Sometimes I feel I could be a better mom.  A better mom, wife, friend, daughter–you name it.  And then I will walk into the toyroom and hear Nicholas talking to his dinosaurs while he positions them just so.  “Is that your mommy, T-Rex?  Is that your mommy, Spinosaurus? Do dinosaurs like their mommy?  Yes?  Okay.”

And then I think that, sometimes, maybe I am doing something right, too.

What?  It could happen.

Martha Stewart paints are finally available and in stock at The Home Depot! The only reason I didn’t stage a sit-in at HD when I heard they were discontinuing Ralph Lauren Paints was because they replaced Ralph with Martha. I find her colors more modern than other (non-designery) paints, and you can’t beat the product names. In the picture above you see “Monk’s Cloth” in the very top left and bottom.  “Snail’s Shell” is the greige in the middle of the three-paint column next to the fireplace.  I don’t think I will go with either of those, but they sure are pretty.

Don’t feel like leaving your home?  I hear you.  And I have more breaking news, too.

Camila from High-Heeled Foot in the Door (the one who tipped me off to the Martha paints) is giving away two gallons of paint from Olympic.  I know a few of you are on the same hunt I am for the perfect paint.  Perhaps you’ll find something you like from Olympic?  Even better if you get to sample it for free, yes?  You can enter the giveaway by visiting High-Heeled Foot in the Door.

p.s.  Nope, I didn’t break my blog fast.  Camila sent an email to her blogging friends to let us know of her give-away. :)

A few people have wondered how the blog fast has been going.  In a word, great.  In another word, not so great. It’s been great because I have stuck to it, and easily.  What I thought was going to be a challenge has actually been rather painless, with the exception of missing out on the comings and goings of my friends.  What hasn’t been great is that I now have time for things like Twitter and responding to emails.  I had to quickly curb that last week because I was starting to replace one with the other.  It kind of defeats the point of the blog fast, wouldn’t you agree?

Even with the lure of social media, I’ve still been able to do a few things since Lent started besides make deodorant. On top of a few weekend adventures that included feeding the ducks and visiting one of the largest tackle supply stores in the United States (don’t ask), we celebrated two birthdays.

I made crackers.

I’ve been eating very clean and enjoying my GNOWFGLINS ecourse. [Side note--every time I post what I eat I am reminded of the blogging book, No One Cares What You Had For Lunch.]

My life wouldn’t be complete without testing paint.

I’m still participating in Souvenir Photo, which has been good at forcing me to leave the house. I made the mistake of choosing a magnolia tree in my parent’s front yard as my 6-week subject. That means once a week I have to, like, leave the house. Get in the car. Time things so that lighting is good, but different from the week before.

And, finally, I have been enjoying God’s grace, as my niece is home safe and sound (with antibiotics) from the hospital.  On Thursday I received a call from my sister-in-law telling me that my five month old niece was on the way to the hospital via ambulance.  From what little we knew from her exceptionally negligent daycare, she was 70 degrees, blue, and non responsive.  They couldn’t tell us if she was alive, and the twenty-forty minutes (it’s a blur) that went by without any of us knowing were the worst moments of my life.  I always imagined that praying on my knees would hurt given my weight, but it turns out that the fear and pain of the unknown TOTALLY outweigh the pain of suddenly dropping to your knees in prayer (and tears) from a standing position.  Who knew?

I haven’t done anything terribly exciting, and sometimes I feel like I don’t have much interesting to say (I made crackers! Wh00t!) but it’s a nice feeling to know I have been so busy living my life that I don’t always have time to blog about my life, you know?

I couldn’t decide at first what is was that bothered me most about the three girls who passed me on my way back to my dorm. They were barefoot and lithe as they pranced across the asphalt, their callused, dark feet the hooves of Training Level dressage horses.  The bells along the hems of their gypsy skirts tinkled with each step and reached a crescendo when they bumped into each other, laughing.  Then there was the smell.  The musky scent of flesh and pot layered thick with patchouli made the air around them heavier, warmer.  The hooves, the bells, the smell of cedar and dank earth all came together in a cacophony of contempt, but it didn’t take long to ferret out the largest pebble in my shoe.  It was definitely the patchouli.

Fifteen years later and the smell of patchouli still reminds me of college and wannabe hippies with trust funds and J. Crew jeans tattered and torn just so.  It’s a smell I never become accustomed to, one that never fades into the background.  So, really, I have no idea why I bought the Kiss My Face deodorant in Peaceful Patchouli.  That’s a lie.  It was on sale and I thought it would grow on me.

I saved a dollar, give or take.

Two weeks later, the fog of scent-induced nausea was the only thing thicker than the stench of rotten dirt I smelled every time I moved my arms more than 10 degrees in any direction.  I saved a dollar only to lose my stomach every morning I swiped that malodorous stick under my arms.  I thought about the homemade deodorant Amy Karol of Angry Chicken scented with essential oils that didn’t make her stomach turn and promised myself to make some once I finished with the devil’s deodorant.

I decided to throw in the towel when I started using an old stick of Old Spice I found underneath the sink.  I was too impatient to buy everything online so I went to my local health food store and paid triple the price, walking away with almost $20 in ingredients and supplies.  I bought a deodorant I don’t like to save a dollar and spent $18 to replace it.  Just to be clear, lawyers are lawyers because they aren’t good at math.

I know at least 300 of you are wondering why I didn’t just go and buy some powder-fresh Lady Mitchum.  Here is where I divulge a little known facet of my personality.  I love to make things from scratch, and the more obscure and random the better.  I get immense satisfaction from making things like deodorant and cleaning supplies, especially when I am too lazy to go to the store.  They are mad-cap science experiments that prove useful, and I love it.

As for the deodorant?  Second to none.  (I’ve made many before, and this one is definitely the best.)  This isn’t an anti-perspirant so you won’t stop sweating, but I still carry the nice smell of the pea-sized amount I applied over 12 hours ago.  My only goof was in the amount of Rose Absolute essential oil I added (I should have added more).  I’ll remember that next time I need to make another batch, which should be in the year 2015 judging by how little I need to apply.

Now that I am smelling fresh like a rose garden (as opposed to the manure that fertilizes it), I think I will go try a new cracker recipe I just found.

I am not even kidding.

They were supposed to be cookies, a quick and dirty way for me to use up an overripe banana while the chicken finished roasting in the oven.  They were also my key to ten minutes of quite.  Nicholas had been begging me for another cookie, gummy or “ga-rola” bar.  He didn’t care which, really, so long as it was sweet and filled his stomach before dinner.

“If you go play with Mikey for ten minutes, I will make you both cookies.”  He went and played with Mikey, but for no more than three minutes.

I decided on the Banana-Maple Oatmeal Cookies by Susan of Fat Free Vegan and adapted the recipe to accommodate my bare cupboards.  The chia seeds I replaced with one egg, the lemon juice with apple cider vinegar, and the white wheat flour with whole wheat pastry flower.  I didn’t have enough maple syrup.

The pastry flour was the death knell.  I remember reading somewhere that you should decrease the amount of regular flour by a tablespoon or two when you substitute it for pastry flour.  Working in reverse, I decided to increase the amount of pastry flour in the recipe by two tablespoons, which somehow turned into 1/2 cup.  The recipe said to avoid overworking the dough, but I beat it with the strength of a thousand men.  I never did make up for that missing maple syrup.  Oops.

Before we sat down to dinner I dropped the cookies on the silpat and tossed them into the oven.  They emerged 10 minutes later looking the same only darker, as if they had just returned from a week-long vacation in Cancun.    I touched one gingerly and found it very, very hard.

They were supposed to be cookies, but these weren’t cookies.  Doorstops, sandbags, pucks, bricks, discs, patties, heels, blocks, ingots, and maybe even stones.  But not cookies.

Stones.

“Maaaamaaa!  Is it time for cookies now?”

Stones.

“We ate all our dinner!”

Stones.  Stones?  Stones!

“Uh, I changed my mind about the cookies.”  This I said while I slathered them in butter and drizzled honey over the top.

I returned to the table with two plates of scones.

“Mama, what are scones?”

“Granola bars.”

Ten seconds later, Nicholas pronounced them delicious ga-rola bars.  He choked and threw up the second one, but I took it as a compliment.

You should always substitute your ingredients precisely.  If you don’t have enough of a wet ingredient, be sure to add moisture any way you can.  Don’t ever overwork your dough and add enough maple syrup.  But even if you don’t heed this advice it’s okay.  There isn’t a poorly baked item a solid marketing plan can’t repair.

{8th grade graduation “portrait,” circa 1986}

There are two things you should know about Harvey: he wasn’t always so tall and he is a side hugger.  Since we went to different high schools, I have no idea when he surpassed the 5′2 inches of space we shared in 1986.  He claims it happened between his sophomore and junior year.  Suddenly, like a magic trick, he grew 12 inches.  He now stands over six feet.  As for when he adopted side hugging, that good-natured, shoulder squeezing embrace normally accompanied by a knuckle to the crown and a hearty This guy!, I remain in the dark.

I wore flats to mass on Ash Wednesday.  I figured comfort and stability were key if I was going to carry a three year old afraid of strangers down a long aisle so that a stranger could rub him with a foreign substance.  Nicholas screamed, kicked, and, when that failed, played possum.  As I hoisted a limp Nicholas over my shoulder, I caught sight of Harvey sitting across the church, smirking with the satisfaction known only to parents with all their children in school.  We gave each other the universal eyebrow raise that says, Hey, what are you doing here?  I’ll meet you outside when mass is finished. Of course I am paraphrasing.

We met outside, me in my flats and he with his height.  I looked up, he looked down, and we chit-chatted about our respective spouses and a future couple’s date.  We cut the conversation short once Nicholas started pulling wooden crosses out of the grass.  Harvey leaned down for a side-hug and I, still talking about our parent’s night out, noticed that my diminutive stature would land me nose-first in Harvey’s arm pit with one hearty squeeze.  No, thank you.

I adjusted.  I lifted my chin as high as it would go and stood in my flats on my tippy-tip toes.  And as my mouth formed a circle to say the words “so give us a call,” that is when Harvey gave a me a mighty side-squeeze that landed me and my open mouth at the base of his neck.

Time stopped.

Harvey, no doubt recalling skills learned during his six years in the Marine Corps, froze in an instant, carefully assessing the situation for conflict.  I was likewise immobilized, and not just because I had both shoulders pinned to my sides and my chin lodged deep in his clavicle.  Stuck as I was, there was nowhere to go.  Were I to move my head or mouth, well, that is a nuzzle.  Closing my  mouth would have been even worse because, girls, there is only one way to define an open mouth that closes on a neck.  That there’s a nibble.

Two years or two seconds later, Harvey released me from his side-hug like a carnival crane dropping a stuffed bear.

Time restarted.

I looked down, he looked down, and we continued to chit-chat about our respective spouses and a future’s couple’s date until Harvey cleared his throat and offered to walk me to my car.

He could have at least bought me dinner and told me he loved me.