PDG in K!

PDG is now three weeks into the life of a Kindergartener. I'm not quite sure how it happened this fast, or how it's no longer the weirdest concept possible that my baby boy is in school all day.

There's obviously been a lot of build-up to this point. First, I had to figure out where he'd attend, and as past posts explain, moving to Woodbridge ended up the best option I could fathom given the factors. Our neighborhood is pretty diverse, meaning the school within walking distance is also a mix of black and white and brown and all sorts of languages and cultures. The big kids that ran the townhouse community gang on their bikes all summer, now keep an eye out for PDG and the other younger ones in the halls. PDG loves the days he sees his big friends around, just like he likes absolutely everything about school.

Take that back. Bathrooms. We're still working on liking, and therefore using, public bathrooms. But let's be honest, what adult actually likes using public restrooms either?

The first event of the summer was registration and assessment. Apparently PDG rocked the reading and numbers portion, but when it came time to cut with scissors, my little perfectionist wanted to cut exactly in the center of the line, which predictably did not happen. This led to a shut-down pouting face that you've likely seen if you've seen PDG fail in even the slightest bit at anything. Luckily, his teacher Mrs D is amazing and already knew he'd be in her class, so she gave him a pep talk and encouraged us to keep using scissors at home for a while.

Two weeks later JG and I attended orientation where PDG got to practice going through the lunch line and then went off to ride a school bus with all the other Kindergarteners. Meanwhile the grownups sat in their tiny seats and filled out a bunch more forms and learned again about what we can send for snack and how the classroom is set up. It got more and more real. And emotions of all sorts about my family came bubbling up and out.

The first day the boys woke up at my house and we hurried around like usual to get out on time. Fantastically "on time" is 25 minutes later than last school year, but still early. Due to a wait list situation that still isn't resolved, PDG goes to his old daycare with MDG in the mornings, and then Miss S walks him to the school (she's in walking distance too!). For the first day, however, JG escorted him and I charged him with taking tons of pictures so I could live vicariously while I gave my first day spiel to my own scared new freshmen (and lots of nervous upperclassmen too). I checked my phone a ton to find all of these.

Since then my favorite part of each weekday is picking up MDG, driving the half mile to PDG's school, and then walking to the entrance and waiting for Mrs D's class to come out. It's all so organized, and reminds me daily why I prefer high school to these tiny tots. They walk with their mouths full of air like puffer fish and their arms folded before standing backpacks against the wall in the same order every day. Kindergarteners have to be released directly to a parent, so once Mrs D sees me, she calls PDG's name and he runs over, grabs my hand, and I pepper him with questions. There's almost always a huge smile followed by "I dunno" or  "I don't remember" to every question I ask. When he does start to remember, I get filled in on details of "clipping up" which is part of a positive rewards system, an overview of lunch or specials (art has been rocky so far), minor tattles on the girl at his table who talks too much and occasionally clips down, and snippets of songs about the calendar, letters of the alphabet or his new favorite book: Chicka Chicka Boom Boom.

MDG loves to see the crossing guard as we walk from the car to the entrance and back again, and entertains the other parents and waiting little siblings. We take a break from learning to relax in our downstairs "imagination station" with no screens for a while. Then there's dinner or playing outside, or some PBS Kids apps, or baths before 20 minutes of reading and bedtime and repeat.

I can't believe he's so big, but I also can't imagine a better Kindergarten experience so far.  And hey, if he ever does go #2 at school, an hour of solo iPad time awaits.

Good Riddance, 32

Guess who just finished celebrating her first solo birthday with her first solo wedding! That's right, this woman right here.

 (I was gonna write "this girl" but at 33, it's time I call myself a woman, I think.)

Now, I can't say that I survived the birthday weekend unscathed. I mean, I did sob while driving through the pouring rain at 8am after dropping off the boys, but a phone call to Big Sis and reassuring texts from KB and other friends helped keep it the only real cry of the day.

With that behind me I ventured out to get my hair relaxed at a new salon. And no, I haven't dyed the gray yet. Despite lots of people asking me. Just so you know, I don't plan on changing my mind any time soon, but feel free to keep asking. Seriously. The endless inquiries make me feel amazing. So young. So beautiful. So treasured for my intellect and personality. Can you tell how much I love being judged for something my body is doing naturally? I'm looking at you, random man at Target who felt the need to know if all that gray was real. Awesome.

Less sarcastically, I ate at the bar in Olive Garden while reading another Liane Moriarty novel and it was pretty fantastically self-indulgent.

So with my hair done and lasagna enjoyed I joined KB and O and hit the road to wild and wonderful WV for SA's wedding. There was a moment during the rehearsal when I realized I'd be walking down the aisle to the same song I walked down my own wedding aisle to and my eyes welled on instinct, but remembering it was SA's day and she is an incredible and wonderful friend, I told my emotions to save the pity party for another weekend and pushed through.

After that moment I honestly forgot it was my birthday for hours. We ate and laughed and crossed our fingers the weather would stay warm and sunny for Saturday (spoiler: it didn't). At the end of the night, back in the amazing cabin that we hope to revisit in September - according to Big O we will definitely be back, and fishing, with the little ones - we ate birthday cookies and it sunk in that I was 33.

The next day there were only tiny moments of heartbreak that sneaked in. I knew they would. I breathed them in and exhaled them back out. I accepted hugs from kind friends old and new, and I danced. A lot. With a confidence I owe to J-Man and eleven years of him insisting we always be on the dance floor within minutes of it being opened to the crowd. I wished I had someone to dance with. Then a new song would come on and I'd shoo that thought away and keep dancing.

I kept dancing.

And dancing.

And dancing.

Until the band packed up and we were the final twelve or so folks on the floor.

It kept my body warm in the crazy-cold, see-your-breath, wear-a-coat-through-dinner, night.

It kept my heart warm to be in motion. To cling to the songs about love and happiness and celebration, even if they all didn't feel 100% like current anthems.

SA's wedding was beautiful, and deserves more of a post than this, but what I realized about myself through the weekend is that for my 33rd year, I'm ready to be a doer. I'm ready to say yes. I'm ready to take the confidence I learned in the early years with J-Man, braving the chaos of Harlem and NYCTF, two cross-country moves, the madness of questionable fertility, the juggling act of two under two, and keep pushing forward.

I'm going to say yes more this year.

Yes, I'm going to NYC in two weeks.

Yes, I plan to have applied to grad school by my next birthday.

Yes, I will be on that committee or go to this yoga class or help out with those activities.

Even, yes I will recognize that I need a good cry, YA book and early bedtime to recharge before continuing to say yes to something else.

Yes, I will be happy this year.

Good riddance, 32. You brought too much heartache. You left too many scars. You demanded too many tears and compromises and surrenders.

Hello, 33. Bring on your adventures. Show me your hidden surprises. Tempt me with your possibilities. Teach me what to do with this bowl of lemons because I'm ready for the pitchers and pitchers of lemonade now.

Bring. It. On.

Conversation Snapshots

Here are some sample conversations from this week:

The first day

4:30pm - Me: Mama doesn't feel like cooking. How about Happy Meals?

PDG and MDG: Yeah!

5:00-5:05pm - silent stuffing of faces. Nuggets. Fries. Sauce. Gogurt. Apple Juice.

5:08pm - PDG:  Mommy, my tummy hurts.

5:09pm - PDG: Bleggghhhh (is that how you type the sound of massive projectile vomiting?)

5:11pm - PDG: Mommy, I'm hungry. Can I have some dinner?

The Next Day - via text

Mama H: I can't put your book down!

Me: Really?! (book and smiley emojis)

Mama H: Yes. Dad called for me to help him and I made him wait! I can't believe she [spoiler]! Gotta go. Can't wait to see how this goes.


The Next Day in a last minute faculty meeting

Assistant Principal: We need each of you to use one of your planning periods to make continuous laps of the school checking every stall in every student bathroom and noting the time and what you find.

My inner monologue: I can tell you what I'll find in girls' bathrooms, and it will be disgusting, smelly, and likely bloody. Also, I miss New York and its union, where no one could make me do this crap without extra pay. Yes, a bathroom pun. Let's see how many of these I can work in until this temporary duty is over. Doo-ty. Score, another one.


The Next Day in a lesson on formal commands and giving directions around town

Student who mostly communicates through grunts: Sra G, you're the best Spanish teacher.
Me: We're all good. We just have different styles.
SWMCTG: No, you're the best.
Me: Well, then, gracias. Now back to work.

So yeah, a week of ups and downs.

I Wrote a Thing

Oh man, I haven't felt this full of anxiety since the day I decided to announce I have a blog on Facebook. I forgot what a tingly and terrible headache comes with pressing "post."

I've been busy the last few days, finishing up my goal of getting this book published before the end of the year. I sort of wanted to say "screw it" and not rush publishing under the guise of waiting until I'd written a sequel, or something better, or just had the perfect cover and website built for it and so on. Let's be real, I had a lot of excuses, and they sounded good.

J-Man asked me why the panic attack today - like I said, it's been a long time since my anxiety won over my brain, and it's a really unpleasant feeling that transmits this terrifying fear that you'll never not feel this way or have a resting heartbeat again - and I couldn't really explain it. As I'd talk, the rationale became less and less, well, rational. See, the thing I published is this:

But, what you find out a few pages in, is that it has some swear words. And some kinda steamy scenes. Not gratuitous, but they're there. And there are people from church on my Facebook and so what if....

What if what? Right? Someone's going to think I'm a terrible person? Come on. That's ridiculous. I mean, I suppose someone could think I'm a terrible person, but it's doubtful it would take them the act of purchasing my book and reading partway through before suddenly jumping to that conclusion.

But there are also published authors and writers on my friends list. One who's had more than one front page NY Times article and another whose show is going on Broadway later this year. Professors and PhD's and...

So? They know that writing is scary and time-consuming and something to be proud of, even when no one reads it. If they say "congrats" they aren't sending some weird passive-aggressive commentary that should make me feel bad about myself. Who the heck spins "congrats" into negative feedback anyway? Besides me, that is.

This is the sort of conversation bouncing around my fiery brain all day. Thankfully I spent most of the day at the Kennedy Center seeing Bright Star, which I highly recommend if you like musicals and/or banjos.

Anyway, I'm ok, because at the end of the day, I decided to do it. I tried the traditional agent route and it didn't work. They gave me kind feedback, the ones that read it, which was more than I ever expected to happen. My too-many years of making up stories with my Fisher Price Little People actually lead to real life professionals considering whether to pursue a plot I dreamt up and pieced together during nap times and bed times and backyard wild times. That's its own little miracle.

With the confidence from them, and some of you, I checked out Amazon's user-friendly process of creating an e-book, and here I am. Published with a different last name.

Now, as for my 2016 resolution, I'm keeping it nice and simple. Drink more water.

I think I can avoid a xanax-worthy status update coming your way in early 2017 on that one. Ha!

Camp Nicole July 2015 Schedule

How are we G's staying busy you ask? Well mostly by following Camp Nicole schedule. It goes a little like this:

6-7am - wake up and snuggle in my bed while J-Man dresses for work

7-8:30am- gradually move downstairs, eat some combo of dinosaur oatmeal (PDG), chocolate eggos (MDG) and yogurt/oatmeal/fruit/granola bars/etc (me) all coveted by and eventually shared with MDG and PDG

8:30-9:30am - get dressed, choose a park for the day, pack a "park bag" and inevitably choose a snack that one boy likes and the other doesn't, and convince PDG to potty  even though he'd much prefer the chance to wait and pee on a tree

9:30am-12pm - head somewhere outdoors with one single goal: wear PDG out so that he naps. Everything else comes in a distant second place. Fingers crossed the other park parents/nannies aren't obnoxious.

12-1pm - get back home, eat an easy-to-fix lunch balancing out any unhealthy hot dogs or chicken nuggets with excessive blueberries (and hope J-Man gets stuck with those diapers...)

1-3:30pm - independent play in the bedroom until the boys pass out. Occasional check ins required to remind PDG that bed-jumping is not, actually a "quiet" activity like books or stuffed animals. Also not quiet - hiding MDG's blanket from him, screaming "say geronimo," pretending to echo, and throwing socks at one another. Quiet but equally not ok - finding a chapstick and eating the whole thing, unscrewing the lamp's light bulb, stripping all the blankets and fitted sheet from the bed. As for me, watch two episodes of something embarrassing, possibly do some novel revisions, maybe read some more of the Amy Poehler book, sweep up any sand deposits and take at least five minutes to sit in total silence.

3:30ish-5pm - Operation Wiggles Out (Part II) location varies depending on how long dinner will take to prepare but jumping and running highly encouraged.

5-5:30pm - eat again and try to trick MDG into ingesting a vegetable and not just some cheese and animal cracker combination. Unload dishwasher while no one can break anything while trying to help

5:30-6ishpm - keep checking the clock to see how much longer until J-Man gets home. Notice the living room suddenly get covered with every toy we own.

6-7:30pm - mix and mash talking to J-Man while he eats with corralling the hyper children and convincing them that cleanup/bath/brushing teeth/pajamas are all super awesome activities

7:30-7:40pm - successfully ask J-Man about his day after pulling the boys' door shut

7:40pm - miss the boys and say how we can't wait to wake them up and play again

7:45 - 10ish - watch Downton Abbey, practice our terrible British accents, wax philosophical about how to solve the world's problems, step on a crayon or puzzle piece we somehow overlooked, wonder what our life would look be like without the boys, decide we're glad we'll never know, and tuck ourselves in at a more reasonable time than during the school year, but still early

10-6am - wake up twice to pee. possibly once more because MDG decides to announce he also woke up, pray he doesn't need attention, remember he's my last baby and he won't need me forever, and try not to have any more dreams about a 3rd kid. Come on subconscious, that shop is closed!!

Time to start again.

Back in Action

I'm baa-aack!

You guys, I know I took my longest hiatus ever but I promise, I'm back. At least, well, on a more regular basis than this spring.

If you're wondering what I've been up to, I decided to try my hand at some other writing. I've written a manuscript and it's been a surprising amount of fun. I mean, it might be horrifically awful, but it's an accomplishment so I feel good about that. And I'm working my way through edits and rewrites and even letting J-Man go through it. (by the way, J-Man is so not the target audience... it's a YA romantic novel written like a blog - where ever would I get that idea? -  with the main characters in high school).

Beyond that I've been wrapping up my 3rd year at WSHS and dealing with my crazy fellow teacher and her antics and generally surviving the exhaustion of two high-energy needy toddlers. I think someone forgot to tell MDG that terrible twos can wait to kick in until he's hit his second birthday.

In March/April we traveled to Texas and Louisiana, in May we hit up Apple Blossom, and aside from those we've showered Big Sis for the upcoming arrival of baby cousin boy or girl, started revisiting our favorite parks, convinced the landlords to buy us a more efficient and quieter toilet, gotten MDG down to using a paci only when sleeping, and traded which parent drives which car to work.

As I type, I'm currently enjoying my Mom Vacation Week where the boys are happily playing at Miss S's house with their friends while I spend my days doing a combination of chores at a relaxed pace while watching terrible tv like Pretty Little Liars, making homemade lasagnas, eating bagels in Panera working on my book, getting my hair done and failing to successfully nap. It feels really good, and it's just what I need before it's time to implement Camp Nicole next week for my 8 weeks home with the boys.

So, in case you want to see more pictures, over the next few posts I'll try to include my favorites from the past three months. Then maybe, just maybe, get back into the groove of things.

Big Sis Brought the Snow!

It's been a weird, wet winter in these parts this year. While out by Mama and Papa H there's been plenty of the fluffy white stuff, those of us inside the beltway have mostly just gotten rain.  Sometimes freezing rain. Sometimes a dusting and then rain. But not that accumulating, watch-it-fall, beautiful snow.

Then, Big Sis came to town. And Big Sis has had a pretty rough winter this year. She's been saying how one of the major things she misses by living in the south is snow. She really, really wanted snow. And would you believe it? It came!

As a sidenote, Miss S, our fearlessly fabulous daycare provider, is in India celebrating a wedding for two and a half weeks, so Mama and Papa H have been amazingly watching both MDG and PDG recently. It's been on their terms, though, since it's a big undertaking, meaning they've stayed out at their house. So last week we went five whole nights with no bedtime stories or early morning potty adventures. The house felt strange and empty. The boys were obviously in great hands, but they weren't my hands, which felt really odd. (If you're wondering what I did to keep busy and distracted- I read the entire Divergent series in a week... like a fourteen-year-old. You can judge.)

So after a lovely Valentine's Day weekend, which I will hopefully post about this week, I drove Big Sis and the boys out to Mama and Papa H's house where they would spend the following days. It was a little gamble, but one that paid off when at 4:30 my county preemptively called off school for the next day. So for the first time this year, the boys and I woke up to a true snow day. Unlike the previous two we've had, and the many 2-hour delays, we actually had inches to play in, kick around, throw, scrape, and stare at in confusion. You can guess which of us did which of those actions.

Without further ado, here we are, playing in the snow at Mama and Papa H's.

No tears, but he was not impressed

like the boots? Big Sis didn't pack like her snow dreams would be coming true

Pretty sure teachers love snow days even more than students

So Much Snow

The east coast has been one snowy winter mess this year.  It's kind of a blessing - like free maternity leave sprinkled throughout my re-entrance to the working world.  But it's also been a lot of snow.  Maybe, possibly, too much?

PDG loves to say "snow," but isn't totally sure about it beyond that.  Especially during the last storm where our 8 or so inches kept getting him "stuck." Then he'd pout and call for help and act like the world was ending until we would stand him up, have him take another step, and repeat the process. J-Man did make him a snowman, but even then he was pretty unimpressed.

Instead we've done things like run around inside, making a mess, watch too much tv, eat too much sugar, and read and reread and reread his favorite books: Who's Hiding, Brown Bear Brown Bear, The Monster at the end of this Book, and some random ones about Barney's food friends and Veggie Tales and Bobo's blue jacket.

And on Valentines Day, rather than making cards with my students, I soaked up hugs and kisses from my runny-nosed boys and made them pose for pictures

Addy and Me

I've read some articles recently about toys and feminism and dolls and the general downward spiral of our society since we children of the '80s once played and laughed in happy unison.  Specifically, American Girl Dolls have come up a few different times.

Not so shocking fact: I had an Addy doll.

Possibly shocking fact: my Addy doll opened my eyes to race in a way no other toy ever rivaled.

First, I should mention, most of my friends growing up were white.  (Well, they are still white.  We just are no longer growing up.  It just sounded like they were only white back then...) As such, at their houses, we played with white toys.  White Barbies, white dolls, white Little People etc.  I don't actually remember anyone else owning black toys.  And let's face it, in the '89-'95 era black and white were really the only options. They probably still are in most cases.

I, on the other hand, as a little girl had a variety.  We had two Ken dolls - one white with smooth plastic hair, and one black with a bumpy plastic afro.  Both, of course, were dreamy and deserving of my mini-skirt wearing brood of Barbies.  The girls were also about half black and half white.  The black girls would date Black Ken and the white girls would date White Ken.  But I never labeled it as such.  I probably didn't even think of it.  On some subconscious level I must've learned that's the way it works. (I've obviously since adjusted that view)

One year, however, the Pleasant Company catalogs that arrived quarterly at my home, addressed to me, with beautiful faces of sweet American girls and cute little babies, got the best of me.  I just HAD to have one.  I asked Santa.  I mentioned it often.  I talked about it with my friends at my private school where all the girls already had one (or two) or were asking for one for Christmas as well.

Santa gave in.

He brought me Addy.  After all, that's who I had asked for.  Of the five (?) dolls you could order then - a far cry from the any eye/hair/skin tone combo now available - she was the only non-white option.  I liked that she would look like me.  I wanted to dress like her.  I wanted to read her stories.

I loved my Addy doll.  She was the classiest of my doll collection by far, though that didn't stop me from having her date my Urkel doll whose glasses had conveniently broken and left him looking more like his alter ego Stefan. I got her tea set and her Christmas dress and she was popular and beautiful and I wanted to be her.  (Yeah, I still had years of therapy and self-esteem issues yet to work through back then).

It was the book that struck a cord though.  Every doll had the same series of books.  Meet So-and-So.  So-and-So learns a lesson.  Changes for So-and-So.  Etc.

In the first book, Addy is a slave.  Not a house slave either, though that wouldn't make a difference.  It's just one of those ways of softening an ugly American history. Addy Walker lives on a plantation before escaping North where she can learn and thrive and have adventures in the 1860s.

This fact, and particularly a scene in which she has to eat worms missed on a tobacco plant, made me ill.  I read it over and over again.  It didn't matter to me that it was fiction.  It was fiction meant to represent very real moments and people in the past, so I couldn't stop from connecting emotionally.  I cried for Addy Walker.  I cried for every black girl and black boy born into a life of slavery and captivity.  I cried for my own great-great-great grandparents  that had endured the same indecency.  I cried because I knew so little time separated my own life story from having similar heartaches.

Reading this little book was not my first time contemplating race.  I knew my parents had both been in high school when their towns finally gave in to integration mandates (10 years past Brown v Board). I'd been called the n-word when a kid was mad at me once. Still, it hadn't fully clicked before.  Now I was holding a toy doll, this mass of plastic and stuffing and unnecessarily coarse hair, and I saw a past I had narrowly escaped but that to which I would always be tied.

It's kinda weird, right, that I attached all this to just a doll?  I guess I was a little strange as a kid.  And if you know me, you probably know that I did play with my toys for far longer than is "cool" or "normal" and that my toys sort of took on identities of their own.

But weird kid or not, Addy's story made me reflect on my own identity.

I wonder what dolls/toys are doing that these days.  I hope inside all that pink and purple packaging, something is still stretching young girls' minds.  Tempting them to think deeper.  Broadening the ideas of what it means to be strong.

I also hope I have the right words to talk about race and identity with my boys when they're old enough to feel these emotions too, regardless of what random moment triggers them.

Christmas '13 in Photos

Christmas this year was everything Christmas should be.  There was some snow (but not the kind that messes anything up), there were lots of hugs, there was family, there was too much food, there were naps, there was rewatching old family home videos, there was ripping open presents, there was Santa...

There was lots and lots of happiness.

So, since my moments to blog are limited these days, this post will be handled mostly in pictures, in semi-chronological order.

Oh, and photos from our Christmas card aren't on the fanciphone so I'll get those up another day (or during a different MDG nap while J-Man has taken PDG outside to entertain him -- logistics...)

Our Christmas tree - I gave in and we got a non-living tree this year. 

Big Sis came to town and got to meet MDG!

So did Lil Miss N

We made it to church with the H Family - then returned home for naps and play time. PDG did that hat placement all by himself

Opening presents Sunday afternoon - Cousin Christmas Day

PDG and Papa H - according to J-Man they share the same spirit animal 

adding another boy to the bunch

Lil Miss N also loves her some PDG

Loving his "cahs" from Big Bro

Actual Christmas Morning - PDG loves his bus

... and his microphone

Making up for not sleeping the night before. This kid and his night/day confusion

see that big box in the background - PDG's first bball hoop. And the pretty table runner - made by Grandma S 

Reading Brown Bear Brown Bear together

PDG loves selfies. Also, I really don't like the word "selfie"

Mama H and MDG.  Love.

One day soon I'll write some more.

Until then, Merry Christmas

Memory Book

Last weekend J-Man and I took time to reflect on what a year it's been.  We uploaded a bajillion or so photos to shutterfly in order to make 4x6 prints.  Then we discovered how easy it is to make their photo books.  Let's just say PDG (and his grandparents) will not ever be lacking photographic memories of this first year.  

The prints arrived during the first of two seemingly pointless snow days.  All I had to do was slip them into the baby album Big Sis gave us at Christmas.

It was overall pretty effortless, and while not as beautifully intricate as the scrapbooks some friends of mine can assemble, it's at least done.  Something I didn't think Nicole the Procrastinator would have completed at this point.

Best of all, it's PDG's favorite book.  I don't know how many times in the past two days he has flipped through the pages.  He likes seeing himself "the baby" but gets a bigger kick out of any photo that has his mama, or dada, or aunt/grandma/uncle/cousin etc.  Which is serving as yet another reminder that photos of him are sweet, but photos of him with those of us who love him are also super important.  

So he turns the pages and giggles and pats as I tell him stories about how little he was when....  

As for my favorite memory?  It's right now, telling him about all the others we've had so far.

Corey Combine

What is it about trucks that little boys love?  Is it in their DNA?

The picture above is of PDG and Corey Combine.  Corey Combine is both a John Deere tractor AND a book.  The book inside tells the riveting tale how he must collect all the corn before the first snow and relies on the help of Johnny Tractor.  Until recently I had no idea that combines existed, let alone what a crucial harvesting role they play.

Corey Combine was given to us by a good friend and we pulled it out a few weeks ago to give it a shot thinking it might help encourage PDG to roll more.  Oh man does he lovelovelove Corey Combine.

He loves to spin its wheels.  He loves to eat its pages.  He loves to drool on the cartoon-like face.  And boy does he love to watch Mama roll it forward and backwards making the appropriate "vroom vroom" and "beep beep" sound effects.

Oh babies, how I love them and their easily entertained selves.  You know, when they aren't screaming and all

Go Hang a Salami

The food for thought in my head today is, why does lasagna always taste better when it's reheated?  This is not a deep question, but it's also not rhetorical.  It's as serious as the title to this blog is the first half of the most amazing palindrome.

Back in 1993 or so I bought a book entitled, Go Hang a Salami, I'm a Lasagna Hog.  No other book has yet surpassed this miniature ode to palindromes with my favorite food in the title.  I got it as one of my alotted purchases at the Book Fair. 

Do you remember book fairs?  I looooved book fairs.  The big round library at my little brick school would come alive.  Tables would be overflowing with any story imaginable.  And there would always be that one table filled with the "cool" books that had some sort of toy or accessory.  Oh, oh, and remember the Magic Eye books that you would just look at all crosse-eyed until you'd seen every pyramid and butterfly hidden in the crazy zigzag paintings?  Maybe I missed my calling to be an elementary school librarian.  I miss those days. 

At any rate, before I begin daydreaming and googling all my old favorites, there was a point to this writing.  Lasagna tastes better the second day.

You know how I know this?

(Yes, because it's my favorite food)

But you know how I know this today?

Because Miss Nicole the Domestic G made lasagna. 

It seems only fitting that someone who adores the multi-layered dish of perfection as much as I do would actually learn how to make it.  But Costco and Stouffers and Mama H do such a great job already.  I'd been putting it off and off until J-Man informed me we were hosting a coworker for dinner (totally ok) and that this coworker and her boyfriend are vegetarians (uh-oh).

If it hasn't been discussed yet, I'm a pretty big meat-eater.  I was raised in a meat and potatoes kind of family.  One vegetable, one starch, one meat: the equation for dinner.  Even green beans have a teaspoon of bacon grease in them. 

I'm trying to eat healthier these days (golden oreos and reeses eggs not included) so I was up to the challenge.  Vegetarian lasagna it is!  Was. 

A trip to the grocery store, a mess of spinach and mushroom and tomato sauce, a substitution of ricotta for cottage, a lot of "I don't know if I'm doing this right," and possibly a mini anxiety/hunger tantrum and, voila, success.

Or, success enough that the guests ate it and didn't request the back-up plan of takeout.  And success enough that I went to have some more for lunch today.  And now, even more success because for some reason, lasagna just gets better when you reheat it.