles include: Amelia Frump and her Peanut Butter-Loving, Overactive Imagination; Amelia Frump…is Cooking Up a Peanut Butter Storm (award-winning activity/cookbook);  and He’s My Brother.

          Shortly after beginning her own family, Roppolo discovered the reason why her mother turned prematurely gray, and that a cell phone, toilets and toddler make a poor combination. Rather than sitting in a corner, whimpering, and eating her weight in chocolate, Roppolo wrote her first parenting humor book, The Toilet is Overflowing and the Dog is Wearing My Underwear, that was based on her family’s antics. 

          After her younger son was diagnosed with autism, Roppolo and her husband co-founded Central Texas Autism Network, a network for persons who may have a relative or friend diagnosed with Autism, or professional that may deal with Autistic persons. She serves as an advocate for people with autism through her writing, by speaking to groups, and spreading awareness as various health-related functions.

         Cooking is her second passion, and Roppolo holds the honor of being an eight-time award-winning baker.

         Married for over twenty-four years, she resides in the Texas Hill Country with her husband and two children.

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