Recipe Monday - Watermelon Gazpacho
Don’t let the ingredients fool you. This sweet soup drinks like a smoothie, only more refreshing!
Review - Sweet As Me Dolls from Little Mommy
When we arrived home from vacation, you can imagine my girls’ joy when they saw a surprise waiting for them. There’s nothing they like better than presents. Ice cream rates a close second.
We tore into it a few days later (I’m that mean mommy that makes them wait until it’s a good time for me), and they’ve been playing with their Little Mommy Sweet As Me dolls since.
The best thing about these dolls for the girls is that the toys represent girls their own age, who do the things they are interested in doing. Now, instead of being someone’s mommy, they’re someone’s playmate!
They also came with a change of clothes and each girl has been “going to a party,” “stomping in rain puddles,” and “going to ballet” several times in the past few days. While I still have to help them change the clothes, I make them watch me closely each time and explain what I’m doing, which order the steps go in.
Hit and Stay RELEASED!
Today I became a published author. YAY!
My debut romantic suspense has been released! Hit and Stay, by Ninette Swann.
How very exciting! Go find it here at Resplendence Publishing.
If you’d like a taste of it, here’s the first bit.
“Okay, everybody, stand back. I said stand back! Nothing to see here. Move along.” Jake Harrison elbowed his way through the gathering crowd. He had to squeeze his large frame between two hysterical women, and he grimaced as he struggled through the front row of bystanders who jostled each other mercilessly, trying to get a better look at the beautiful cyclist sprawled out on the pavement. Her bike lay crumpled on the other side of the road.
It appeared to be a typical hit and run.
“Stand back. I’m police.” Even without his uniform, Jake knew he sounded authoritative enough to keep the crowd at bay.
His breath caught in his throat when he saw her. Andrea Wadsworth wasn’t just any beauty. The flaxen-haired socialite was an icon in this part of Illinois. Though quiet and seemingly shy, her betrothal to the mayor’s son nearly six months ago had put her in the headlines all the way out to Chicago.
Her fiancé, John Waters, had kept her there with his glad-handing and ambition. He was thought to be making a play for the Senate and, at least once a week, Jake saw pictures of the couple splashed all over the society pages of the local paper. They cut ribbons, attended galas and lent their gravitas to charity organizations. At every public event, Andrea was glued to her fiancé’s side, silent, smiling and demurely dressed.
So where was he now? Jake looked up, scanning the crowd methodically. He found no trace of the slicked-back politician-to-be.
That’s odd, Jake thought. Surely, with all Waters’ connections, someone had contacted him right away. Jake had been on the scene for at least fifteen minutes. Where was Waters?
The girl on the ground moaned softly and shifted her left leg.
“Don’t move,” Jake whispered, leaning in to her. “I’m calling for help.”
He dialed the police station’s main line from his cell phone. Though he had been on administrative leave for about a half a year now, he still knew the number by heart. Before he’d even gotten through, he heard the sirens in the distance. Someone in the crowd must have called.
Jake shook his head. Something was off, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. He turned his attention to the girl who was slowly coming around. He shushed her as she tried to raise her head
“Quiet now,” he said. “You’ve had a rough time of it. We’ve got people on the way. Lie still.”
Her blue eyes appeared dazed then froze with worry. “Who are you?” she said in a croaky voice. She tried to boost herself up on her elbows.
“Hey,” Jake whispered. “Don’t move. You’ve had quite a jolt. Rest. Help is coming.”
“Where am I?” she asked, her voice quivering and soft.
Jake wanted to reach out and smooth her tangled blonde hair from her brow, but he resisted. As frightened as she was, the contact would do neither of them any good. He’d learned the hard way not to react emotionally to victims, no matter how beautiful they were or how vulnerable they appeared. If he wanted back on the force, he’d have to be very careful.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Officers and medics are on their way.”
She acknowledged his words with a half-smile and visibly relaxed.
While he waited for backup, Jake’s professional eye raked over her body, trying to assess the extent of her injuries. Andrea Wadsworth was about five-foot-nine, tanned and in top shape. The papers said she was about twenty-five years old. Dressed in a fitted T-shirt and jeans, she wasn’t properly attired for cycling. She wasn’t even wearing a helmet. A red, racing bike sat crumpled on the other side of the road. It was a hit and run.
A shout from the crowd broke through, and Jake turned his head.
“Jake, hey Jake!” The whiny voice was irritatingly loud against the murmur of the other onlookers. Jake wiped his hair from his forehead. The stale, late-summer air kept the hardtop steaming even as the sun set low in the sky. Within seconds, a wiry man wearing squared hipster glasses had him by the elbow. “What’s the story here, Jake?”
“You should know, Burt,” Jake said with a sigh. “You’re the news, not me.”
“Aw, come on, Jake. Throw me a bone. This crash is going to take me hours to shoot, and my wife’s about to kill me for working so much overtime. Couldn’t this broad have gotten herself run over during business hours?”
Jake blanched. Shop humor, but still, so tasteless. The only people more hardboiled than police officers were news reporters.
“If you want a story, go track down Waters. Don’t you have eyes? This is his fiancée.”
Burt shook him jocularly as if they were old friends. Jake stepped away. Burt Bellows was no friend of his. Not anymore.
“That ain’t my angle,” Burt said. “I’m just here to take pictures of the scene and write five-hundred words about it before deadline. And I’m lucky I got here so quick. One of my guys called in with a tip.”
“Good to know we’ve got bulldogs like you to sniff out the story.” Jake rolled his eyes.
The ambulance had arrived, and officers were making their way to the scene. Jake watched silently as four men fitted the blonde for a neck brace and gingerly placed her onto a stretcher.
“Jake, you there, bro?” Burt tapped him on the shoulder, the motion filling Jake with annoyance. “Just give me the basic details, and I’ll be out of your hair, my hand to God.”
“I only know what you know.”
“Bullshit.” The reporter snorted, his greasy curls bouncy around his shoulders. “First of all, you know what I need. What time did this happen, what happened, how long is the investigation going to take and where’s she going?”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t mess with me. I’m hungry. And since I can tell you’re so invested in this girl, I’ll tell you a secret as soon as you’re done.”
“I’m not invested in her.”
“Then why protect her privacy? You know the chief’s just going to make a statement anyway. Save him the trouble. I won’t use your name.”
Jake rubbed his eyes as the ambulance doors slammed shut and the siren started to wail.
“Her name is Andrea Wadsworth. It looks like she was cycling down Main when a car must have hit her. That must be her bike over there. No helmet. Looks like a hit and run. The investigation will go on for as long as it takes, and she’s probably headed to St. Mary’s. That’s all I know.”
“Okay, great. Thanks, pal.”
Jake waited, his eyebrows raised.
Burt laughed at him and said, “See, I knew you were invested. Word back at the paper is that this was a suicide attempt. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
…So, what do you think?
It Takes a Village
My kids love me. They stick by my side. In fact, it’s hard for me to get away, for anyone else to help them, to put on their shoes, to dress them. My kids want me.
What an ego boost. What a pain in the rear. And why? Why do children in this day and age and location cling to their mothers so?
Well, first, obviously, because we’re awesome.
But second, and very importantly, because there’s no one else around.
We live in a very isolated world right now. All the playdates in the world don’t make up for the fact that mom is still there, is the only one the children will turn to for help or conversation. Mom is their first choice because throughout their day, mom is the one caring for them, rearing them. And even if she has a vast support system of family and friends about, it’s still not the same as it was.
Back when it took a village.
My husband was born on the Azorian Island Terceira. It takes about two hours to drive around the whole thing. In his village, everyone knew everyone. The man who brought the milk would tell his customers about the bundle of joy who’d been delivered to the family down the street, and those customers would let him know about the death of the two chickens on the farm up the way.
If your child ran out into the neighborhood, you let her go. Marcie would handle her, or Osvaldo or Maria. The entire village was like one big nuclear family.
And this system works.
It’s not possible, given our cities and streets and crime and strangers. But in that time, in that location, it worked. And it could easily work again. Children are social beings.
This is all brought about by the time we just spent with my mother in law and extended family on my husband’s side. When we first arrived, I was the girls’ go-to for any and everything, as it is in our daily lives. But by day three, they were bopping around from adult to adult with ease. If one of us was boring them, they found someone else to entertain them for a few minutes.
This worked out incredibly well. They were never antsy enough to fuss about, and they never stuck to any one person long enough to annoy them. The parents were happy and had time to themselves, and the kids had all the attention they could ever want, more than they could ever get from just one person.
They played ball with Uncle Isidro, before blowing balloons with Uncle Rui. Then they gave Aunt Arminda hugs before asking Aunt MaryAnn for yet another soda.
My children would thrive in a village environment, and so would I. Helicopter parents may be a product of necessity. Perhaps it’s not that we’re suddenly more worried about our kids. Perhaps it’s that we’re the only ones who are going to worry about our own, so we have to do the job ourselves. And it’s a big job.
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Toddler Tricks - 92: When Everything Changes, Stay the Same
Problem: You’re going to visit family, or friends, or someone far away where it’s not quite a vacation, but not quite not. You need your children to behave, but with all the changes to routine, new faces, and new pecking order, they don’t know what to think. When no one steps up to be the sole leader, you’ll find your children deciding that they are in charge. This is disaster. So much for showing off good behavior for grandma and grandpa. You’ll say something, and at first, they’ll go to the next adult to see if they like that answer better. After a while, they’ll skip that step and go right to the screaming. Even if they never get what they want from tantrums, it seems that doesn’t deter them.
Enter my Facebook
Your Facebook feed can say a lot about you. Who you read, what you like, what you shake your head at. Mine is particularly lively with images this morning, and I thought I’d share.
First we have this guy, courtesy of a journalism professor of mine.
Agree with gay marriage or not, this chart is accurate.
Then we get a cute shot of Bill Murray. To warn us of the zombie apocalypse.
I Don’t Wanna
Would you like to see my sink?
I’ll answer for you. No, you would not. Because this morning, at 8 a.m., just 45 minutes after my husband woke me up by doing sit ups at the foot of our bed, I was trying to clean the kitchen quietly, without waking the kids up. Because every sleeping second is sacred. I assume that’s the reason for the early-morning sit ups. Sometimes, you just need to do things alone, and 6:30 a.m. is the only time you have.
Anyway, I’m stalling. Stalling about writing about it, just like I’m stalling about doing anything about it.
This morning at 8 a.m. I ran the disposal without checking. I saw it before it happened. Just a split second before it happened. That piece of cooked pork, you know the one, the edge with the fat on it that everyone seems to push to the side. Usually, it makes it to the garbage. I had no reason to think it wouldn’t have this time. But I hadn’t checked. I should have checked. Never, ever run the disposal without checking, am I right?
Even as I went to wrap my fingers around its grimy, decaying frame, the suction grabbed it and pulled it down. Right past the old, basically useless chopper. Right into the pipe. Where it is still sitting. At 3:30 p.m.
Because I don’t wanna.
Oh, the picture. Here. Have a look. Because I’ve got the IQ of a chimp, I ran the dishwasher after this ordeal. What’s the worst that could happen, right?
Oh.
Do you like my sign? I bought it specifically for times like these. Because I know me, and I knew there would be times like these. And that plunger over there? Didn’t work. I mean, there is an inch-thick piece of pork about three and a half inches long stuck in that pipe. It’s not going anywhere.
And I don’t wanna.
Just call a plumber and get it over with, right?
Well, we rent.
Even better! Call the landlady. Get that crap taken care of.
Except then I have to admit to everyone (not counting you all) that I’m the idiot who let my sink eat an entire pig.
I’ll wait it out. There’s got to be a way.
I’ll use this:
You can’t go wrong with a surprisingly cheerfully red bucket, can you? With the bucket, plunger and Drano by my side, I’ll be sure to best this this.
Only, I didn’t have Drano.
Oh, well, drat. Guess I’ll have to pack everyone up and go to the store first. Pity, really. And since we’re already out and about and it’s close to lunch time, how about take out food at the park for lunch? Yay! I’m the best mom ever.
The best mom ever who does not want to.
Don’t wanna.
By the time we get back, it’s past 2 p.m. Off to bed with the little ones. And I can’t try to fix the sink while they’re sleeping. It would be too loud.
So, yeah, that’s my sink.
When they get up, we’ll go after that sucker with the bucket. Then we’ll dump boiling water down there, and plunge. Then we’ll have to use the bucket to get the boiling water out, since that won’t work. Then we’ll Drano and plunge. Then we’ll have to wait for my husband to come home when that doesn’t work, so he can empty the catch basin pipe thingie. Then he’ll have to quickly put it back together while I call the landlady to call the plumber, which is what I really should have done this morning at 8 a.m.
But I didn’t wanna.
And people say I don’t listen to advice. Pfft, please.
___
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Practicing for Three
Before your children get to three years old, you may want to practice, you know, so you don’t accidentally eat them at some point during that rewarding and calming year. Here are my suggestions, ways to practice, if you will, for the three year old you will someday have.
1) Start out strong. Set your alarm for 5:45 a.m. Then have your partner set his or her alarm for 5:20 a.m. and have them wake you up by screaming MOMMY in your ear.
2) Pour a bowl of cereal, let’s say Froot Loops. Put a little milk in it, then place it on the table. Let it get nice and soggy. Pour another bowl, let’s say Cheerios this time. Keep them dry. Don’t touch them. Wait 20 minutes. Then take both bowls and dump them on the carpet. Bonus points if you can get some milk under the couch.
3) Turn on the television to PBS. Never turn it off. Every five minutes or so, turn the volume up or down. You may want to take this time to flip the lights on and off, too. Or turn the dishwasher on and off. Or open and shut doors over and over. You choose. Mix it up!
4) Open the fridge. Leave it open.
5) Go to the bookshelf and pull all the books off. Leave them on the floor. Take off all dust covers and crumple them.
6) Pour a sippy cup of half juice half water. Use child-friendly swear words to express frustration at the fridge being open. Then pour one of milk. Cap it. Wait thirty seconds. Take the cap off and put chocolate in it. Recap it. Wait thirty seconds. Uncap it and put it in the microwave. Recap it. Wait thirty seconds then put it in the fridge. Pour a cup of water. go over to your best sofa and dump it out.
7) Nap time! Don’t move for an hour. Do not go to the bathroom, walk around, clean anything, or even read a book. You don’t want to wake anyone up.
8) Invest in a vuvuzela or noisemakers. Throughout the day, blow it directly in your ear. This is a faulty step. It’s nowhere near as annoying as constant demands and tantrums. But we have to work with what we have.
9) Sit down. Get up and get a tissue. Sit back down. Get up and get a towel. Sit back down. Get up and get a snack. Leave it on the couch. Sit back down. Get up and put the cereal on the floor. Sit back down. Get up and put the cereal in the kitchen. Sit back down. Get up and get a blanket. Etc. Do this until you’re about to rage.
10) Close the fridge.
11) Go to the bathroom. Sit there for three hours. Read yourself fairy tales and nursery rhymes non-stop the whole time.
12) (Wait until your partner is around for this one. You’ll need two people.) You start cleaning. Do dishes, and kitchen work. Have your partner go into the living room and throw things around. Then switch. You go clean the living room. Have your partner take dirty dishes out of the washer and put them on the floor and counter spaces. Repeat five times.
13) Fill the bathtub. Put toys in it. Splash the water all over the floor. Open and empty an expensive bottle of shampoo. Clean it all up while singing show tunes.
14) Bed time! Sound the noisemakers non stop for 20 to 90 minutes. Then get yourself a glass of wine.
Good job! You’re ready!
___
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