12 in 11- The Written Edition

1.) This year in blog posts…choose a favorite post from each month of 2011 and share.


This year was filled with a lot of ups and few downs, but overall an amazing year.

January

This new year began with Maeve celebrating her first birthday with me doing my best Martha.  Overplanning. her Winter "One"derland party with tons of red, aqua, and white, became my obsession during the start of 2011. Besides the pin the nose on the snowman, activities were relatively laid back. Our guestlist was tiny, however having our relatives from Taiwan present made it that much more memorable.

Maeve and her cousin Blaise



February

During February, in the post entitled Bathroom Bully I lamented on my epic failure with potty training. I shared my fear that I would be changing Moira's diapers during Kindergarten.
Fun times, fun times!

No doubt, running away from the potty!

March

My grandmother's collection of blue glass inspired the post Blue Glass & Ivory Soap.

April

While Moira's birthday party took centerstage the beginning of the month, our long, long, long trip to Target best exemplified were I was in parenthood during April.

How many Mo?

May
This year, I really believe I have discovered my voice as a writer. In a prompt from the site formally known as the Red Dress Club now Write on Edge, I discussed my defintion of Pride here, cellulite and all for the world to embrace!

One of the few photos of me taken this year.

June
In one of my most favorite posts ever, I discussed grocery shopping and the car cart. In Stalker, I complained of those who misuse my secret weapon for successful grocery shopping trips and praised that regardless of their rather bulky size, they still are a necessity for me.

July
With the loss of my father in law, I took a moment to remember Buddy.

August

In a rut,  Days Like These had me writing of the nearly suffocating heat as we headed for yet another trip to my parents for refuge in the air conditioning. I had had about enough, when it was Moira who made me stop for a moment and take in the little things.

My Beach Baby enjoyed the heatwaves

September 

With School Days, the momentous occasion of her first first day of school was shared. With smiles and a new red backpack with soccer ball, she was set. Everyday has been a blast since!

October

 I seriously contemplated giving up stay at home mom status for a job back in the classroom. With Back to Work? I debated my choice, and ultimately chose to put off the transition for the future.

November
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I got a little creative and Thanksgiving Prose was the final outcome.

Maeve had a clear opinion on Mommy's blogging this year!

December

Finally, as the year came to a close, instead of sharing news of my pregnancy, I wrote of my loss in Not The Way I had Planned. .

As not to end on a sad note, I think A December to Remember, Ha! gave me a chance to be light and happy again.

See ya later 2011!

I realize technically I have chosen more then 12 posts for this year, however, I think with any missing, it would not have been a true representation of what 2011 had done for me. It was one helluva year!

Bring on 2012, I've got the champagne on ice already!

Linking up with Mama Kat & Natalie of Mommy of a Monster

Where I'm From...

This post was intially written a few months ago, but I feel like it fits this week's listicle perfectly. Not the traditional listicle format, but perfect none the less.

A few months ago, I stumbled upon the template to the Where I'm From writing exercise modeled after the poem by George Ella Lyon on another blogger's site. I initally found it on The Girl Behind in June of this year. Her eloquence, created such  a vivid picture of one's childhood that I was floored. Immediately I too copied the template, with the intention of filling my own words, my own life on those empty lines.
But then, it hit me.
That feeling that the task was too large. The task of finding the "right" words seemed overwhelming.
So I clicked, save and there the template sat.
Waiting for my words.
Days turned to weeks which turned to months and then it happened.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered the template listed amongst this week's prompts over at Mama Kat. I debated, should I finish? (really should I start?)
Reading Galit's version over at These Little Waves gave me that last push I needed.

Where I'm From 

I am from a town raised from steel, from Louisville Slugger and Heinz ketchup.

I am from the repetition of a suburban development.  Black mailbox, Black driveway, freshly mowed grass.

I am from the feisty dogwood tree sharing her spring blooms, the sound of the crickets breaking the nightly silence.

I am from Christmas Eve Mass and overindulgence, from Mom-Moms. and Pop-Pops and extended family too.

I am from the loud voices overtaking the room and the whispers found in it's corners.

From "Imagine if you applied yourself." and "Don't end up like....".

I am from the pew in the middle row. The promise of eternal life, and the Host every Sunday. From education about faith to shared breakfast after. From crowded manger scenes, to washing of the feet. From Amen and I believe.

I’m from small towns in Poland, Slovakia, and Ireland, overly buttered piergoies and tomato sauced topped stuffed cabbage.

From the farm my great grandfather managed, the rides on the back of the tractor down the dusty dirt road and the little boy who learned to ride a bicycle only after riding away on the one he had stolen.

I am from framed photos on the wall and matted in plastic lined albums. I am from little, few family heirlooms or mementos of monetary value. Instead, people filling the confines of a home. Rooms overtaken with life.
Family the core, the center, the most important.

I must add in non-poetic verse.

I am from the land of the Blob.

Yes, this Blob.

This movie was filmed here, and our local theater hosts a Blob Fest yearly.

Snowed

In layer upon layer, coat, scarf and glove.

Out the door I'm pushed into snow I do not love.

I do not want to go outside,

I do not like the snow.

Yet this falls on deaf ear

As my eyes begin to tear

I do not want to go outside,

I do not like the snow.

My feet feel heavy in my boots,

Down the stairs I slowly scoot.

I do not want to go outside,

I do not like the snow.

Through the glass a smile I see,

I'm jealous it's her inside not me.

I do not want to go outside,

I do not like the snow.

In my face, a snowball hits

God, this snow, it is the pits!

I do not want to go outside,

I do not like the snow.

My hands reach down, a target's in sight,

With a snowball I'm ready for the fight.

I do not want to go outside,

I do not like the snow.

On his head the snow falls

I laugh, then I hear my mom call,

"Do you want to come inside?

Do you like the snow?"

Well,

I do not want to go INside.

I LOVE the snow!

5.) Write a poem about a snow memory.
Last January, at the ripe old age of 2 3/4, she hated the snow. At least, that's what she told us. As I bundled her up, layer upon layer, she reminded me she didn't want to go out. I captured this photo moments before sending her out with Bry, after he had shoveled the front path. Quickly her frown turned into a smile. She had a lot of time to enjoy the snow last year, with record snow fall in the greater Philadelphia area.

Thanksging Prose

'Twas the night before Thanksgiving,

And while the children did rest.

He hurried in the kitchen,

Doing what he does best.

His ritual perfected, as 

We'll share a huge feast,

Of stuffing, potatoes, corn,

And an organic roast beast.

Chopping, dicing,

His menu, so grand.
My job so simple,

Just offer a hand.

Our table is set

Eighteen, can you believe it?

There's room at this table,

We'll make it, we will fit!

The hurry, the panic,

Sets in night before.

What were we thinking?
What is in store?

A house filled with family,

Our tradition, our Day.

I cannot in the heart of me, 

Think of a better way. 

The chaos, the bodies, 

The drinking, the food.  

The laughter, the smiles, 

The altogether good mood. 

Each year I feel lucky 

Altogether, we're blessed.

To have a home, a family,

A day with limited stress.

I am thankful for family,

The young and the old.

For the food on the table,

and the vodka- kept cold!

It's easy to complain,

When things don't go your way,

But I'm so glad we have the respite

Each year of Thanksgiving Day.
A time where we truly think,

About all we treasure.

How we made it another year,

Survived all we've weathered.

I am lucky this year,

So much to be thankful for.

A husband that cooks, works hard,

I adore.

Two lovely daughters,

Filled with energy and spark, 

Running, Laughing, 

From sunrise to dark.  

Family and friends

Whose support, unreal.

Many who will join us,

And share in this meal.

So Happy Thanksgiving to you,

Whomever you are,

May your days be surrounded

With love near or far.

Linking up with Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop. This week I combined the following prompts.
2.) What traditions do you carry on with your family each year?

4.) Write a poem about something you’re thankful for this Thanksgiving.

Brunch

Descending the cement staircase, I push open the heavy metal door. The voices echo throughout the large auditorium that also serve as the school's gymnasium and cafeteria. Rectangular tables are pushed together as a sea of bodies fill the space. Eagerly, I begin searching for a familiar face.
Waving his arm high, I spy my father. Dressed in his khaki pants and polo, he leisurely sips a mug of coffee. Holding the red ticket in his hand, I rush over.
Having survived another hour of catechism class, this breakfast is most appreciated. Once a month, the reward for my Catholic duty, breakfast in the basement of our church's school.
Tossing the yellow folder onto the table, I throw pleasantries at the adults at the table.
Our church is small, and many of the families have been parishioners for decades. Those faces are so familiar, as I grew up amongst them. The kisses I offer on cheeks has been dolled out many times before, and serves as another obstacle to procuring my brunch.
Returning to the doorway, I hand my red ticket to the matronly ladies working the door. Nodding, they permit me to walk past, and find my place in the line.
Within minutes, I am at the metal food stand. The blue plastic tray in hand, I grab the utensils from their plastic containers. Fork, spoon, and knife placed on the tray as I grab a few extra napkins.  I spy my great Uncle Mickey behind the glass divide. Seeing me, he offers me a smile and asks if I want some extra pancakes.
Declining, instead I ask for a glass of milk. Taking the plastic cup, he fills it three quarters of the way. I could choose one of the small plastic glasses of orange juice or tomato, but milk works best for this feast.
Handing the plate to the next man in the line, I move down a bit. Wearing his white hat, I ask for more of the potatoes. His home fries are legendary, and I never can seem to have enough on my plate. Placing the metal spoon into the container, he dollops a heavy heaping onto my plate.
My own smile widens as I decide in that moment my mom and sis will be jealous and no, they can't have that extra bite.
It is only a few years later I will meet his granddaughter in homeroom during our freshmen year of high school, and become her best friend. We are given his recipe, but never successfully can recreate those potatoes. On this day, the man in the white hat is simply the potato guy.
My plate is handed off to the next elderly gentlemen. Another great uncle, I suppose, as I simply categorize them all as relatives.The men, the older members of our church, have this system mastered.  Scrambled eggs and pieces of bacon find their way onto the plate, and then a piece of ham steak and one plump sausage.
Carefully he extends the overfilled plate to me across the counter. I grab a dinner roll and pat of butter. Placing it all on my tray, I am ready.
The trek to the table is harrowing, as I navigate amongst the crowd of those in their Sunday bests while balancing a plate of food, utensils and a glass of milk. Dodging winter coats and cups of coffee, I find my family.
Placing the plate before me, I settle into the metal chair. I place the sausage on my father's plate, as he adds ketchup  and offers me thanks.
I take my fork and begin.
My most favorite place to eat as a child: Sunday brunch in our Church's basement.


This post comes at a difficult point in my life, as only this week we have discovered the Archdiocese is closing our Church. My memories of our small, neighborhood Church fill my childhood, as both sides of my family were members. Initially a parish for those of Slovak decent, the parish was like family, filled with piergoies, haluski, & stuffed cabbages.  While I no longer live in the area, I still considered it "My Church"

.
This post was inspired by Mama Kat's Pretty Much World Famous Writer's Workshop
3.) Write about your favorite place to eat when you were a child.

What a Trip!

Mama Kat's Prompt this week:
1.) Did you create a list of 22 things you’ve done in your life last week?
 Yes, Here it is.  
This week, choose one item from your list and elaborate! We want the story

20. had to rename our honeymoon to a babymoon after discovering myself pregnant three weeks before departure.

I sat back down into the chair. My eyes glanced across the table. Placing the glass to his mouth, his eyes met mine.
I mouthed, "Nope", as the conversation continued around.
His eyes widened.
I believe it may have been fear I saw in Bry's eyes at that moment.
"Another toast", Lynsay said.
My glass of wine raised back in the air, as we congratulated our most dear friend, Steve on his new position.
This celebratory dinner in honor of Steve happened to coincide with another first.
One that had been disclosed to Bryan only a few hours before.
It was still only a possibility, a perhaps, and maybe.

However, it was the very first evening I suspected I was pregnant.

Between appetizer and entree at our favorite Seafood restaurant, I had excused myself to the restroom anticipating a certain monthly arrival.
Already a day late, I was sure it would come.
It never did.

Visiting my mother in law the following day down the shore, I knew it would arrive on the beach. Of course, what could be more embarrassing then an incident in a bathing suit?
The day was spent basking in the sun, wading in the sea, and reading uninterrupted.

It never came.

We dined alone at a local bar, and taking it's absence as a sign, I ordered a soda.
No alcohol for me, as Bry shook his head in disbelief.

Could I really be pregnant?

Over a meal of cheesesteaks and fries, we developed a plan of action. In an attempt to avoid any family members, we would purchase two different pregnancy tests at the drug store down the shore. However, we would wait until we arrived home that evening to test.
It would only be a few hours and then we would know with certainty.

Arriving at our house, we abandoned our bags in the car and fled to our bedroom.
Having consumed a rather large iced tea during the hour and half ride home, my bladder easily performed its duty with the test.
Placing the plastic stick onto the counter, I walked into our bedroom.
Lying on the bed, his arms covered his eyes as he spoke.
"Do you think we can handle this?" he said. Lifting his arms off his face, looking straight into mine.
"I sure hope so," I began, "I mean, if we're pregnant".
I watched the minute pass, and then another, and then another.
Three minutes.
Exactly what the directions has instructed.
Walking into the bathroom, my stomach and heart jumped as I reached for the stick.

+

Tears began to fill my eyes, as I could hear the sobs over take my body.
Rising from the bed, he wrapped his arms around me.
"I thought this is what you wanted" he asked, kissing my head as he finished.
"It is". I said, "but what about our trip?"
Only three weeks from that day we were scheduled to spend seven days on the island of St. Barth's. The honeymoon we had spent nearly two years saving and planning for, was less then a month away.
Now, how would pregnancy throw a wrench into those plans?
"I guess you just won't drink" he said, laughing.

And that's the only thing I did miss.

My Life in Twenty-Two Moments

I am thirty- three years old and in my life thus far I have:

1.  received the swim team as a Christmas gift at five years old.

2. been  known to subject my younger sister to a childhood filled with imaginative play where she was the pet. Think me: Annie, she: Sandy, me: Dorothy, she: Toto

3.  had perfect attendance in Kindergarten.

4.. been chosen from the audience at the now defunct Sea World of Aurora Ohio to feed a killer whale a fish during our only trip to Ohio.

5.  survived a nearly 24 hour car ride in a rented minivan with my parents, grandparents, sister, and brother at the age of twelve for first (and only) trip to Disney world.

6. stopped going to our local public library when I was a kid, mainly because I lost a book and thought I would have to pay an exorbitant amount of money in fines.
You know, like $100. It never crossed my mine that they would just fine us the cost of the Dr. Seuss book.

7. spent a week in Mexico living with a family after only taking 3/4 of a year of Spanish in high school. I still am not sure of most of what they said.

8,  starting tossing the javelin, at 17, the last few months of my senior year in high school.

9.  waded into the Mediterranean Sea during a long weekend in Spain.

10. met the love of my life sometime within the first month of college.

11. walked on to a Big East Division One swim team as a Freshman.

12. earned a partial athletic scholarship on that swim team.

13. received votes to become assistant captain my senior year of that very swim team.

14. stretched out my college experience an extra semester just for student teaching.

15.  started my first real teaching job approximately forty-eight hours after finishing my student teaching.

16. forgone family tradition, to spend Christmas in shorts and flip flops in Key West, Florida.

17. exchanged wedding vows in a simple beach chapel on the eve of a near monsoon.

18. spent time intended for vacation in the hospital.

19. lived like an international rock star for seven days for our much delayed but anticipated honeymoon.

20.  had to rename our honeymoon to a babymoon after discovering myself pregnant three weeks before departure.

21. endured the anticipation and heard "It's a girl" two times (on different occasions*) in the delivery room.

22. found my hopefully someday perfect happily ever after house after nearly 8 months and close to 80 house tours.

What are your 22?
What 22 things have you done in your life? Join up with Mama Kat.
* Reading comments, I realized intially this read as if I had twin girls. Nope, two girls just under 22 months apart. No twins here!

So Thankful

The table set.
Exquisitely decorated place mats, courtesy of Mo define each setting, as the anticipation of Thanksgiving dinner swirls with the scents from the kitchen.
Our tradition, bringing our respective families together for Thanksgiving is in full effect. They sit in the living room, waiting, snacking, and enjoying "not" cooking.
The turkey removed from the oven, resting under an aluminum foil tent. It's perfectly golden brown skin crisp and inviting sits on the counter.
The buzz of the timer rings, as cornbread stuffing with crisp bacon and sweet potato casserole are removed. After a few years of experimentation,  the perfect balance of sweet potato, maple syrup and butter has been achieved, creating a deliciously yummy dish.
On the stove top, pots of green beans and corn simmer, as the asparagus with roasted garlic finishes it's roast. Taking the large pot of potatoes over to the sink, the water is dumped. Milk, salt, and an obscene amount of butter is added. Under the weight of the masher, the potatoes turn into a creamy velvety mash. The spoon meets mouth.
Perfection.
Twisting the handle, the jelled cranberries are poured into the plate. One of the few items not created from scratch. The twist and pop of the biscuits from their cylindrical container, the other.
Transferring the vegetables into serving bowls, the feast begins to take shape. Moving into the dining room, the bowls line the center of the table. Serving spoons are matched to their respective container.
The crowd begins to gather. Drinks in hand, as they find their seats, awaiting the main course.
I enter the dining room, pausing for a moment to look at those around the table. I find my seat, as he enters. Carrying the white tray, the turkey is presented.

Damn him.
Another fabulous Thanksgiving dinner under his belt.

Daddy teaching Mo the ways of the turkey

Turkey placemats care of Moira

Dinner

Linking up with Mama Kat
3.) Describe a meal your spouse actually cooks better than you.

A Story Worth Sharing

They ran away together, only a few months after dating.
The daughter of a farm hand and his wife who loved dancing and dusty road sundaes, lipstick and ivory soap.
She had no idea what her life would hold.
She loved him, that she knew.
Wearing a teal green suit, one that sits in her closet still, she transformed from Miss to Misses over night.
She said yes.
The small ring she chose on her finger.
No white wedding,
No formal dress,
No bouquet to toss,
No reception to celebrate.
The photo ran in the paper, their arms intertwined and their smiles wide.
They purchased the row house on a one way street near a cemetery. He persuaded her that he could make it a home, confident in his abilities.
Life was not always easy.
Walls came down, creating a more open family room in time to welcome a family. Three daughters then three sons, motherhood her job.
Maintaining a home, maintaining a family, maintaining her husband, she continued on.
Life was not always easy.
He continued to build and transform the house; the kitchen, a bedroom, the basement, and a sun room.
Work for him was constant, but money was tight.
His addictions, a curse.
Life was not always easy.
She continued on, six children to mind.
As they grew up, their successes her success:
Graduations, Marriages, Jobs, Grandchildren.
He finally cleaned up his ways, giving her more breathing room.
Their marriage survived the abuse and misuse.
Life was not always easy.
He got sick and she was there, by his side.
Doctors, ambulances, hospitals,
Repeat, Repeat, Repeat.
With his passing, mourning then a rebirth.
A new independent woman.
Strong, a leader, volunteering and venturing out with friends.
Bus trips, morning coffee at McDonalds, morning mass, and volunteering at a consignment shop.
Her life continues,
Welcoming more grandchildren and great grandchildren.
Having lunch with friends.
Daily phone calls with her children.
Selling the house, she bravely downsizes to an apartment,
"The attic" as it is affectionately called.
The photos remain on the wall,
As this new place becomes her home.
The matriarch
My Mom-Mom. 


I'm linking up with Mama Kat. Of her choices this week, Your Grandma’s story immediately struck a chord for me. I hope if she (my grandmom) reads this, she feels I have done her justice. I wrote about her previously in a post entitled Blue Glass & Ivory Soap.

Not Your Fault, But Mine

It's Thursday, time to get some inspiration from Mama Kat and her Pretty Much World"s Famous Writer's Workshop.
This week's prompt: Songversation. Take a current song that teens and tweens are listening to, share the lyrics, and offer a conversation that you might have with your child about the song.

Reading this week's selection of prompts, I realized how out of the loop I am in the pop music world. Grant it, I know who Nicki Minaj, Katy Perry, & Justin Beiber are, I wouldn't be able to recognize any of their songs on the radio. (Okay, except for that Baby, Baby, Baby song from the Beibs. How can you not know that one?) I am a fan of Gaga, and Mo will hum the Bad Romance - tune mainly from hearing me do it.
My listening options in the car, the usual time for radio listening has been hijacked by two little girls. Thus we have a steady rotation of Laurie Berkner Band and CDs from music class.
If you have a child, I assume you know Laurie & her band. If not, let me entertain you for a moment.

Yes, it's like crunchy, folky, kiddie music that has the effect of crack on my kids.
I am not exageratting here.
As soon as Mo is secured in her carseat she says, "My music".
In her head, I figure it's more like "I need it. Give me the Berkner bitch. I need my fix!"
Even 19 month old Maeve attempts to sing along.
Don't get me wrong, I've read the crap that links music and the arts to success later in academics,and I believe it. However, there's only so much of it I can take.
Those moments when the girls fall alseep, it's my turn!
Radio 104.5 cannot be clicked on quick enough.
Chili Peppers, Dave Matthews, Kings of Leon, Pearl Jam, Death Cab...I could go on. How I love a good band!
There are moments, however, where my two loves collide. Mo will wake up, thumb in her mouth, silently listening along to Mumford & Sons Little Lion Man singing about "really fucking it up this time".
So what do I do?
Why at this stage, I don't talk about fuck being a bad word, she's three. If I continually repeat the word, she'll start saying it.
I can't do that.
I change it.
I'm usually against censorship. I believe whole heartedly in the freedom of speech, however in terms of a three year old, fuck is not cool. Neither is "Sex being on fire" (kings of Leon), or "caressing me down" (old school Sublime) or "rape me" (Nirvana).
I don't need to have that kid in preschool.



 As we watch and sing along, I make sure my voice is exceptionally loud saying "messed up" while they sing "fucked up".
I hear her singing Little Lion Man (the PG version) to her reflection in the mirror, and I am safe...for now.

Soccer Girl!

Walking into the dining room she calls out, "I gonna play mama. Keep sis away from me!".
No further words need to be exchanged.  I understand her plan.
She rounds the large dining room table, heading to the small wooden cabinet. Her little fingers grab the knob as she bends down to peer in.
She sees it!
There lies the plastic case. With excitement, she grabs it and eagerly runs to the head of the table. Placing the case there, she uses her strength to pull out the heavy chair. Like an acrobat, she contorts her body then pulls the case towards her.
Opening it, she begins to prepare her space.
Grabbing the large green carpet, she pulls herself on the edge of the table and begins to unfold. Her arms extend as she smooths out the wrinkles.
The pitch is up!
One then two plastic goals emerge from the case. Following the marks on the mat, she meticulously places one. Grabbing the other, carefully she repeats the motion at the other end.  During this time, she pulls out the lone orange shirted male figure. Meant to be the referee, she prefers he stand guard on one of the goals, and so there she places him.
It is ready for the girls, the soccer girls.
She buries her head into the case. She is searching with a purpose.
"Maevie, come here! I've got something for you!" she yells to her baby sister.
Hearing the voice and her name, Maeve enters. As she gets closer to her older sister, more instructions are given.
"Don't touch, Shiny!" she says, "You can have these two". She hands Maeve two plastic girls frozen mid-stride while kicking soccer balls. Their purple and pink jerseys look bright in her tiny hand.
"No go away!" she finishes. Obviously her good nature ends with this act.
She returns to her project. She places her hand into the case and pulls out a plastic pony-tailed girl wearing a purple jersey.
"Number 24" she says. "You go here!" Onto the mat she places the purple girl.
She continues her routine: pulling out, saying a number, then placing it with its color coordinated team mate onto the mat.
She finishes, and an audible "ta-dah" is heard in the adjoining room.
Grabbing the small soccer ball, she is ready to begin their game.
There are very few things that can successfully keep the attention of my three year old. Knowing her affinity for soccer, this thoughtful gift has become a favorite in our house for both of us.

This post was inspired by Mama Kat's Pretty Much World Famous Writing Prompt:

4.) Share a favorite craft or game that will keep your kids busy for at least 20 minutes.

The Simple Things...

Before my eyes can open for the morning, I hear the footsteps and the creak of the door open. Into our room she creeps, Jessie in one hand and panties in the other.
I grab her, as she tosses the panties onto the makeshift nightstand. Up and into the bed she goes.
"What we doing today Mama?" she asks, as her thumb finds it's way into her mouth.
Soft blue eyes look to me, waiting for the response.
"Close your eyes for a moment and cuddle in" I say, as I pull her little body closer, the sheet under her chin.
Her father asleep next to me, unaware of anything. He sleeps soundly.
"But mama, what we doing today?" she asks again.
The promise of more sleep dissipates as her sister stirs. Her babble audible through her closed door.
"Shiny*!" she squeals as she throws the covers off her body, hopping onto the hardwood floor. Jessie is left lying on my bed, as she heads to meet her baby sister.
The door is pushed open.
"Shiny Baby!" she sings, "How are you Maevie? How did you sleep, my baby?"
Her chubby hands are grabbing the top of the crib rails, as her body bobs up and down with excitement. She takes the blue pacifier from her mouth, placing it into her hand, and in her new found voice looks to her big sister and says "Mo-Mo!". Two steps behind, I emerge in the doorway. My hands run throw my disheveled hair, as I adjust the waistband of my shorts, and watch the exchange.

Mo spies me as Maeve hands the pacifier to her bigger sister.
"Mama, she said Mo-Mo!" she says, as she hands me the pacifier. She races back to the side of the crib, and grabs her sisters fingers through the slat. "I so proud of you Shiny! You said Mo-Mo!".
Together they smile and start laughing. I stand as an observer as my girls continue laughing.

Soon I find the giggles are contagious as I am laughing too.
"What's going on?" I hear from behind me.
"Da" she says, looking to her father in the doorway, freshly waken from sounds of laughter.
"Daddy, Maevie said dad and Mo-Mo!" she explains. "She talking!"
I take a moment to remember this perfect moment.
The simple things…

*Shiny = nickname for Maeve, derived from former nickname of Sunshine, Given by Mo, In addition can be shortened to Shine

Sweet!

I put my money on the counter of the snack bar and the cherry Italian ice is placed my way. I rip off the paper lid as fast as I can. I'm ready!
My sister and I had developed a strategy to consume these ices. With the small wood paddle, we would scrap the ice back and forth onto either sides. Ceremoniously we would lick off the ice, and continue, until the ice melted a bit. Then it was time to do the "flip". Perhaps it was only something the two of us enjoyed, but the bottom of the ice cup had a delicacy of sorts. The sugared icy bottom seemed to have intensified flavor and was delicious. This bottom was the main reason for my purchase. Yum!
Recently my three year old discovered Italian ice. The wooden mini-spoon is no longer available so a regular table spoon would suffice. While it didn't quite work the exact same way as before, I still was able to get it melted to the point of flip. However disappointment ensued, no frozen icy flavorful bottom!
While I was sad, I started thinking back to my favorite frozen treats of my youth.
The only thing better growing up then ice at the snack bar of the pool were the homemade frozen ice pops my friend Peter's mom would make. Most homemade ice pops would lose flavor two minutes into sucking, but not Mrs. S's.
They were unbelievable!
I compare them to the everlasting gobstopper of frozen treats. Not only did they never lose out of flavor, they were delicious. Finally these pops had the layer of goo that my favorite Italian ice had, but thicker and even more flavorful.
As with life, our time with the S family grew less as we switched schools and they moved, however those pops remained ingrained in my head. A food memory of my youth that I treasured and wished to recreate.
Imagine my surprise late last summer when I received an email from my mom with the heading "Recipe" and the message "I think you'll enjoy this". Attached was a forward from Mrs. S sharing her recipe.
After reviewing the ingredients it is quite obvious why these Popsicles are awesome.
Three words: Jello, Kool Aid, & Sugar!


Mrs. S's Everlasting Popsicles
1 small box of jello
1 package of koolaid
1 cup sugar
Mix above with 1 cup hot water and dissolve

Then add 1 cup cold water.

Pour into 3 or 5 oz Dixie cups.
Freeze for about 1 hour and then insert Popsicle sticks
Freeze another 2 hours

They are still as delicious as I remember.
Happy Summer!

This post was inspired by summertime, childhood, and Mama Kat's Pretty Much World Famous Writer's Workshop: Comfort food at its finest. Share a family favorite recipe you loved as a child.

Juicy

As I walk into the garden the large melon had taken a prominent position amongst the leaves and vines. One could not miss the fruit, as it had grown to nearly epic proportions, at least in our garden it seemed epic. Compared to the tiny tomatoes, cucumbers and eggplants, this one large watermelon seemed gigantic.
My siblings could not wait to cut into the red, ripe flesh and sink their teeth into it. I, on the other hand, had no such desire.
Watermelon disgusts me.
Seriously, I am not kidding.
I despise watermelon in any or all forms.
The flavor would gag me if I were to unknowingly consume a lollipop or bubble gum sweetened by it. A Popsicle would be tossed into the garbage if the flavor was that of my most hated fruit. Fruit salad would be ceremoniously picked through with a fork or fingers if necessary, segregating the moist pink melon from its' more delicious counterparts.
"It just isn't right", my husband moans. "I just don't know how you can't like watermelon. I think it's unAmerican."
Consider me a traitor then because my taste buds have made it clear, watermelon is the enemy.
Watching someone devour a slice in the summer as liquid runs down their chin makes me roll my eyes in disgust. Cantaloupe or honeydew does not give me the ill feelings. I haven't met a berry I don't like. I even tolerate grapefruit in small portions, but watermelon, no can do.
As a little girl, I was taught not to spit.
"It's not lady like to spit", I remember my mom saying.
Having been scolded for spitting saliva or water at my sister I knew the rule, but with watermelon it was different.
Spitting is a requirement.
"Spit the seeds onto the edge of your plate", my mom would say.
"See how far you can spit them in the air" my sister would laugh as my parents would encourage.
This was one I could not get behind, and outright refused to comply until recently.
I push my two girls in the shopping cart as we navigate through the fruit section of the grocery store.
"What's this, mommy?" my three year old asks, gesturing her body towards the fruit.
"It's watermelon" I say.
"It's filled with seeds and mommy doesn't like it all". wrinkling my nose to mimic my disgust.
"Daddy likes watermelon" she pines, "and so do I. Can we get some mama?"
I give in and dump the fruit into the cart.
The fruit that I despise in all forms but will carve for my three favorite people to consume.
"Tell daddy that mommy likes pineapple, fresh pineapple the next time you come here with him" I tell her, knowing full well he does not like them and will enjoy carving that beast for me!

This post was prepared in response to Mama Kat's prompt "Describe a food you abhor".