Hairy Scary

I do a lot as a mom that I never thought I would do.  And do with ease, mind you.  You know, things like digging snot out of my son’s nose.  Dealing with disgusting diapers when he was a baby, the many instances of his vomiting in my hair.  All child’s play.  Just another day in the life of mom.  No big deal, nothing terribly revolting in my eyes.

And as a wife, I have been known to trim the occasional stray hair that appears on my husband.  Again, nothing exceptionally gross.  He will not like me publicizing this.  But, I think it sets the tone for what I am about to tell you.

So while I was getting ready this morning – a getting ready that required a little more diligence than a typical day.  You see, today is “Mother’s Day” at school.  We get to spend an hour in the class with our child.  Something my son is very excited about.  So excited that he has been awake since 5:15am; but if you have read my blog before, you already know about his early rising.  Anyway, I am also spending the hour before school having coffee with a friend.  Someone that is very dear to me and frankly, younger and prettier as well.  So, back to the getting ready.  This is a morning where tossing on a pair of sweats and workout top will not suffice.

I dig through the closet and find a decent outfit that will bring my image to the next level.  I need to look like a person who can have coffee with another woman who has a job.  A paying job that allows her to talk to adults during the day.  Here we go – some dark trouser jeans and a grey sweater with a few beads and slouchy pockets.  Trendy, flattering and well, it does not scream stay-at-home mom.  Headed to the mirror to apply my three-minutes worth of make-up I notice something sticking out of my nose.  What the h&^%?  Dear God, a very black nose hair hanging much farther past my nose than normal.  And, it has friends! Ick!  I feel my stomach rising into my throat.

How long has this been there and more importantly, how long have I been walking around like this?!  Immediately, I grab the tweezers and start pulling.  Whoa.  Much more painful than your standard brow tweeze, but this must be done.  At one point I close my eyes and just start pulling whatever those little tweezers will grab.  I can’t bear to look, it’s too gross.  With tears trickling down my face, I now have to re-powder.  But, for a good cause.  No one wants to be walking around all hairy scary with such disgusting parts hanging out.  Yuck!

 

 

 

 

©Susan Hirano and NoMomma, 2011-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material and its individual words without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Hirano and NoMomma with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

School’s Out

I know there are books and websites and blogs out there that provide guidance to one searching for a new school (in this case, preschool) for their child.  Guidelines, requirements, what to look for, how to ask the right questions, blah, blah, blah.  Come on folks, isn’t this common sense stuff?  Do your homework, ask your friends and the biggie, gut.  You know, that motherly instinct kind of thing everyone talks about and is given the hairy eyebrow by men but actually does exist.  Proven by the following scenarios I’d like to think.

We drive thirty minutes to see a new school; all smiles and high with hope, only to take two steps inside the secure door we’ve just been buzzed through to see our child stuff an index finger in each ear and announce, “It’s too loud in here, Momma!” You pretty much know that no matter how well it goes from there, it’s just not going to be a good fit.

On to school number two.  Approaching the front steps there are moms and kids entering and exiting.  A good sign – potential new friends, good to see multiples of people interested in this particular locale.  And then you inadvertently overhear the conversation between two moms that you wish you had not – “I had to start taking Tylenol PM after the break in.”  Now my ears were ringing.  Yes the teachers were sweet as syrup.  Yes, the curriculum included kindergarten preparation.  What it also included were children who felt it necessary to discipline the “new kid” who was, “playing with toys and it wasn’t play time” by shouting as much from the potty line.  And, if that didn’t raise any flags for you, perhaps this will.  Four cinder block walls with no windows in just about every classroom.  Brightly colored, mind you, but still no windows.  Oh and did I mention they may or may not play outside in a given day.  I’m sure you understand, it’s so busy during those two and a half hours of preschool that sometimes they “just don’t have enough hours in the day.”  Got it. Next.

While moving on to my best source – the Internet – I find yet another stellar school.  It’s church based, which is a plus for us.  Not that we are highly spiritual but our son has been in a preschool attached to a church with a religious premise for the last two years.  And, he enjoys it so much he has actually brought my husband and I back to the church.  But I digress.  I read the various posts and class information to decide if I should call the director and set up a tour and interview.  That’s when I scan the photos of the school and see a very large photo of the wooden billboard that stands outside the church and school advertising where to call with questions.  A cute little picture of some sort of creature and yes, the first three digits of the phone number… 666.  Seriously?  Seriously.

And based on that motherly instinct, the preschool search continues….

Earplugs Can Save A Life

I’m not sure I paid much attention to ear plugs.  No need really. I wasn’t a construction worker or factory worker or someone who had ultra-sensitive hearing.  But something made me keep that extra pair I grabbed for my son from the United Center customer service desk.  Not that I think a toddler should really be at a Bull’s game, mind you.  But it was the playoffs and I’m married to a long-time season ticket holding Bull’s fan.   And it was a game that coordinated with his nap, so we took him.  More on that in another post.

So like I was saying, the earplugs.  Let’s just take a poll here.  Raise your hand if you’re married to a snorer.  And, I’m not talking about that cute little snuffler of a snort that some people do.  I’m talking about full on, shake the walls snoring.  Yeah, I knew I wasn’t alone.  For those of you still with me, I think you understand when I say, for the partner of a snorer, suffocation by down pillow is self defense not murder one.  Clearly any married, female judge out there would agree and would render no jail time for such an offense.  Here is my story.

First, let me go on record.  I love my husband.  He is a wonderful and caring partner.  He is the love of my life.  But the snoring!  Holy crow.  There’s something about snoring that slowly grates on the nerves.  The increased lack of sleep and the grumbling noise coming from someone who is enjoying their rest builds resentment that amplifies with each sound emitted from the snorer’s mouth or nose or wherever that distinct guttural reverberation comes from.

As the awake person in the bed with a snorer, you know how the drill goes.  You think you can just ignore it and fall asleep.  Before you know it, you’ve been awake for a half hour.  You decide to try to stop the snoring.   At first you give a little caress on their arm.  The snoring stops.   A sigh of relief.  Now you can sleep.  A few seconds later, it starts again.  Louder this time.  Argh.  Next, you give a tiny, slightly harder rub of the shoulder.  The snoring stops.  Okay, THIS time you are shuffling off to la-la land for sure.  A few seconds after that, it starts again.  Louder still.  Now you’re completely irritated.  The reverberations grow and grow and you can’t take it anymore.  A glance at the ticking clock aggravates you to heightened levels.  You give a huge shove (or maybe a kick) to cause physical discomfort to the blob next to you so that the droning stops.  And then you hear the gasp for breath.  The, “what the h*&$?!” from your sleeping partner who has no clue how annoyed you truly are.

Before I pick up the down pillow, I pull out the pack of green squishy earplugs.  I turn up the volume on the kid monitor and stuff the “T” end into my ear as far as I can.  I say ear, because with a young son, I cannot go totally silent by stuffing both ears with green expandable matter.

The snapping and crackling dissipates and ahhhh, quiet.  All I can hear is my own breath inhaling, exhaling.  A serenity one cannot find even when one is alone.  No pinging of the boiler heating.  No random creaking of an old house’s hardwood floors.  No silent air noises from the kid monitor, just the pure bliss of nothing.  Hello sleepy quiet time and with that, the earplugs saved a life.

©Susan Hirano and NoMomma, 2011-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material and its individual words without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Hirano and NoMomma with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Is It Worth It?

I had my first encounter with child protection the other day.  Well, maybe not my first, but my first official interlude shall we say.  Not for my child mind you, but someone elses.  You see, since becoming a mom, I now feel responsible for not only my own child’s best interest and well being, but that of children everywhere.  So, when I saw a young child left alone in the car, I decided to stop sitting idly by and put my devotion to the test.  After all, I actually watched the mother get out, shut the door and walk into the store leaving her child behind.  You couldn’t even see the front door to the store from where she parked.  There sat her child, buckled into his seat (at least he had a seat belt on and was in a proper car seat) playing with some toy or another. He might have been five years old.

I suppose to some this isn’t a big deal.  In the 70′s everyone left their kids in the car AND they weren’t in a government regulated five point harness rear facing car seat that was tethered to the internal steel bars of the back seat.  They were lucky if there were wearing a seat belt.  But times have changed and children have been put in jeopardy, so there are laws that say, “you can’t do that.”

So, with my heart pounding out of my chest and my son tugging at my hand to go inside, I dialed 911.   After being transferred to the non-emergency police line (perhaps since it wasn’t 90 degrees outside they don’t consider it an emergency), giving the license plate and car description including the stick of burning incense lodged in the rear bumper (I mean seriously?!) and waiting for the police to come, the mom reappears.  She retrieves her son from the car and returns to the store with him this time.  It had been four to five minutes since my call.  The police officer arrives and I give my testimony.  He waits and the mom emerges once again from the building, son in tow.  I don’t wait around as the officer approaches her.

Every day since, I’ve wondered what happened after I left.  Sometimes I feel badly for potentially making that woman’s life hell and then I remember that child.  It’s him I was protecting, not her.  And, who knows what else is going on in that household.  I also think to myself, who would want to leave their child alone?  This is your precious commodity.  The one thing in your life you could never replace.  There are too many weirdos out there who would take advantage in less than four minutes time and your child would vanish forever.  I couldn’t bear to think of the terrible things that could happen and I would never forgive myself if they did.  Children are innocent, trusting and what’s worse, is they can’t fight back.

Yes, it might be easier to run into the store to grab a Vitamin Water or a pack of gum without all the hassles of getting someone out of a car seat, making sure they don’t touch everything in the store or worse, whine while you are trying to read the label of a shampoo bottle.  But at the end of the day, that time with your child is worth more than your worst nightmare come true is it not?

 

©Susan Hirano and NoMomma, 2011-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material and its individual words without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Hirano and NoMomma with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

TV Time

My husband and I have those moments every so often that remind us of just how much our life has changed since having our son.  One such moment came last night when we looked at the DVR.  There on the blue 42 inch screen staring before us were 16 recordings for Octonauts and one Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.  No Lost, no Grey’s Anatomy, no Amazing Race, just kids shows.

Growing up, I was allowed to watch television.  I remember watching before bed and of course, Saturday mornings.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, well, I’m just that much older than you.  It was the one day of the week when from 6am to 10am they aired cartoon after cartoon after cartoon.  A real treat for us kids.

Nowadays, you can watch cartoons 24/7.  And if they aren’t airing what you want when you want it, there’s the DVR or the internet.  Maybe that’s why there’s all this hype (okay, somebody did research to prove it and all, whatever) about only allowing your child a certain amount of TV time under age three.  And,  limiting their screen time altogether. I think the latest threshold is two hours a day until they are like five years old.

I suppose our society is so pro good nutrition and omega 3′s to develop the brain to its full capacity by age three that we don’t want to undo all that hard work by damaging their little brain cells with the likes of Yo Gabba Gabba.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think kids should be sat in front of the TV all day willy nilly.  Many of the shows offered on PBS and DisneyJunior are entertaining and educational.  And, I do limit my child’s time in front of the screen.  But, I also think I turned out okay and I watched TV that arguably wasn’t even a fraction as educational as it is today.

I suppose I learned things from watching TV back in the day.  Like avoiding being made fun of at school for having a crush.  My first infatuation occurred in the comfort of my living room after spotting Randolph Mantooth while watching Emergency with my Dad.  So heroic, so handsome.  Randolph that is, not my Dad.  I learned not to go on a date to the drive-in movies by witnessing first date jitters and embarrassment when Peter and Greg double dated at such a location only to have a cheese laden frog land on that poor girl’s shoulder.  Completely humiliating for sure!

And, there’s the theme songs that go with the shows we watched that also stick in my head…..”H.R. Punfnstuf. whose your friend when things get rough…”  I might not remember algebra, but I can recite the words to a number of TV shows upon hearing just a few notes of the introduction.  “Schlameal, schlamazole…”

Comparably, I look at my husband.  He is the smartest guy I have ever known and he lays claim to never seeing a single episode of The Brady Bunch.  Perhaps, all that screen time had more of an effect on my brain cells than I’m willing to admit.  Maybe it’s time to turn off the TV after all.

©Susan Hirano and NoMomma, 2011-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material and its individual words without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Hirano and NoMomma with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

It’s Snow Fun

Two days after our last big snow, the temperature rose to a whopping 27 degrees, making it acceptable to play outside.  During a Chicago winter, anything above 21 degrees is considered “warming up.”

I fancy myself as an active mother, playing with my child.  I get down on the floor and chug trains.  We start but seldom finish games, we make scary shadows on the wall with our flashlights.  Nice, warm activities.  So when the time comes for weekend snow play, I jump right in and participate by watching from the window.

We live in an old house, built in 1917, and the living room windows still hold their original casements.  So, a turning of two small knobs, a quick yank and I have the ability to shout encouraging words from a few feet away.  Cold air breezes my cheeks.  I can practically touch the snow.  I am right there with them, just warmer.  Before my eyes is a snowman.  Perfectly naked and in need of accoutrements.  I dig around the closet, open the front door and hear, “Momma! You’re coming outside!”  Ah, no.  “Here you go,” I reply tossing out a hat and scarf.  I return moments later with two Double  Stuff Oreos.  “For the eyes,” is the best I can do.  Door closes.  This is me participating.

There is a book by Caralyn and Mark Buehner called Snowmen at Night.  A very cute children’s book that describes the cavorting exhibited by snowmen after everyone is asleep.  During our final minutes of bedtime, I lay with my son while we do our prayers and such.  He says to me, “Momma, what do you think the snowmen will do tonight?”  Recalling the book that we are both familiar with I say, “Well honey, he is going to keep watch up and down the street and then when everyone is asleep, he is going to go sledding.”  Without hesitation, he says, “No Mom.  He’s not.  He is stuck to the ground. I know, I tried to move him and he was really stuck.”  I didn’t respond right away and a few seconds later he adds, “And besides, I didn’t give him feet.”

 

 

©Susan Hirano and NoMomma, 2011-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material and its individual words without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Hirano and NoMomma with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Pajama Day

It is 5am.  My son is awake (clearly still on Eastern Standard Time) in his bed pleading with me to “come lay with you.”  The thermostat registers a mere single digit, seven.  The weather report calls for 100% chance of snow starting by 10am.  Top that with our return yesterday from a trip to Oma’s and well, you have the perfect recipe for a  little relaxation and the reacquainting of oneself to ones toys.  I proclaim today Pajama Day!

I love pajamas.  The more flannel and less form-fitting the better.  I’ve never been much of a nightgown gal, just comfy stuff with elastic waist bands and roomy tops.   The kind that I can kid myself into thinking can be passed off as casual clothes should I be caught at the door by the Fed Ex guy or a neighbor while taking in the trash cans.

When my son started showing his first signs of loving his pjs and being a home body, I secretly lit up inside.  Many times he’d ask to stay home and play, so why not deem it Pajama Day!  No need to doll oneself all up just to sit on the floor in the basement, right?  And, he’s probably a bigger fan of comfy cozy than even I.  He will curl up on any random floor provided he has all of his woobies in his possession.  He loves his bed, as do I.  If only he loved to sleep longer, ahhh.  But anyway, Pajama Day.  As I was saying.

Pajamas Day starts much like any other.  Sprinkles for breakfast, some Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, followed by the playing of trains.  However, instead of following all that up by getting dressed and finding something to do outside the house, we just keep on keeping on in our pjs.  We bake cookies.  Oatmeal, chocolate chip, raisin.  Would love to share but after all the batter licking during the ingredient process, I’m not sure anyone outside the family would want to partake.

We make airport queues – all of our planes (23 in total) waiting in line to taxi down the runway.  After control tower clearance, of course.  We build a house for Donald Duck, complete with railroad track surround so the “pals” can listen to the clickety clack of the train while they have their sleepover.  We watch Daddy’s plane progress home from Zurich via United’s website and announce, “So Good, So Far!”

We follow our all too short nap (for me, not him) with a 45 minute bubble bath (for him, not me) and return to a new set of comfy cozy pajamas.  We build a fire, make a little popcorn and put in a movie (while being comfy cozy with all woobies accounted for on the couch).   Follow it up with a picnic dinner on the living room floor and the day is complete.  That and after five days away,  six inches of snow, ten hours in flight and an hour drive home, Daddy arrives.  Yippee!  Another successful Pajama Day has come to a close.

 

©Susan Hirano and NoMomma, 2011-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material and its individual words without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Hirano and NoMomma with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

A Christmas Story

I realize by now Christmas seems as though it happened months ago.  Normally by this time of year I’ve forgotten Christmas.  If some spark triggers my recollection of the holiday, I usually have to sift through the blur of bits in my memory for what happened which year, as they all tend to run together over time.  But here I am, lonely after a month of company, watching the snow (finally) fall from the sky.  Time and weather providing the setting to recall just a few short weeks ago – Christmas morning.

A little background – in the weeks and days leading up to Christmas morning, all my son could talk about, sing about and re-enact was the Polar Express.  It was so intense that while listening to the soundtrack in the car, he would say to me, “Momma, this is the song that comes at the end when all the elves are dancing.”  Yes, that right, he knew which song played during which scene of the movie.  Did I mention he’s 3 1/2?  With each passing day, his desire to handle a steam train with pistons that go “super fast,” steam that comes out the top and three passengers cars gained, well, steam.  What else you should know is that we have been telling him for the last six months is that our house is too small for (the Lionel O Gauge Polar Express Train with real steam, eight feet of triple track and yes, three passenger cars – just like in the catalog) such a train.  And, it costs $329.99.

So on Christmas Eve Day, we find ourselves at the mall.  It was early in the morning and there was a reason, but we’ll talk about that another time.  As luck should have it, Santa was also at the mall.  You’d think he’d be pretty busy the morning leading up to such a special day, but apparently, he is good at delegating.  We were the first (and the only) ones in line.  Santa couldn’t have been nicer.  He took my son by the hand, sat him on his lap and asked him what he wanted for Christmas.  ”The Polar Express,” he said indignantly.  Cute, yes.  A big HOWEVER.  Santa and I hadn’t collaborated on the whole train thing.

When my son woke up Christmas morning, he appeared dazzled.  Stars literally in his eyes.  There was a train (not the REAL Polar Express train, but a GeoTrax) next to the tree.  He was like a moth to a flame.  He pushed the train, he ran it over the bridge – whew!  He’ll forget all about the Polar Express.  Then, he saw the big sack of toys by the tree.  He dug through the packages and opened one.  No train.  He tossed it aside and looked for the next sure thing.  Striking out once again.  ”Momma, help me get these out of here so I can find the Polar Express” he begs of me.  Egad, I’m so dead.  ”But honey, I don’t know which one is the Polar Express or if it’s even in there,” I reply.  I’m ignored.  Shocking, I know.

“Momma, which one is the Polar Express?” he digs further into the sack.  I say nothing and begin my work of finding the one small box I know holds his treasure.  ”Here honey,” I hold the box in front of him.  ”Try this one.”  He rips at the paper, asks for help getting to the goods.  And like the magic of the season, he finds what he is so desperately seeking – a wooden Polar Express train.  It is a mere one engine, one coal car train.  There is, however, a snow globe and a movie included.  Perhaps this will – fingers crossed – appease him.  His faces forms that look of determination.  He races to the basement, returning with as many passenger cars as he can carry so that he can attach them to the engine and make it “just so.”  The rest of his gifts go unopened for quite some time as he is all consumed with his heart’s desire.  Another whew!

In the few weeks that have passed since Christmas morning, he stills plays with the wooden Polar Express train.  But, he continues to ask when he can get the one with the pistons that go “super fast,” with steam coming out of the top and three passenger cars.  He is an elephant, never forgetting a single thing.  We continue our mantra of “our house is too small.”  It’s a good thing I’m a realtor because I’ve caught him checking the open house ads on Sundays to see how soon he can get that bigger basement to house his $329.99 train.

And that, is my Christmas Story.

 

©Susan Hirano and NoMomma, 2011-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material and its individual words without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Hirano and NoMomma with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Super Snooper

When I was a little girl, I was a big snooper.  One of my best girlfriends, whom I’ve known since kindergarten, likes to remind me of this from time to time.  It’s a memory that makes us both laugh.  It also forces me to relive those days of standing on chairs to see the top of the dining room buffet or rummaging through nondescript boxes in the basement searching for a treasure that was going to be my next “surprise.”

So, when I found my three-year-old literally jumping for joy one day a few months ago, I flashed back to my childhood once again.  His little legs lifting off the ground, thudding to the floor over and over while pointing to the bedskirt exclaiming, “There’s a train under the bed, Momma!  A Train!  The Christmas train is under there!”

Dumbfounded and busted, I replied with my best Mom-Of-The-Year line yet, “You’re seeing things.  Now come on and get out of here.”  That’s right, I told my child that he didn’t see what he thought he saw and to leave the room.

“But Momma, there is!  There is!  There IS a train under the bed!” he squeals.

“There’s no train under the bed honey,” I assure him.

A couple of basic things you should know about my son:  a) he forgets nothing; and    2) he is a train fanatic.  Left with the quandary – do I fess up or continue the deception and try to surprise him months from now when Santa comes?  I stall.

“Come on out of here and go play with the trains in your room,” I suggest.

“Momma, why is that train under the bed?” he wonders.

“A train? Under the bed? Don’t be ridiculous!” I feel my nose growing.

“No Momma, there IS a train,” he insists.  ”I saw the Christmas train!”

Oh boy.  This is not going to work.  He will be relentless, of this I am sure.  So, I sit him down on the bed.  I tell him that this is a present for him for Christmas.  Nene and Poppie asked me to buy it and surprise him.  He ponders this information.  You can actually see the wheels spinning in his head.  He simply says, “Can I have it now?”  I smile back at him.  I mean really, how cute?  I can barely resist saying, “okay honey,” but I do.  I tell him he has to wait until Christmas and usher him out of the room onto something else.

It’s been a few months now and he still asks for that train.  He went back a day or two later and it was gone from its hiding spot under the guest room bed.

“Momma, the train’s not there anymore,” he wonders.

“What train, honey?” I feel my nose growing. “There was no train under the bed.”  He looks confused and doesn’t speak.  Not sure what to believe, I’m sure.  Let’s just hope I found a super snoop-proof hiding spot this time.

©Susan Hirano and NoMomma, 2011-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material and its individual words without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Hirano and NoMomma with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The Yellow Dinner

Have you ever looked down at your dinner plate and realized that everything staring back at you is the same color?  Chicken, couscous and corn = Yellow Dinner.  Pork, gnocchi and spaghetti squash = Yellow Dinner.

I’m not sure how it happened that we ended up with the Yellow Dinner.  Putting a meal on the table night after night has somehow become this demon that taunts me practically from the time I open my eyes in the morning.  What’s for dinner?  What are you going to make tonight?  Hey you! What are we eating today??  Ugh.  It seems the act of giving birth dried up all of my culinary ideas.  Can’t someone just tell me what to make in a given day?  Maybe send me an email – “Today you will make meatloaf….”

I used to love to cook.  It was kind of my thing after I got married and honed my skill.  Creating something wonderful in the kitchen was a source of pride, an accomplishment.  Something I was excited to do.  With a toddler, it’s a chore.  If he’s literally not pulling my leg, I hear, “MOMMA!  Oh, MOMMA!” bellowing from the next room.  That is IF I can get him to play by himself for ten minutes.  The concentration required to put ingredients together in the correct order without scorching everything in the pan eludes me.

Cooking for my son, on the other hand is pretty easy.  I guess when you only eat twelve things there isn’t much room for inspiration.  And come to think of it, many of his acceptable items: butter, noodles, chicken, french toast, french fries, pancakes, scrambled eggs (occasionally) and Cheerios; all make up a Yellow Dinner too.  Do you suppose all of my bland dinners have influenced him or has his lack of a diverse palate influenced me?  Hmmm.  Now there’s some food for thought.

©Susan Hirano and NoMomma, 2011-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material and its individual words without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Hirano and NoMomma with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.