boys say the funniest things...

Two boys looking through my cookbooks to make a snack: "Seriously!?! There are no recipes for juice!"

skinny jeans at 40

I finally succumbed to this (insert adjective of choice here) style trend. I should probably act my age and stay away from skinny jeans, but I'd rather get creative in ways to embarrass my kids.

Are 40-year-old moms even allowed to wear stylish clothes anymore? My oldest is 14 and has only just begun to decide (on his own) what is cool and what isn't. But, since he's a boy, I'm not sure I'd trust his judgment on my wardrobe - especially since he has a penchant for black and gray.

I clearly remember telling my mother that she could not, under any circumstances, wear certain outfits to my volleyball games in high school. (What a snot I was.) But, that was 25 years ago and of course, nothing much changes when it comes to teenagers and their parents. Sadly, even the styles are coming back around to what I wore back then. (Yikes!)

Now, I feel I need a manual on what to do now that I'm middle-aged. It should include do's and dont's and a list of appropriate stores in which to shop. I need specifics - like "Do cover up your midsection" and "Don't wear mini skirts." I need to know if it's okay to still shop at GAP or if I should focus on American Eagle or Hollister. Or do I need to do my shopping in secret -  online - and never reveal my sources so I don't embarrass some teenage girl when I shop at Target and we're wearing the same t-shirt? (True story.) I felt slightly rebellious and I'm sure she went home and burned the shirt.

Truth be told, the skinny jeans are going to take some getting used to. They are um, a bit form-fitting and I am not accustomed to wearing anything that shows my figure. It's only been recently that I've realized that I don't look so bad for my age. (Another sign I've been a self-deprecating mom for way too long now.) Losing five pounds last spring helped a bit with the whole self-image thing.

So, the skinny jeans are staying on (and unlike the jeans I've become too slim for, they're staying up). I guess they're better than pleated pants or a denim jumper.

I might be a mom, but that doesn't mean I can't look good - even at my age.

protect kara from power tools

So my hubby and oldest son thought it would be a hoot to pull off a surprise birthday party for me when I turned the big 4-0. And they succeeded. I had 25 people pull into the driveway as I was in the middle of canning pickles. (Great timing, and it only flustered me a little. Okay that's a lie. I was a lot flustered.)

The invitations told everyone I like power tools, but power tools don't like me. Guests were instructed to bring something to help protect me. And unfortunately, I have a very creative family.

So, my "protection gear" included a hard hat decorated with puffy paint, a face shield, first aid kits, pain meds, scar ointment, football shoulder pads, roller blading knee and elbow pads, antique hand tools and power tools that don't work and (not pictured) a nut cup.

Why would they do this you ask? Find out here and here. Unfortunately, I do have a love/hate relationship with power tools. Mostly love, but once a while they decide to take it out on me.

So, everyone had their fun with me and someone so kindly snapped a picture. Since I have absolutely no self-respect, I shared it with you. Happy birthday to me. Now, I'm going to go buy myself a router.

caught on camera

I was "supposed" to be the designated photographer at a recent church event in the park, but one prankster snapped a pic of me.

At least it looks like I might have been doing something with the camera. :)

I'm sharing only because I'm hardly ever on the receiving end of the lens and this proves that I do have a sense of humor (he shot this right after I tried to take a picture of him taking a picture of me).

a procrastinator's garden

There is something almost magical about planting a garden. You take some wrinkled seeds out of packets, place them into tilled-up earth and a week later (if you’ve been diligent about watering) little shoots start to appear.

Well, let’s be clear here - if you’re a gardener like me, you wait until the last day you can get the 50 percent discount to order your seeds. After they arrive, you stash the box somewhere out of sight and then remember that you had planned to attempt indoor seedlings - only it’s about a month too late at this point, but you don’t want to waste four varieties of tomatoes and five kinds of peppers, so you plant them anyway. Then, after making a mini-greenhouse in an unused bedroom and barely remembering to water anything, you realize it’s about time to be planting a garden outdoors. Only, then you decide it’s imperative to make yourself some cute little raised beds out of cedar. So you spend a few days building them. And they are cute. But then it rains. And it rains. And your (well-intentioned) plans of getting a garden planted at any time close to what a Minnesota summer will allow for are pretty much gone.

Come June 1st and it’s still not done. Procrastinators do not make good gardeners. But, I digress - back to the magical part of having a vegetable garden. I would love to set up a time-lapse camera for how quickly plants like squash (that were only planted at a certain someone’s request - certainly not mine) will burst up and how slowly my precious cilantro grows. It’s really rather unfair that produce that has little-to-no flavor without adding brown sugar and butter can double its size in a day while this savory herb takes FOREVER.

What is less magical and certainly less charming are the six different kinds of weeds that sprout up right alongside what I’ve cultivated. They have no sense of personal space and just pop in uninvited. Although, I do have to admit that pulling weeds is a bit of a cathartic process - “take that you little water-hogging parasite!”

Gardening is also teaching me patience and helping me to remember the tenth commandment as I see the fruit coming from my parents’ and inlaws’ abundant garden. I look at my beans that have just started to blossom and marvel (okay, I cringe) that they have already harvested a five-gallon bucket.

Thankfully they are blessed with the gift of generosity because they both have shared their produce with us since my paltry efforts at gardening aren’t producing yet. There’s probably a lesson there somewhere, but I’m too busy scarfing down fresh cucumbers and new potatoes to think about it.

paint samples

Here's what I've picked out so far.

living room project

So, I know that we've been working on our addition for like 45 years and I should be focusing on that, but I have been saving up for new couches for what seems like even longer and I'm going to finally be getting them!!!

Here's what they look like.

But, I knew that they would look out of place in a living room with olive green walls and mismatched everything. So, what's a girl to do?

Repaint. And better yet, repaint a room that really doesn't need it. And worse yet, repaint a room when I have an office, a hallway, a powder room and a master bedroom to finish. Sigh. I'm going to just convince myself that the new couches deserve a new room to live in.

(Insert five second pause here.)

There that wasn't hard at all. Now to the fun of picking out paint colors and puttying holes in the walls.

the fun side of motherhood

My job as a mom has many responsibilities. Some of them I never knew existed until I had kids. Some of them (like changing bed sheets or watching Legos reproduce) are less than thrilling. Others are just plain fun to fulfill.

For instance, it’s a bit of a kick to finally be on the other end of “You’re wearing that?!?” since I have been (for years) a bit sheepish about what boys are willing to wear in public. Once teenager-dom shows its face, somehow clothing (and showers) become important. It’s a refreshing change. It’s also thoroughly entertaining to put together interesting clothing combinations, just to see if anyone notices and starts to sputter.

I am now able to check this off my Mom bucket list: Arrive at least a half hour late to pick up offspring from an extracurricular event. (I was actually 45 minutes late). But in my defense, I waited 30 whole minutes for the bus to arrive the day before. My only regret is that apparently middle school coaches are required to stick around with the kids until parents show up. And that I left my phone in the car so I missed the phone call alerting me that someone was waiting. (I brought the coach a gift card to the local coffee shop as an apology.) It was nice to have someone wait for ME for a change though.

I never realized how much fun it would be to purposely make meals that my boys don’t like. For the most part, they are great eaters, however I do have one child who doesn’t like tomatoes or onions and another who detests peppers. The other night we had fajitas for supper, which put two of them over the edge - onions and a plethora of multi-colored peppers brings out lots of gagging noises and a bit of whining. My response is to smack my lips and pile more onions into a certain child’s tortilla. And then wait to see if he will actually eat it in order to get a snack before bedtime. The suspense is addicting.

When I do laundry, I throw all the socks into one basket. When a boy claims that he doesn’t have any socks to wear, it is joyous to show him the pile and tell him to start searching and matching. The worst job ever is no longer my problem. I took the time to write little initials on the insides of sock bands and since I think they all know the alphabet, they are more than capable of sorting socks. (It hasn’t solved the missing sock problem though.)

My boys are not terribly responsible (I know, it’s all about the training), but this sometimes works to my advantage when I find little tips left just for me at the bottom of the wash. I collect change and dollar bills - now it pays to do the laundry.

I love to watch the joy they take in creation and how they pay attention to the little things. The other day the youngest spotted a hummingbird and spent the better part of an hour trying to follow it around the yard. The oldest fills the bird feeder within view of his bedroom window every day, taking note of what types of birds are hanging around. Another one has an affinity for flowering weeds and never fails to bring me clumps of whatever is blooming.

It’s been a ball being the family recorder and keeping track of all the things our boys say and do, all with the express purpose of using it as ammunition for a graduation party slideshow or stories at a wedding reception. I will have proof of many of life’s humorous moments in the form of photos, words and in the case of the one child who thinks he could start a business of dancing, plenty of video.

But honestly, the most enjoyable part of being a mom is seeing progress. We’ve moved from walking and potty training to bike riding and learning algebra. I’ve seen them go from spoiled toddlers to boys who actually might share their toys once in awhile. I’ve seen them help each other make their beds (those fitted sheets are quite the challenge.) I’ve seen them learn to pray out loud in front of other people and be willing to do it for special occasions. I’ve witnessed temper tantrums and selfishness, but I’ve also observed them asking for forgiveness and actually finishing their chores on time. They may be bottomless pits when it comes to food, but they always ask permission before raiding the fridge. They have opinions, tempers, questions and emotions and most days every one of them are evident. But there are occasional glimpses of God’s grace peeking through dirty fingernails and buzz cuts - quick hugs, playing together without fighting, obedience and successful Bible memory work.

Those are the things that make this job even more enjoyable. That and an endless supply of information on things like fish illnesses, how to raise meal worms, Roger Bannister, iPods and Sponge Bob jokes.

cooks in the kitchen

Because we hope they can eventually function on their own someday (and not die of starvation), we’ve been slowly attempting to teach the boys to cook.

It has been an experiment with mixed results. Most meals have been edible, but their appearances may leave some room for improvement. Chili was interesting with very strangely shaped (and very large) chopped onions and celery.

Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches were a success but the cook that night was very frugal with the cheese, never guessing that his mother uses at least six slices per sandwich. I doubt he’ll forget that next time; the astounded look on his face that he could use THAT many was priceless.

The main specialty of at least three of the boys is eggs. (The youngest still isn’t allowed near hot pans, even though he insists he’s old enough to fry his own.) They have mastered frying both hard and soft eggs (many preferences within this household - from yolks running all over the place to smashed as hard as possible). They’ve managed omelets, but again the chopped veggie thing tends to be a problem. Someone taught them that eggs on peanut butter toast was a good meal, so that’s been the go-to breakfast for awhile, much to Mom’s repulsion. And they do extremely well in the fine art of hard-boiled eggs - even getting the timing down just right so the yolks don’t turn greyish.

Awhile ago, two boys wanted to know what a poached egg was, which made for the perfect opportunity for a cooking lesson. Here’s what I heard during the process: “Oh sheesh, that’s gross!” “Oh sheesh, that’s crazy!” “Wow!” “Are they good, Mom?” “Don’t know, never had one.” “How long does it need to cook?” “Don’t know, never made one.”

They figured out that they had to keep the water boiling or the egg will stick to the bottom of the pot and that they didn’t add enough water either. When the egg was done: “Why are you putting it on the stove?” “Why not?” “Where else would I put it?” “On a plate?” (I think Mom’s sarcasm gene was inherited by this one.) “Why would I do that - it’s more work!” (This come from the one whose chore was dishes that week.) After making them eat the egg, they concluded it was much better than a hard-boiled egg, because the yolk doesn’t get stuck in their throats. (Go figure.) Then it was off to brag to their brothers that they got to crack an egg into boiling water. “When can we do it again?” was the last question I heard.

Cooking class apparently was a success that day.

Hubby has used the kitchen to his advantage too, only in the area of preparing venison on the days when Mom is gone. He had all four boys grinding deer meat with an antique hand-crank grinder and packaging it into 3-pound freezer bags to use later for venison burgers or jerky. Making jerky was pawned, er, delegated to the boys, who mixed up the seasoning packets into the ground meat by hand, rolled it out to the right thickness, cut the strips and placed them into the dehydrator. Somehow hubby seemed to have failed to get his hands very dirty with that project. The end result apparently was edible, but I’m taking their word for it because I’m not a fan of venison.

One boy wants to be a chef someday, but he has flat out admitted that the only reason he does is so that he doesn’t ever have do the dishes. Apparently he’s seen enough cooking shows on TV to know that some other peon does the cleanup, not the cook. The other boys I think would live on cold cereal if they had the choice, mainly because there are fewer dishes.

I supposed in many ways they are typical of most humans. They enjoy the fun parts of cooking: the tasting, the nibbling, browning hamburger, using a hand mixer, licking spoons, dumping in spices and of course the eating. But they do not like the cleanup and inevitably someone will complain about how many dishes a certain other someone used while they were cooking. And the boy whose chore it is to clean up the table gets upset because of the onion skins or potato peels that get dribbled all over.

The only one who doesn’t complain is Dad, because we made a deal when we first got married - whoever cooks doesn’t have to clean up - and now he’s somehow getting out of all of it.

Turns out he may be smarter (or sneakier) than all the rest of us put together. Wonder how long it’ll take before the boys catch on.