I woke up at 4:00 this morning and thought to myself: Hey, Self! If you get out of bed right now, you could go downstairs and make coffee and have two uninterrupted hours of writing time! And then I rolled over and back to sleep I went. I woke up at 6:00, mad at myself for squandering two good writing hours.

But then this afternoon, after eight hours of managing the zoo I call my home, I phoned Mr. Handsome at work and said to him, “Hey, Honey! How about we do a changing of the guard this evening?”

And he said, in his super-enthusiastic, gravelly-due-to-a-cold voice, “You mean, you wanna go write?”

And I said, “YES!” And then in a smaller, meeker, slightly whiny voice, “Ple-e-ease?”

And he said, stoically, gallantly, and magnanimously, “Sure.”

And I said, “Aw, honey, you are so sah-weet! I loves you!” ‘Cause that’s what you’re supposed to say when you get your way (and ’cause I do).

So here I am, in my room, two hours to type, a glass of white wine on the bed stand. Though I guess you would call it a “nightstand,” not a “bed stand.” Though now that I’ve written it, neither of them makes any sense. Except that it isn’t a stand upon which you place things like beds, but it is a stand upon which you place things at night. So I’ll go with nightstand from now on. It’s important to clear things like this up.

(And no, we are not going to have a conversation on bad prepositional usage. Absolutely not. Because I like to whip prepositions around like they ain’t nobody’s business, least of all yours. Discussion closed.)

Ah, me. The frivolity that comes about as a result of having two hours of free time. Do you have any idea what would happen if all the world’s mothers (and more specifically, the mothers of young children) were given, simultaneously, two hours of free time? It would rock our world. Literally. I firmly believe that there would be such a bubbling of insane happiness that our little blue and green earth would be jolted right out of its orbit.

I don’t know about you (and here I’m addressing any mothers of young children who may be reading this post), but I get so blasted tired of thinking about Inane Parenting Problems as though they were Life-and-Death Issues. The situations are really no big deal (thus the reason I called them “inane” [obviously]), but if they aren’t dealt with swiftly and appropriately you just might go absolutely insane. Thus the reason they are life-and-death issues.

Example #1: Yo-Yo’s room
It is a disaster. Even though he has a mandatory fifteen minutes of clean-up time (almost) every morning, it always looks like it was hit by a cyclone: shoes, clothes, papers, cards, books, Legos, rocks, even bubbly tar that he scraped off a road and molded into lumps that have since lost their lumpy shape and have oozed and stuck to various pieces of furniture. We keep everlastingly at it, but there is no headway. Any ideas?

Example #2: Yelling
The kids yell all the time—when they’re mad, when they’re happy, when they’re sad, when they’re bored, when they’re going to bed, when they’re waking up, when they’re eating, when they’re not eating—basically, like I said, all the time. Any ideas? (I’ve actually implemented a little system to help deal with this particular problem, but since it’s not exactly kosher, I’m keeping mum till I hear your suggestions.)

And now, on to other things. Like cookies.

I’ve made this recipe three times now, and it’s been weighing heavy on my mind these days. I keep thinking wistful thoughts about cookies, and then when I indulge in the fantasy for a little longer, I see visions of chocolate chip cookies, and then butterscotch, molasses, and oatmeal raisin cookies…and then the butterscotch cookies once again. They’re that way, insistent.

Butterscotch Cookies
Not hardly even adapted at all from Molly’s recipe, ‘cause hers is so dog-gone perfect.

Word of advice: Make a double batch.

14 tablespoons butter
1 1/4 cups dark brown sugar
1 egg
1 tablespoon vanilla
1 3/4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 tablespoons nonfat dry milk
1 cup chopped pecans

Beat the butter and sugar. Add the egg and vanilla and beat some more. Add the dry ingredients and beat till mixed. Stir in the pecans.

Bake the cookies on a greased cookie sheet for about eight to ten minutes at 375 degrees. Take care not to over-bake them; the centers should still be ever-so-slightly wet and jiggly. Allow the cookies to rest on the baking sheets for another couple minutes before gently transferring them to a cooling rack.

About One Year Ago: Peposo. And today I cooked a roast in the crock-pot. Must be something about the end of September that makes me crave red meat.

1. It’s cold. It was so hot the last couple days and then today it’s been raining and it downright chilly. Right now I’m huddled under a blanket on the sofa, drinking coffee and eating cake. The oven is on, serving a dual purpose—to bake the granola and heat the house.

2. I’ve had so many different thoughts lately that I’ve decided to use Mavis’s method and make lists. It helps in my everyday life (so far today I’ve made lists of a) the money my friend owes me, b) a grocery list, c) questions to ask my brother about the computer, and d) things I need/want to accomplish when I sit down at the computer so I don’t just sit there stupidly and stare at the screen for excessive amounts of time), so why not on the blog? And besides, it eliminates the need for transition. I’m not good with transition.

3. My upper back is feeling much, much better, but then yesterday I got a nasty knot in my lower back, but last night Mr. Handsome massaged it good and hard and I woke up just fine this morning. I think there is still some tension there, though, and it makes me feel a little extra tired…

4. All this back pain is to be expected, I guess, seeing as I’m not getting any younger. I’m 34 today. Thanks, Mom, for birthing me, and to you and Dad for raising me! (I’m not going to give you any thanks for conceiving me ‘cause I’m assuming that wasn’t any sacrifice on your parts—Oh, goodness, I said “parts!” Can you believe it? Just shut me up already!) You did a swell job (birthing and raising me—just wanted to be clear here), if I do say so myself.

[5. About that cake that I had with my coffee? My mother made it for me.

Earlier this week (when she came to our house to watch the younger kids while Mr. Handsome and I took Yo-Yo to one of his doctor’s appointments), she entertained the four little ones (the extra child was my one-year-old niece that she was babysitting) by baking and decorating a three-layer lane cake for my birthday. (And she thinks I have a lot of energy—ha!)

We’ve been eating it all week long (there’s only a small wedge left), and it’s very good (not that I’m surprised by that, or anything).]

6. I called Mr. Handsome at work yesterday to find out if I needed to cook supper tonight. I told him that it was fine if I needed to (that might have been a little lie)—I just wanted to know. Because if he was going to do something else and I didn’t need to plan anything, then I didn’t want to waste any time planning something. He said that he would bring something home. So I’m not planning anything. Which is a nice treat.

7. Last night we all drove into town to get free (with a donation) ice cream from Cold Stone Creamery. Then we walked around Petco and looked at the ferrets and rats and guinea pigs. Then, on our way (which was the wrong way, of which I was telling Mr. Handsome in no uncertain terms) out of the parking lot, Mr. Handsome pulled into a parking space and announced he needed to read a map, and then he got out and opened the trunk and came back with my computer. “Go write,” he commanded. “The kids and I have some errands to run.” So I walked across the parking lot to Panera, laughing out loud all the way. I sensed people were looking at me, this crazy laughing lady, but I didn’t care. Mr. Handsome so rarely plans ahead and even more rarely succeeds in surprising me, that when it does actually happen that he plans a surprise (granted, he only planned it as he was cleaning up the supper dishes an hour before), I get quite a kick out of it. And then I do embarrassing things like laugh out loud for extended lengths of time.

8. I played around with Picasa for the duration of my imposed free time. I explored the “collage” feature. Here is a sample of my work:

And here is another sample:

It’s kind of addicting, this collage feature, so you probably can expect to see some more of my creations in the future.

9. I love it that my kids are now old enough to get into The Birthday Spirit. Now that I’m a grown-up (most days), I still get excited about birthdays, but I play it kind of cool, since I am a grown-up, after all. I still feel little bubbles of excitement on my birthday, but I keep them tamped down, preventing them from welling up and erupting out of me, spewing everyone with my raw, jittery, giddy emotion. Us adults are good about not exposing our vulnerabilities (and yes, excitement is a revealing emotion), but children, heaven help us, haven’t learned to regulate themselves all that well, especially not when it comes to birthdays—then it’s a free-for-all in the excitement department. My children love birthdays, any birthday. They wake up early, do lots of whispering, accidentally blurt out information and then grin hugely. They even produce presents early because they just can’t wait one more stinkin’ minute! They are my excitement personified. I love it.

10. It’s a dreary day, like I said. Do you need a laugh? Then go here. I’ve watched it twice and both times I smiled hard and then laughed out loud—I just couldn’t help myself. It makes me feel good (and it almost makes me want to have another baby). I just may have to book mark the link so I can watch it whenever I feel blue.

11. The other day we had hotdogs for supper. We had started the meal, digging into the beans and hotdogs like there was no tomorrow, when all of a sudden Mr. Handsome leaped up from the table and ran out the door. He was back inside in 20 seconds—with his blow torch (the same blow torch he used to sterilize a needle and, incidentally, traumatize our daughter). I stared at him quizzically—what now? Without saying a word, he took his hot dog bun in one hand and the torch in the other and calmly began to toast it.

But of course! He likes toasted hotdog buns and what’s the fastest way to toast a hotdog bun? With a blow torch, of course!

Silly me. I am so behind the times.

12. Now I’m wondering if I could use that blow torch to make creme brulee…

13. I’ve now stretched the kids’ rest time an extra half hour. They are still quiet. Think I can keep going?

14. Sweetsie doesn’t let me put her hair up like I want to. She has the bestest put-up hair in the world, gently curling, wispy, and thin. Just gather it together and twist and clip, and it looks great, the loose, curling tendrils gently framing her face. So the other day I bribed her. I told her that if she let me play with her hair then I would let her scroll up and down on my blog, looking at the pictures. She agreed. I loosely pinned her hair up and then snapped a bunch of pictures.

And then, ‘cause a deal is a deal, she scrolled away to her heart’s content.

15. I haven’t been cooking much these days. Ever since our trip to New York I’ve been languishing in the culinary department. I left my kitchen, fell out of my habits, and can’t seem to climb back into them. I miss cooking, too. I’m not sure what ails me. I do know that I’m growing sick of grilled cheese and granola and applesauce.

16. We need to make more applesauce. Our 100 quarts are definitely not going to cut it. I think we’ve already gone through at least 20 quarts and it’s not even the end of September yet. But I don’t waaaant (insert whiney voice) to make more applesauce! I think I just might have to suck it up and get on with it.

17. Oh goodness. The Baby Nickel just woke up. I guess nap-time is over. And here I was going to try for a 34-item list… Maybe he’ll just curl up beside me and I can type a little longer…

18. The other night I woke from a deep sleep to hear The Baby Nickel crying and fussing. Neither Mr. Handsome or I had it in ourselves to rouse and go help him. I listened as Nickel stumbled down the hall, his cries growing more and more frantic. Then he was in the bathroom, wailing up a storm. I finally got myself up and walked into the bathroom…and right into a puddle of pee. Nickel was sitting on the toilet, fully clothed, a giant pool of urine spreading across the bathroom floor, soaking into the pile of clean clothing I had deposited in the corner before climbing into bed. Moral of the story: don’t leave clean clothes on the bathroom floor.

19. I think I need to quit now. So long!

About One Year Ago: MY birth story.