I don't know how monks do it

Last week, many got something for which they'd at some point wished. Especially my 3rd grade teacher. And mother. And husband. Etc.

After getting over what seemed like just another bug that the germ-spraying kids had cursed me with, I woke up Sunday morning with the finale. SILENCE. No voice, whatsoever. None. Me! I could not TALK! I have so much to SAY!

The silence lasted two days, followed by two more almost near silence. I'm shocked my head didn't explode. I talked to Brett by typing, same at work, and otherwise just shut up and made faces.

Any time left alone with D nearly brought me to tears or punches. A voice is not optional when parenting. And I definitely won't be making any bets on myself in games of charades.

I now sound like a raspy four pack-a-day smoker. But I can talk, and as of last night, I've already earned "You know, I miss the laryngitis" from Brett. Good.

The boar leg

A nearly 7 pound boar leg, draped in bacon, slow roasted, and drizzled with a gravy of its drippings. Yes, please.

I give props to my brother-in-law, the man behind the reason I have to explain to guests why there is a donkey foot on our window sill. The man behind the fact that I have a mini panic attack every time I open my top kitchen drawer (HOLY $$$$ - A MOUSE! EW! EW! Stop and breathe. It’s just that old kangaroo testicle bottle opener again). The animal parts aficionado topped himself in celebration of Ravi’s birth (best baby gift ever) with a wild Texan boar leg.

This thing has been in our freezer, hard as a cinder block, for 4 months. And every time it jutted out and slapped me in the arm, I wanted to punch it. But that would have hurt. It was time to eat it.

D said, "I want to hold it like a baby."

Yes, that blood grosses me out. So did the boar HAIRS that we picked off it. But that's what comes with eating animals. The farm's instructions said "Place bacon strips across the leg if desired." OK, if you say so.

(Those carrots were pretty pointless.)

We shared with others, but here you have one happy man with the final bites.

Goodbye tree.

The elevators today were sprinkled with everyone's dry needles, remnants of the trees that filled our apartments with that special Christmas smell, now on their way to be reincarnated as mulch if they're lucky. I miss ours already -- so wide and bushy and fragrant this year, with a new recycled sari-ball garland and a way-too-teeny Chinese paper star top (a certain ding dong door wasted the crafting efforts).

I don't much like how January kicks off with the holiday take-down, but it has to. And in doing so, it cements the fact that January has arrived -- a new beginning. And I'm just not cool with that yet. I thought I was a cheerleader who looks at it with bright eyes and big plans. But instead we have Debbie Downer, not ready for the fresh start for lack of closure on those back of head naggers.

Where will we live?

Should we be finding a church or something?

I should probably start volunteering again.

Why am I still using teflon pans even though I'm scared of them?

Do more kegels!

Did we donate enough money this year?

Call your mother more.

What is going to be the running schedule?

Read this and that and this book to become proper parent.

Become a good role model.

Think about career.

I'll just leave those there and look away.

But every last one of us has those lists and January's just another month. I think my Debbie Downerdom is actually deep-rooted defiance for time passing at all.

Time freezes when I stare into Ravi's eyes and he coos at me like we're the only ones in the world. And when D is down on the floor trying so hard to make him laugh, and he just adores her. Or when she's completely lost in her make-believe teacher world, acting out whatever classroom drama she can conjure. Such wonderful moments I want to immortalize but can't bear looking away to get any digital device and even if I did, I don't want it between me and them.

January is the ultimate reminder of how fast we're all hurtling through time. And I totally sound like an ass, I know. Spoiled and on about nothing (very spoiled; wait till I write about our New Year's Day boar leg). That's what happens when you're so cozy and blessed. There's just nothing else to complain about. Except that I'd like to sleep please. I guess 2015 is looking pretty good about now.

I could sit and stare at our tree for hours, wine in hand, lost in the lights and sparkle. There's just something magical about them and all the days that they're here. So it's only natural that seeing them move on brings the sadness. Everyone knows the best things don't last forever. If they did, we wouldn't love them so much.

Happy 2012 to you

I remember our 1st New Year's in New York. Out-of-town friends, ordered-in Chinese, open-bar at Bowlmor, freezing walk back to our block, and bright ideas like "it's 3:30 am...let's go to THIS bar!" At some wee hour, we attempted Napoleon Dynamite while eating Cheeto's and crashed together on the floor leaving the bedroom unused. Lack of curtains forced us up before noon and we tried ordering McDonald's for delivery only to be told they required a local phone number (what?). So we called back and made one up. And the quarter-pounders with cheese arrived, as miraculously as just about any food does in this city, right to our 5th floor walk-up door. No pants required.

Look at us then, in the only picture of us I'd want seen.

And here's the view seven years later, when we don't remember to be in the pictures anyway. A truly Rockin' NYE with Dick. WATCH ME CHUG THIS MILK HANDS FREE...WOO HOO, THE PARTY IS ON!!! Thankfully there was something different in my cup.

Three 3-year olds peppered the post-midnight hour (10pm sleepover bedtime fail) with "Mommy, I have boogers", "She has stinky feet", "No I don't, I took a bath yesterday", and much belligerence.

Maybe one day we'll shift the party up 28 blocks and watch the ball drop. But probably not.

We're happy as can be and wish you all the same. Boogers or without, may 2012 be the best year yet for everyone in our lives.

Happy New Year!

holiday baking successes

The annual holiday chili cheese biscuits got a tasty upgrade this year -- a little crater of raspberry jam. It's a sweet and savory party in your mouth! Do it! It might have been my mother-in-law's idea, but if not, I claim it as mine and it means I am a jamorama GENIUS.

I think if you eat about 20, it'll count as a serving of fruit. With the calcium from the cheese, it's like a health food. To help Santa get his vitamins, we threw one in to balance hydrogenating him with Pillsbury.

And on that note, I say thank you to Kimberly Snyder (raw food diet lady for famous skinnies) for allowing me to now classify pecan pie as health food with her Raw Pecan Love Pie recipe. Good eatin'. I got her recipe from Us Weekly (shut up you read it too) and it's a bit different than the link. Here's what we ate:

Crust: 2 cups walnuts, 2 cups pitted dates, 1 cup unsweetened coconut flakes

Filling: 1/2 cup unrefined coconut oil, 1 cup raisins, 1 tsp vanilla, 1/3 cup maple syrup, 1 tsp sea salt, 1 cup raw pecans (soaked).

Mix crust items in food processor and press into bottom and sides of pan. Blend filling items in food processor till smooth and put in the crust, topping with more pecans. Set in freezer at least 5 hours.

Family portrait

D brought home her Christmas present to us. Excuse me, HOLIDAY present (as she repeatedly corrected). She inisted we open it ASAP. After all, it is the first day of Hanukah. She does love singing the dradle song.

My favorite part is how Brett is frowning. Must be cold without his pants.
Ravi's hair really does look like that.
She gave me hair (thanks girl), although she's recently informed me I have none.
Our heights are pretty spot-on.

This one's a treasure for always.

3 months

Well, 3 1/2. Parents not on time with the picture taking with child #2. Sorry buddy.

12 lbs, 4 oz.
24 inches; On the path to be a short man.
And a bald one, based on genes...so he should enjoy that pouf while he can.
Smiles and gurgles till you can't stand it anymore.
I am his favorite person and will enjoy that while I can.

ding dong the door is dead

It fell off.

I put it back up.

It fell off.

Brett put it out of it's misery.

D wants to know where it went.

IT IS DEAD TO ME, D. THAT'S WHERE IT WENT.

Let me know if you'd like a giant piece of green felt. Or else it may be reincarnated as little disposable cloths to wipe a 3 month old's sharty poop.

ding dong

Last week we walked out to see a neighbor had decorated their door like a shiny gold gift for Christmas. Like your 1st grade teacher did.

Gasp. "Momma -- Look it. Looook. It's beautiful. Look at that." Gasp.

Every time. So I caved and asked if she wanted to decorate our door. Yes of course. Immediately. Now? Today? Thank you good neighbor for your inspiration (need sarcasm font). But I like crafts so I ducked through the midtown holiday tourists (why do they all have giant suitcases) to go to the fabric street for supplies.

At this point, you are thinking "why don't you just go to one of the SEVEN dollar stores in spitting distance to buy some cheap shiny wrapping paper? or door paper, because you know they sell that too." (no, I don't know. and I am stupid.)

So I spent an unnecessary amount of time looking for "tasteful" fabric under $45/yard, finally accepting the door would be tacky (as well it should be. it is a Christmas door. tacky by nature. sorry if I am offending your Christmas door.).

FIFTEEN DOLLARS OF FELT. (What?)

Off to buy ribbon. I found the perfect roll of blinding Christmas red with essence of Santa-fur for $2. But I ran out of cash on the fifteen-dollar-felt-spun-from-gold, and New York is still learning to take credit cards.

FIVE DOLLARS ON RIBBON AND ATM FEE. ATM fee greater than ribbon. (What?)

Oh, but my daughter will be so happy.

On Sunday a beaming D was ready to decorate her door. How cool was mommy now? Ten minutes into measuring (which she needed her sunglasses to do), she said she wanted to stop helping because "this is taking too long". I spent more unnecessary time cutting crooked lines. As did the guy at the fabric store, so you can see where this door cover is going. You know what comes straight with no cutting? DOLLAR STORE DOOR COVER.

You know when you are wrapping a present and find the paper is too short so you have to use two pieces and it looks like a cat did it? Yeah, that happened too. And there was a lot of masking tape. A lot.

And THEN. The reveal.

She told me she didn't like it. WHAT. THE. WHAT. "I like the OTHER door. That one. Let's go look at THAT one."

NO. Get back here and enjoy YOUR OWN DOOR. I realize she's three. And this is a minor teensy weensy example of the rejection in future years. But I had fury. Girl ASKED for this door cover. Needs to learn some APPRECIATION. Brett had to calm me down.

The masking tape kept coming off, exposing my cutting and measuring shortfalls. More fury.

AND NOW FOUR DOLLARS ON VELCRO.

After explaining my hard felt-cutting labor and asking her the same question fourteen times (expecting a different answer and still getting "no"), I was determined to win. I hung a snowman off the bow. I faked that I thought the door was fabulous. I pouted and whined. Somehow it finally put my door on equal footing.

She now makes fair statements each time we enter the hall way. "I like that door. And I like this one too."

She better.

You know what doesn't cost TWENTY FOUR DOLLARS and all my time and crafting pride? The dollar store door cover I saw TONIGHT when hunting for masking tape. Masking tape that I RAN OUT OF of on this project. YES I AM CAPS YELLING A LOT. WHY DIDN'T I GET THE DOLLAR STORE DOOR COVER. WHERE WAS IT 3 DAYS AGO. Seeing it tonight brought the fury back. My life is HARD with these first-world problems. Bah humbug. It's cool. Sorrows drowned in moose munch and wine.

At least the snowman ornament was free. And this keeps it off my tree. The full, fragrant Douglas fir tree I am procrastinating putting lights on by writing this. Seriously, the apartment smells delicious. Maybe I shouldn't cook for a month so we don't dilute it.

Happy December :-).

budding Dorothy Hamill

We have an ice skating rink in our neighborhood for the winter. It's like we live in a resort!

So of course the whole Below family got ice skates for an early xmas! Then we'll all hold hands and skate in matching sweaters! Except Ravi. His coordination on ice is poor.

Brett's running for homecoming king of D's heart and picked her up early from school for her first spin. And then McDonald's. WITHOUT ME. Didn't even bring me fries.

She busted it. Cried. And wanted to bust it again.

"Daddy, don't hold me so I can fall...I want to fall, OK?"

"Now I will wait here while you skate. I want to watch you fall daddy."

Bring it winter!