Ok guys, this the first recipe I've ever posted. It's for my magic bars, which are a holiday favorite with my crowd, and it's sure to be one for you, too! Stay for the end, it's a real treat!
You will need:
One pre-made Graham cracker pie crust
One cup of semi-sweet chocolate morsels
One cup of butterscotch morsels
Half a can of sweetened condensed milk
1. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit
2. Place your chocolate and butterscotch morsels in the crust
3. Realize you accidentally bought evaporated milk instead of sweetened condensed milk (it's best if you do this before you open the can, but not necessary)
3. Spend 3-5 minutes staring at your pie crust full of morsels and try to decide it you have time to go back to the store (be sure to watch the clock for this part, too)
4. Check to see if you have the ingredients you might need to make fudge instead. If yes, Google "fudge recipes." If not, move on to step 5.
5. Carefully separate the butterscotch morsels from the chocolate morsels and put them back in their bags. You can turn off the oven at this point.
6. Congratulate yourself on being flexible and laidback, and eat morsels right out of the bag instead! You've earned it!
Happy holidays!
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Things You Should Never Say to a...
I run into a lot of "Things You Should Never Say to a [fill in the blank]" articles, and I feel like they are dreadfully unhelpful to prospective well-wishers. I've been on the giving and receiving end of comments that really should never have been said, so I have come up with a couple of rules of thumb for the givers (and receivers) of comments in difficult contexts.
To Comment Makers:
1) Sometimes the best thing to say is nothing. If you don't know what to say... maybe you should just say that. Telling someone you don't know what to say is a heck of a lot better than making a comment that's going to be ringing in their ears for reasons you might not understand.
2) When making a comment to a new mother, prospective mother, or the mother of a sick or dying or special-needs child, you almost can't win. You don't know where she is emotionally or on the sleep-deprivation scale when you are talking to her, but you can pretty much guess, so anything other than "You're beautiful," "You're doing a great job" or sincere offerings to help is almost certainly going to be taken the wrong way. Just listen. Give advice ONLY ONLY ONLY if she asks for it, and even then, tread carefully, my friend. There be dangerous waters.
3) When talking to a grieving person, one thing he sometimes longs for is just to talk about his loved one. Yeah, everyone else in the room is squirming because they wish for the love of God that we could all move on and forget that bad thing ever happened, but if he wants to remember that person, sometimes that in itself is therapeutic. Let him talk and remember. It can make him feel better, even if there are a few tears.
4) Please don't compare yourself to your friend or guess what you would do in his/her situation. You really have no idea if you've never been there before what you would do, and even if you've had a similar experience, you are a different person, so for goodness' sake, don't guess or compare your experience. Your friend's grief or challenge is not a good moment for your own self-evaluation.
To Comment Receivers:
1) Put yourself in your friend's shoes for half a second and try to see things from his/her perspective. She is probably clueless, but she means well. So he told you that your loved one is in a better place, or he mentioned that your new baby looks a little like a monkey. Maybe she had a harrowing birth experience and she just wishes she had been warned and she thinks she's saving you somehow by scaring the bejesus out of you. Be gracious. Your friend is a well-meaning idiot, but unless she's being genuinely and intentionally insulting, it's a good idea to chalk it up to bad communication and move on, especially if this is a friend you like and want to keep.
2) On that note, do you know you're allowed to tell your friends that they've hurt your feelings or insulted you? Or you can even verbally disagree with them so that they can understand in some way that maybe that wasn't the most sensitive comment they could have possibly made. I think a lot of people take comments that have hurt them silently, then let them sit on their hearts and maybe even take it to social media to complain there, but never saying a word directly to the person who (accidentally) hurt them. Not good for relationship building.
3) If a stranger has insulted you, it's open season. Vent to your friends, add it to your "Book of Bizarre Exchanges with Strangers," put it on Twitter, or have a good laugh about it. That person's opinion by all standards does not matter. These are the same people who write comments on YouTube. Remember the judgments you make about others in your own heart that you happen to have the good sense not to say out loud and move on with your life. Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, even if their opinions are hurtful or ignorant, and be thankful you live in a country where we can freely speak our sometimes empty minds.
I have found that everyone is very different, and what comforts one person might offend another. Try to remember your empathy lessons from kindergarten and remember - a plate of cookies never hurt anyone's feelings.
Unless they are on a Paleo diet and you were just too insensitive to remember that about them.
To Comment Makers:
1) Sometimes the best thing to say is nothing. If you don't know what to say... maybe you should just say that. Telling someone you don't know what to say is a heck of a lot better than making a comment that's going to be ringing in their ears for reasons you might not understand.
2) When making a comment to a new mother, prospective mother, or the mother of a sick or dying or special-needs child, you almost can't win. You don't know where she is emotionally or on the sleep-deprivation scale when you are talking to her, but you can pretty much guess, so anything other than "You're beautiful," "You're doing a great job" or sincere offerings to help is almost certainly going to be taken the wrong way. Just listen. Give advice ONLY ONLY ONLY if she asks for it, and even then, tread carefully, my friend. There be dangerous waters.
3) When talking to a grieving person, one thing he sometimes longs for is just to talk about his loved one. Yeah, everyone else in the room is squirming because they wish for the love of God that we could all move on and forget that bad thing ever happened, but if he wants to remember that person, sometimes that in itself is therapeutic. Let him talk and remember. It can make him feel better, even if there are a few tears.
4) Please don't compare yourself to your friend or guess what you would do in his/her situation. You really have no idea if you've never been there before what you would do, and even if you've had a similar experience, you are a different person, so for goodness' sake, don't guess or compare your experience. Your friend's grief or challenge is not a good moment for your own self-evaluation.
To Comment Receivers:
1) Put yourself in your friend's shoes for half a second and try to see things from his/her perspective. She is probably clueless, but she means well. So he told you that your loved one is in a better place, or he mentioned that your new baby looks a little like a monkey. Maybe she had a harrowing birth experience and she just wishes she had been warned and she thinks she's saving you somehow by scaring the bejesus out of you. Be gracious. Your friend is a well-meaning idiot, but unless she's being genuinely and intentionally insulting, it's a good idea to chalk it up to bad communication and move on, especially if this is a friend you like and want to keep.
2) On that note, do you know you're allowed to tell your friends that they've hurt your feelings or insulted you? Or you can even verbally disagree with them so that they can understand in some way that maybe that wasn't the most sensitive comment they could have possibly made. I think a lot of people take comments that have hurt them silently, then let them sit on their hearts and maybe even take it to social media to complain there, but never saying a word directly to the person who (accidentally) hurt them. Not good for relationship building.
3) If a stranger has insulted you, it's open season. Vent to your friends, add it to your "Book of Bizarre Exchanges with Strangers," put it on Twitter, or have a good laugh about it. That person's opinion by all standards does not matter. These are the same people who write comments on YouTube. Remember the judgments you make about others in your own heart that you happen to have the good sense not to say out loud and move on with your life. Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, even if their opinions are hurtful or ignorant, and be thankful you live in a country where we can freely speak our sometimes empty minds.
I have found that everyone is very different, and what comforts one person might offend another. Try to remember your empathy lessons from kindergarten and remember - a plate of cookies never hurt anyone's feelings.
Unless they are on a Paleo diet and you were just too insensitive to remember that about them.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Dipping
I'm starting to dip. I really had a handle on things and had taken ownership of the crushing loneliness of being a stay-at-home mom. I had events, I had plans, I had a schedule... but now I'm starting to dip again.
How the heck to women do this? How do they enjoy doing this? I want to be an active force in my children's lives, I want to be there for them, but for glory's sake, why does it suck so bad? I can't finish a book, an article, even a thought. I haven't done something that I enjoy in months. At least the holidays are coming soon.
How the heck to women do this? How do they enjoy doing this? I want to be an active force in my children's lives, I want to be there for them, but for glory's sake, why does it suck so bad? I can't finish a book, an article, even a thought. I haven't done something that I enjoy in months. At least the holidays are coming soon.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
A God Post
This is a God post. That means it's about God. If you are one of my many beloved friends who does not believe in God, then I hope you still enjoy this post, if nothing else for academic interest or entertainment. It's also a good little glimpse into my life, so you can take it for what it is.
---
Having children has taught me a lot about God.
The children aren't like God, of course. No: in this metaphor, I'm the one in God's shoes, and my children are in mine.
I'm not saying I'm God. Just hear me out.
Children are little beasts. Lovely, wild monsters who remind me alternately of hamsters one minute and zombies the next. I made them. I mean, I had help, but you know what I mean. They didn't exist, then I did some stuff, then they existed. They had no clothes, no skills, no language. They were little blobs of ecto-goo. I loved them into being, and they didn't have a single good thing to say to me. They cried and complained and demanded every minute of every day and never once said they loved me.
I know. "DUH."
Well, I knew it would be like that, but I didn't KNOW it would be like that. I knew in my head what I did not know yet in my body. I didn't know what it was like to mourn those hours of sleep as I stumbled once more down the hall to feed them, and I didn't know that sinking terror that would grip me when they slept just a little too long, waking them up anyway as I had to - had to - peek in on them to make sure they were still breathing. I didn't know a lot of things.
They demand food. Then, they demand different food. Then, they are wet. Again. They spit up on themselves. Again. They are crying for some indiscernible reason. Again. They are refusing to sleep as their little heads loll to the side and then jerk back up with a cry. Again.
I have met true, unconditional love, and it looks like wiping up huge smatters of poop at 2 in the morning and replacing all the bedding.
This isn't to complain about motherhood. As I've mentioned before, I rather like it.
I just can't help seeing myself in them.
When I put my proverbial hand on the hot stove, I get burned and then it makes sense why I was told not to do that. Until the next time, when I forget and do it again.
I throw temper tantrums and pout in the corner.
I demand and yell, "NO!"
I wail that I don't have this thing, now - forgetting all the good things I have and every gift that's been given to me.
I don't want THIS food. I want different food. I don't want to drink. I don't want to go there.
I. Am. A Little. Kid.
I would be a sorry excuse for a god, and that is what strikes me the most. He deals with all my childishness, and still has more grace, more mercy, more love.
I have lost my temper. I have spoken harshly. I have done things wrong, that I wish I hadn't. I have not been diligent at disciplining and teaching and guiding and loving, but God does all those things for me. He gave me life, he provides for everything for me, and I do things that not only hurt him, but are an affront to him. They grieve him, the way I am grieved when my child denies the things that give him life and keep him safe.
And so I am learning, daily, to remember God when I am weary and ask him to cut me an extra slice of grace.
---
Having children has taught me a lot about God.
The children aren't like God, of course. No: in this metaphor, I'm the one in God's shoes, and my children are in mine.
I'm not saying I'm God. Just hear me out.
Children are little beasts. Lovely, wild monsters who remind me alternately of hamsters one minute and zombies the next. I made them. I mean, I had help, but you know what I mean. They didn't exist, then I did some stuff, then they existed. They had no clothes, no skills, no language. They were little blobs of ecto-goo. I loved them into being, and they didn't have a single good thing to say to me. They cried and complained and demanded every minute of every day and never once said they loved me.
I know. "DUH."
Well, I knew it would be like that, but I didn't KNOW it would be like that. I knew in my head what I did not know yet in my body. I didn't know what it was like to mourn those hours of sleep as I stumbled once more down the hall to feed them, and I didn't know that sinking terror that would grip me when they slept just a little too long, waking them up anyway as I had to - had to - peek in on them to make sure they were still breathing. I didn't know a lot of things.
They demand food. Then, they demand different food. Then, they are wet. Again. They spit up on themselves. Again. They are crying for some indiscernible reason. Again. They are refusing to sleep as their little heads loll to the side and then jerk back up with a cry. Again.
I have met true, unconditional love, and it looks like wiping up huge smatters of poop at 2 in the morning and replacing all the bedding.
This isn't to complain about motherhood. As I've mentioned before, I rather like it.
I just can't help seeing myself in them.
When I put my proverbial hand on the hot stove, I get burned and then it makes sense why I was told not to do that. Until the next time, when I forget and do it again.
I throw temper tantrums and pout in the corner.
I demand and yell, "NO!"
I wail that I don't have this thing, now - forgetting all the good things I have and every gift that's been given to me.
I don't want THIS food. I want different food. I don't want to drink. I don't want to go there.
I. Am. A Little. Kid.
I would be a sorry excuse for a god, and that is what strikes me the most. He deals with all my childishness, and still has more grace, more mercy, more love.
I have lost my temper. I have spoken harshly. I have done things wrong, that I wish I hadn't. I have not been diligent at disciplining and teaching and guiding and loving, but God does all those things for me. He gave me life, he provides for everything for me, and I do things that not only hurt him, but are an affront to him. They grieve him, the way I am grieved when my child denies the things that give him life and keep him safe.
And so I am learning, daily, to remember God when I am weary and ask him to cut me an extra slice of grace.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Mother-work
I have always wanted to have kids. I have always wanted a husband, for that matter. So, I can safely say that the life I chose is one that I always looked forward to and I enjoy, and I wouldn't pursue another path as long as I am able. That said, I have some thoughts on my position in life right now.
Mothers are pulled and tugged and demanded of until parts of them loosen. Gravity and mother-work start to pull on their bodies and their minds until both start to droop a little. I feel myself sag when my one year old refuses to eat for the fifth time that day. I can feel a spring pop when my newborn cries and cries inconsolably. My body, granted, is a few sizes too big from pregnancy, but it's still the wrong shape, and will probably never look the same again (although I hold out hope that with my current diet and exercise regimen, I can still be as confident as ever in my appearance). This is the cost of mother-work. This is the cost of bringing humans into the world and pouring out myself so that they can be built up.
I'm not doing it perfectly, and I'm sure that in some places I'm downright wrong. I'm as selfish as I ever was, just with more responsibility. I know that my children, at the end of the day, are free agents with their own unique desires, intentions, and motivations that could one day take them far from me - physically, emotionally, or spiritually. But I do hope that I can offer them everything they need to choose to be strong men of God, with respect for others and themselves. I hope that they see needs in the world that they can meet and that I can equip them as much as possible to do so. I hope that I can be a woman worthy of respect and that in doing so, I can teach them to respect all women.
I love being a mother. I love ruling my house and keeping order (or at least trying to). I know that, if I'm lucky, I'll be old and gray with lots of stories and advice to offer a younger woman one day. For now, I'm battling extra pounds and a child who refuses to eat and a newborn who will only sleep on his stomach and a schedule that I just can't seem to get the hang of. I'm blessed to be in a position where we can afford for me to stay at home and do this kind of work. I will sag and wear as my skin and my mind go a little threadbare, but I know I'm doing good work and I hope in the long run all these worn out places of my person will be a testimony of my effort, and I will have two good, gracious, and godly men to show for it.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Perfection
Well, I spoke too soon. I accused my due date of teasing me, so I have to take it all back. My water broke at 11 PM after a full day of what I thought was another bought of false labor.
There's not much to say about what happened. It was textbook perfection. My water broke, I started having hard contractions, I got an epidural, and had the baby. Apparently, my doctor actually took a nap while I was in labor.
I pushed for 5 minutes. From the time my water broke to the time I was holding him in my arms was 8 hours, almost to the minute.
Silas was born at 6:58 AM, weighing 8 lbs 8 oz and measuring 21.5 inches. We had an hour of skin-to-skin after he was born and they delayed his cord clamping as per a new hospital policy. He was fat and healthy, and he latched on perfectly the first time we breastfed.
They took him to a 'transition' unit in the NICU for about 8 hours because his blood sugar was borderline and he had some respiratory inflammation. His sugar normalized very quickly, and his breathing didn't show any more issues after that first hour or two.
At first, I felt a surge of frustration and upset that they took him from me, but I decided that I would not allow it to mar an otherwise perfect delivery. It was eerie to visit my son in the same NICU where I practically lived for almost 4 months. The receptionist actually still remembered us, as did all the security guards. I guess we made an impression to still be remembered after a year and a half.
We were reunited around 5 in the afternoon and continued living our fantasy of having an absolutely perfect birthing experience. Perfect breastfeeding, perfect bonding, perfect health.
The only annoying thing (besides our brief 'visit' to the NICU) was the sudden onset of a spinal headache which has lain me flat... literally. They think it's probably because I had to have two epidurals before I got relief. The anesthesiologist felt so horrible that the first hadn't worked that he spiked the second one with something WONDERFUL that made it work in a couple of minutes instead of another half hour. I have to say, even with the headache, I would have done it again. At least the headache doesn't make me pray for death, and it goes away when I lie down.
In the meanwhile, I am cuddling with my perfect newborn all day while my mom and mother-in-law take care of my sweet Elijah. Our little family has gotten a little bit bigger, and our lives are so much richer for it.
There's not much to say about what happened. It was textbook perfection. My water broke, I started having hard contractions, I got an epidural, and had the baby. Apparently, my doctor actually took a nap while I was in labor.
I pushed for 5 minutes. From the time my water broke to the time I was holding him in my arms was 8 hours, almost to the minute.
Silas was born at 6:58 AM, weighing 8 lbs 8 oz and measuring 21.5 inches. We had an hour of skin-to-skin after he was born and they delayed his cord clamping as per a new hospital policy. He was fat and healthy, and he latched on perfectly the first time we breastfed.
They took him to a 'transition' unit in the NICU for about 8 hours because his blood sugar was borderline and he had some respiratory inflammation. His sugar normalized very quickly, and his breathing didn't show any more issues after that first hour or two.
At first, I felt a surge of frustration and upset that they took him from me, but I decided that I would not allow it to mar an otherwise perfect delivery. It was eerie to visit my son in the same NICU where I practically lived for almost 4 months. The receptionist actually still remembered us, as did all the security guards. I guess we made an impression to still be remembered after a year and a half.
We were reunited around 5 in the afternoon and continued living our fantasy of having an absolutely perfect birthing experience. Perfect breastfeeding, perfect bonding, perfect health.
The only annoying thing (besides our brief 'visit' to the NICU) was the sudden onset of a spinal headache which has lain me flat... literally. They think it's probably because I had to have two epidurals before I got relief. The anesthesiologist felt so horrible that the first hadn't worked that he spiked the second one with something WONDERFUL that made it work in a couple of minutes instead of another half hour. I have to say, even with the headache, I would have done it again. At least the headache doesn't make me pray for death, and it goes away when I lie down.
In the meanwhile, I am cuddling with my perfect newborn all day while my mom and mother-in-law take care of my sweet Elijah. Our little family has gotten a little bit bigger, and our lives are so much richer for it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)