Ever since the Fresh Air girl’s truncated visit, I’ve been fixating on my own children’s bad behavior. Whenever they give me lip, say “no” when I ask them to do a chore, or fight with each other (and they do all of the aforementioned with embarrassing frequency), I find myself getting hyper-anxious. They’re bad kids! I’m a bad mother! I’m not working with them enough! WHAT IS WRONG WITH US!

The youngest ones, in particular, are coping an attitude, and while I’d like to say it’s the after effects of having an attitude-pumped Fresh Air girl around our house, I don’t think I can. I think it’s just them. Or us.

This part of parenting is what drives me crazy. I do everything possible to make our life run like a well-oiled machine—establish lists and routines, monitor and model, and explain, explain, explain—and still, someone is always squawking. I know (hope?) the hard work will pay off, and already there are gratifying signs of success, but still. Shouldn’t this be easier? It makes me blazing bonkers.

Perhaps some of my dissatisfaction stems from the Fresh Air Picnic where I met the mother of a family of twelve—eleven girls and a four-month-old baby boy. The middle school girls clustered around the mother while the older girls watched out for the youngers, and with their red hair and sweet faces, they looked like a whole pack of Anne Shirleys.

Their lineup made me think of an exclamation point.

But it was the mother who really caught my eye. I couldn’t stop staring at her. She was tall and slender with not a single varicose vein in sight. Also? She glowed. And when she walked she glided. A halo hovered just above her head. I saw it.

At one point I went over to Mr. Handsome, poked him in the chest, and nodding in the direction of the saintly mother, said, “You know, if I had twelve kids I might look like that, too.”

He laughed and said, “But I wouldn’t.”

I spent the next couple days musing over this large family. In the process of musing, it occurred to me that mothers of smaller broods often seem more harried and stressed than mothers of larger broods. Has anyone else noticed this? Is it because the older kids are helping out more? Is it because the mothers are resigned to their fates and are fully immersed and unselfish? This is an observation that captivates me. It makes me marvel, and then I re-evaluate how I’m doing things. (But we are not having more kids. What Mr. Handsome said is true—he wouldn’t do so well with a full fifteen passenger van.) (And neither would I.)

Since that picnic and the ensuing days of bad kid behavior, things have mellowed out around here. It took several days of decompression, a supper at Ci-Ci’s, a movie or two, and lots of play time, but things are starting to look up. The cooler weather helps, too.

On Sunday evening I had a talk with the two older kids who had just returned from their second week-long trip (within the past month) and told them that the next day life would be returning to normal. There would be jobs and boring stuff and they’d have to listen to me. “You’ve done a lot of special stuff,” I said. “And it’s been great. But now it’s time to stop thinking about me me me and start thinking about the family. Think about how you can take care of other people, be helpful, do your work without fussing. And when you do that, your day will go much smoother and you’ll have more free time and we can all have fun. Okay?”

And miracles of miracles, it worked! They have been so much more agreeable and helpful and mature! We have exchanges like this:

Me: Hey kid. Will you please go hang out that load of laundry?

Kid: Okay.

Whoa, dude! Rock my world! Is that not totally cool?

Ever since my kids decided to (for once!) take my words to heart (hallelujah!), my stress levels have plummeted, I smile more, and sometimes when I look up I catch a glimpse of a halo hovering.

But just a third of one. I’d need eight more kids to get the real deal.

This post is not a reflection on the ethics of large families. I’m neither here nor there on the subject. There are all kinds of people in this world who live out their beliefs in different, very intriguing ways. It makes the world beautiful, I think.

Also? You don’t need a kid to get a halo. I totally made that part up.

This same time, years previous: how to can peaches

It’s not a nice thing to do. In fact, it’s kind of bad. Maybe even cruel. Like delivering a double whammy punch below the belt. Ouch ouch.

But I’m going to do it anyway. I’m going to push my stuff on you and then walk away. (Though I may turn around a couple times to see how you’re holding up.)

Cause, see, I am the newest crack(er) pusher on the blog-ock.

Yes ma’am, I done did whip up a batch of addictive treats in my very own kitchen. And then I proceeded to lose every ounce of self control and had to stick the blasted stuff in the basement freezer to keep it away from me, and then—oh woe is me—I took the junk to church and doled it out to unsuspecting, innocent souls. Mercy!

When my husband saw the empty jar on the kitchen counter, his eyes got all big and he said, “You mean it’s all gone?”

“Well yeah, hon. What did you expect?”

These babies aren’t only known as crack(ers). They do have another, more benign and less sinister, name: elf biscuits. But I think that’s pretty much the same thing as calling it crack(ers) because clearly, elves must be on something fairly powerful in order to get all the stuff done that they get done, right?

Still, your fellow parishioners won’t look quite as nervous if you hand them an “elf biscuit” instead of a piece of “crack.” Just a tip from the pro. You’re welcome.

The recipe is easily memorize-able: 2 sticks butter, 1 cup each of sugar and nuts, and some crackers and chocolate. See? That just rolled off my fingers.

Never before has it been this easy to get your fix.

Again, I’m sorry.

After I wrote most of this post I got such a profound craving for crunchy, caramel-y, chocolate-y deliciousness that I got up off the couch and made myself another batch. This time I took pictures, too. But most of them turned out blurry since I had the anticipation shakes.

Just KIDDING! (Except not about the blurry part.)

As I was finishing off the caramel, the Baby Nickel, who was watching the process with rapt attention, said in a forlorn little voice, “I looked for the stuff yesterday [at the potluck] and couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find it!” I totally understood his desperation. And when my older son realized that I never saved him any from the potluck (he was biking with a friend mentor [and seeing another black bear!]) and got all accusatory, all I could do was apologize profusely and point to the trays of fresh crack(ers), Soon, honey, soon!

I’m such an awful mother, corrupting my children like this! If you, unlike me, have any common sense at all, you won’t make these.

Really.

Don’t do it.

Just say no.

WALK AWAY ALREADY.

Love,

Your Local Crazy Blogger-Pusher Lady

Elf Biscuits

Otherwise known as Crack(ers)

My recipe is a combination of my friend-cousin Shelah’s recipe and Deb’s of Smitten Kitchen, but you can find the recipe anywhere and everywhere on the web. (The Elf Biscuit name comes from Shelah and the special cracker spelling comes from Deb.)

I used white sugar this time, but next time I might use brown. Also, a little vanilla in the caramel wouldn’t be a bad idea.

There are lots of variations. Use a different kind of cracker, or some white chocolate, or M&Ms. Or what about pretzel pieces in place of nuts? And don’t forget the classic graham crackers, chocolate, and mini marshmallow combo.

crackers such as matzo, graham, saltines, or club

2 sticks butter

3/4 cup white sugar or 1 cup brown sugar

3/4 cup pecans

1 cup chocolate chips

coarse salt

Line a jelly roll pan (or two 9×13 pans) with crackers. I used matzo (about four crackers) and I LOVED them.

In a large saucepan, melt the butter and stir in the sugar and nuts. Bring it to a boil, stirring frequently and then cook for about 3 minutes. Keep stirring. Remove the kettle from the heat (now’s the time to add vanilla and salt, if you wish). Pour the caramel over the crackers. It will not cover them evenly, but don’t worry about that.

Bake the crackers at 350 degrees for 12-15 minutes. The caramel will darken (but don’t let it burn), bubble, and spread out evenly over the crackers.

Remove the pan from the oven and sprinkle with the chocolate chips. Let them sit a minute before spreading them out a little with the back of a spoon. Sprinkle with coarse salt. (This step might not be necessary if you’re using a salty cracker like saltines or club.)

While the crackers are still a little warm, move them from baking pan (a metal spatula works well for this) to a sheet of parchment paper. (If you let them cool all the way in the pan, they might be impossible to get off.)

Cool completely (a fridge/freezer helps the chocolate to set up faster), break into pieces, and store in an airtight jar. Foist on everyone you meet…because keeping this addiction private has serious ramifications. As in, you will get fat.

This same time, years previous: nectarine red raspberry freezer jam (note the word “freezer” in the title—the jam doesn’t work so well if you try to store it on the shelf with the canning), granola bars

On Monday afternoon we picked up our Fresh Air girl from the bus stop and on Friday morning she went back to NYC. 

 

She was fascinated with mud balls. 

I found her bringing them into the house to get them wet in the sink.

Sadly, I can’t say I’m sad that she left early. Our girl was a handful. In fact, as she came off the bus, the escort looked at me and said, “Oh, she’s your girl.” And then she shook her head, grinned, and muttered under her breath, “Good luck.” 

 

First time in a creek.
In fact, I’m not sure she even knew what a creek WAS before she came to our house.

Our Fresh Air girl’s behavior wasn’t really her fault, of course, and this is what makes me feel so bad about the whole situation. She was just a child, a little eight-year-old girl, bless her heart. A little girl who loved romping with the dog, playing in the mud, helping me in the kitchen, listening to stories, and who had a sweet streak. I spent my days waffling between being irritated and frustrated with her and feeling motherly and kind (though towards the end, I had less of the later and more of the former).

 

I had to mediate EVERY Uno game because the rules in her “country” were different than they are in our “country.” (I think she got the idea that we live in a different country because she was visiting the country. Get it?)

Even so, she didn’t return to NY because of us and our frustrations. We said we’d be willing to work with the (nonexistent) homesickness, so knowing that it wasn’t our fault that she went home early helped to ease the sting of rejection. Well, that fact and our relief.

 

She snapped green beans faster than my own kids.

The last night she was here, we went to the Fresh Air picnic and pool party. It was encouraging to interact with the other families and hear their stories, many of which were good, if not flat-out wonderful. They said things like, “Our child is wonderful. Fits right in!” and “Our child is super polite!” and “Our girl has never given us one minute of trouble!” I found myself staring at one Fresh Air girl in particular, a gorgeous, poised teenager. She was friendly! She joked with adults! She took care of other people’s babies without being asked! She helped her host mom clean up the picnic area! Stressed and frustrated with how hard our experience was turning out to be, I couldn’t help but feel jealous. I longed to connect with a host child, to develop the sort of lasting bond that so many other host families had.

She wanted the (spot)light on.

I can’t quite bring myself to end this post with some pat line about how we’ll do it again next year, because for a couple days there it was pretty bleak. But now we’ve come out on the other side more experienced, wiser, and none the worse for wear, and I’m feeling more positive. Like yes? We probably will do it again?