Queen of Frozen Mini Corn Dogs--Crown Me

Since I teach I have the luxury or curse depending on the mood of two three year-olds of staying home during July and August. Lunch time at our house can be a creative time. Sometimes lovely peanut butter {only} or jelly {only} sandwiches are made; other times it's grilled cheese with cut up seasonal fruit. I try to keep it healthy and tasty. I will admit that at the start of summer I am on it, "it" being a great schedule that works for my kids. Mostly. Kind of-- unless we go out then I'm more like: schedule schmedule.

 It's August now, mid-August to be exact and well, my schedule has become as relaxed as my lunch planning. Sometimes, I get this look from my daughter when lunch is late. Have you ever seen an angry fairy? Geesh--slow down angry fairy--it's only 12:15. I'm. cooking. lunch.

Her brother starts loudly signing, " I love mama" or maybe it was, "I'm hungry, I'm hungry. I want to eat". It might have been the "I'm hungry" song.  Did I mention that my children are ruled by their stomachs? They obey their stomach's every command.  I throw fruit at them {not literally, but figuratively} they growl in refusal. If you need a visual imagine the response a lion would have if you tossed him tofu. I break out the secret mom weapon: Frozen Mini Corn Dogs. Ahh victory is mine. Sweet faces smile at me once more.

                                       
Okay, maybe they aren't sweet smiling angelic faces, but more like thanks for the food--- put your camera down-why do you have to photograph every moment of my life? faces. {whew that was a long sentence--well, it was kind of a sentence}

I think my son was so happy about the corn dogs that he had a dream sequence of jumping into the pool {his summertime favorite activity} and splashing to his little heart's content. Mini corn dogs are his other favorite summertime thing and I don't make them very often. Ooh dream weaver I believe you can get me through the night  lunch....... Ooh dream weaver............. sorry lapsed into song for just a moment. I love it when something as simple as mini frozen corn dogs can make a kid happy.

 The fairy on the other hand warned me about being late with lunch again. She did however declare: "Mommy you make the best frozen mini corn dogs ev-ah" She looks pretty serious with that wrench in her hand don't you think? I wonder if she thought she could twist me into submission? Go out mommies and get yourself some frozen mini corn dogs. Save the world. Save time. Don't forget the BBQ sauce or it can it ugly. Really ugly. Fast. 

Living Room World Series--He Bats high---do you hear glass?

My three year old son is obsessed with baseball. He lives, I mean LIVES for baseball. He wears the team shirts and hats, can recite the players of the 2011 Padre team even though he roots for the Dodgers. He's three. The weird part is I don't know how this happened. It was just yesterday that I was trying to learn the train names of Thomas the Train. Now, I have been bombarded with the names of players, teams and made up statistics--like did you know that some teams really like kids name Aidan? And that they wear uniforms to look handsome? You're welcome. That my friends was free information brought to you by a three-year old.

While we have encouraged our son's love of the game {and I mean who wouldn't after a year of Thomas the Train?  Sorry Thomas.} we can only handle so much of the obsession with out our eyes rolling permanently back in our heads. I know we're un-American and I see the "for shame" look in your eyes, but I can deal with that.

The house rule as it is in many homes across the the nation is that you are not allowed to play baseball in the house. Easy. Clear. Concise. Wrong. When obsession takes you over anything can become a bat and any small object that can fly--well, you guessed it becomes your ball. Legos have an amazing airborne quality in case you have a son and were just wondering. A sister makes a great catcher or outfielder when trying to play pickle with mom when she is stopping your impromptu game.

For the most part, my son gets "it" it being the rule that baseball is played outdoors. Unless, there is a game on tv, his hat is tilted just right and his Dodger "jersey" {Target t-shirt} was lucky that day and then, all bets are off. Yesterday, was this kind of day for my lovely blue-eyed baseball obsessed boy. I took the Lego's away, Little People who unwillingly flew high into the air {I'm not sure that princess will ever be the same} and any lid that became a makeshift bat. I didn't think about taking his shoes away. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Well, parenting is a learning curve right? 

He took his roguish Stride Rite boot and swung it around like all the baseball greats before him: The Babe, Micky Mantle, Willie Mays {forgive me that's all I know} and "pitched" that boot with all his little might. He let go. The shoe sailed in our living room. Time stood still. I held my breath without realizing it. All we heard was the sound of glass shattering. He yelled as if in slow motion "I'm jjjusst sorry" hurriedly followed with "don't tell daddy! noooooo."  I was overcome with emotions. Frustration. Worry.

After checking that everyone was okay--after all the outfielder was in position for goodness sakes {and close to the shrapnel}. The glass from the laywers cabinet {fancy bookshelf with glass doors}  was gingerly picked up, baseball cards taken away {I know mean mommy}. The heart to heart talk about certain games are better played outside than inside. The worrisome tears {mostly mine} baseball shaped tears streamed down his little face after taking away his treasured baseball cards and the outfielder worrying about if she was going to get her chance to bat.  All in all the world series of the living room was not the treasured All-American past time that might have held the mystique that one would hope. Certainly it was dramatic. Tension filled. Flooding of relief when the hubby came home.  I was happy since that meant it was five o'clock somewhere and I could have wine- the other All-American past time that doesn't get enough recognition--in my humble opinion. So, game on. Hopefully though the game is on outside.

You Swing, I Swing, We all Swing {Dance That Is}

My hubby and I have devoted one night a week to being together without out the kids. {yahoo}. Our activity of choice was Swing Dance. Well, when I say "our" choice I might've had a heavy hand in choosing, but I presented the idea with lovely sweets in order to convince my husband that Swing Dance was really the best option of fun for us.

We walked into a lovely two-story building--about a hundred years old or so, the swing music wafting down the stairs, a black and white portrait of 1940's stars beckoning us toward the top tier of stairs. It felt right. The music embraced us as we floated up towards the dance floor.

We stopped; looked around the dance floor and began to wonder if we just shouldn't take up drinking as our new one-hour kid free hobby. The dancers on the floor were sinuous in their movements-graceful even. We were electrifying at best when we danced and not the good kind. The kind where someone shouted, "just put them out of their misery. I can't stand their pain any longer!"  Have you ever seen Elaine dance on Seinfeld? However, the hubby and I are rebels at heart so we stayed. The dance instructors were {are}wonderful and very funny.  They broke the steps down easily so that even parents of three-year old twins could follow along {not an easy task}.

Fast forward three months. We're still at it-- the dance lessons that is. We are not the best dancers in the class and some how we convinced our friends that they should join us in our 'electrifying' version of swing dancing.  I will tell you that there are nights where we both leave feeling accomplished. We high five each other like we've won the Superbowl {can I say the Superbowl without having to pay someone?} and then there are the other nights {like tonight} where I insist on a creamy coffee drink with lots of whip cream {Weight Watchers be damned} because I blanked and just stared at my partner wondering what he was trying to do. {if I had a bubble over my head it would show: Swing dancing you say? Is that what I'm supposed to be doing?}

Thankfully our dance instructors have it set up where we rotate partners--I know that sounds scary to dance with strangers and it was-- until my hubby and I realized that we often danced better with other people than each other. I think we snark a bit at each other--okay I can be snarky, but to be fair he knew this when we started dating.

What's inviting about swing dance is that it is entertaining and the people are nice--even when you accidentally kick them, step on their feet or stare blankly at them when they know you know the dance moves because you did them last week just perfectly fine.

After eleven years of marriage my husband and I realize that we still like each other. We have fun. We are not perfect, we will never be perfect. Sometimes he irritates the living hell out of me. I'm sure I make him slightly miffed in a mild sort of fashion...occasionally. Maybe. I'm not sure because I'm pretty spectacular...okay that might be an exaggeration, but who doesn't like to feel good about themselves? and no one's up to contradict me so I'm leaving it. It's just like if you don't take a picture of the the food you eat on vacation then the technically the calories don't count. See you just learned something that you might have otherwise felt guilty about. I digress. The point is to go out and find your "swing dance" with the one you love or the one who mildly irritates you. It can be lovely.