A recent post on a message board about breastfeeding babies at church made me wonder something. Am I the only one who can not nurse in public ANYWHERE?   Now I have no problem nursing in public, I can be very discreet and modest, and I do nurse in public and don't worry about it.  

However, nursing in the pews is not an option for me because my baby is not the most discreet thing in the world.

A few weeks ago I had to get a new tire, so I took the van in to the tire place, and it was just Sawyer and I, so we went into the waiting area to wait. I was the only one in the small room, and Sawyer started fussing (it was time for him to eat) so I threw a blanket over us and he started nursing.

A few seconds later 3 people come in, an older man and a twenty-something couple. We're all in this small room, they look at me and sit down. Its pretty quiet in there... except for the LOUD smacking and moaning and groaning and pure exuberant joy that is coming out from under my blanket, with little baby feet sticking out.

The 20-something couple both have their cell phones, they look at each other and start text messaging each other (I imagine about us).

About an eternity later, probably 5 minutes, I take the little suckling piggy off the breast, and out from under the blanket. With a little milk mustache he smiles and lets out a big BELCH.

About this time the guy goes to the snack machine and gets some chips out. The older man has left by this time. Sawyer is staring at this young man and smiling. The girl says to her boyfriend, "I think he wants some of your chips."

The guy looks straight at Sawyer and says, "Sorry Dude, you already ate."

So that is why I don't nurse in the pews at church.

This is what happens when hubby and boys have too much time on their hands, baby clothes lying around, and an unsuspecting victim in their grasp:

Ninja kitty:

Nathan enjoying his Christmas present and teaching Morgan a chord or two:

Nathan is picking up guitar pretty easily, and has an ear for music.  Of all the boys, Morgan is probably our future musician.

If anyone would like to see my husband doing the Daddy Bear Elf dance, you can see it here.  He's probably sorry he retrieved those photo files now.  

If I was back in Texas right now, I'd go over to Buda this weekend to enjoy the races!  I would love to see those.

On our way to the library today, the boys saw these rats hanging out at the pet store, and thought it was the funniest thing they'd ever seen.

Today as I was cooking I started thinking about sweet rice, which led to me thinking about my great aunt Edda and her all-time best sweet rice in the world.  Every time we would have a get-together, we knew what Edda would bring, and there would never be any leftovers of the creamy dessert-like delicacy. 

I remember one time my mom got the recipe from her (I need to get a copy).  I think it has rice, milk, salt, and sugar in it, sprinkled with cinnamon when its done.  Well, my mom made it one time, but it just wasn't the same.   Now that I am older I know why. 

When it comes to those "unhealthy" dishes, my mom never follows the recipe.  If it calls for one cup of sugar, she thinks, "that's too much sugar", and puts in 1/2 cup.  If it calls for cream, she puts in milk.  Yogurt substitutes for sour cream, whole wheat for white flour, olive oil for butter, or applesauce for oil.  By the time its cooked and out of the oven, it doesn't resemble the original at all.  Now I can poke fun of my mom like this, because I have teased her about this in the past, and she knows its true .  And I do think she is a good cook.  I'll take her potato salad and beans anyday over Bill Miller's.

I won't mention any names, but there is another person who has these healthy tendencies too.  My husband tells tales of how a certain pecan pie (with the sugar/karo substituted with black strap molasses) sent his young nephew scurrying to the bathroom. 

Occasionally, I find myself doing this same thing.  My husband is doing a low-carb diet right now, so I made some brownies for him.  The flour I used was Bob's Red Mill low carb baking mix.  I substituted splenda for the sugar.   The result?  They were awful, hard little black shapes that looked like they were displaced from the kitty box.  They tasted even worse.  Nathan thought they were ok, but he had been deprived of sugar for a month, so what do you expect?

Nothing can compare to a creamy rich creme brulee, or a slice of homemade sour cream cake.  I think its better to starve yourself all day and eat one really yummy, good, rich, lusious dessert once a week than indulge in dessert wanna-be's that leave your tongue and tummy feeling cheated.  So from now on, I vow to always follow the recipe, unless Nathan specifically requests kitty droppings of course.

... the time changes, and when you get in the car on Sunday morning you realize you don't have to "spring forward" because you never changed the time from six months ago.

I've been putting off writing this blog for four days now, but I guess four days isn't bad compared to my usual procrastination.  But hey, my taxes are done.

My son Morgan is quite entranced with bloggerworld.  As I sit here typing, he is reading over my shoulder.  He loves to look at my blog, especially the comments (hint, hint)!  He was watching the screen, waiting for comments to appear, when I informed him that if someone happened to write a comment right then, the page has to be refreshed to even see it.  So then every few minutes he would say, "Mommy, can I refresh?"  I had to close the screen finally.

Then last night we were watching a movie and Nathan and I started talking about good actors and we mentioned Morgan Freeman, then the movie Shawshank  Redemption.  I said, "Oh, I forgot to put that on my favorites list, I love that movie!"   Morgan (my Morgan) quickly said,  "Mommy, you know, you can EDIT your blog."

Even Tristan has taken an interest.  Last night was a very clear night and I was commenting on how I have yet to see any northern lights.  Morgan quickly reminded me about how I thought the airport spotlight was the aurora borealis shortly after moving here - doh! - but thankfully I know how to laugh at myself (and I only thought it for a few minutes, and quickly figured out my silly mistake).  Tristan was laughing when reminded of my silliness, and quickly added, "You should put that in your blog!" 

This was another photo I had seen in an email, Too cute.  This is what my Tobleroni looked like (without fatigues) - one of six dachshunds I have had at one time.

My Morgan is a BIG eater.  Of course all of us like good food in this family, but this boy is only 6 and can put away the food.  I've seen him eat a huge breakfast burrito, and then finish off the rest of Nathan's as well.  The other day he got soooo hungry...

When searching for cute wienie dog photos I came upon this site.  I can't decide if its really funny or just a little twisted, but I did get some good laughs.  I had seen some of these photos on emails before.   It doesn't make me hungry, but it does make me want a puppy - guess that's a good thing.

http://www.samuraiburger.com/

I really like the look on that cat in the bucket in the last photo.

I write this blog knowing that I am opening myself up to some vulnerability, but if it makes one person chuckle, to me it is worth it.  But let me warn you in advance, if you have delicate eyes and/or prude sentitivities, it may be way too much information.

About seven weeks ago I was posting on a thread on a message board I'm a part of, when the topic of natural deoderant came up.  I'd like to avoid aluminum in my body, and was looking for an alternative to anti-perspirants that actually worked.  Lots of crunchy (as in granola) women frequent this board, and the thread veered down a bunny trail when a couple posters mentioned how they had stopped shaving their underarms and legs.  "Hmmm... I never liked shaving anyway...hmmm....I live in Alaska....no shorts or sleeveless shirts til summer...I'll probably never wear a swimsuit up here...Hmm... What would Nathan say? ... Hmm... how long would it take for Nathan to notice?"  So began my experiment of getting back to my German roots.

As anyone who has lived in a dorm with Europeans, or gone to the Grand Canyon in summertime, knows - European women don't shave!   Now why is that?  How do they get away with that?   From an article I found on the internet I learned that American  women were brainwashed into believing they had a problem - namely unsightly underarm hair, and began falling for the marketing ploy in 1915, with the leg hair propoganda coming later.  If you must see the full article, here it is.

Now my dad is 100% German and grew up speaking "old German" as a young boy in the home, so I felt my little experiment was justified by my ancestry.  One week goes by, two, three.  Jeans, long dresses, boots, sweaters, they hid my little experiment well.  I've always considered Nathan perceptive, but I suppose there is a difference between being perceptive and noticing details.  Six weeks go by and I'm tempted to mow the garden, but no, I have to see when he will notice.  Now I have a habit of liking to have my legs scratched, and have Nathan trained pretty well as Pavlov's scratcher.  Leg flop...scratch.  Seven weeks go by, and I do the flop, he starts scratching, but then he looks, his eyes get huge, and he says, "Honey????   That is disgusting!  What is that????"  Meanwhile, I'm dying laughing, and he looks at me like I am the sickest person alive, and says, "I don't find this amusing."  I explain to him about being crunchy, European women and German roots, Alaska wilderness, but he retorts, "You ARE going to shave those."   He then promptly changed the subject by reading aloud from Chaim Potok, letting me know - end of discussion.

So alas, I dulled a couple razors, but the deed is done.  Back to civilization...back to women's progress...back to the ideals of beauty in our western culture.  It was fun while it lasted, but I really need to close now.  I've got to go buy a bottle of liquid drano.

Tristan brought his hermit crab, Skykee, here on the plane, and other than some sand on the aisle carpet and backed up impatient travelers, he fared well.  We got a friend crab for Lukey, whom he named, “Crabby Jack.”  Well, Lukey had a way of getting Crabby out to play with, and forgetting about him.  Several times we would look in the cage – no Crabby. We would ask Lukey, “Where’s Crabby?”  He would always respond, “I think he’s wost.”  And amazingly, a day or so later, Crabby would saunter across the living room floor, or we’d hear, “scratch, scratch” as he tried to climb the TV.  To say that Trouble is Lukey’s middle name is an understatement, so when Tristan screeched one day, “Mommy, Skykee is dead,” and I saw a little dead crab body out of his shell, I assumed the worst.  “Lukas David – did you do this?”  “I don’t know” he said with a very guilty look.  “Lukey – you’ve pulled his body out and killed him!”  I then had a moment of rationalization, and questioned Tristan, “Did you see him do it?  What did you do?”  Tristan explained that he picked up the crab, and he wasn’t moving, so he pulled on him, and his body came out of the shell.  “Well, Tristan, YOU killed him,”  I screeched.  I then had to apologize to poor Lukey who was trying to figure out what he had done.  Then out of the midst boomed the voice of reason – “ALL OF YOU JUST CALM DOWN” – it was Nathan, my husband.  “He shed!  He is alive in this shell!  He shed his exoskeleton!”  Humbled, I cheered, “He’s alive, he’s alive.”  Of course I had apologizing to do all the way around, and we have successfully lived through other sheddings, although Skykee still prefers his original shell, even after “trying on” other houses.