kitchen domesticity: chicken parmigiana

I think I've mentioned in my last two recipe posts how my husband's and my tastes diverge. I should take this opportunity to mention that there is one cuisine we consistently, emphatically agree upon: ITALIAN.

I've been wanting to find a good recipe for chicken parmigiana, especially because I wanted to make my beloved chicken parmigiana sub sandwich. There are days - non-pregnant ones, no less - where I sepnd my day CRAVING this sandwich. When it's good, it's heavenly. When it's bad, it's still kinda better than a lot of stuff out there. I'm not sure why I haven't tried to make it sooner - I don't always have the best of luck cooking chicken breasts, but it turns out that chicken cutlets fry up soooo much better. So when I came across this recipe (which uses chicken cutlets), I knew I had to take the plunge and give it a try. I didn't put it on bread only because my local grocery store was all out of sub rolls (freshly made ones, anyway) but lemme tell you, this is quite good. I'm also glad to have a new chicken recipe in our weekly dinner arsenal.

Now, if only someone would part with $80 and buy me this sweet little recipe box, I could write it out all nice and pretty-like...

Chicken Parmigiana (many thanks, Martha. It's a good thing.)

* 3/4 cup Italian-seasoned panko breadcrumbs (Progresso makes them)
* 3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
* 8 chicken cutlets (about 1 1/2 pounds total), or 4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, halved horizontally
* Salt and freshly ground pepper
* 2 large eggs, lightly beaten
* 2 cups jarred tomato sauce (or your own homemade, whatever)
* 1/4 cup olive oil
* 6 ounces mozzarella cheese, preferably fresh, cut into eight 1/4-inch-thick slices

Heat broiler. Combine breadcrumbs and Parmesan in a shallow bowl. Season both sides of chicken with 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Dip chicken in the beaten egg, then dredge in breadcrumb mixture, turning to coat both sides.  I found it was easiest to coat/dredge all pieces at once and then transfer them to a plate, ready to cook.

Spread tomato sauce onto the bottom of a 10-by-15-inch baking dish. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium heat. Place 4 chicken cutlets in skillet; cook until golden, 1 to 2 minutes on each side.  Repeat with the last 4 cutlets (yeah, you'll need to add some more oil - the remaining two tablespoons).

Using a spatula, transfer browned cutlets to baking dish, placing them on top of sauce. Repeat with remaining oil and cutlets.

Top each cutlet with a slice of mozzarella. As you can see, I was a bit, well, CREATIVE when I was slicing the mozzarella.  I don't know if I didn't have the right knife or the right technique, but it all came out well in the end.  So if your slices look as lopsided as mine, no worries.

Broil about 4 inches from heat source until sauce is hot and cheese is melted and lightly browned in spots, 5 to 8 minutes. Serve immediately. 

Okay, this smelled SO good that by the time I remembered to take a final picture, this is what was left (also, the light was bad):

Yes, it was every bit as delicious as I'd hoped it would be.  I can't WAIT to put this on a sub!

friday five: my life in verbs

(stolen shamelessly and gratefully from Janet)

baking: lots of chocolate cookie dough cupcakes, mostly because of two birthdays in August (Aidan, Jason) and my upcoming departure from my current job. The five extra pounds one gains by eating just one of them is my personal gift to you. YOU'RE WELCOME.

shopping: turns out that I'm starting a new job in less than two weeks, one that requires me not to be swathed in pajama-like scrubs all day long. Currently, I don't own any pants that are not jeans or scrubs. Wardrobe FAIL.

writing: a lot more lately. You wouldn't tell by just watching this blog, really, but I'm starting to flex my pen and liking it. Huge thanks to this lovely gal for spurring me on.

pondering: getting up off the couch and doing yet another verb - running. Because the number on the size tag of the pants I'm buying is entirely too large, and also because I'm still signed up for this and don't want to pansy out of it.

wishing: for cooler weather already!

kitchen domesticity: beef with broccoli

Chinese food is my one of my absolute favorite foods, right up there with chocolate, ice cream, Coke, and macaroni & cheese. I've yet to meet a Chinese dish I do not like. Sadly, this is another one of those areas where my husband's taste and mine diverge: he's much more of a Tex-Mex kind of guy and does not care for most Chinese dishes, save the occasional Sesame Chicken dish. I would like Tex-Mex more, I think, given that it has a lot of my favorite food elements in it (cheese, tortillas, marinated meat), but more often than not, I have a perfectly decent meal ruined by even the tiniest little sprig of cilantro. Food of the devil, I tell you. EVIL.

Okay, so I'm not about to make this post all about the Herb That Must Not Be Named. Back to the Chinese food...

I love it. But neither my waistline nor my wallet can afford to eat out every time I want takeout, so I've been on the hunt for some good Chinese food recipes. I've tried several so far, and while they've been acceptable in taste and texture, every single one has proved to taste wildly inauthentic, nothing like the takeout I really wanted.

(Yes, I'm quite aware that Chinese takeout is about as authentically Chinese as a Little Caesar's pizza is authentically Italian.)

Who knew the missing link was... fish sauce?

Yep, fish sauce. Some of you might have known this already, but for an inexperienced Chinese takeout replicator-cook like myself, this totally blew my mind. FISH sauce? All I could picture was stinky, slimy water with fish bones floating in it. I know, I know, overactive imagination here. But that image kept me from trying this recipe for several months, and oh, am I ever sad I let those months go by. Because, people, this stuff is the BOMB. Seriously. It's completely delicious, easy to make, and there's no fish bones involved. I also love that it calls for a head of fresh (not frozen) broccoli. There's something really redeeming about chopping all that green when many of your meals come from a hospital cafeteria line.

Buying said fish sauce was interesting: the recipe called for "good fish sauce". I went to the store, looked in the "ethnic" food aisle, and there was only one bottle of anything with the word "fish" on it. So I bought it. No idea if it's good fish sauce or garbage, but the end result was mighty tasty, so I'm thinking I did okay. If any of you know of a superior fish sauce, bring me into the light!

Oh, and be forewarned: this dish be FRAGRANT, peeps. I don't know if it's the fish sauce, the sesame oil, or a combination of both, but the entire kitchen smelled like this dish for about 24 hours. It's a totally fantastic smell, don't get me wrong, but it meant I woke up at 4 am, ravenous, because I could still smell the fantastic aroma.

Also, I tried to take some pictures, but it was dark outside, and the light in my kitchen isn't fantastic, so the pictures came out all wonky. So, with much gratitude, I am using the pictures I found on the original website with this recipe. Thank you, Jaime!

Enough of my rambling. Here it is, takeout fabulosity abounding.

Beef with Broccoli (adapted from this recipe)

1/2 - 3/4 pound thinly sliced beef, such as sirloin, cut into 1-2 inch pieces
3 tablespoons soy sauce
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 tablespoon good fish sauce
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
1 clove garlic finely minced or grated with a microplane
2 tablespoons olive oil
florets from 1 large bunch of fresh broccoli
red pepper flakes

Deglazing liquid:

1/2 cup water
1 tablespoon cornstarch
2 teaspoons soy sauce
1 teaspoon rice vinegar
1/2 clove garlic, finely minced or grated

1. In a plastic zipper bag or small glass dish, marinate the beef in soy sauce, baking soda, fish sauce, vinegar, garlic, and olive oil. Let marinate in fridge for 20 minutes.

2. In a large skillet set over medium-high heat, and working in small batches, sear beef on both sides. Remove to a plate, and set aside.

3. Make up deglazing liquid by combining all ingredients, making sure cornstarch is well mixed with no lumps. Set aside. (Note: if you like a lot of sauce for both your main dish and the rice to accompany it, I would double the amounts for the deglazing liquid.)

4. Add broccoli florets to the pan, pour over deglazing liquid, and cover. Let steam for 2-3 minutes, or until the broccoli is bright green. Add the beef back in, heat through (another minute or so), and sprinkle with a pinch of red pepper flakes. Serve with steamed rice (my preference is jasmine rice - so fragrant and perfect for this dish).

Enjoy!

two years old

Today, my sweet, silly firstborn turned two years old. How did time fly by so fast, Aidan? Can't I stop time to keep you cute and little and adorably cuddly forever?

We had a great birthday party for our big boy at Fort Mellon Park in Sanford. They have a HUGE splash pad and playground, both of which our birthday boy was only mildly interested in that day. But lucky for us, it started to really rain... and that's when Aidan got excited! He's a big fan of rain and splashing in puddles, and he did both happily for most of his party.

Shannon came over the day before the party and helped me put together a lot of the crafty stuff, including these adorable little "2" and "A" circles for the cupcakes and jelly bean favors. Aren't they adorable? They're all her creation.

By the way, these cupcakes are my number one favorite kind to make: Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough cupcakes. The cupcake is brown sugar with chocolate chips, the frosting is (surprise!) a FLOUR based brown sugar frosting, and inside is a surprise dollop of (eggless) cookie dough. Each element by itself is fairly okay to eat, but combined all together in a bite... holy sweet heaven.

We all had a great time! One of our cuter partygoers got pretty tuckered out...

By the way, that will be the LAST time I ever use Evite to invite people to a party. I had so many people who didn't RSVP because - I highly suspect - the invite went straight into their junk mail folder, as do most all of the invites I ever get from Evite. Big Evite FAIL. Next time, I won't be such a cheapskate and will actually mail out a card or something. However, the hard-core party animals who were there were some of our most favorite people, and we were so very glad to celebrate with them in the rain.

Overall, the day was a great success. After a couple of hours splashing about in the rain, we took our two tuckered-out boys home for a nice long nap, followed by present opening and a birthday dinner at Steak N' Shake. Aidan loved all his presents! A huge thank-you to everyone for being so very generous.

Happy Birthday, Aidan! Your Dada and I love you more than we could ever express. Keep growing wonderful, my sweet boy.

kitchen domesticity: summer corn chowder

You may not have known this about me, but I live in a divided household, and it's a divide that runs pretty deep: the Vermeulens are pretty polarized when it comes to how they like to eat corn. I go nuts over corn on the cob, particularly grilled just right so that some of the kernels are ever-so-slightly browned. It was one of my favorite foods growing up, and it still reigns supreme among my cherished comfort foods. Jason, however, prefers his kernels loose: when in charge of dinner, corn will inevitable come from the can (in his defense, it's usually organic), boiled on the stove, and the loose little kernels, while tasty, make me yearn for the cob version. When we do eat from the cob, Jason will actually cut his kernels off of the cob, and I just cringe. He cannot understand why any sane human being would prefer to eat their corn still tethered to a stalk - that's just asking for a long night with a toothpick and floss. (Which, ironically, is EXACTLY what happens to me when I eat popcorn, something he loves to inhale by the fistful. Go figure.)

Thankfully, we do come together in harmony for one style of corn: summer corn chowder.

I came across this recipe a while ago, after we discovered a local restaurant's savory, delicious corn chowder that was, sadly, the only worthwhile option on an otherwise ho-hum menu selection. It is hearty, creamy without being too heavy, easy to make, full of delicious corn and potatoes, and is a perfect solution to my search for an easy, no-fuss take-to-work lunch option. We make it often in our house, no matter what the season, and even the fussy toddler likes it. So, without further adieu and to kick off what is I hope the first of many more blog posts, the recipe:

Summer Corn Chowder (adapted most gratefully from here)
4 tablespoons butter
6 tablespoons onion, chopped
3/4 cups celery, large dice
2-1/2 cups hot water
2 cups raw potato (I like red), cut in 1/2 inch cubes
3 cups frozen corn, thawed (or fresh corn, if you have it)
4 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons salt
1 pinch white pepper
1 quart half & half
3 tablespoons flour

Over medium heat, melt butter in a medium stockpot or Dutch oven, add chopped onion and celery, and simmer for 5 minutes or until soft (but not browned). Add water, potato, corn, and seasonings. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes, or until potatoes are just barely tender.

In a small bowl, whisk the flour into one cup of the half & half until well-incorporated, then stir into the soup. Add the remaining 3 cups of half & half.

Simmer for about 15 minutes on medium low, uncovered, stirring frequently, until the soup has thickened into a creamy consistency (when cooled, it will slightly thicken even more). Correct the seasoning to your liking with additional salt and pepper, as desired. Correct the consistency, if desired: to make the soup thinner, add a little milk. To make the soup thicker, simmer another 5-10 minutes.

Note: I have made this soup in a ton of different, sometimes unintentional variations. I have used dried onion flakes instead of real chopped onion - still good (though nothing beats a fresh vegetable). I've accidentally omitted the celery when I forgot to get it from the store - less roughage, but still tasty. I've accidentally added the half & half at the beginning of the recipe (along with the water) instead of at the end - still tasty. I've never used fat-free half & half, but I'd be willing to bet that if you used a combination of half fat-free and half regular (heh - half half & half, in other words), it would still be mighty tasty and with less fat. I've never done fresh corn off the cob, but I can imagine it would taste amazing with the extra effort. The one thing I highly recommend you NOT omit or change is the incorporation of the flour into a small portion of the half & half: I've forgotten this step before and thought I could just throw in the flour into the pot, and what I end up with is a soup that has the consistency of milk, with some strange, unappetizing lumps of flour thrown in, even if I whisk the heck out of it (doesn't work).

Finally, ENJOY.  You can pretty much make this recipe to taste however you prefer: more salt, less pepper, thicker consistency, less potatoes, more corn, whatever.  It makes for a great vegetarian meal on its own, or as a nice side dish.

retrospective: aidan, month one

When Aidan was born, I started writing him letters at the end of each month. I made it up to month six before life sort of took over and I got distracted. I'm in the process of writing Brendan's month one letter, but I never did share Aidan's when he was that little, so, without further ado, here is a little missive I wrote to my firstborn for you to read and enjoy:

September 8, 2008

Dear Aidan,

Today you are officially one month old. One whole month. In some ways, it seems like ages ago that we came home from the hospital, both of us somewhat bruised, squinty-eyed, and ready for a really, really long nap. In other ways, it seems like just yesterday I was marveling at your 7 pound, 4 ounce tinyhood.

Time does fly, doesn’t it, Sweet Pea?



Being your mom has been the most awesome and most intense experience of my life. Your sweet little toes, your unbelievably soft velvety skin, your button nose and bubble chin that you inherited from me, your grayish eyes that are slowly turning blue (I think), and your sweet, mellow disposition have completely captured my heart. Sometimes, when my mind is racing, and I cannot sleep – and there are many nights like that – I watch you sleep, and your peaceful face and soft, contented little sighs make everything fall into place in my heart.

Your daddy and I love to watch you any time of the day, especially when we are burping you. Because that’s when you make the cutest “old man” faces, cheeks a-chubbed and arms hanging at your side as you help us work those gas bubbles out. You can burp like a frat boy at a kegger, my love, and I have never been more proud of such booming bodily functions. I know you don’t know what “good boy” means, but we tell you that pretty much any time you burp, fart, pee, or poop. I can’t promise that you’ll always have a cheering committee when you perform these acts later in your life, but for right now, they’re always a reason to celebrate.



When I first held you in my arms in the operating room, I knew I had so much to teach you – about the world, about the God who created you and loves you, about your father and I, and about all the big and little things of life. But the great surprise of this month, and likely about the next 21+ years to come, my little one, is that YOU are the one teaching me.

Aidan, you’ve taught me how to roll with the punches. Even from your emergency C-section birth – necessary because your head was pushed against my pelvis with every contraction, causing your heart rate to drop – you were God’s little messenger, telling me: Anne, you can’t plan EVERYTHING. And so it began: the pile of cloth diapers we’d amassed for you because we wanted to be both financially conservative AND ecologically sound when we dealt with your poop? A huge box of Pampers soon replaced them. You love Pampers, and so does Mommy, Aidan. They keep your sweet little bum dry! The breastfeeding I had planned to do since I’d wanted to become a mom? I had to stop because of a medication I had to take in order to be a happy mommy instead of a neurotic, no-fun mommy, and you took formula instead. That was a hard one, because breastfeeding you was so bound to the ideas of motherhood I had jammed in my head, it was hard to imagine that anything good could come out of formula. However, you were perfectly happy on formula, didn’t seem to notice the change in food delivery systems, thrived beautifully, and put on weight like a champ: at your two-week checkup, you were 8.5 pounds, up from your hospital discharge weight of 6 pounds, 10 ounces. Every day, we watch your sweet little face get fuller and a double chin start to appear, so it seems that you and formula do well with each other. In the end, your health and happiness is more important to me than my stubbornness about sticking to an ideal that just doesn’t work for either of us.



Can I embarrass you for a moment? I’m sure I’ll embarrass you countless times in your life, so I’ll start with a doozy now: YOU HAD GREEN POOP. Not just at birth, either, my love, because all babies have green poop then. Right around 3 weeks, you were having some trouble digesting the formula we gave you. You grunted and groaned and strained, and it eventually drove you to cry. And when we heard our mellow, sweet baby cry, we knew something was wrong, because prior to then, you’d only cried a handful of times in those three weeks. We tried soy formula, and things got worse… and THAT is when the poop turned clay green. And it stunk worse than anything your daddy could produce after a night of lager and hot garlic chicken wings, so we quickly switched you to a lactose-free formula. Ta-da! Tummy trouble gone.

And so ends the embarrassment. For now, anyway.

You’ve taught me how to trust my instincts as a parent. Those early days when we were home from the hospital were quite a roller coaster ride, my love: you were unbearably adorable and cute, but there’s nothing quite like a helpless, non-verbal little human being thrust into your care that makes you question every move you make. We worried and fretted over everything about you: your delicate skin, the color and consistency of your diaper contents, your every sound, your sleeping habits, you name it. Your Nana was my parenting encyclopedia (still is), and in those first few weeks, I must have looked to her with a pained, worried expression at least five hundred times a day and said, “What do I do? What does that mean?” I doubted myself even more when we had to take you back to the hospital for an overnight visit, just days after we’d first left because your jaundice wasn’t clearing up. But we finally got to know each other, and I started to pick up on your little signals and cues, and being your mommy wasn’t such a mystery job anymore.




You’ve taught me how to laugh, even in the face of sadness. You’ll find out soon enough that your mommy tends to worry about things a little too much, and during this first month, there wasn’t much I didn’t worry about, from the reasonable (is that diaper rash I see?) to the completely irrational (what if the ice caps melt so much that everyone drowns and you never get to grow up?). Inevitably, though, just as I was getting into a full-blown worrywart mode, you’d pee straight into the air during a diaper change with a goofy look on your face, or make an enormous belch, or fart really, really loud and stinky. And I’d have to throw my head back and laugh at how funny you were, even when I’d just been on the verge of tears. Yes, your mother is just that mature: potty humor is the BEST humor for me, my dear boy. It’ll come in handy when you’re in school and you need to learn how to produce your own belches. Or learn the infinite joys of a whoopee cushion. That’ll be your mom teaching you all of that.




You had a wonderful photography session with a friend of ours from church, Garrick Boyd, and you were, of course, a natural in front of the camera, even at 2 weeks old. At one point, we completely undressed you for some “natural” shots with your daddy (he stayed dressed), and as I handed you off to him, you decided that it was the perfect time to unleash your power: you peed straight into the air, all over yourself, your daddy, and the blanket you were both laying on. And just as we managed to wipe everything up, you promptly pooped on your daddy’s jeans and completely grossed him out. I was laughing so hard that I nearly doubled over. (You’ll be grateful to know that no photographic evidence of that poop-on-Daddy event exists…)

Most of all, you’ve taught me how much l can love. And oh, how I love you, my sweet Aidan. I love you so, so much. Sometimes, I look at you, and my heart swells with that love, and I physically hurt from it. Sometimes that love is almost too overwhelming, and I wonder if I am good enough, qualified enough to be Mommy to such an amazing little boy. Aidan, neither of us will be perfect, and there will be times where we both make mistakes along this journey as you grow up. I will always try my best to be the best mommy to you that I can be, but I may stumble along the way. You might stumble, too, but I’ll always be here for you, little bud. And Jesus, who loves you and I more than we could ever imagine, doesn’t make mistakes, and He certainly didn’t make one when he paired us up together. He knows how much I needed your sweet little heart to connect with mine, and I have never felt so humbled or so blessed to be called your mother. Because of you, I understand how deep and how strong our Father’s love is for us – a million, billion times more than even my love for you. And as I send you out into the world, a world full of uncertainty and stumbling blocks, a little more each day, I know Jesus will be holding your hand the entire way, guiding and protecting you, loving you, holding you close, and growing you every day.



I love you, sweet Aidan. Welcome to our family.

Love,
Mama

worrywart

It's true. I'm a hopeless worrier. I worry about EVERYTHING. About what my day at work will be like (I've had enough bad ones in my nursing career to be, in my opinion, justifiably nervous each morning when I head to work), about the eleventy-million different types of bad drivers I'll possibly encounter on the highway with my son strapped in his car seat, about that soda I just drank which is now certain to cause me pancreatic cancer, about Aidan bonking his head when I'm not looking... you get the picture.

Some worries last all of about 3 seconds. (I have to admit, I might have benefited from worrying about soda causing harm to my body a WEE bit longer and consequently maybe swearing off the stuff, but too great is my love for the bubbly, I'm afraid.) Some worries are easily solved. Some are just... NOT.

Maybe the worry that has caused me the most anguish over the longest period of time? My skills as a mom. Because isn't it true, ladies, that no matter how much we do for our kids (or don't do), we always feel like we could have done just a little bit more? Or - even worse - that even if we had tried our hardest, it just wouldn't cut it... that it wouldn't be good enough?

Oy. And I was just expecting some sleep issues, poopy diapers, snuggles, and messy noses when I got pregnant the first time.

And don't get me wrong: I am not just a constant worrier, but I've got, like, a freaking PhD in the subject. Worrying about whether giving my kids graham crackers over spinach was a good idea? Naw. Too easily dismissed. Too ELEMENTARY. No, I've graduated on to the worries that will both be difficult to solve AND will keep me up for many nights because they're so far in the future. The latest? That one of my boys - or both - will get mercilessly picked on when they're in school. (Note: Aidan is not even two years old. Baby V isn't even BORN yet.) I got picked on a LOT when I was in middle and high school, not in an obvious physical way like I think boys get picked on, but in that horribly undermining, catty way that we girls can be so good at. Getting punched in the face might have been more terrifying in the moment, but the wounds that come from hearing you just don't belong take much, much longer to heal. Unhealed by the time you get knocked up as a thirty-something adult? Yeah. Transferred on to your own kids.

I'm quietly thanking God for NOT having a daughter just yet for that very reason.

These are issues I've been working through for years now, feeling inadequate, feeling left out, feeling like a sideshow freak instead of accepted and loved. It's something I would really love NOT to pass on to my kids, but as much as I think I've resolved them, they come roaring back. Recently, I had some key events happen in my life that made all of those feelings, which I had previously only brought out of hiding with kid gloves, large tongs, and the most delicate of handling on rarest of occasions, pouring and tumbling out in a big messy glob, all over the side of a Colorado mountain. Feeling left out and rejected because I screwed up, wasn't good enough? Bigger than I'd felt in a long, long, long, LONG time. It pained my present AND sent my worrywart nature into serious overdrive. I could hardly prepare a bottle of milk for my son without having a mini-breakdown all over again.

It's been a few months, several Starbucks mochas with extra whip, several hard but necessary conversations from people who love me more than I truly deserve, and lots of digging into the messy places to get me to today, where I'm slowly, doggedly, opposite-of-efficiently learning that God? Never ever rejected me. Never ever told me I screwed up so bad that I was out of His loving grace. Never ever left me unprotected, even during those super-painful, awkward years of adolescence when all I wanted was to either blend in or disappear entirely. And He never, ever will do those things. And He loves me too, too much to let me continue in self-destructive behaviors, and if the loving thing to do is to pull me out of comfortable spaces and familiar groups, well, He will. Because He LOVES me and wants more for me than the mud and the dirt I'd rather sit in because it's comfortable and familiar. That's entirely the opposite of rejection and exclusion.

Part two of that lesson is realizing the same principle applies to Aidan. And to my unborn son. And to everyone I love and carry close to my heart. Deep down, it's a trust issue: do I trust God, even when I don't understand why things happen the way they do? Do I trust that He'll still be in complete control, even when I feel like I have no control... and am I OK with not having any control? Do I trust Him with those whom I love most in this world, my sweet son with his tender little curls and dimpled cheeks and wobbly, chubby legs that I want to protect from every bad thing out there in the world?

I confess: I worry. I worry still. I have every reassurance, more than ample evidence that He's got me covered, and yet, I worry. Like an old ratty security blanket, I pick up my worry, again and again. And conveniently remember only the barbs, the stings, the screw-ups of my life, and I wrap that blanket so tight around myself that I cannot breathe.

I do not want to suffocate my kids in the same way. I love them too much to let my neuroses be my lasting legacy.

One of the blogs I regularly follow is written by a super-lovely woman of incredible faith, all the way out in the Midwest where they have lots of corn and fields and cows and cow poop. She recently gave birth to her second child, a most handsome boy named Levi, nearly a year after she lost her first child, Cora, to neuroblastoma at age eleven months. If there's anyone I know that has reason to be skittish and worrisome, well, she's got more reason than I do. Aidan's biggest injuries thus far have consisted of a few head bonks on the carpet, a fingernail cut too close, and some inflamed eardrums quickly cleared up by antibiotics. Certainly not a deadly cancer.

Anyway, she recently celebrated Cora's "heavenly anniversary", one year to the day after she sent her sweet girl into the arms of Jesus. And she posted this quote:

Never look ahead to the changes and challenges of this life in fear. Instead, as they arise look at them with the full assurance that God, whose you are, will deliver you out of them. Hasn't He kept you safe up to now? So hold His loving hand tightly and He will lead you safely through all things. And when you cannot stand, He will carry you in His arms.

Do not look ahead to what may happen tomorrow. The same everlasting Father who cares for you today will take care of you tomorrow and every day. Either He will shield you from suffering or He will give you His unwavering strength that you may bear it. Be at peace, then, and set aside all anxious thoughts and worries.

Francis de Sales

Wow.

I pray for little boys that grow into strong men of God... not weak men who have been shielded from every little sting. I want them to have the warrior heart of Jesus, but yet, I fear the scrapes and the scars. Doesn't every great hero have a scar or two to show? Don't I have my own scars to prove that God gave me that unwavering strength? Is my faith not thousands of times deeper than it was before the storms and the stings and the dark moments... because He brought me through every single time?

Okay, so I think I'll still cry a little bit, maybe in secret, if one of my boys comes home and says that someone called him a name or pushed him down to the ground. And I'm probably still going to worry about things completely out of my control. But I want to walk with that constant assurance that I - and my sweet boys - will always be protected... or given extraordinary, Godly strength to bear whatever circumstances come our way.

Because we are that LOVED.

Be at peace, then, and set aside all anxious thoughts and worries.

Okay, Daddy.

mmmm... boobies...

(Extensive talk about boobies, body fluids, and personal space to ensue.  Read at your own risk, my friends.)

When I was preparing for Aidan's birth, I read as much as I possibly could about breastfeeding. I definitely wanted to breastfeed my child for lots of different reasons: it was healthy, it was cheap, it would pass on good immunity, it was cheap, it was a bonding experience, it was cheap, it was something awesome only my body could provide, and it was cheap.

Did I mention it was cheap?

Seriously, it was more than just a financial issue, although the idea of saving all that money from not buying formula was certainly an attractive side benefit. It was something I really wanted to do and something I was really looking forward to.

And then Aidan was born. And then I sorta went crazy for a little while and had to take meds to calm the crazy. And I also had to deal with some mega-huge self-inflicted expectations on myself, expectations that no one could possibly ever hope to meet, trains of thought that were totally irrational. Like, I was a massive failure as a mother that I couldn't get my kid to latch on correctly and had to use a nipple shield that I couldn't get him to give up... after just two weeks. I *hated* that damn shield, mostly because I felt like some sort of substandard mother when I used it.  Add a serious dose of hormones and exhaustion to the mix, and well, yeah, it was all one huge sucking experience.

Thusly, the breastfeeding went down the toilet, along with the hated nipple shield.

This pregnancy, I counted on being a formula-only mom. Truthfully, I was totally looking forward to getting entire nights of sleep while my hubs was on bottle duty for the night, not having leaky breasts, and never having to utter the words "nipple shield" ever again. Over the past few weeks, I had even stocked up on a couple of cans of our favorite formula with Aidan, just to be ready when we brought the new little squirt home.

And then my friend Shannon had her first biological child, Zachary, whose pictures you can totally ogle over here. (He's just about the most adorable thing EVER.) She told me about this amazing lactation consultant she was seeing who was totally helping her breastfeed this new little miracle in her life... and all the problems she needed help with from the lactation consultant were so very similar to the ones I had with Aidan. And they were successfully feeding through them.

Hope began to twitch inside of me.

You see, for as frustrating as the whole breastfeeding experience had become for me by the time I had to switch over to formula, I somehow only remember how much I wanted to breastfeed. Not because I felt pressured to, not because I felt like a bad mother if I didn't, but because I really, really wanted to.

(Oh, I know, grammar people. That's, like, the eleventy billionth sentence I ended with a preposition. Don't be hatin'.)

So, in the name of leaving all my options open, I went to go see the same lactation consultant, Pat Lindsey. I didn't really know what to expect: I knew we were going to talk about breastfeeding, but would she want to see my boobs? Show me the correct types of feeding holds right then and there? I was pretty nervous, actually. I mean, on my first date with Jason, we didn't even hold hands. Today before my appointment, I took a full shower, shaved, and moisturized like crazy because I was pretty sure this woman was going to get to second base within 10 minutes of meeting me.

Thankfully, there was no flashing of naughty bits at this meeting.  As it turned out, Pat was incredible.  Within about 15 minutes, I was able to see where some of my previous attempts at breastfeeding had gone sour, and I had gained oodles more information than I had gotten over several days in the hospital with other well-meaning but less-knowledgeable lactation consultants and nurses.  We talked about feeding techniques, pumping, and yes, the infamous nipple shield.  I learned terms like "nipple sandwich" and "womb lag".  And best of all, I went from thinking that breastfeeding was going to come with major negatives that I'd just have to suck up and deal with, to feeling like I can TOTALLY do this breastfeeding thing and enjoy it and be successful at it, finally.

Whew.  And I didn't even need to go to second base to get that assurance.

Bring it, boobies.  I'm ready for you.

and now, back to our regularly scheduled insanity

Why, hello there, world!

So I was in a blogging, er, funk for a little while. OK, a few MONTHS. I didn't want to write, I didn't like what I had written, I didn't like the layout of the blog, I wanted someone to professionally redesign it, blah blah blah. You know, out with the old, in with the new.

And I think some changes might be coming sometime in the future. I want my blog to look a little less... brown. And also write about more interesting things, things other than that I want the blog to look a little less... brown.

If you couldn't access this blog for the past couple of months, don't think that I didn't like you or something. I restricted access to "blog authors only"... and that would be ME. I wasn't posting anything and I wanted to spare you all the brownness.

There's also a lot of cute stuff that happens with Aidan, stuff that we'll all miss if I wait until I get my blogging act together.

So, in summary: I'm back. And look! A cute picture of my cute son! Being cute!

five things I can't seem to add to my baby registry

1. An epidural. Seriously, people. Scoff ye not at legally administered narcotics. It's what made Aidan's birth go from agonizing, rip-roarin' pain to blissfully blissed-out blissdom.

2. A celebrity trainer. So that after I give birth, I can whip myself into gorgeous Hollywood shape and sculpt my impossibly long, million-dollar-insured legs into works of art, just in time to make the premiere of my action movie starring Hugh Jackman.

3. Impossibly long, million-dollar-insured legs. Also, Hugh Jackman. (Just kidding, Jason.)

4. The climate of Denver. You know, in exchange for the climate of Orlando. Because I think the people who live in Denver would, like, totally appreciate tropical sauna heat when they try to hit the slopes.

5. A guaranteed, uninterrupted nap every day at 2pm.