Happy 10th Anniversary to Us

10 years.
We started careers.
We started a family.
We lost a father, a grandfather and a grandmother.
We've grown up together.
And I trust we'll grow old together, too.

The birds and the bees...over breakfast?

I've heard that when it comes to sex questions, you should be open and honest while not giving your kids more information than they can handle. I get that, but Z caught me a little off-guard this morning when, over a bowl of Cracklin' Oat Bran (which is, incidentally, the BEST cereal on earth and seemingly ONLY available at Super Target), she asked this:

"How does a baby get inside a mommy's tummy?"

"Um, how do you think, Z?"

"I don't know. TELL ME."

"Well, ah, the Daddy puts a seed in there."

"HOW? Does she swallow it?"

Shit. What's the age-appropriate answer for this one? I really, really don't want to go into the tab A fits into slot B discussion. At least not until I've finished my coffee, checked a few books out of the library, and perhaps waited 2 or 3 more years.

"Well, no. She doesn't exactly swallow the seed. You see, when mommies and daddies love each other very much, they sleep in the same bed. And the daddy gives the mommy the seed in the bed."

"HOW?"

"Well, they do a lot of hugging and kissing."

That seemed to satisfy her. For now.

Potty training is on the horizon

Way, way off in the distance. Like seeing the gray silhouette of the Sears Tower from LaGrange. But it's there. This morning I popped A out of her crib and headed to the changing pad for a morning diaper change. She let me take her old--still fairly dry--diaper off, but refused a new one.

"No want diaper! Poo-poo's coming," she said, touching herself on the behind.

"Great, how about you sit on the potty," I replied, flipping open the lid to the potty chair and tossing out the toys stowed inside.

"Noooooo!" she shrieked, and booked her naked butt out of the room. She then tried to close me in her bedroom with a "No, Mommy stay in. Poop's coming!" Big, devilish smile.

I cracked open the door and watched her piss on her feet. I picked her up, midstream, and popped her on the potty. Z was so proud of her sister, "Mommy, Daddy! A peed on the floor and in the potty!" I didn't have the heart to tell her maybe one drop made it in.

Potty training. Just one more reason I'm glad we keep microfiber car-washing rags all over the house. Those puppies can suck up a pee-pee puddle in seconds flat.

You know you're a D-list Mom Blogger if...

We're running on Internet time. This D-List thing has evolved from a comment I made on Self-Made Mom early last week to a post I wrote last Thursday to a full-fledged blog Sara designed over the weekend.

Click on over to see if you qualify for our underachievers club.

Go ahead, rain on my parade

Can you remember a soggier 4th of July weekend?

It drizzled as my daughter and I marched with her preschool in the Oak Park 4th of July parade.

A steady rain fell on a neighborhood block party. Swimsuit-clad kids trembled, blue-lipped and goose-fleshed, as they waited in line for their turn down an inflatable water slide. Adults took shelter on front porches, sipping margaritas and shoveling guacamole onto soggy tortilla chips.

By the time we headed--windshield wipers squeaking--to a barbecue at our friends' house, it was pouring. Buckets and buckets of rain. They'd erected tents in their backyard, but for a couple of hours the rain came down so fast and furious only the children ventured outside.

But finally, around 6pm, the rain stopped. We pigged out on ribs smoked all day, hot dogs, coleslaw, potato salad and rhubarb crisp before saying our goodbyes.

After such a long, wet day, I decided that fireworks might best be enjoyed in high definition, from the comfort of our living room. But as the sky darkened, I couldn't resist. I grabbed my 4 year old daughter and a stroller and pushed her the mile and half to our local high school football field. We arrived just minutes before the first blast lit up the now nearly cloudless sky.

But the rain wasn't quite finished with us. Sunday the 5th was glorious. We spent time in the city, swam at our local pool and picked up Chipotle for a picnic at Scoville Park.

But the country-rock cover band had only played two songs before the sky opened up again. So we all fled to the Brown Cow Ice Cream Parlor, soaked to the bone.

Z's latest family portrait

From left to right: Z, little sister A, Mommy and Daddy. Z and I are wearing crowns.
In the sky, a dozen yellow birds, the sun and a flying dog. He's wearing a cape.

Fourth of July weekend

A parade. A block party. A barbecue. Fireworks. Brunch at the Signature Room on the 95th. Two too-cold visits to the pool. And lots and lots of rain.

Noteable quotables from Z

Shouted to me from the bathroom, while I was loading the dishwasher.

"Mommy, how does Stevie Wonder drive a car?"
"Hey, this poop looks just like a pacifier. Come look!"

I'm a D-lister and that's okay

If Heather Armstrong (aka Dooce) is Julia Roberts and Mom 101, White Trash Mom, and Motherhood Uncensored are the Kate Winslet, Gwyneth Paltrow and Angelina Jolies of the mommyblogging world, what am I?

Janeane Garafalo?

I'm no Judy-come-lately to the world of blogging. I've been at this for three years. But like my friend Sara, I haven't done much to grow my blog. I don't network. I don't Digg or kirtsy. I rarely tweet. I'm an f-ing ad creative and my blog doesn't even have a USP.

But BlogHer 2009 and all its attendant anxiety are fast approaching. Should I worry that my blog is largely unchanged since I last went in 2007? That only a handful of bloggers will recognize me? That I still have leftover business cards?

Hell no! I'm embracing my D-list status. I don't get invited on corporate junkets and that's okay. I'm pretty sure my readers would rather hear about my kids than listen to me fawn over a hot dog factory or sing the praises of Jell-O pudding snacks.

Are you a D-lister too? Look for me and Sara at BlogHer this year and we'll get you a button (real and/or virtual). We might even add you to our blogroll at the soon-to-be-launched D-ListBlogger.com.

We fed her soy nuggets and G-d approved

Watching Alice in Wonderland

One shitty moment in an otherwise lovely day

Today was practically perfect in every way. My kids benefited from some very awesome yard sales (A got a mini Radio Flyer trike, Z got a Disney Princess tee, and they both got new books). They got to listen to stories and dance with Miss Lori's Campus (minus Miss Lori!) at a WTTW Kids event in the Whole Foods parking lot. We hit the library for a restock of books and A took a 2 hour nap while I whipped up and delivered a mac and cheese casserole for a family that just had a new baby.

We hit the pool around 2:30 and scored a lounge chair (that never happens) right next to three of our neighbors (none of whom we'd even planned on meeting). Z had tons of friends to play with, but A didn't seem like her usual water baby self. She kept climbing out of the pool and asking for snacks, and after about an hour or so, she climbed into her stroller, asked me to set it recline, and covered herself up with a towel. Each time I went to check on her, she told me to "Go!" and she'd lay down with her paci, closing her eyes a bit.

I thought maybe all the sun and activity had worn her out, but she was hatching something much more sinister than a nap in her cozy, damp little stroller cave.

Something I discovered when she asked to go back into the pool, 10 minutes before closing. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I came face to face with my first ever poopy swim diaper. A blowout, I might add, that I first smelled and then saw, smeared across the right side of my waist.

Thank G-d I had so many friends nearby. I shouted for them to keep an eye on Z and I raced with A and the diaper bag into the locker room, where, in one fell swoop, I stripped off her swimsuit (thank goodness I'd just bought her a two-piece), removed her diaper and showered us both off. What I'd forgotten in my race to grab the diaper bag was a towel, and I couldn't very well put a diaper on a dripping wet baby, so I walked back out to the pool in my dripping (de-pooped, but not yet sterilized) swimsuit with a slick naked baby on my hip and a backpack slung over my shoulder. I had 3 minutes to get A dressed and Z out of the pool before it closed. Good times.

Things did improve after the shitty ending to outing. We had our friends from across the fence over for BBQ takeout and by dessert time we'd all joined our next-door neighbors in the backyard. The kids (and us grown-ups, for that matter) were having so much fun that I let both of the girls stay up an hour past their bedtimes.

Z sporting her new Belle tee, a jean skirt, rain boots and multiple weapons.

Making time for me

I felt guilty last night. I'd come home on time and met the family at Flat Top Grill for a dinner that was the opposite of leisurely thanks to an overtired A. I gobbled my free meal between time-outs at the coat rack that she'd earned by throwing forks, grabbing for plates and hitting me.

But that's where my good mommy behavior ended. We headed home and I put my cranky toddler to bed. Then, at Z's insistence I got out the water colors and sat down to paint. But my heart wasn't in it. I was impatient with her whiny demands and ready to head to a neighbor's house for a girls' night and plenty of wine (the good kind). I was glad I wasn't putting her to bed.

But I still felt guilty. She was crying "Mommy put me to bed!" and Josh had been with her since noon. He'd fed and put her and A to bed the previous night since I was stuck at focus groups until 8pm and out with my clients until past midnight. Was it fair for me to leave again? Probably not. But I desperately wanted to connect with friends, apply some alcohol to what's been a rough couple of weeks at work, and sit outside in the summer air--even it it meant getting eaten alive.

So I've come to terms with the fact that I'm not going to win the Martyr of Motherhood award. I'm too selfish. It might seem wrong to spend my time away from work away from my family, but I need a little me time too.

My weekends are never boring

This weekend, inspired by This Week for Dinner, I picked up an extra quart of fresh Michigan strawberries from the farmer's market and made strawberry freezer jam. It is so delicious. And beautiful too, but I forgot to take a picture of it to post. Bummer.

I also made bran muffins to bring along to a playdate A had with her buddy Stella, who will be a big sister by the end of this week. Unfortunately, her mom just found out baby girl #2 has hydrocephalus, which means she and her husband will be juggling a toddler at home in the western burbs, a C-section recovery at Northwestern and a new baby in the NICU at Children's Memorial Hospital in Lincoln Park (which doesn't allow sibling visits). It's times like these that I wish I was home during the week so that I can offer more than just moral support and the occasional tray of mac and cheese.

In happier news, I got to take the girls to the pool twice this weekend. Halfway through our Sunday visit, A figured out how to stay upright on her own in Z's old swim vest, and she bicycled her chunky little legs like mad, propelling herself around deep end of the pool without holding on to me! She also practiced climbing in and out of the pool, jumping in and putting her face in the water and spitting out the chlorinated water. What a water baby! Z is also doing well in the water, but she's going to need more than 8 swimming lessons before she's ready to give up her water wings. She panics easily and--given the fact that she has zero body fat--she sinks like a stone.

For Father's Day I gave Josh a copy of Watching Movies and a rash guard shirt--basically a top he can wear at the pool. I also took him out to eat at Takashi, which was very good...kind of like Mado with a Japanese twist. The guy deserved it, he's a spectacular dad.

My early reader

And now, for an animated rendition of There is a Bird on Your Head.

Z reads a book from almaklein on Vimeo.

My yummy new nephew

One of my birthday presents arrived 4 days early! Eleanor gave birth to a great big Australian-American on June 13th. Samuel John arrived a few days late and weighed in at a mighty 8lbs 13oz. But the birth wasn't just exciting for its speed and intensity. As the OB offered my brother-in-law the scissors to cut his son's umbilical cord, Simon passed out and was rushed off for an MRI!

Mom, baby and Dad are all home and well and 2-year-old Eliza is apparently enchanted with her new brother--a real, live baby doll. I got to talk to Eleanor a couple of days ago and she gushed, once again, about the wonderful Australian medical system. Even though she had a great experience with public health care last time (visiting baby nurses, sleep training sleepaway camp and all that), this time she had private insurance and got to stay at a cushy hospital-hotel with a beach view, a lactation consultant on call and 24 hour room service. I don't know anyone here in the States who was offered a 4 day stay after a normal vaginal delivery, but with the food and comfort levels in our hospitals, I don't know anyone who'd want to, either.

33 years ago...

Thirty-three years ago, in Arlington, Virginia, my mom was 17 days past her due date. She marched into her OB's office and demanded my prompt removal. I was delivered--sometime in the afternoon--via C-section. My mother still bears the zipper-like scar down her belly.

I'm sure she bears other scars too, less visible. After all, it takes becoming a mother to know how difficult it can be to raise children. To instill good behaviors and values. To quell tantrums without losing your cool. To come up with new craft ideas, disciplinary tricks and dinner recipes. While holding down a job or two. And packing up and unpacking a house every three years. To do it every day, all day, until I turned 18 and you said, "Good-bye now. And never come back!"

Thanks, Mom.

Now tell me what it'll take to get you to move to Chicago!

This photo was taken in Bonn, Germany. I'm either 2 1/2 or 3 and my sister is 1. My mom is 31. Nothing makes raising two small, closely spaced kids easier than moving overseas, right?


Updating at 4:20 to include this picture my mom just scanned for me from my 2nd birthday party.

Trusted advice

Yes, my friends--both IRL and online--are wonderful sources of advice. But sometimes a girl needs to do a little independent research. And I've found two wonderfully independent resources.

I initially thought Common Sense Media just a website that told you which movies had naughty words, but it is so, so much more. It's a guide to all kinds of media and a helpful tool for parents who know what their kids are and are not ready to consume (or want guidance by age). I've used it to help select library books on specific topics as well as early reading titles Z can manage without too much frustration. My favorite feature is a parents review section that tells me if the book is a good one--something I'm going to enjoy sharing with my daughter as opposed to some of the horrible stuff out there (My Little Pony, I'm looking at you). There's really a wealth of information, and it gets better as you register and plug in your kids' ages.

Another great resource--albeit one I haven't spent as much time with--is GoodGuide, a consumer guide to all kinds of goods, from sunscreen to packaged foods to kids' toys. Learn about the products' ingredients (and whether or not they are safe) as well as the corporation's environmental and social records. If you're trying to make conscious choices as a shopper, this site will help you see past any greenwashing.

Family time

We were out of the house at 8:15 this morning so we could have breakfast at Sweet Maple Cafe (mmmm...their egg and cheeser biscuit is divine) before driving to the House of Blues for Ziggy Marley's kids concert, Family Time. Ziggy took the stage after an interactive drum circle and played a 45 minute acoustic set of classic sing-a-long reggae songs like "Three Little Birds (Don't Worry about a Thing)," as well as a few originals, like "A is for Africa, B is for Brother" and "Family Time."

A was wiggly and a little fixated on snacking, but both girls enjoyed the concert tremendously. I think it was just the right length and volume for the young audience.

We got home before lunch/naptime and filled the baby pool we'd scored from a Freecycler. Z put on her swimsuit and A was wearing her birthday suit and a slathering of sunblock. Which made it particularly easy for her to "drop a kid off at the pool," if you know what I mean.

This evening we're going to take the girls to live musical performance, the first of the free summer concert series in Scoville Park. So tonight we'll be picnicking with friends to the sounds of an 80's cover band. Will we hear Taco's "Puttin' the Ritz?"

Updated on 6/15 to include this picture of Z and A dancing.

This is why I love my street

A was taking her afternoon nap and Z was playing on the sidewalk, singing to herself and waving at passersby when B, her friend from a few doors down ran over.

The two of them launched into an elaborate game loosely based on the characters of The Wizard of Oz that involved lots of running up and down the block, delivering "brains, hearts and courage" to imaginary Scarecrows, Tinmen and Lions.

It wasn't long before our next door neighbors arrived home and L joined the fun.

Yes, we still arrange playdates and call/text to meet friends at the park and the pool, but as often as not kids in this neighborhood make their own fun with the kids next door. It's been going on since time immortal, but from what I've heard it doesn't happen everywhere anymore. I'm glad it happens here.

Restoring my faith in humanity

Remember back in March, when my neighbor's junk truck took a chunk out of my house? I decided to trust the truck driver, whom I'd never met in person, when he said he was very sorry and he'd take care of fixing the damage.

A loyal reader who is now a lawyer (hi David!) emailed me lots of helpful advice about estimates and estates and probate and claims and--after a moment of heartburn--I decided I'd throw caution to the wind and put my faith in this guy on the phone.

Well, it took a while, but the house has been repaired. Thanks to a few years of grime and sunshine, the paint isn't an exact match any more, but the difference is subtle and it's certainly not unusual to see patch jobs on old stucco houses in Oak Park.

Birthday freebies

Yes, I'm turning 33 and I still get jazzed about my birthday. I'm a grown-up, so I won't throw myself a party or expect a gift from anyone but my immediate family, but freebie whore that I am, I've signed up with enough companies to ensure I'll be rolling in birthday presents.

My big day is exactly one week away, and I've already gotten an email entitling me to a free stir-fry from Flat Top Grill. For dessert I can head west on Lake Street and indulge in a free Like It Creation from Cold Stone Creamery. I'll probably pass on the "free dessert with any meal purchase" coupon I got from Boston Market.

I got a couple of birthday shopping discounts too: Loehmann's is offering me 15% off any purchase and Old Navy wants me to save $10 on a $15 purchase.

If I receive anything else--aside, that is, from the annual offer-free birthday card from Southwest Airlines, I'll add to this post.

And so the terrible twos begin

A's second birthday is a little more than a month away, but she's acting more like a two year old every day. She's talking up a storm, dedicating much of her language acquisition to mastering demands and negativity like "no want that," "no like that," "no go bye-bye," "yucky," "messy," "poopy," "pee-pee," "cookie!" "dance!" "no, other one" "cat down!" "uppy!" "help you" (help me), "mocos" (snot), "[Z] come," and "dat's mines!"

When she doesn't get what she wants immediately, she screeches her demand louder and louder. When we calmly inform her that she's not getting a cookie while she eats her noodles or another fruit bar to smear across her face while in the stroller, she scowls fiercely--all big eyes and tucked chin--and lets a small stream of drool fall off her pouty lower lip. If she's pissed enough, she'll lock eyes, narrow them ever so slightly and then throw or drop something in an act of sheer defiance.

The good news is that her tantrums, while overly dramatic, resolve themselves quickly if ignored and moments later she's giggling gleefully as she strews toys across the floor, launches herself from the ottoman onto the couch or stands up on a dining room chair and shakes her tushie. Yeah, she's kind of a little terror.

If you're going to F-up, F-up with USAA

No, I didn't get into a car accident. But I did do something colossally stupid. Last month I paid my USAA Mastercard bill. Only, instead of directing the online bill payment to USAA Credit Card Services, I directed it to USAA.

I didn't realize my mistake until I received this month's bill, which was twice as high as I'd expected and included $19 in finance charges! I sat down to call USAA, expecting it to take hours, if not days to get everything sorted.

It took 5 minutes. Cheerful and enormously helpful, the credit card rep connected with the home and car insurance side of the business and they transferred the funds and refunded the finance charges.

I love USAA.

My night at the Roxbury

Where was I at 1:30am Tuesday night? I was in Dallas, at what just may be the world's most horrifyingly cheesy nightclub. It was in a strip mall, along the the second-floor balcony above--I don't know--a nail salon and a mattress discounter, I think. The parking lot was full of valets and idling SUVs, each one a clown car from which stiletto-shod strumpets spilled forth.

We had bottle service, which basically means we paid $300 to mix our own drinks and lounge on a black futon as the most hair-gelled, bleached-blond and spray-tanned residents of Dallas paraded past. I was wearing the same cotton Boden sundress I'd been in all day--and yes, our trip to the bar came after 12 hours of focus groups and a leisurely seafood dinner. It's not a frumpy frock, but the hemline, which reached just past my knees, was at least a foot and a half longer than anything anyone else outside our party was wearing that night. I mean really, when your dress resembles something Grandma wore to the pool, you might want to invest in an extra couple inches of fabric. Or just tramp it up wholesale, like the cocktail waitresses. They were wearing--I kid you not--push up bras, boy shorts and fishnets.

I was relieved and a teeny, tiny bit disappointed that my mom dress, suede pumps and giant laptop bag rendered me invisible in the midst of such bow-chicka-wow-wow. I'm only turning 33 this month, but I felt old. My certifiably hot coworker Holly did only slightly better: as we were beating our way to the exit, a guy asked her for her number. "I'm from out of town," Holly replied. "Well I wasn't going to call you anyway," he shot back. Huh? Is that what passes for flirting in this town?

In the dark, eating M&Ms

If you've ever been in a focus group, sitting around a table discussing diapers or deodorant or a new drink with a few other women, you probably noticed a big wall of mirrors.

This week, I'm behind the mirrors.

If you're not in marketing or married to a marketer, sign yourself up with a research facility. You can share your opinions and get paid enough money for a new pair of shoes (how about these?). It's easy and fun, particularly if you're the opinionated type. If, on the other hand, you are in advertising, you might recognize my Top 5 Truths About Focus Groups.

1. Every group has a hater, a real Negative Nelly.
2. Someone in the room is an aspiring creative, someone who volunteers to re-write or art direct your material.
3. Sitting in the dark, eating M&Ms, Goldfish and pretzels all day does not make you feel good.
4. Eating junk food in the dark while listening to a live-translation of Spanish-language focus groups sucks.
5. You will thank the Lord for wi-fi.

Our first American Girl Doll

"Mommy, before I come downstairs, I need to dress my D-O-L-L."

Z was spelling for the benefit of her little sister, because both girls are completely enamored with the Klein household's very first American Girl Doll, Nicki. I found the doll at a yard sale on Saturday, and paid $23 for her. A carried her home and spent 2 hours changing her and taking her to the potty. Nicki is supposedly a 10 year old ranch girl, but apparently she had a "mas poopies."

Since American Girl Dolls are really for a older girl audience, I told Z she could keep the doll sequestered in her room and out of A's sight. Hence the spelling.

Will the next step be a trip to that commercial shrine to girlhood and pricey playthings, the American Girl Place? I'll leave that to the grandparents.

Preschool Block Party

In celebration of Z's Montessori school's 20th anniversary, this weekend was jam-packed with festivities. Friday night there was a cocktail party in the school gym. Typically parties in the gym involve dozens of hyper kids running around, screaming. This one was parents-only, catered and had an open bar.

Saturday afternoon the school hosted a killer block party. Two bounce houses, a stage with live music and a bubble machine, a visit from the local fire department--it was kid heaven. Oh yeah, and for refreshments we had an espresso cart, an ice cream novelties cart and a popcorn stand. I manned the ice cream stand for an hour and discovered all the kids want is the phallic-yet-patriotic "Mega Missile." They don't give a rat's ass about the ice cream bar or sandwich.

The highlight of the day was watching my friend Nancy's 12 year old son front a very capable rock band. Z and A were rapt, although I cringed to hear Z say "There aren't any girl rock bands...Why?"

And the perfect way to end a perfect day? Freddy's.

I'm so lucky we ended up at WSMS. Not only is Z learning all kids of interesting stuff from her amazingly capable directress (reading, math, geography, practical life, etc.), Josh and I have meet the nicest, most interesting parents--people I'll want to stay friends with long after our kids need us to arrange playdates.

The tyranny of stuff

Two or three weekly trips to the grocery store. A monthly Target run. A birthday party goodie bag. A McDonald's Happy Meal toy. Drawings and craft projects brought home from preschool and daycare. Cool rocks and pine cones collected from a nature walk. A toy borrowed from a playmate. Every day more stuff walks into my small house than walks out, and pretty soon we're going to run out of room!

Compared to most Americans, I don't think we buy a lot of things. We recycle. We we even reuse things--putting nuts, dried fruit and leftovers in washed-out glass jars and making caterpillars out of old egg cartons.

But still the stuff piles up. Relentlessly. New books, DVDs, and clothes come in faster than I can get rid of their predecessors. I'm grateful for all we have, but I find myself wishing we didn't have so much.

After years of listening to me complain about the 4 7-foot bookshelves dominating our dining room, my husband took down 3 of them. I marveled at the blank walls, grateful for once to have nothing to look at but glorious yellow paint. But he couldn't bring himself to donate more than a third of the books. Josh is about as likely to dig a dog-eared copy of Kant out of the basement as he is to win the lottery (he doesn't play), but he wants to have them. He loves his possessions; he gets a sense of security and pride in physically owning the books, music and movies he loves.

I don't. In the age of libraries, Netflix, toy rental services and digitized music, I want to free myself of all that space-hogging stuff. I want space, beautiful open space. Room to breathe. To rest my eyes. Can you tell I have two children under 5?

I know, deep down, that the fewer things we own, the more we enjoy them. Certainly my kids don't play with half their toys. It's my goal this summer to "disappear" everything at the bottom of the toy bin. I will be equally relentless with my wardrobe. If a new item comes in, an old item must go.

I have to stay on top it--this stuff--because it can take over. TV shows, filmsand articles--even self-help tomes--have been dedicated to the tyranny of clutter, showing us what happens when families are overwhelmed by the junk that fills their homes. Heck, the abundance of stuff we don't use has spawned a whole new business model--the self-storage facility. You pay them to store the stuff you don't have room for in your home but can't bear to part with.

Perhaps this recession will have a silver lining. We're learning, as a country to pay cash, to live within our means, to grow our own vegetables and to shop less. We're looking around our homes for items we can sell to help pay the bills. Am I dreaming to think we'll end up with less stuff and more contentment?

Wow, what a weekend!

Just today, I hit Fox Park with the kiddos, met Vanessa and her son for coffee and beignets, watched the River Forest Memorial Day parade, took Z to a playdate (where I scored some hand-me-downs for A) and had Jodi and Peter and their 4 month old daughter over for a visit.

The parade, my favorite, was a hit with all of the families we met there. We sat, as usual, at Ashland and Iowa, near the home of the guy who offers all the kids free rides on his model train. A practiced a lot of new words and phrases, including "flag," "another fire truck," "more people," "choo-choo train," and "candy." I liked the marching bands and old-school planes flying over in formation. The highlight for Z? "The princesses." Really, how can three not-that-pretty beauty queens perched on the back of a convertible beat out gymnast kids doing handsprings, flag team girls and the entire staff of Brown Cow Ice Cream Parlor? They didn't even throw tootsie rolls!

Here's Z riding the train with Vanessa's kids. A was too scared to ride the train, but her daughter--only 2 weeks older--jumped right in.

Sunday night we had a cookout with two sets of neighbors and their relatives. Nine kids and 10 adults put away a ton of grilled burgers, chicken breasts, brats and hot dogs. And we finished with this strawberry-rhubarb crumble from Smitten Kitchen.

It was so good we made it again today.

Lots more photos are up on my flickr page.

Fox Park is open!

Fox Park (aka the playground around the corner) just reopened after nearly one year of remodeling work. It's a beautiful space now, and while it was nearly empty at 8:30 a.m., when I took these pictures, there were probably 50 kids frolicking there yesterday afternoon.

And you know what else just reopened? The Oak Park Farmers Market! We headed straight from the park to the doughnut line and spent an hour visiting with friends and listening to the bluegrass circle.


The doughnut line.

Z with Ruhi and Vilas.

1 window unit and a river of tears

Today it got up to 89 degrees in Oak Park. It was still about 80 degrees at dinner, which meant it was time to lug Z's A/C out of the garage and into her window. After we'd secured it to her rickety old window (an elegant process involving a brick, two old towels and a couple of strips of duct tape) and Z was bathed, brushed and read to, I headed downstairs.

A couple minutes later, Josh heard a beep. "That sounds like Z's air conditioner. Is she playing with it?"

"I told her not to," I replied.

Fast-forward about 15 minutes and Josh calls me out of the kitchen, where I was starting to make bran muffins. "Is that crying? Is that Z crying?"

Indeed, I hear her sobbing audibly. I put down the eggs and milk to race upstairs. Z's buried herself under her comforter. She's slick with sweat, hiccuping and sobbing so uncontrollably it's impossible to figure out what she's saying. Eventually I calm her down enough to figure out the following: She turned her air conditioner off because she wanted it to be on high. After turning it off, she couldn't figure out how to get it on again, but she didn't want to call me up because I'd take away a penny.

It was such a sad, pitiful story that Z ended up getting extra cuddles and the made-up story I'd apparently forgotten to tell her. And she kept her penny.

22 months, a comparison

Z and A, captured at 22 months of age. While they are wearing the same white sandals (you can't tell from the pics), A outgrew the white dress Z has on at 11 months of age!

You can also travel back in time via my blog. Z was 22 months in September of 2006.

Autism's snake-oil salesmen make me mad

I do not have a child with autism, but I know a number of families (mostly virtually) who have children "on the spectrum."

While some of these parents embrace their children's differences, raising a child who regularly acts out and doesn't connect with you emotionally can be heartbreaking, and a lot of people are desperate for a cure--something that will bring their kid back and allow them to move into the mainstream.

Unfortunately, where there is desperation, there are shamans and snake-oil salesmen ready to take advantage and profit from someone else's misery.

This weekend, the Autism One conference comes to Chicago. The keynote address will be delivered by Jenny McCarthy, a celebrity-turned-author who has made it her mission to cast doubt upon vaccine safety and promote autism "cures" backed largely by her own anecdotal evidence. Also on the schedule are Dr. Mayer Eisenstein and Dr. Mark Geier, promoting their "Lupron protocol," an unproven regimen of dosing autistic kids with a castration drug. The therapy is based on a theory, unsupported by mainstream medicine, that autism is caused by a harmful link between mercury and testosterone. Children with autism have too much of the hormone, according to the theory, and a drug called Lupron can fix that.

Now I understand that stressed-out parents are ready to hear--and try--anything. But the Lupron protocol is baseless; "more than two dozen prominent endocrinologists dismissed the treatment earlier this year in a paper published online by the journal Pediatrics." But what's the harm? Well, experts in childhood hormones warn that Lupron can disrupt normal development, interfering with natural puberty and potentially putting children's heart and bones at risk. The treatment also means subjecting children to daily injections, including painful shots deep into muscle every other week.

What will it take for the autism community to partner with scientists and work to find a cause (a genetic link has already been discovered) and a real cure--the kind backed by rigorous, double-blind studies? All the chatter over vaccines, diet, chelation and other quack theories and cures is drowning out the real information, guidance and support these families surely need.

No more double stroller here

I sold our Phil and Teds Sport Buggy a few months ago, recouping $275 of the $400 I spent on the stroller. After two years, neither kid wanted to ride on the bottom. And really, who could blame them?

I thought about buying a cheap umbrella double stroller, but so far I haven't needed to as Z's become quite the little bicyclist. Since warm weather arrived, she's walked or biked the 1 mile to and from preschool each morning.

I'm a stickler for helmet use and Z's wearing a new one this year, a Bell TrueFit helmet. Bell sent it to me along with an adult TrueFit helmet, and I can't tell you how happy we are with our new headgear. It really is easy to adjust to fit just right and it's comfortable. More important to Z, it sports a cute fairy design.

As you can see here, the band in the back--in addition to sporting large reflectors--is a nice, stretchy elastic. Best of all, Bell helmets are widely available and very affordable--usually no more than $20 each.

Gap pajamas are the cat's pajamas

Yeah, I could write about this weekend's big three preschool-related Ps: playdate, picnic and party, but I'm going to tell you about at different P altogether: my favorite kid pajamas.

This is a totally unsolicited, uncompensated--no, I really did not get any free PJs--post about the Gap's amazing pajamas for babies and toddlers. Not only are the PJs I got for Z 3 years ago going strong for A, the ones I bought used, at a yard sale, for Z are still in wonderful shape. Yes, these soft-as-butter third-hand jammies that A's wearing most nights looks practically as good as new! The colors are good, the patterns are timeless, the fabrics don't pill and the elastic waistbands are in great shape.

Score one for the Gap!

Interview with the 4 year old Z

Inspired by Danielle's interview with her 5 year old, I asked Z some questions this evening.

How old are you?
Z: 4

Where were you born?
Z: Chicago

What's your favorite thing to do?
Z: Go to school and play with Leo [the boy next door].

What's your least favorite thing to do?
Z: Play with my sister.

What does Mommy do for work?
Z: Write a blog [um, not quite].

What does Daddy do for work?
Z: Works on the computer.

What do you want to be when you grow up?
Z: A dance teacher.

What was your favorite trip?
Z: England

Where would you like to travel to next?
Z: Florida

What's your favorite toy?
Z: Dollhouse

What's your favorite food?
Z: Lasagna [she said this but then refused to eat another bite]

What's your least favorite food?
Z: Salad

What will you be doing when you're 10?
Z: Going to Lincoln School.

What about when you're 16?
Z: Going to high school.

And when you're 25?
Z: Work!

Do you remember being a baby?
Z: Yes, I was teeny-tiny and I came out of your stomach.

What makes Mommy happy?
Z: I don't know.

What makes Mommy sad?
Z: When I bother you when you're sleeping.

How old am I?
Z: You are 32.

What is my favorite thing to do?
Z: Work.

What do you want to say to the people who read this interview on my blog?
Z: I want to say I love you.

Confidence

LOL links

Sites like these, ladies and gentlemen, are why the Internet was made. No reading required.

Product Displacement Screen captures of fake products that stand in for the real thing on TV.
Awkward Family Photos Hands on chins, matching clothes, horrible backdrops...
Awkward Boners The name pretty much says it all.
This is Photobomb The #1 reason photographers should always check the background before snapping that picture.

Starved Rock State Park: Maybe next time we'll make it a day trip

Chicago is a world-class city, but unlike much of the country, there isn't much in the way of nature nearby. No mountains. No oceans. No great forests or wild rivers. But we do have Starved Rock State Park in Utica, about 90 miles outside of the city, and it only took me 15 years to finally check it out.

And you know what? It's pretty great. Gorgeous waterfalls, quiet streams, wooded trails and even some wildlife. Most of the trails are less than 5 miles, and many are less than 1 mile, so it's very doable with kids. Just don't bring a stroller as the trails are largely boardwalks connected by occasionally muddy (and slippery) wooden staircases.

Since we arrived in Utica an hour and a half before check-in, we stopped for a late lunch at Ron's Cajun Connection, which Josh had seen written up on LTH forum. We split the special appetizer and entree, and after stuffing ourselves with alligator, dungess crab, gulf shrimp and shrimp etouffee, I was treated to a free Mother's Day slice of pecan pie. I really needed hit the trails after that mostly deep-fried meal (and I still wasn't hungry at dinnertime).

We stayed in a "family cabin" at Starved Rock Lodge, which was built in the park in the 1930s. While I'd paid extra to have a two room cabin (two adjoining hotel-style rooms) so that Josh and I could sleep separately from the girls, we ended up sleeping apart, with separate kids. I kept Z company and Josh slept fitfully, afraid A was going to pinwheel herself off the king-size bed. Again. Our $190 off-peak room rate included a $30 breakfast credit in the lodge dining room, and it more than covered our breakfast, which was tasty--but no better than your typical diner or pancake house. I think the highlight of staying on the premises was the tiled indoor pool area, which had a full-sized pool, a hot tub and a bathtub-warm kiddie pool. Z and A loved it!

Before leaving Utica, we stopped off at Mattheissen State Park, which had even more impressive waterfalls and about as many hiking trails. We didn't stay there long since our morning hike was about 2 miles and Z threatened not to walk any more.

All in all, it was a fairly successful mini-vacation. The kids were fun, particularly A, who loved petting everyone's dogs, riding in the Ergo and getting down to master the staircases "by self." Z had fun, but tempered her good time with lots of complaining about all the walking, the length of car ride and the variety of snacks packed.

We left around noon on Sunday and returned to Chicago around 3pm on Monday, having stopped at Ikea in Bolingbrook on the way back. Cheap kid food, clean bathrooms and a chance to buy some things that have been on my Ikea list for months (recycling bins, a new duvet cover to Z, etc.)

Target's Bullseye Bazaar

Have you checked out Target's adorable pop-up store on Michigan Avenue? The space, which occupies two stories in the Tribune Tower building, is only open for three short days.

I went there--ostensibly for work--and ended up trying on a bunch of clothes and buying a Tracy Feith for Target swim cover-up/tunic. While in the dressing room, I eavesdropped on the resident fabulous gay guy as he dispensed fashion advice to the masses (and the videographer following him around): "Oh my gawd, I'm just loving white on white this season, don't you?...Pair this with a little cuffed jean, maybe a skinny leg?"

The whole shop has the vibe of hipster farmer's market/arty bazaar, and it does a great job of showcasing Target's many exclusive product lines, not just fashion labels, but brands like Smith & Hawken, @Home, Up and Up, DwellStudio, Liz Lange Maternity, Pixi by Petra, Umberto, Converse One Star and Archer Farms.

Mother's Day is on its way

Only two more days until the world's biggest Hallmark holiday, and I'm not leaving anything to chance. I ordered handmade-but-not-by-me gifts for my mother and mother-in-law from Etsy. They might not arrive on time, but I'm supporting self-employed artisans instead of pesticide-spewing multi-national floral companies.

Because I believe in asking for what I want, I've requested a new bathrobe for Mother's Day. I love jewelry (preferably inexpensive stuff that it won't kill me to lose), but my bathrobe situation is dire. I'm using a hand-me-down Victoria's Secret bathrobe that my mom got back in 1985. Seriously. It was pink once upon a time. Now it's shrimpy pinkish white terry, threadbare and sporting a 5 inch hole at the neck.

I've also made our Mother's Day plans. We're heading to Starved Rock State Park in Utica, about 90 miles from Chicago, where we'll spend the night in a cabin and take in a little nature.

The pictures are from this morning. Instead of biking the mile to school, Z wanted to run.

On the road again

I had a few hours to myself this morning since I overnighted in Cincinnati for an afternoon presentation. I used the time to study Hebrew and write this blog post about how my brief love affair with Twitter has fizzled. Minutes after I filed the post, it was up and picked up for syndication. Look for it this week in a small town newspaper near you.

As any mom who travels for work can tell you, the guilt over being gone is tempered by the comfort of having a hotel bed all to yourself and enjoying a shower and a cup of coffee without having to wipe anyone's butt or dispense Cheerios and juice.

Still, I felt a little extra guilt this morning when I rolled out from under 6 pillows and a goose down duvet to this email from Josh:

I woke up to the pitter patter of little feet. Zoe hops into bed - "scared" - and I lean over to the clock to see how much time I have left. It's only 12:05! So I tell Zoe it's too early for the big bed and tuck her back into her bed, where she goes back to sleep. I go to the bathroom and then back to bed. I'm woken up by the sound of Ada chanting "Mommy, up," which escalates until she's yelling for either of us. I check the clock: 12:25! I go in to her room, pat her, and put her down for bed. She screams for another ten minutes, then at 12:40 or I so I go in there to put her to bed again. She's tossed all the stuff out of her crib, but I re-pacify her and put her to bed. She screams again until 1:15, at which point I relent and take her to the big bed. She squirms and kicks on my chest until 2:00, so I give up, frustrated, and put her back in her crib. She screams until close to 3:00, when I grab her and take her to the big bed again. This time she and I fall asleep, and the only reason I know that is that somewhere around 5:30 she falls out of bed and wakes me up crying. She's fine, but Zoe rushes in to see what happens, hops in the big bed, and we all "rest" until 6:30, when we all get up.

I know I'm irresistable, but this has got to stop

You know what kind of sucks the relaxation right out of a nice hot morning shower?

Hearing your 21-month-old in hysterics, crying your name over and over and over. Hollering so so loudly that you can hear her, up the stairs, through the closed bathroom door and over the rush of water.

Can you say separation anxiety? Because Baby A has it, and she's got it bad. It's gotten so she waves Josh away from me as she nuzzles her head in my neck. She melts down when I leave her at daycare. And while Josh can push her all over town, she won't let me put her in the stroller for more than a second before the "Up, up, uppy!" demands begin.

Yes, I'm glad she loves me. But I can't wait for this phase to pass.

P.S. Would it be 1000% worse if I adhered to AP principles? Just wondering...

I swear it wasn't a shotgun wedding

"Mommy, did people laugh at you at your wedding?"
"No, of course not. Why would they?"
"Because you were pregnant with me."
"I wasn't pregnant with you at my wedding, Z. You came 5 years later!"
"Yes you were. I think I came the next day. The day after your wedding."
"No, you came a long time after. Trust me, I remember."
"Well, were you pregnant at any wedding?"
"Um, I don't really remember. But no, I don't think so."
"Oh."

WTF, huh? It boggles my mind to believe my innocent little four year old was sitting in the backseat on the way to the zoo with visions of her mama's shotgun wedding dancing in her head. And the fact that she knows, on some level, that a bride in the family way might be blushing as her guests tut-tut about her? Sheesh. Either Caillou's got a subtext that I'm missing or the kids at preschool are giving her quite the extracurricular education.

My baby has a buddy!

There's only one thing in the world cuter than an adorable 21 month old, and that is an adorable 21 month old playing with an equally adorable 20 month old. Watching A and her new friend Stella was so sweet I probably should have forgone that ice cream cone.

A little background. As the second-born, A's seriously gotten then shaft when it comes to playmates. Sure, she's got 24-7 access to her big sister, but her "friends" have until now been a handful of Z's friends younger sibs.

But tonight we had over a new-to-Oak Park couple, parents to Stella and a 2nd daughter due in late June. We ate barbecue chicken, salads and corn of the cob in the backyard (yay, spring!) and watched the little girls share toys (yes, I was astonished), share snacks and point out airplanes to each other. They even held hands!

Putting down roots

"Are you from Chicago?"
I get asked that a lot. If it's just small talk, I usually say that no, I hail from Northern Virginia and leave it at that.

But Arlington isn't really my home. Having spent many of my formative years overseas I don't feel like I have a hometown, a place with roots.

I'm a Foreign Service brat. Like kids in military families, we moved about every 3 years, following my father's assignments from my birth in D.C. to toddlerhood in Bonn, West Germany and preschool in Boston. We moved back to D.C. in time for kindergarten and halfway through fourth grade, we headed back to Germany, this time to Berlin. The summer before 7th grade we moved to Islamabad, Pakistan, where we stayed until the day Gulf War I broke out and dependents and nonessential personnel were evacuated. That was halfway through my freshmen year in high school, a rough time to integrate oneself into American youth culture made rougher by the fact that I was living out of a single suitcase full of woefully out of fashion clothes in cramped temporary housing.

I'm lucky to have lived in foreign countries. To have traveled extensively, exploring Canada, Germany, Switzerland, England, Italy, Poland, Austria, Pakistan, India, Sri Lanka, the Maldives, Albania, Uzbekistan and Belgium before I was 21.

I know my unusual upbringing help shaped me in countless wonderful ways. But it isn't a childhood I want for my own children. For all the cultural and geographical richness, it was emotionally wrenching to be constantly making and losing friends. To be so far from extended family. To lack something so fundamental as roots. It might sound crazy, but I wanted to live in our own house with our own furniture. I dreaded moves because I didn't want to have to give away our pets and pack up or purge my treasures.

I'm consciously putting down roots in Oak Park. Z's lived in our house, on our street, her entire life. It's only been 4 1/2 years, but that's longer than I called any place home growing up.

Flickr photo by Kenzijoy109

On top of the world in New York, New York

I didn't think I'd be back in NYC so soon, but thanks to a two day brainstorm for work with the lovely folks from Taylor PR, I've gotten to squeeze a little more juice from the Big Apple. Just between 6 and 1 last night, I saw the view from the top of the Empire State Building (we even went above the public viewing deck to the tippy-tip-top) and hang out with the beautiful people on the rooftop deck of the Gansevoort, where there was a party going on in honor of author and Congressional candidate Kevin Powell. You might remember him from the original Real World back in 1992.

But the real highlight of last night was dinner. We showed up what appeared to be a basic, if bustling corner taqueria, but we were ushered down a secret stairway and through the kitchen to an underground restaurant and bar where we had a fabulous dinner of tacquitoes, tostadas, corn on the cob, chorizo empanadas and ceviche.

Incidentally, I am not that enamored of the Gansevoort. For all its sleek European chic and beautiful, Parliament-smoking European clientele, the keycards don't always work and the soft-boiled eggs on my room service tray are unambiguously hard boiled.

Conquering twice the mess with half the paper towels

With two kids under 5 and an accident-prone mother (that's me), we'd be making messes even if I wasn't serving our 21-month-old milk in an open-topped cup and letting my 4 year old help cook. But I hated the expense and waste of throwing away paper towel after landfill-clogging paper towel.

So right around when Baby A started eating solids, I bought a jumbo pack of yellow microfiber cloths from Costco (they're sold in the automotive department). We've never looked back. Dampen one of those babies and you can clean any surface in the house--wood floors, furniture, countertops and tile! Use 'em dry and they grab (and hold onto) dust, dirt and hair. And while in desperation I've used a microfiber cloth on the kids, I try to keep a few cheap washcloths handy for face and hand-wiping duty. When we've dirtied a rag or washcloth, we just toss it into a bucket on our basement staircase to be laundered.

That's my top secret cleaning tip, brought to you by Parent Bloggers Network and Pledge's How I Clean Now.

Bring your kids to work day

My kids didn't exactly get a clear picture of what Mommy does all day, but I think it's fair to say they'd love to work at my agency. Bring Your Kids to Work Day featured over 30 scheduled activities, many of which starred the big brands we represent. There was a storytime with Miss Lori from PBS Kids, Hallmark card decorating and a photography session with Mundocom. They kids got Happy Meals from McDonald's and a chance to meet Ronald McDonald and some dude from High School Musical. Older kids were treated to Nintendo video game competitions and hip-hop dance classes.

A came for the morning and left in time for nap, but Z stayed with me all day long, drawing pictures and placing phone calls to my coworker Maggie while I tried to get a bit of real work done.

Fair skies and baby love

Two days of temperatures in the 70s have officially ended Oak Park's extended hibernation. Strollers and bikes are everywhere, the playgrounds are packed and barbecue grills have been pulled out of storage for the first hot dogs of the season.

Franny is here with her 11-month-old, and A's been chanting "Di-win," "Di-win" in a very reasonable approximation of his name. These girls are bananas for the baby, following him across the floor, feeding him Cheerios and accosting him with hugs.

Harlequin's heaving bosoms

My one and only encounter with romance novels came in the 9th grade. I was new to my high school--heck, I was new to the U.S. having been living overseas for the past 6 years--and I made a friend.

Her name was A-- and she was a whip-smart Catholic brainiac with an insatiable appetite for mass-produced erotica. I think she read a romance novel a night and she loaned me a couple of dogeared copies.

Wow. I got quite the sexual education from those two books. Silent, hunky cowboys, heaving bosoms, throbbing manhoods.

"You can just skip to the good parts," A-- advised me, and it was easy enough. All the spines were broken so the books fell open to passionate embraces.

Our friendship didn't last long, and I never picked up another pink paperback, but apparently I am one of the only women not buying trashy romance novels. Apparently there are a few things this recession is good for, and one of them is Harlequin romance novels. The company publishes an astonishing 1200 titles a year and has spawned numerous sub-genres. Whether you to imagine pressing up against an aroused firefighter, Christian, vampire or ghost, you can find exactly what you're looking for.

My no good very bad day

My daughter's beloved preschool teacher resigned, the weather is cold and rainy and I can't turn my head to the left. Yeah, it's not exactly been a fun-filled couple of days.

So please excuse me for the neglecting my blog this week. I just need to get to Friday. I've got a free 15 minute massage tomorrow that I hope will work out the kinks in my neck. (If it doesn't, I've got good friends who can spot me a muscle relaxer.) And the weather forecast is calling for 72 degrees and sunny skies on Friday.

Best yet, Franny arrives Friday night with her 11 month old son in tow.

Feeling like a sourpuss too? See if this doesn't make you cry happy tears and this doesn't make milk come out of your nose.

Oh, and my kiddos, they're pretty adorable too.

Voice mail, 12:34am

A message left on my mobile phone last night:

"Hey, this is ... Jerry. I don't really know what to say... I'm in Cocaine Anonymous and I'm just dialing different numbers... Won't ya help a brother out?"

Flying their 3/4 Jewish flag high

I'm half-Jewish, but I was raised mostly Jewish. We went to synagogue instead of church and wore Star of David necklaces instead of crosses, but my mom (the Jewish one) incorporated some of the more secular Christian traditions into our family observances. We had the occasional Christmas tree, we ate lentil soup flavored with pork sausage at Chanukah and our Passover seder plate usually boasted a hard-boiled egg dyed some lovely pastel shade.

But since I always identified pretty strongly with my Jewish half and ended up marrying a full-blooded member of the tribe, I've been raising Z and A as Jews--fairly secular Reform Jews, but Jews nonetheless. So I was pretty psyched to hear Z Skyping with my Mom (Nanny) this morning.

Nanny: Do you know what holiday is today?
Z: I don't have school today.
Me: Yes, but you never have school on Sunday.
Nanny: What holiday is it today?
Z: It's Passover! It's the Passover holiday. We eat matzo on Passover.
Nanny: Well, yes, it's still Passover, but what holiday has bunnies and chocolate eggs?
Z: Easter! My neighbors have Easter.
Nanny: Do they have an Easter egg hunt?
Z: ?!? [She's utterly bewildered as she's never heard of or participated in an Easter egg hunt]
Nanny: Do they look all over to find hidden eggs?
Z: Um, they gave me some jelly beans, but I didn't like them.

From NPR: They Tried to Kill Us, We Survived, Let's Eat

I sent my plate back (oh, horrors!)

Josh and I went to May Street Market for dinner last night and while my appetizer (tuna and salmon tartare) was delicious, my entree was inedibly salty. I hesitated for a moment, trying to decide what to do, but when our server came back to ask how everything was, I admitted it was too salty to eat.

And what followed was textbook customer service. They didn't make me feel like a squeaky wheel, but apologized that the dish was not to my taste. They asked me if I'd like to have it remade or if I'd rather choose something else. I opted for the turkey burger (with no bun) and they brought it out as quickly as possible, checking in with me a couple more times to make sure I was happy. And the bonus? They didn't charge me for either entree! Go May Street Market!

We finished our meal with coffees and an awesome creme brulee that was make with chevre and served with a ball of blackberry sorbet.

Passover granola? Yes!

I asked my tweeps for non-seder Passover recipes, and Twitter delivered. Here's Marilyn's Pesach Granola, modified to suit my tastes. It's almost as good as my regular granola!

5 cups matzah farfel

3/4 cup slivered almonds

1/4 cup walnut pieces
1/2 cup sweetened shredded coconut

1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon

1/3 cup canola oil

1/3 cup honey

2 tbs. water

1-2 tbs brown sugar (or to taste)

1 cup golden raisins

Line cookie sheet with parchment paper. Preheat oven to 300.

Put farfel, nuts, coconut and cinnamon into a large bowl and stir. Blend together the oil, honey and water and pour over the mixture. Stir well, coating the mixture. Sprinkle with sugar.

Spread granola in prepared pan. Bake for 25-30 min or until it seems dry. Remove from oven and break it up to loosen it. When cool, add raisins. Store in plastic bag or container.

Makes about 8 cups.

A very brief seder

Even though I'd invested in special kiddie Haggadahs, tonight's seder was an abridged affair. We managed to quickly bless the candles, wine and matzo, dunk our parsley in salt water and make a maror sandwich, but very little of the Passover story sunk in over Z's whining about the meal options ("I don't like matzo! I don't like apples and nuts! I don't want soup!"). And while Z complained about how awful the food looked, A and our friends' kids, 5 and 2, were ready to eat.

We had matzo ball soup (and ran out of the matzo balls long before the broth was gone), two kinds of charoset (I highly recommend Epicurious' Sephardic charoset--it really looks like mortar and it tastes divine), Mark Bittman's Braised Lamb with Horseradish and Parsley and steamed broccoli (I think A ended up eating 8 or 9 "trees"). We ended the meal with a chaotic hunt for the Afikomen, a toddler dance party and this absolutely addictive Matzo Toffee, which is the very first Kosher for Passover dessert I'd consider eating any time of year.

Later this week I want to try Sara's Apple Kugel and a K for P granola recipe a Twitter follower emailed me.