I just ate my own weight in waffles.

Behold the waffle iron!

The best laid plans and all that...  It's the pumpkin's fault.  I had 3/4 of a can of leftover pumpkin in the fridge that I had to use up before it turned into a science experiment.  You know the kind of experiments I'm talking about...   Where a day in the not-so-distance future you think, Hey, I know!  I have leftover pumpkin that I can use for this recipe of cake/muffins/waffles and then you open the container and you have to swallow that little bit of mouth vomit when you're met by green and white pillows of mouldy-mould.

Making waffles is an adventure at the best of times, but for me, first thing in the morning, it takes every single last little bit of my focus.  Turns out, I'm not so good at math first thing in the morning.  And seeing as I decided that I would double the batch of waffle batter to use up more of the pumpkin, I found myself having to do a lot of fractional math... first thing in the morning.

Doubling  1 3/4 cups of milk shouldn't cause a person this much distress.

Okay... 1 and 3/4 doubled is...  nnnnnnnope, AIN'T gonna happen.  

I'll try it this way:  1 doubled is 2.    YAY!  We have 2!   

3/4 doubled is 1.5.  We have 1.5.  

2 + 1.5 = 3.5 cups.  3.5 cups?  That sounds like a lot of milk.   Better double check.

1+1=2  

3/4 +3/4 = 1 1/2

2 + 3.5= 5.5?!?  What the???  Where did the 3.5 come from?  (Flour coated fingers rub my furrowed brow.)  AHHHHH!  First total.  We're good.  3.5

***

4 teaspoons of baking powder

Which means it's really 8 teaspoons.  That's too many teaspoons - there's no possible way I can keep track of 8 teaspoons. Time for conversions.

4 teaspoons is 1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon.

Doubled = 2 tablespoons + 2 teaspoons!!

A recipe that should take about 5 minutes to whip together, takes me, first thing in the morning, when doing fractional math, at least 15 minutes.  (Note to self - write the double batch amount in the margin next time.)  But once the batter was mixed, we were good to go.  It seemed a little extra thick (must be all those ground pecans in the pumpkin pecan waffles), but waffle number one went on the waffle iron.  When the "I'm DONE" beep sounded, I pried the waffle from the iron's grip.  I'm pretty sure that this single waffle weighed 12 lbs.  David ate that one.

"Wow.  This is a WAFFLE!!!"  He growled masculinely for effect.  "WAFFFLE!!!  No one mess with me today, I'm full of WAFFLE!!!"

I added a little more milk.  Maybe it should have been 5.5 cups of liquid.  I still had to smooth out the batter on the iron with an extra spoon, pat it down, convince it to be smaller.  After Rissa said she didn't need a second waffle, I knew that these waffles might be the equivalent to Arctic Bannock.  I tried to the thin the batter out some more and continued to cook.  Eventually, I had a stack of waffles beside the iron, precariously perched ... the Leaning Tower of Waffles as it were.

Moments before physics kicked in.

I turned my back to put something in the fridge and I heard a somewhat moist, heated thud.  Half the waffles had disappeared. What the?  DAMN IT!    I knew I should have moved them!  I looked beside the stove.  There in our extra plastic bag stash - easily a dozen suicidal waffles.

Their own weight was too much for them.  My haphazard placement of the stack could not have been countered - I'd begun my own elaborate Waffle Jenga game and had lost.  Thankfully they fell into the extra plastic bag stash - (the top bags, I quickly calculated, had been placed just the day before - thank God) , not on the floor and could be salvaged.  We now have 126 waffles in our freezer in aluminum foil covered batches of 3 so the next time I get the bright idea to make waffles first thing in the morning we have 42 opportunities to eat them.    Lesson Learned:  Make waffles the night before.

Just shoot me now... still...

Instead of writing an entirely new post about the perils of peri-menopause and its attending hot flashes from hell, I'm reposting this, on account of the fact that I'm pretty sure I almost died last night and can't write anything new today...

Is it hot in here?

I awoke in the midst of another horrific hot flash.  Stumbling and growling all the way down the stairs - David and Rissa's eyes got really big as I stomped my way into the kitchen. I was fanning my face with my hands and flapping my arms to get air into my armpits.

"I'm not even going to ask," I said.

"If it's hot in here?" David replied.

"Yes, I'm not asking, because..."

"It's not hot," Rissa cheerfully piped up.  "It's just you."

"Awesome!  That is just freaking AWESOME!!!"  I open the freezer and grab a velcro ice pack and strap it around my neck.

"Interesting look," said David, ignoring the laser beams coming out of my eyes.  He then leaned in to whisper at my ear, "Are you going for an auto-erotic asphyxiation type look?"  I growled at him.

"I am only  44 years old," I griped, as I attempted to start my coffee.  "44 YEARS OLD!!!  My Mom had hot flashes until she was 60!!!  You could have to live with THIS (I point violently to myself, drawing a wide, erratic circle around my head) for another SIXTEEN years!!!"  I grab the soy milk and my hazelnut flavouring.  The mug is warm.  "THIS MUG IS TOO WARM TO HOLD!!!"

Rissa then giggled, which let me know that David must have done something behind my back.   
"WHAT???  What did he do?  Did he just make a 'she's crazy' gesture?!?"

"Nope, not at all.  Un-unh.  Nope."  Both of them looked all sweet and innocent.  David had the decency to look chagrined before admitting "I just raised my eyebrows like this."  (He demonstrated.)   It's the 'Oh boy, fasten your seatbelts' look.  Even though I really, really wanted to... I did not bludgeon him.

"How about I make you an iced capp?  Would that help?"  He moved swiftly out of my arm's reach.

"Maybe," I pouted.  Then I realized what he was offering.  "Yes please.  (sigh)  David, you just don't understand.  I can't do this to you guys for another 16 years.  You'll lose your minds.  You can't be walking on eggshells all that time.  That's not fair to you!  I am considering hormone replacement.  THIS (again another  finger circling my skull for emphasis), is making me consider HRT!!!  It's not supposed cause as much cancer now, but I can't be on hormone replacement for SIXTEEN years!  That's just asking for bad shit to happen to my body!!!  I have enough bad shit happening to my body already!!"

It was at that point that Rissa led me to the kitchen table, sat me down and patted me on my arm in a gesture of placation.  David then put the iced capp into my hand.  It was cool and delicious and took my mind off the volcano in my torso.

What if I commit major crimes before I actually make it to Menopause?  This is only PERI-Meonopause - and already I'm pretty much out of my mind.  Can I make it through another SIXTEEN years?  And more importantly, will I be able to use it as an excuse in court?  Like, for when I murder someone when they look at me funny or drive slowly in front of me or chew with their mouths open?!?   The only upside to jail is that the metal bars will proabably be cool when I bang my head on them.

I want to... but I can't!

I don't know if it's ALL nature vs nurture or vice versa.  But I DO know that perfectionism is genetic.  Rissa got her perfectionist streak directly from her father's side of the family...  from her paternal grandmother to her father to her.  From the ages of two to about seven, Rissa would melt down when she couldn't complete a task.  She was unwilling to fail at anything.  If she couldn't get it on the first try, that child imploded. She wasn't much of a tantrum thrower, but man that kid could simply refuse to communicate.  She would hide behind chairs, tables, simply close her eyes to shut you out.  The stubborn crossing of the arms stance was a staple reaction for my kid. 

I remember her, age four, at AirZone.  AirZone was one of those party places with jumpy castles, big slides and obstacle courses.  Rissa was determined to go down the 20 foot slide.  DETERMINED.  It was a big frickin' slide.   She got all excited and climbed to the top of that monster slide.  Then she looked down the slide and understandably panicked.  It was a LONG way down.  She sat at the top of that slide for a good 15 minutes, letting child after child after child in front of her.

"Rissa sweetie, you don't have to go down honey.  Just climb down the ladder.  It's okay hon."

"NOOOOOOO!"

"Sweetie, it's okay.  Just climb down the ladder..."

"No Mummy!  NOOOOOOOO!"

I couldn't take it any more.  My heart was about to burst.  There was my little girl sitting up at the top of that slide quietly sobbing, mumbling to herself like some some sort of JK schizophrenic.  I climbed up and went down with her - even though it was against the rules.  The minute we reached the bottom, she climbed up again to the top, still determined that she would go down on her own.

"Sweetie, you don't have to do this.  This is a big kids' slide..."

"Mummy I want to!"

"Then just go ahead and do it!"

"I want to!"

"You can do it!"  I put on my best RAH! RAH! voice.

"I want to... "

"You can..."

"I want to... BUT I CAN'T!!!!!"

There might as well have been a pit of rabid, slathering Hounds of Hell, covered in barbed wire at the bottom of that slide, instead of a safe, bouncy landing - she was petrified.  Desperate to go down, but terrified of the drop.  Other parents in the joint looking at me like I'm torturing my kid.  Don't look at me!  I don't need her to go down the slide!  This is ALL her.  I am just a terrified bystander.

45 minutes we waited it out.  Her yelling occasionally from the top, me doing my best to keep my voice calm and give her support. The backs of my legs were bruised from where I had wedged them so firmly under my chair seat to stop me from leaping up to rescue her.  See, I'd said that I wouldn't come get her again.  I'd drawn the line in the sand.  Was it the wrong line in the sand?  Probably.  I should have probably climbed up again, hefted her under one arm and left the building, but for whatever reason, this rite of passage seemed to mean more to her than being the focus of attention for all the patrons of AirZone, so I was all in.

And sure enough after that 45 minutes and countless "I WANT TO... BUT I CAN'TS!!!", she went down.  ONCE.

"I'm so proud of you sweetie!  Good for you!!"  How was I supposed to  play this now?  Do I encourage a second trip down?  Do I just zip my lip?  Zipping the lip is never really my thing.  "Do you want to....?"  I left the end of the sentence hanging there, my tone ambiguous.

"No, Mummy.  I'm good.  I know I can do it now."  Then she ran off to be a four year old again.

Did you feel the earthquake?

8:02 a.m. Eastern Time.  I was dozing in bed, desperate to grab any extra resting time.  The smallest of shudders had me opening my eyes.  The bed was moving.  It stopped.  I must have been dreaming it.  (I was somewhat stoned on a cocktail of ibuprofen and acetaminophen - DAY 1 of my period.  I'd arisen at 6:30 and doped myself up as best as I could - building a chemical fortress against the cramping.)  The bed moved again, more violently, for a longer period of time.  What the...?  I sat up - ready to grab onto the bedside table lamp in case it crashed to the ground.  Was this the BIG ONE?

Then I saw her.  Minuit.  Our biggest and most irritable of cats.  She was on the bed.  Scratching behind her left ear.  Raccoon-like in size, when Minuit uses her full energy to scratch behind her ears, it can apparently be mistaken for an earthquake. Our fat cat has some incredibly powerful haunches.  She could double as the motor for one of those cheap motel vibrating beds.

I slumped back down onto my back.  I could maybe steal another 30 minutes of pseudo-sleep before having to get up and get ready for work.  If I did nothing more than brush my teeth and put deodorant on, I could maybe have 40 minutes. 

Knowing that I was awake, Minuit made her way up the bed... Doing her best Edward G. Robinson*  "Meah.... Meah...,"  she placed her front paws on my stomach and began to palpate, which this morning, with the strength of her considerable weight behind her?  Was the best ovarian massage that I've ever felt.  There are definite perks to having a fat cat.

*Minuit sounds exactly like Mel Blanc
doing an impersonation of Edward G. Robinson.
  At 2:17 into the clip you get the full effect.
Instead of "Yeah, Yeah" insert "Meah, Meah."

Co-Sleeping vs the World

Three days after she was born, Rissa came home from the hospital.  I was adamant that she sleep in her crib.  David was in a state of paternal panic.  "But she... How will we... What if she?"  Having spent the first three days after my c-section NOT sleeping in the hospital, I was nearly hysterical with exhaustion.  "I NEED to sleep.  I will not sleep if I'm worried I'm going to roll over on her.  Please, for the love of all things holy, PLEASE... LET... ME... SLEEP!"

Rissa slept in the crib...  Until 2:00 a.m., when David brought her into our bed, whereupon I nursed her and then she slept between us, each parent precariously perched on the side of the double bed, infant flat on her back in the middle, blissfully unaware.  Boom!  Pattern set.  Crib for naps and the first part of the night, parents' bed from the middle-of-the-night feeding on.  I'm sure that my mother was horrified, but it worked for us.

Full-time co-sleeping with the infant or even toddler version of Rissa wasn't practical.  Rissa is the most violent sleeper in the world.  She flails her limbs and has 22 elbows which connect with eye sockets, bridges of noses and kidneys.  Plus?  I've always been a selfish sleeper.  Even more so in those first couple of years of parenthood.  I jonesed for sleep.  I wanted time with David to snuggle, even if it wasn't for sex.  'Cause we all know that first year after the baby - is NOT about sex.  A little dirty spooning with one's spouse is a perk I was unwilling to give up.

Seems recently - a decade after I had to really worry about it with Rissa, there is a great hue and cry over Co-Sleeping or Bed-Sharing.   Even Maclean's did a huge cover story on it. It's this dirty little secret.  And we North Americans love our dirty little secrets don't we?  Sure, I will fully admit that until very recently, I thought that parents who slept with their 4, 5, and 10 year olds were out of their gourds.  But  that's because I was and am a selfish sleeper who wanted to have sex in my own bed and that greatly affected my feelings on co-sleeping.  PLUS?  North American society makes you feel like a parental pariah if you 'give in' to your kids. The online forums dedicated to parents asking when they should stop co-sleeping, how long to co-sleep, whether they should co-sleep are all based on societal and familial constraints that tell them they're doing something wrong.   But hey!  If it works for your family - if it means that you're not spending hours of negotiating or constantly getting up and down with your kids and you actually get some sleep?  YAY YOU!!  Congratulations!  You're coping!!  Better to be sane and cramped in your own bed than exhausted and sleep-deprived, I'm thinking.  The kid will not ask you to sleep with them when they head off to university.

North American Pediatric societies do their best to convince parents that co-sleeping is unsafe and preach that it increases the risk of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS).  Here is a particularly lurid ad from Milwaukee's Department of Health.

It doesn't help new parents when studies such as the one released by the British Medical Journal in May of 2013 tell them that co-sleeping infants below the age of 3 months are FIVE TIMES as likely to suffer SIDS than non co-sleeping infants. "No really, go ahead and sleep with your baby, if you want to KILL it."

 

Thing is?  The North American 'norm' of infants sleeping in a separate crib ain't really the 'norm.'   Throughout the world, infants share their parents' beds, or are least within arms' reach, often for the first couple of years.  Yet now in North America, co-sleeping is the latest in divisive parenting practices.  God forbid that you admit that you co-sleep.  The raised eyebrows, the generational 'tut-tutting' with grandparents and older relatives.  "We NEVER slept with our kids..." "She won't be independent..." "You're not doing him any favours..." "You'll never be able to cut the apron strings..."

We North Americans are so frickin' sure of ourselves.  We're so much smarter than the rest of the world, except when we're not.    As middle-class North Americans living in houses where almost everyone has their own bedroom, we don't remember that most of the world doesn't have that luxury and yet they have somehow, miraculously, managed to raise independent and successful members of society.  With industrialization in first world countries, breastfeeding went out of vogue, it wasn't until the late 60s, early 70s that we clued in that, as mammals, perhaps our young might be better off if they were getting the nutrients that they were supposed to.  And breast milk?  It doesn't fill up that infant's tummy the way that formula does, hence they get hungrier through the night.  Hence more waking up, hence more opportunities for co-sleeping.  We're so worried about seeming 'civilized' that our children are expected to be self-sufficient, sleep through the night and generally silent from 3 months of age onward. 

New parents in North America are terrified of SIDS.  That fear, accompanied with articles throwing around percentages and the phrase FIVE TIMES AS LIKELY telling you that co-sleeping will KILL your baby -  are convincing parents that co-sleeping with an infant is wrong when most of the world is managing to do it just fine.  Strangely enough, these international co-sleepers don't have high SIDS rates and when they grow up aren't running around wetting themselves and unable to make decisions as adults. 

How 'bout this?  If you feel like co-sleeping and it works for your family,  embrace that decision.  Tell other people to mind their own frickin' business and that you're coping alright thanks.   A few caveats: Put your baby to sleep on their back.  Don't sleep with your infant on the sofa or in a waterbed.  Don't get drunk or consume drugs and then go to sleep with your infant.  Sleep in a big bed with lots of space for the 6 of you in it if you have an infant there with you.    This is your parenting journey - if you are happy with it, don't let anyone else tell you differently.

Here's some other reading just to really confuse the issues:

 

Why babies should never sleep alone: A review of the co-sleeping controversy in relation to SIDS,bedsharing and breast feeding by James McKenna Thomas McDade

SIDS and Other Sleep-Related Infant Deaths: Expansion of Recommendations for a Safe Infant Sleeping Environment

And that's how you have your car stolen...

Our car was stolen last night, right from our driveway.  The theiving bastards took it right from our freaking driveway!!!  Our driveway!!!  We were violated!!!  Except we weren't.  And it wasn't.  And they didn't.

I had driven the car to the theatre downtown for rehearsal and then walked home, having forgotten that I'd driven there.  But for that brief moment before I could tell David that I had taken it to the theatre and forgotten I had taken it - our car had been stolen.  That 15 seconds of panic was a helluva kickstart to our day, I'll tell you.

"I'm sorry!!"

"It's okay."

"I'm sorry!!!"

"It's okay, I'll call Shawn and tell him I'll be a few more minutes."  (David carpools with another dude named Shawn.)

"I'M SOOOOOOOOOO SORRY!!!!"  

"The PANIC is strong with this one."

Whereupon, he took my face in his hands.  "Heather.  Heather.  Look at me."

"I SUCK!"

"HEATHER.  IT.  IS. OKAY." 

The problem is, we live about a 6 minute walk from the theatre downtown.  Hence, I rarely drive down there. I usually walk.  I take pride in my walking.  I scoff at people who drive instead of walking the 6 minutes.  But last night I had a shitload of costumes I had to take in which I didn't want to carry over my arms as I walked, on account of my stupid Super Spinatus injury, so I drove.  And then I completely spaced out that I'd taken the car and blithely walked home at the end of the night.  My route home doesn't take me past our driveway, so not having the car parked in the driveway couldn't have even jogged my memory.  I was completely clueless.

Has it really come to this?  Am I now losing cars?  We're so screwed.  It's time for dementia testing.  Rule of thumb: If you forget where you put your car, that's forgetfulness.  If you forget what car does, that's dementia.  (pause)  Nope, we're good.

Good thing I never did crack!

Did you ever smell something SO GOOD that its presence within your nasal cavity brought you close to orgasm?  Something so delicious, that you clenched with everything inside you and had a full on frisson go down your spine, making you gasp?  That's me, walking past the open door of a bakery.  The smell of bread, or cinnamon buns or anything with gluten in it can almost get me off.

Restaurants, while you're waiting for your appetizers and main courses, will bring you a basket of fresh warm, saliva-inducing bread.  Bread is now, and has always been, my downfall.  I remember eating those buns that you could get from the deli department.  The ones in the bins - big fluffy buns with airy delicious wheaty centres.  I would just eat them with butter.  Nothing else.  No protein source anywhere close to the carbohydrate. Just pale yellow, delicious butter.  Wolfing them down, already thinking about the second one before I had finished the first one.  Pasta was the same.  I could be half way finished with a bowl of spaghetti and jonesing for the second helping.

Trouble was/is I'm hypoglycemic and those sorts of carbohydrates metabolize into sugar faster than you can say "Oh God, Oh GOD - I want to hump this bread!"  I basically get high off simple carbohydrates.  Have a wheaty product with icing, like say, a cake, and you might as well roll me into rehab.  At my office there is leftover cake from a weekend event.  Approximately 18 pieces of cake slathered in icing remain in the box adjacent to our coffee area.  I walk by this box at least a half dozen times in a day.  It takes every ounce of self-control and Tourettes-like verbalization to stop myself.  "Don't do it!  DOOOOOOON'T!  Bad!  Very Bad! SUGAR!!! BAD!!!"  I may have, uh... devoured the icing off a side piece on Monday and then sat under my desk to wait for the effects to pass.  The box needs to disappear.