Alaskim | Surviving Wildlife, Wildflowers & Wild-Haired Children

Kids are People, Too

2012-02-09T08:51:00.003-09:00

I can relate to the lady in the denim jumper sitting in the back of the classroom, wiping her eyes and trying not to lose it . . . A Special Show-and-Tell.

Dinner last night: beef stew, pizza bread

Exactly two years ago:

Woods in Winter

Exactly three years ago:

Farewell, Old Friend

I'm Ready for My Close-Up

2012-02-06T09:23:00.000-09:00

I am sick and tired of posting pictures of moose, so I can't imagine how you must feel having to look at yet another photo of a skinny-legged twig eater. But, c'mon! This guy literally flopped down outside our family room window. He was RIGHT THERE. I didn't even have to get out of my chair.

Dinner last night: finger foods (I may not have watched the Super Bowl, but that didn't mean I couldn't enjoy the egg rolls and buffalo wings)

Exactly three years ago:

Friday's Five: Geri

Super Bowl Sunday

2012-02-05T03:00:00.000-09:00

Dinner last night: french dip

Exactly three years ago:

Repeat Ad Nauseum

Is Antarctica Colder than the North Pole?

2012-01-31T09:30:00.001-09:00

I'm in a good mood. I looked out the window this morning, and for the first day in at least a week, the thermometer read 10 degrees ABOVE zero, instead of 10 degrees BELOW.

I heard on the radio yesterday something about a woman crossing the Antarctic on skis. She travelled completely solo across the entire continent. In 59 days, I think. Maybe it wasn't the entire continent, just a portion. The radio mentioned that she skiied around crevasses, over mountains, and across the Ice Shelf. (I realize that in this day of Google I have no excuse for posting a vague recollection of something that I "heard" about . . . with a few clicks of the keyboard, I could bring you the exact details along with several links to original sources. Let's just pretend that it's 1982 and computers are still huge units stored in underground rooms that require special government codes to access.)

I thought to myself, there really are only two types of people in this world. One type likes to ski across Antarctica. The other type likes to sit in front of her fireplace, sipping hot chocolate topped with those special peppermint marshmallows that her mother sent, refusing to Google answers to her many questions, such as, Isn't Antarctica the largest of the seven continents? Is Antarctica an actual land mass or just a big chunk of ice? Like, if the globe warmed, I mean REALLY warmed up, would most of Antarctica just melt away and be left as a tiny little island? Pfft. Anyone could ski across that.

Dinner last night: chicken egg rolls, pork egg rolls, rice

Blessings

2012-01-26T10:20:00.000-09:00

I don't know about you, but I need time and distance before I can write about traumatic events that have occurred in my life. My eldest daughter is 13 years old, and still, I'm not yet ready to write her birth story. The first tenuous month of her life was the most stressful . . . most spiritual . . . most profound time . . . (see? I'm not able to express myself on this subject.) I wish I were talking about the miracle of birth and the anxieties of parenthood that every new mother goes through, but my first baby's arrival into this world involved a long and winding walk through the valley of the shadow of death. She was born full-term, but a series of complications quickly caused her health to spiral out-of-control.

She was pumped full of several medications that we were warned would most likely cause serious side effects. Should she survive, we were told to expect hearing loss and stunted growth. Shortly after she turned 4 years old, I was convinced that she was partially deaf. In a panic, I made an appointment for a full range of testing. Turns out, she suffers only from "selective hearing loss." She heard me just fine when I called—she just chose to ignore me. The disorder persists to this day. The louder I yell, the worse her hearing gets.

I've had to make peace with the fact that due to her scary start in life, my eldest daughter's height potential has been negatively affected. I have been accused of pride regarding my own height. When my back isn't out, I stand 5'10. I remember reading several years ago that the average height for American women is 5'5, so I was relieved to see that, while my daughter would never be tall like me or her younger sisters (all three who sit among the 90th percentile on height charts), she had reached the 5'5 mark by her 12th birthday. Except she didn't stop growing. She's up to 5'7 now, and one of the tallest girls on her junior high volleyball team.

She can pretend all she wants that she doesn't hear me,

but I still call her Shorty.

Dinner last night: pecan-encrusted chicken, tortellini

Exactly one year ago:

Moose Fix

Exactly two years ago:

Alaskan Palette

Exactly three years ago:

The Legend of Gray Tooth McGee

That's Affirmatory

2012-01-24T09:05:00.000-09:00

Whenever I'm out and about with my youngest daughters, people ask, "Are they twins?" From now on, I think I'll just whip out my cell phone and show them this picture that I snapped this morning.

Two little peas-in-a-pod sitting at the breakfast table.

Dinner last night: grilled chicken breasts, risotto, steamed carrots

Exactly one year ago:

Snuggle Bunnies

Don't Be a Dummy Like Me

2012-01-23T08:39:00.005-09:00

Have you backed up your photos lately? Do it. Now, please.

Last week, my computer stopped working. Just like that. No slowing down. No error message. No warnings whatsoever that the hard drive was going to clutch its chest and drop to the floor dead.

The last time we backed up our hard drive was September 2010. Many times since then I've thought to myself, You ought to save your precious photos to a disk, Kim. You know, in case something ever happened to the computer. Hey! Lazy bones! Maybe you should print some pictures and catch up on your scrapbooking . . . but evidently I laid down on the couch and stared at my clean windows until those thoughts went away. Every photo I've taken since the fall of 2010—the family celebrations, the children's milestones, the funny times, the sweet moments—has disappeared. Fortunately, I made our parents a calendar for Christmas, so at least 12 good pictures (and a few others that I didn't end up using) are sitting safely in an online album.

A measly twenty photos from 2011 survived. Oh! and the pictures I've posted on my blog. What would I do without my blurry shots of moose's heinies?

. . . there's one going around the back of the house . . .

. . . and another through my spotlessly clean window . . .

. . . and the one from last week . . .

This one from Halloween isn't so blurry. Sorry.

Dinner last night: baked potatoes

Exactly three years ago:

Friday's Five: Lisa

It's Hard Out Here for a Moose

2012-01-19T15:59:00.006-09:00

More moose than ever have been traipsing through our yard. The temperatures are cold and the snow is very deep, so moose are hanging out closer to civilization where they can get around a little easier. They drive me crazy with their droppings all over the driveway and their destruction of my ornamental trees. For the record, I don't like dumb moose. Off the record?

. . . I feel a little sorry for the moose this winter.

Dinner last night: franks and beans

Exactly two years ago:

The Alaskan Experience

A Good Old-Fashioned Winter

2012-01-17T09:58:00.005-09:00

I feel like I'm living in the pages of a Laura Ingalls Wilder book. I'm huddled at home in front of the crackling fireplace making a corn husk doll while Pa trudges through the hip-deep snow. Okay, I'm not making a doll, but I am sitting in front of the fireplace. And don't feel too bad about Pa . . . he is trudging through hip-deep snow, but safely inside his toasty warm 4-wheel-drive truck.

For those of you who have never seen –9° on a thermometer . . .

Dinner last night: white chili, cornbread

Moose Crossing

2012-01-16T02:49:00.001-09:00

Please, take your time.

I have nothing better to do than to sit here and watch you stroll across the road.

May I go now? Thanks. WHAT? No, I didn't. I did not call you a dumb moose. I said, that's some caboose.

Dinner last night: pork chops, mashed potatoes, green salad

Exactly three years ago:

Friday's Five: Helene

Still Skating

2012-01-10T09:53:00.000-09:00

Not quite two years ago, my daughter pestered us to sign her up for figure skating lessons. A monster was born. A skinny, graceful skating monster who makes me drive her to the rink to practice.

This past Christmas, she performed in her second ice show. You should have seen the worried face, the wringing hands, the profuse sweating . . . I was a wreck. Do you know how difficult it is to watch your 11-year-old spin and glide around the ice in front of hundreds of spectators? You can forget about me capturing a clear picture. My tiny, delicate hands were shaking like a leaf. And she was spinning 100 mph. I can't stop motion, people.

The theme of this year's show was "A Country Christmas." I tried to convince my daughter to select a piece of music sung by Faith Hill or Taylor Swift. Maybe something sweet and pretty by Martina McBride or Amy Grant. Oh, no. She got all literal on my heinie. She insisted on Loretta Lynn's Country Christmas. LORETTA LYNN.

I don't know what song she skated to in her group number. Winter Wonderland, maybe? Let it Snow? Was it Silver Bells? I didn't notice because I was too busy watching my girl and trying not to cry. She was born, what was it, a couple months ago, I think. How can she already be 11 years old?

Dinner last night: roasted garlic- and herb-encrusted chicken breasts, garlic mashed potatoes (what's with all the garlic?)

Exactly one year ago:

Brought to You by a Cell Phone Camera Thingy

Call the Tooth Fairy

2012-01-09T09:32:00.000-09:00

Look at who lost her first tooth already! She woke up one morning with a hole where her tooth used to sit . . . after searching the bed sheets, we finally found the tiny thing. Phew!

Dinner last night: turkey burgers, baked beans

Exactly three years ago:

Don't Get Me Started on Arial

Back to the Snow . . .

2012-01-07T06:13:00.007-09:00

All good things must come to an end, I suppose.

*sniff* Aloha *sniff*

Dinner last night: da Kitchen

Exactly three years ago:

Hopes, Dreams and Cherry Garcia

Snorkeling

2012-01-06T13:10:00.000-09:00

It took a couple of tries, but the twins finally figured out to "put just your eyes in the water—not your entire heads!" Once they realized they could breathe, they took off. We saw yellow tangs and black spiny urchins. No sharks, much to the girls' dismay.

Dinner: luau

Exactly two years ago:

The Birds and the Bees. And Beagles.

Zippity Doo Dah

2012-01-04T16:10:00.002-09:00

We drove up into the mountains and slid back down on a series of ziplines, each longer that the one before. We stopped halfway for breakfast and to take some pictures of the stunning view. The morning consisted of a little hiking, a lot of zipping, and a whole bunch of fun.

I'm too sexy for my helmet.

There's my 11-year-old with her fearless self.

My husband wore a helmet with a small camera attached, and the following 20 second clip gives a sense of the experience of zipping across a Hawaiian valley. Click the arrow to play:

Dinner last night: Korean barbecue

Exactly two years ago:

Jack of All Trades, Master of None

Alaska's Rival

2012-01-03T14:44:00.000-09:00

I am partial to Alaskan sunsets, but I must admit that Hawaii's are pretty awesome.

Taken with a cell phone out the restaurant window!

Dinner last night: barbecue chicken

Exactly one year ago:

Happiness is a New Sofa

Where's Allison?

2012-01-02T12:16:00.000-09:00

You know how in horror movies there's that scene where the unsuspecting character is so terrified that his or her entire head of hair turns white? I've already experienced at least three of those moments. My 11-year-old daughter will disappear, I'll start to panic, and then I'll see her . . . floating half a mile out in the ocean, or . . .

. . . smiling from her perch 15' up in a tree, or . . .

. . . waving at me from atop a rocky cliff.

Something tells me that this kid has a future in extreme sports. And, now, I'm off to dye my hair back to a normal shade of brown.

Dinner last night: cheeseburger in paradise, onion rings

Exactly three years ago:

An Afternoon at the Museum

Wow, That Was a Really Long Nap

2012-01-01T15:12:00.002-09:00

Happy New Year, gentle readers! Guess where I am? I'll give you a hint . . .

I'm not in Alaska. That is my 11-year-old daughter IN THE OCEAN. I paid $6 for those goggles and plastic snorkel set, and she is one happy kid.

The internet at our hotel costs a little more than $6 . . . they charge $15/day to hook up to the world-wide web. I don't know about you, but I find that obscene. Insulting. Abhorrent. Does the management not realize that entire cities offer free wifi? Seattle, New Orleans, and Mountain View, California, to name just a few. I refuse to pay such a ridiculous amount for something I can get for free at McDonald's, so I ambled up the road and am sitting here with a cold, refreshing Coca-Cola product in my hand. Thank you, McDonald's. Your pickles are gross, but your free wifi rules.

December kicked my rather small and shapely heinie. There was the usual chaos of my girls' end-of-the-semester activities. Add to that the writing course I took, which required a lot of time and mental energy. I'm pretty sure that writing is about the most difficult thing in the world for me, yet I enjoy it. Oh, how I struggled. Laughed. Cried. Vomited . . . well, almost. I was so nervous before the public reading that my professor required that I almost threw up. We can't forget about Christmas, and all that the holiday season involves. Toss in three severe windstorms that knocked trees down and left us without power for a couple days, and you've got one busy Kim. Let's not forget packing for the family vacation, which first required conquering the massive pile of laundry in front of the washer.

So, long story short, I am sunburnt but still alive.

Dinner last night: ono in orange sauce and encrusted with crushed macadamia nuts, hula pie (oh, my!)

Exactly two years ago:

Bright Future

Tryptophan Coma

2011-11-25T11:57:00.000-09:00

My favorite part of Thanksgiving is eating leftovers. And napping . . .

. . . although I dislike sleeping in the snow, and prefer my toasty bed.

Have a restful holiday weekend, friends!

Dinner last night: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, pistachio salad, green salad, crescent rolls, cranberry jelly, corn, sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie

Exactly two years ago:

Giving Thanks

Don't Forget to Thaw the Turkey

2011-11-22T11:29:00.000-09:00

Can someone please explain to me how Thanksgiving is here already? Yikes. Tomorrow is Wednesday, known around my house as National Pie-Baking Day. This year, I'm making only pumpkin. No apple. No pecan. Just pumpkin. No cherry. No rhubarb. PUMPKIN! Nothing fancy, either. No sour cream pumpkin pie or pumpkin cheesecake. Plain ol' punkin. Maybe I'll serve it with whipped cream. Maybe I won't.

Do you think the pilgrims ate fancy pie a la mode? No, they did not.

They feasted on pumpkin and were thankful.

Dinner last night: beef stroganoff

Exactly one year ago:

The Battle Begins

Icy Morning, Warm Heart

2011-11-10T02:32:00.000-09:00

The upside to our recent cold snap can be found in the spectacular skies, with swaths of pink and blue backlighting the trees at the break of 9:00 a.m. What a way to start my day!

Dinner last night: chili, rice, and cheese

Exactly one year ago:

Room with a View

Exactly three years ago:

Aha! Moment

Let's All Gather 'Round the Septic Tank

2011-11-09T09:41:00.001-09:00

Once again, I awoke to the lilting sounds of our septic alarm. Our sewage system has been giving us fits since the first winter we moved in. We do not live in an area where we receive city water or sewer OR CABLE TV, so we make due with well water, a septic tank, and a wobbly antenna attached to the roof.

The problem with our finicky septic system may or may not have something to do with 6 well-fed members of my family flushing toilets 24/7. At any moment of any hour of any day, someone is using the bathroom. I will refrain from pointing fingers at the many house guests with irritable bowel syndrome who have stayed with us on a regular basis over the years. I refuse to discuss the myriad objects that my twin daughters have tried and/or succeeding in flushing through the sewer line. My point is: the septic system feels abused.

It punishes us each winter. The spiteful stinking cavern of our tank waits until two feet of snow covers the ground and the temperature drops to a balmy 8°, then stops working. And when the septic system isn't working, I can't work. The clothes go unwashed, the dishes go unwashed, my hair goes unwashed. We are forced to severely limit our use of water, until we can get the septic pump operating again.

Until today, my husband has always been able to figure out the problem and set it right. He's fixed the wiring, replaced the switch, replaced the outlet, replaced the pump . . . I don't know what all he's been required to do, and I don't ask. Our relationship is safer with my remaining unaware of where he's had to crawl and what horrible sights he's had to see. He burns his work clothes in the woodstove when he's done and takes a scalding shower, while I run giddily about the house, starting the washing machine and running the dishwasher and flushing toilets.

This morning, my husband's attempts to coax the septic pump back into operation were fruitless. Nothing he tried worked. We finally had to break down and call a specialist to come over and help us figure out what's wrong this time. I'm praying it won't involve digging up frozen ground, because then we're looking at some major expense. A working toilet may be the only gift my kids will receive this Christmas.

Dinner last night: pot roast, veggies

Exactly two years ago:

Just Like That

100% Organic Talent, No Special Effects Included

2011-11-04T09:40:00.000-08:00

Basketball is a popular sport up here in Alaska, especially in our small isolated communities where most of the townspeople cram into the gym to support the home team when a rival school flies in for a game. The band plays, the cheerleaders jump, and the crowd goes hoarse yelling at the refs. Over the decades, young men from Alaska have even made it to the NBA; most recently Carlos Boozer from Juneau signed with the Chicago Bulls.

My daughter goes to school with a boy who literally has been playing basketball since he was big enough to bounce a ball. He's in sixth grade, but already a starting player for the eighth grade team. He comes from a family of basketball stars, including his older brother, whom you must watch in this video that he made with his college teammate. All of their shots are absolutely real:

Dinner last night: penne with bolognese sauce, garlic toast, green salad

Exactly three years ago:

It's Almost Over, People!

Snow Fairies

2011-11-01T08:59:00.001-08:00

We took the twins trick-or-treating, despite the blizzard that hit last night. I bundled up the girls, slapped some wings on their backs, and called them costumes. I don't know what it is about my kids and crazy teeth, but one daughter insisted on wearing purple plastic fangs that she refers to as her "bat teeth."

Dinner last night: candy

Exactly one year ago:

The Bat and the Butterfly

Just in Time for Trick-or-Treating

2011-10-31T02:46:00.003-08:00

Our first snowfall arrived Saturday night. It's winter, y'all.

Dinner last night: meatballs over egg noodles

Exactly three years ago:

Happy Halloween

Who's That Knockin' at My Door?

2011-10-27T02:20:00.014-08:00

Jehovah's Witnesses are getting desperate for volunteers.

Dinner last night: sour cream enchiladas, refried beans, corn

Exactly two years ago:

Games for a Harvest Party

Exactly three years ago:

Bag This, Buddy

A Helpful Tip

2011-10-20T08:58:00.000-08:00

I am often asked about how I am able to tell my identical twin daughters apart. Differentiating the girls is very difficult, as they are freakishly similar in looks, but if you carefully study their mouths, you can see a difference.

Dinner last night: turkey burgers

Exactly three years ago:

Public Service Announcement

Oh, Blog, How I've Missed You

2011-10-19T02:38:00.027-08:00

I've been crazy busy lately, what with the four kids and all. First quarter ended, so parent/teacher conferences are coming up. Those are always fun, aren't they? Then there's Halloween and the annual Harvest Party that my girls throw for their friends. I almost had them convinced that we didn't need to host a party this year, but then a stinkin' costume catalogue came in the mail. That's all it took to reignite their fondness for dressing up like bat fairies—anything with wings and a wand, really. They love to wear costumes and have fun, the weirdos.

So now I'm knee-deep in preparations for their big party, preparations that consist mainly of cleaning my house. How do I let it get so out of control? Why can't I keep up with the scrubbing and the dusting and the washing and the folding? My college class, that's why. I had to go and take a writing course, which doesn't just involve writing, but plenty of reading. I wish the reading involved your blogs and emails, my friends, but I have been distracted and assigned to study essays and textbooks and such. I will get around soon to your sites, I promise.

Meanwhile, I'll be sitting here writing journal entries for my creative nonfiction class . . .

A Winter Memory

My sister is leading the way. Although a year younger, she has always run faster than me. She bounds effortlessly ahead, while I gallop after her. We are desperately late, and probably have already missed the first bell, so we sprint toward a shortcut through the woods. We each carry new pairs of shoes: chukka boots that my mother ordered for us through the Sears catalog. They are soft suede, a warm caramel color, and brand new. My sister wears a shoe on each hand, like mittens. I swing mine by their laces. When we reach the warm interior of our classroom, we will replace the bulky winter boots currently encasing our feet with the sleek new chukkas we carry with us to school.

We barrel up to a small river that edges the forest. In warmer months,we slow down, find where the current narrows, and leap from one side to theother. These are not warm months, however. The trees have lost their leaves andstand like naked sentinels, barely guarding the crossing of the creek. The airis cold, and fortunately for us, the water has frozen. My sister dashesfull-speed across the widest part of the creek. Without thinking, I follow her.As she reaches the edge, my sister leaps toward land and pitches her upper bodyforward. She uses her hands, still shoved inside her chukka boots, to dragherself up the bank. I’m close behind, racing over the ice.

I don’t hear a warning crack. I don’t see lines spider-veining their wayacross the ice. The surface just opens. One moment I’m running across afrozen pond, and in the next, a gaping black maw swallows me. In that splitsecond of plunging through the ice, I notice that everything else is white. Hardwhite ground. Skinny white trees stand silently, like hoarfrost-coveredskeletons reaching gnarled fingers toward a white sky. But I fall intoblackness.

My body hangs in the water, and I expect to feel bottom at any moment asI begin to sink down, but my feet touch nothing. I scissor-kick frantically,and my shoulders bob up and out of the creek. Instinctively, I’ve been holdingmy arms straight up overhead, perhaps to keep my hands from getting wet, butmostly to protect the new shoes I’m still clutching. My sister bounces anxiouslyon the bank, unable to help, screaming at me, “Don’t get your chukka bootswet!” I know how to swim, but I’m afraid to use my hands. Even if I could holdonto my shoes and paddle at the same time, a soaking would ruin the suedeleather.

With arms aloft, I shift the right side of my body forward, than swivelthe left side, treading with my legs the entire while. It works. My furiouskicking keeps my head above water, and my jerky half-pivots advance me enoughthat the toe on my right foot brushes bottom. I continue my strange aquaticdance, hands raised above my head, inching forward until all my toes touch,until finally both feet stand flat on the creek floor. The frigid water is avice tightening around my chest. I can’t breathe. I am numb. My knuckles have seizedin a paralyzed grip around my shoes, but I bend my elbows and with every ounceof strength throw the brand-new chukka boots toward my sister, who is jumpingup and down on the bank, dripping, whimpering nervously. She catches one shoe,and the other bounces on the hardened ground. She picks it up and moves to thetop of the embankment, placing my pair safely next to her own.

She turns tohelp me, reaches for me. “Stay there!” I try to yell, but can only hiss throughmy chattering jaw. I splash my hands down through the water, awkwardly paddlingthe last few feet to the creek’s edge. I scream in pain as my sister’s scrapingfingers pull at my chilled arms, bound in the heavy wet tourniquet of my coatsleeves. I crawl out, panting in exhaustion, but there is no time to rest. Theends of my long hair are already frozen into stiff icicles.

We must turn back and go home.

Dinner last night: white chili, sweet cornbread muffins

Exactly one years ago:

Let Them Eat Cake

Exactly two years ago:

Sunset Through the Trees

Cwazy Wabbits

2011-10-14T08:33:00.001-08:00

My 13-year-old daughter came to me earlier this week and groaned, "Our field trip on Thursday might get canceled!" Oh, dear. What happened? "We don't have enough parents to chaperone!" I was shocked. Her science teacher had organized a trip to the . . . sand and gravel pit. I couldn't believe that the classroom door hadn't been knocked off its hinges by excited moms and dads pushing through to get to the sign-up sheet. I mean, who wouldn't want to accompany a group of 8th graders on a tour of rock piles? "Please chaperone, Mom. PLEASE?!" My daughter begged.

Turns out, I learned something. Mainly, the difference between concrete and cement. They are not interchangeable terms, people. Cement is a powdery ingredient—along with water, sand, gravel, and chemicals—in concrete. As the civil engineer leading the tour put it, "Cement is to concrete as flour is to bread." Also, cement comes on big ships from Korea. And I do not like the color grey when it comes to concrete blocks. Too institutional, if you ask me. I prefer buff or terra cotta.

Oh, one more thing. Oblivious rabbits hop around sand and gravel pits.

I think I've found an animal ~~dumber~~ cuter than moose.

Dinner last night: spaghetti, corn, green salad

Exactly two years ago:

Crazy for Forts

Exactly three years ago:

The Fog Creeps in on Little Cat Feet

Land of the Midnight Sun, Er, Moon

2011-10-11T02:29:00.005-08:00

I cannot for the life of me figure out how to photograph a full moon. I'm sure it has something to do with camera speed and aperture and perhaps a good-quality lens . . . elements of photography that I know nothing about. Why can't Canon just make an automatic feature with a tiny icon of a moon that I can flip to on the top of my camera?

I've tried and failed on numerous evenings to capture the scope and majesty of a brilliant lunar orb hanging in a purple sky.

What a stunning white dot. And so tiny.

Dinner last night: Hawaiian pizza

Exactly one year ago:

In the leaf pile no one can hear you scream.

Bad Photo Tuesday

2011-10-04T09:16:00.001-08:00

This is what you get when you try to take pictures with your cell phone:

Cross-country season ended two weeks ago, and this is the ONLY photograph I have of my 13-year-old racing. She actually has great form, not that you can tell from this moment in time. Way to go, Mom.

I thought for sure this moose shot would turn out, because I was standing all of 5 feet away. Nope. Pixellated and blurry like every other picture I take with my phone.

On second thought, thank goodness for blurry. I can't imagine the horror of looking up Daisy's nose if it were crisp and sharply rendered.

Dinner last night: chicken and rice casserole

Exactly one year ago:

A Leaf or Two-Thousand

Art Reflects Life

2011-09-30T02:42:00.063-08:00

Back in February, I shared with you the artwork of my youngest twin. If I'm not mistaken, you were amazed and declared her a prodigy. Here we are, six months later, and she's still drawing colorful portraits. She sketched this fellow in green and blue:

His blue nose is fairly obvious, but

you may be wondering what the blue object above his eyes could be . . .

His brain, of course!

Did you learn nothing from your study of Untitled, Mommy with Teeth?

Here's a bald guy rendered in blue and pink, with his brain intact.

And here, we have a subject with a cold or possibly a pierced nose. And a brain.

Finally! Someone without a brain. Look how carefree he is!

A brainless man with crazy eyes and buck teeth. But happy!

Dinner last night: pot roast, veggies

Exactly two years ago:

Back to Normal

Exactly three years ago:

Brace Face? Tin Grin? PFD Mouth?

Karma

2011-09-29T02:36:00.046-08:00

As a young college student, I secretly made fun of theolder women who seemed to appear in every core course I took. They must haveneeded the classes for their jobs or something. They certainly weren’tfull-time students like the rest of us who lived on campus and ate at thecafeteria. They were no-nonsense, efficient, good-at-the-chit-chat kind of women, and you could count onthem to make a beeline on the first day of class to the front row to claimtheir center seats. They’d set their floral-designed tote bags on the floornext to the legs of their chairs, place their cups of coffee on the desktop,and settle in for a full round of discussion with the professor. They completed their assignments thoroughly and on time, and reminded the prof to collect them at the end of class.

I have become one of those women.

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I enrolled in a college classthis semester (I’m required to take a couple every few years to keep my teachingcertificate current). When I have to pay HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS for a single course,you’re darn right I’m going to be sitting in the front row where I can see andhear the instructor. I’m not there to lounge in the back and text my boyfriend; I’m there to get my money’s worth. And, yes, I will make sure the teacher collects our homework, because a) I took the time out of my busy schedule to do it, and b) I'm planning on earning nothing less than an A in this course.

I signed up for a nonfiction writing class, not realizing it involves a workshop component. We must submit pieces for our peers to readand then to critique in writing and OUT LOUD. My turn to be critiqued is tonight.No worries, though, because I’m great with receiving criticism. Just ask myhusband. And my kids. They’ll tell you how thick-skinned I am. Not sensitive atall, no sirree.

If you don’t hear from me for a couple of weeks, it’sbecause I’ve taken to my bed in a fugue state caused by depression at hearingmy writing described as what? I can only imagine. “You write like a blogger."

. . . and now I’m off to pack my tote bag with my books andpapers and highlighters and reading glasses, and prepare my coffee in myspecial thermos cup with its sippy lid.

Dinner last night: mac and cheese

Exactly one year ago:

Speaking of Tomboys . . .

El Dusto de Terminaciòn

2011-09-28T02:44:00.012-08:00

First sighting of snow . . . won't be long until it's dusting my driveway.

Dinner last night: sloppy joes

Exactly three years ago:

Weekend Walk

Quit Rapping and Walk the Dog Already

2011-09-27T02:52:00.038-08:00

My older girls are going through a slightly annoying phase. They've been practicing their beatboxing and rapping skillz everywhere they go. Everywhere. At the table. In the shower. Through parking lots. Over canyons.

(click on arrow to play)

Dinner last night: lasagna, steamed broccoli, green salad

Exactly one year ago:

Tomboy Checklist

Trees, Leaves, and Sky, Oh My!

2011-09-26T10:19:00.001-08:00

We are in the middle of full-blown autumn up here. Is it weird that I threw myself on the ground and stayed there for 20 minutes, staring up through the trees at the blue sky? No, not at all! Okay, maybe it's a little weird, but I highly recommend it.

Alright, alright. I'm a total weirdo, but I still say everyone should take time out to lie on the ground and look up at the sky.

* HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my sweet mother. You are loved more than you know! *

Dinner last night: tacos

Exactly three years ago:

Donald Trump's Love Child

Tweet

No More Arguing . . . Until Next Spring

2011-09-23T02:50:00.101-08:00

When I was a kid, maybe 9 years old or so, I received a copy of Verna Pratt's Field Guide to Alaskan Wildflowers. I'd tramp through the woods in Haines, Alaska, collecting specimens of ferns and blossoms and grasses to take home, where I would carefully place them on paper toweling. I'd flip through the pages of my field guide until I found a matching picture of the forget-me-not or dogwood or chocolate lily, and copy its name onto the bottom edge of the paper towel. I'd cover each sample with another sheet of paper toweling, then gently lay the encased flowers between the pages of a heavy book to press them. I'm sure my mother's come across countless dried sprigs in her dictionary over the years.

The downside of my process is that I misidentified pushki. To my young eye, it matched the picture of Queen Ann's Lace, and to this day I automatically refer to cow parsnip as Queen Ann's Lace. On our evening strolls, I will argue with my husband until I'm blue in the face that no, that is not pushki, that is Queen Ann's Lace. He's right, of course, it is pushki, but I won't admit it. I kind of enjoy seeing him getting all worked up, as he provides example after example of how he knows without a doubt that IT'S PUSHKI. He tells me about the childhood battles he and his little buddies fought in the fields around Homer, Alaska, using stalks of pushki as swords. He reminds me that he received a degree in biology, which ought to count for something. He'll admit a similarity may exist between the two, but then point out the differences between pushki and Queen Ann's lace. Whatever.

I'd take this Queen Ann's Lace home to press,

but I don't think I have a book that is big enough.

Also, it's kind of dead.

(And it's not Queen Ann's Lace, but you didn't hear it from me.)

Dinner last night: veggie pizza

Exactly one year ago:

Mr. Magoo Traverses the Nursery

Exactly two years ago:

In the Mullygrubs

Exactly three years ago:

Who Needs TV Anyway?

I Don't Know, Hamlin. I Think It's Kind of Pretty

2011-09-21T02:18:00.015-08:00

Devil's Club

It is a sprawling, hateful thing,

thorny and twisted like a snake,

writhing to work a mischief, in the brake

it stands at menace, in its cling

is danger and a venomed sting.

It grows on green and slimy slopes,

it is a thing of shades and slums,

for passing feet it wildly gropes,

and loops to catch all feet that run

seeking a path to sky and sun.

—Hamlin Garland

Dinner last night: barbecue salmon fillets, risotto

Exactly one year ago:

The Coldest Winter I Ever Spent Was a Summer in Homer, Alaska

Path to Autumn

2011-09-20T02:53:00.008-08:00

I say it every September . . . this is my favorite time of year.

Country road, take me home . . .

Dinner last night: spaghetti, garlic toast, green salad

Exactly one year ago:

Like Mother, Like Daughter

lang can sang

2011-09-19T09:55:00.004-08:00

Despite its relative isolation from the rest of the country, Alaska is remarkably rich in culture. There's the native culture, of course, but the natural beauty of the land seems to attract artists from every field. Some stay to live here, while others merely visit for inspiration.

If you are familiar with dance at all, you might be surprised at the luminaries in the dance world who have performed up here, such as Mikhail Baryshnikov (ballet and modern) and Gregory Hines (tap), as well as world-renowned dance companies, like Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre. Living in Alaska, I think I may have experienced more topnotch performances than a lot of people who live in New York or Los Angeles. I'll never forget the evening I attended a performance in Fairbanks, Alaska, of all places, by Martha Graham's Dance Company; the dancers were amazing and the choreography stunning. At the conclusion of the show, as the dancers took their bows, out walked the legendary Martha Graham herself! She had to have been in her early 90s, but she was straight-backed and beautiful, wearing her hair in her trademark chignon. To think that she was still traveling with her dancers, even to the top of the world, blew my mind.

I've sat in small theaters, watching up close and personal as comedian Bill Cosby or mime Marcel Marceau or singer Suzanne Vega performed. Huge acts like Justin Bieber would probably never bring their shows up here—we don't have venues large enough to hold the pyrotechnics and 6,000 screaming teenagers—but Elton John has played in Alaska. He just needed a stage and piano. Traveling Broadway musicals make it to Anchorage several times a year; last fall, we were enthralled by Lion King, and this season, productions of Fiddler on the Roof, Beauty and the Beast, and Rock of Ages will play in our big city. I'm not talking about community theatre, either—these shows are the real deal, with professional casts and orchestra and the Broadway sets and costumes.

This past weekend, k.d. lang played two shows with her 5-piece band, Siss Boom Bang. I was a tad hesitant to attend her concert, mostly because I know that she is quite outspoken about her various causes and I did not want to be trapped at a political rally. As she stepped onto the stage, she said that she and her musicians were there "to give you our best." She was not kidding. The musicians in her band are fantastic. Her vocal ability is AMAZING. About halfway through the set, she sang a rendition of Hallelujah that brought tears to my eyes and the crowd to their feet. STANDING OVATION. In the middle of the concert. She was that good. And she never once brought up her politics or vegan eating habits . . . it was all music, all night.

I know, I know. Photography is not allowed. Can I help it if I was trying to turn off my cellphone and it accidentally snapped a picture?

Dinner last night: pepperjack cheeseburgers

Exactly three years ago:

Things to Do with Your Kids This Weekend 20

Camping at Russian River

2011-09-14T16:22:00.003-08:00

Click on arrow to play:

(to view in full screen, click on the 4-arrow icon in front of the vimeo logo)

It's difficult to hear, but "that big box" is where we store our food at night to keep it away from critters, particularly bears.

Dinner last night: oven-baked chicken, cheddar broccoli rice

Exactly one year ago:

Fall Colors

Exactly two years ago:

Retail Therapy

Light

2011-09-12T09:21:00.004-08:00

I recently hung a star in my window. I love the elaborate design, which is made of colored paper.

This is my THIRD attempt. The first light was a red star that I displayed in the living room window at Christmas. My twin daughters were about 1-1/2 years old at the time, and I didn't think they could reach it. I thought wrong. They had that star pulled down and shredded into a million pieces before you could say Santa's Your Uncle.

My second try was a beautiful purple star that I hung when the twins were three years old. I was confident in my training of my toddlers. Surely they would obey my orders to NOT TOUCH. One day I walked into the living room to a bare window; the hanging star was gone! I asked my precious angels what they had done. They looked at me silently, feigning innocence. I later found the purple star ripped in half and stuffed under the loveseat.

This time around I've hung a bluish-green and yellow star in the guest room, where I can lock the door. We'll see how long it lasts.

Dinner last night: pork chops, stuffing, rhubarb crisp with vanilla ice cream

Exactly three years ago:

Things to Do with Your Kids This Weekend 19

A Fireman, an Airplane Passenger, and a Trapped Office Worker Walk Into a Bar

2011-09-09T09:58:00.005-08:00

Last night in my nonfiction writing class, the instructor was discussing how tragic events require a significant passage of time before one is able to write about them. A woman who miscarries, a victim of crime, or a soldier returning from the battlefield sometimes need years to process and to heal before they can begin to express their points of view through their writing. She used 9/11 as an example—how after a decade we are starting to see a slew of essays, books, and films on the subject, and comedians are now able to parody the events of 9/11 . . . hold on . . . whoa . . . back up, lady. WHAT?

My professor was in the middle of her lecture to the class, so I couldn't interrupt her, but I really wanted to ask her for her sources. Comedians? JOKING? About 9/11? Now, I can believe that some moron might post stupid, profanity-laced quips on his facebook page. I can imagine a group of wannabe Al-Qaedas chilling in a basement somewhere, chugging down fermented cactus juice and drunkenly bragging about all the Americans they're going to kill some day. But a professional performer attempting to find humor—even the darkest—in an event that ripped the heart out of this country? Career suicide, if you ask me.

Maybe someone is standing on a stage somewhere riffing into the mic about radical Islam or US government conspiracies or orphaned children. Perhaps a sketch comedy group in Los Angeles or Chicago or New York City really believes that there's nothing too sacred to joke about. I don't believe it. I WON'T believe it.

If you're not laughing yet, you can read my notes from a couple years ago on where I was and what went through my mind on 9/11.

Dinner last night: pork chops and stuffing

Exactly one year ago:

Chill Out, Dawg

Exactly three years ago:

Why I'm Going Grey . . .

Poor Little Garden

2011-09-08T10:30:00.000-08:00

When we moved into our house five years ago, I was delighted to discover several small garden beds around the property. One of them sits in a corner of the back yard, and is fenced to keep the moose out. HA! HA! That's a good one, Kim. Maybe it keeps out rabbits? I don't know. It sure doesn't keep out the kids.

I suspect that when that particular bed originally was put in, the area was cleared and in full sun, but over time the birch have grown very tall and thick wild rose bushes have encroached. The little garden receives dappled sunlight at best, which isn't good for growing much of anything. For the first two summers, I was able to harvest potatoes and a few lettuces in that spot, but I've since given up and just let it go wild. It's turned into a messy rhubarb and daisy patch.

Sad.

Finally, after my lengthy complaining, my husband has agreed to help me get rid of it. We are going to transplant the rhubarb to the side of the house, where they'll get lots of sunlight during summer and plenty of warmth and protection during the winter. I should have transplanted them in early spring, but I was busy . . . ahem. From my experience, rhubarb is hearty and I'm hoping they'll survive a fall transplant.

Artist's rendering.

I plan to recycle the little garden's wood frame by making small boxes under the windows at the back of the house, where I will plant bulbs. I would love to walk into the family room next spring and look out the window at tulips and lilies and daffodils. Tick tock! Each day brings cooler temps and I don't have much time.

I'm off to the mill and feed to search out some bulbs . . .

Dinner last night: shepherd's pie

Exactly one year ago:

A Room to Call Her Own

Exactly two years ago:

Country Road

Exactly three years ago:

Back to Reality

Walk at Dusk

2011-09-06T02:34:00.064-08:00

The past few weeks have been damp and cool. The rain stopped today for a few hours, so I headed outside for a walk.

A tree in my front yard is beginning to drop its wine-colored foliage.

The birch leaves, way up high, are starting to turn yellow . . .

. . . while the ground cover, way down low, is reddening.

I could see my breath as I walked. September. Wet, cold weather . . .

. . . warm, cuddly house.

Dinner last night: sweet and sour shortribs, fried rice

Change is a Good Thing. Right? RIGHT?!

2011-09-04T17:15:00.008-08:00

Dearest Reader,

I am out of the loop when it comes to social networking. I don't tweet and I don't Facebook. This refusal to join modern life is based partly on my contrary nature and partly on my computer's antagonistic attitude toward me. I tried to publish a Facebook page that ties into this blog, and it worked for awhile, but then froze in obstinate silence and now sits there staring at me blankly. The page refuses to publish new posts, despite my daily prayers and self-immolation. Bless your heart, Ma Teakettle at the Teakettle Corner, for signing up to the Facebook network to receive blog updates, and I'm sorry you wasted your time.

I wasn't always this disabled when it came to technology. I was at one time quite skilled in all things computer. But those days are long gone, and now I sit in front of my monitor, nervously rubbing my fingers together, mumbling to myself as I hunt and fearfully peck and try to figure out which link I'm supposed to click on.

Considering my negative energy around anything electronic, I am probably a fool for what I am about to do: change the name and address of my blog.

I've had to change the name because themommymachine.com is taken by a placeholder who wants to make money, and I'm not willing to pay. It's time I improved the title anyway. When I started blogging three years ago, I had no idea what to call my site. I tried my personal name (taken!) and anything clever I could think of (taken!) before impatiently typing The Mommy Machine. Shockingly enough, no one had bothered to use that title. "Mommy Machine" meant something to me at the time—I was part robot, part human after giving birth to twins and then existing on an average of 3 hours of sleep per night for the next two years—but turns out it really doesn't have much of a ring to it, and I suspect the heading of The Mommy Machine actually repels people from even looking at my blog.

Since deciding to move to a custom domain, I've once again begun the name search. I am so sick of trying to come up with something original (taken!) or funny (TAKEN!!) that I've finally thrown up my hands in despair and settled on something that is available: Alaskim. It's a play on Alaska and Kim, not Alas, Kim (although that phrase is probably more appropriate at the moment.)

The two of you who subscribe through an RSS should not be affected and anyone who types in the old address should be automatically forwarded. Or so I've been promised.

Alas, Kim

Dinner last night: fast food

Exactly three years ago:

Crazy About Trees

Last of the Fair Talk, I Promise

2011-09-02T11:17:00.002-08:00

The Alaska State Fair ends on Labor Day. My 13-year-old will be going one more time with her friends on Monday to attend the Colbie Callait concert, while the rest of us stay home to enjoy the holiday. We have our favorite memories of the fair to hold us over until next year, including . . .

. . . buying a cute hat that actually fits my head. Yay for booths that sell hats! Hey, man, it's the little things in life. I need something to cover my bedhead in the morning when I drop my 8th grader off at her school. Not because I care what I look like at o'dark thirty, but evidently she does. The horror! should one of her fellow junior highers catch glimpse of my unkempt appearance. Speaking of hair . . .

. . . no more fair hair for my older girls. Now they want feather hair. I don't know how she did it, but a hair gypsy wove(?) glued(?) in a feather that's supposed to last for a couple of months.

We watched a lumberjack show . . .

. . . and oohed at the baby goats. And piglets. And tiny rabbits!

This is for my Texan bloggy friend over at Table for Nine.

Has the weather cooled yet?

I think it's fair to say that the girls had fun. Until next year . . .

Dinner last night: tilapia fillets, green salad

Exactly one year ago:

There's Pumpkin Pie, Pumpkin Cheesecake, Pumpkin Soup, Pumpkin Bread.

There's Pumpkin Muffins, Pumpkin Juice, Roasted Pumpkin Seeds . . .

Exactly two years ago:

Fair Hair

Exactly three years ago:

A Man and His Binoculars Are Not Soon Parted

The Only Relationship I'll Be Writing About is My Love–Hate Toward Moose

2011-09-01T09:59:00.002-08:00

Although I no longer "work outside the home," as they say, being the anxiety-ridden worrywart Plan-B-ready-in-case-of-disaster type of gal that I am, I've kept my teaching certificate active all these years. You know, just in case I ever feel like I've got too much time on my hands, I can run on over to the nearest public high school and whip a few juvenile delinquents into shape.

In order to keep the Department of Education happy, I'm required to take a couple upper-division college classes every 5 years to keep my brain sharp (yeah, I know, good luck with that) and my teaching credentials current. I'm guessing that this lengthy period of time allows a person plenty of options; you've got FIVE YEARS to select, enroll, attend, and complete two measly courses. Ah, yes, well. I've been busy this last half-decade. Ahem.

So now I'm down to the wire and must get serious about my schooling. I was hoping I could find a good online course, but this semester's options do not appeal to me. Nothing against math or statistics, but . . . yuck. The local campus offers lots of classes that I'd love to take—cooking! aerobics! photography!—but they're lower division and only 1 credit. Alas, I'm forced to choose from among subjects involving reading and research and discussion (shudder) and the dreaded essay assignment.

I finally found something that looks promising: a nonfiction writing course—NOT expository writing, because, well, YUCK—that meets one night a week for 3 hours. I don't like sitting on my tiny derriere for 3 hours at a time unless I'm watching a Lord of the Rings movie, but it's much easier on the family schedule for me to disappear a few hours one evening than if I took the other type of class that meets 3 separate times throughout the week.

All of this blather is to say I attend my first class of the semester tonight. Please, dear Lord, don't let "nonfiction writing" mean I have to read a bunch of 20-year-olds' world-weary thoughts on relationships.

Dinner last night: meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn

Exactly one year ago:

Sugar and Spice

Exactly two years ago:

Rides, Rides, and More Rides

Welcome to My Laryngitis

2011-08-31T02:26:00.088-08:00

When people used to notice my infant twins, they'd often chuckle, "You've sure got your hands full, don'tcha?!" They didn't know the half of it. The girls' boundless energy combined with my husband's NO FEAR policy has turned me into a screaming ninny.

Upon entering the Alaska State Fair, my husband noticed a 30' rock climbing wall

and sent the girls right on up. "Be careful!" I yelled.

Next, he bought them lunch . . .

Corn dogs and cotton candy. "Gross! Don't get ketchup on your shirt!" I shrieked.

My husband is delighted by the fact that although they are young, our daughters are tall enough to meet the height requirement on a lot of the big rides. No carousel ponies for them. Oh, no. They wanted to go for a spin on the swinging chairs . . .

which seemed innocent enough, until . . .

one giddy girl decided to reach for her sister. The lady next to me did not appreciate
the damage to her ear drum when I bellowed, "Sit RIGHT!"

We spent the remainder of our day in the kiddie ride section so my heart palpitations could stabilize.

Dinner last night: Parmesan and herb Panko chicken breasts, pasta

Exactly two years ago:

Alaska State Fair

View from a Ferris Wheel

2011-08-29T09:10:00.003-08:00

There are two types of Alaskans: (1) those who love the State Fair, and (2) the rest. When the haters throw out such excuses as "too many people" and "expensive food," we fair lovers laugh at their nonsense. HA! we say. PISH POSH. People and food are the very reasons that attract us to the fairgrounds each August. Where else can you eat a gyro sandwich, a cream puff, a pork chop on a stick, and an ice cream cone all on the same day? Who doesn't want to run into old friends throughout the afternoon and catch up on what's been happening in their lives? The kids ride the twirly-things, Daddy checks out the four wheelers on display, and Mommy walks among the quilts and jars of jelly. Everybody's happy.

Life isn't worth living without an annual visit to the Alaska State Fair.

Dinner last night: fair food galore

If You Give a Moose a Mushroom

2011-08-22T02:40:00.124-08:00

I pulled up into the driveway, hopped out of my car, and just about ran into the rear end of a moose calf that was nibbling the bushes along the side of the house. There was no charging mama in sight, so I whipped out my cell phone from my purse.

As usual, by the time I figured out how to turn on the camera function, the moose was taking off.

The calf stopped running from my bad self and tried to eat a mushroom. Not a real mushroom, mind you, but an ornamental mushroom made out of glass.

When he realized that mushroom wasn't real, he hid behind a tree in embarrassment.
Hiding behind a tree reminded him that he was hungry.

So he wandered out onto the front yard to to try some more mushrooms.

At least they were edible this time.

Dinner last night: salmon pinwheels, fruit salad

Exactly three years ago:

Things to Do with Your Kids this Weekend 17

Where Are the Hot Tub and Wet Bar?

2011-08-18T08:46:00.002-08:00

Eighth-grade girls are all about their lockers. I don't understand it, since I didn't even have a locker in 8th grade, and in high school—when I was assigned a locker—I never thought once about decorating the metal cage where I kept my textbooks and wet boots. Oh, how times have changed.

My daughter and her friends met up last week at registration, carefully selected their locker locations together, and set about decorating them. My daughter had actually sketched out a design plan for her storage space! This year's colors are blue and green, with a bubble motif.

My locker is ready. I can rest easy.

Dinner last night: panko-breaded tilapia, risotto

Exactly one year ago:

Walk in the Rain

Exactly two years ago:

Back to School Blues

Exactly three years ago:

Street Urchins

You Want a Run-on Sentence? I'll Give You a Run-On Sentence!

2011-08-17T08:46:00.000-08:00

Flying over my home state's rough terrain reminded me that snow is a sneaky little Gollum creeping over the mountains, making its way to my house, which is a lot like Mount Doom, now that I think of it, all smoky and stinky and scary, with spiders lurking in the corner. Time to open the curtains, wash the dishes, and vacuum the carpets. Wow, did my husband and kids make a mess while I was gone.

Dinner last night: chili, cornbread

Exactly two years ago:

Alaska State Champions

A Living Stereotype

2011-08-15T08:30:00.002-08:00

My eldest daughter and I returned home last night from a quick trip to Seattle, where yet again I was confronted with one of my worst character flaws: a terrible sense of direction. When will I learn that if my instinct is to turn left, I should ignore that instinct at all costs and turn right? Of course, I always follow my instinct, which is inevitably wrong, and end up circling for hours, lost in a 17-acre maze of some industrial park that has been boarded up since 1992.

The only person in my family who possesses a worse sense of direction is my eldest daughter, who upon returning to our hotel after our first day of gallivanting about Seattle's abandoned industrial parks insisted that our room was 446. Who am I to contradict a 13-year-old's certainty? We stood outside room 446 for a good five minutes trying to open our door, inserting the key from every possible angle—even upside down, which we knew was incorrect, but thought maybe this key is the lone exception in the universe that actually works upside down. We finally gave up and shuffled down to the front desk to get a new key. TO ROOM 346.

The one and only place we found without any trouble at all was the Cheesecake Factory. I made a beeline to that restaurant with complete accuracy, like a human GPS, I tell ya.

Cuban Pork Sandwich, baby!

Dinner last night: packet of pretzels, diet Coke

Exactly one year ago:

The Princess and the Pauper

Say Goodbye to Summer

2011-08-11T02:30:00.025-08:00

School starts next week.

Dinner last night: chicken-vegetable soup, Popeye bread (spinach, red peppers, parmesan)

Exactly one year ago:

Contrary to All Appearances, My Kids are Not Cocker Spaniels

Exactly three years ago:

The Destructors

The Higher the Hair, the Closer to Jesus

2011-08-09T16:26:00.000-08:00

I was cleaning out a box of junk from the garage when I came across an old scrapbook that included a picture we took of ourselves on our first wedding anniversary.

My smile masks my confusion over which I find more hideous . . .
my hair, my shirt, or my sofa.

Dinner last night: tacos, Spanish rice, corn

Exactly one year ago:

The Three Rs

Thinking of Grandma

2011-08-08T17:29:00.003-08:00

After my grandmother passed, my mom and her siblings tearfully went through her home, cleaning and packing and selecting small keepsakes with personal meaning. My mother thoughtfully gave to my sisters and me clippings from Grandma's hoya plant. I was amazed at how quickly my little sprig took root, and the hoya continues to grow large and leafy all these years later on a sunny windowsill in my house. It will sit there for months with its plain green leaves, and then surprise me with fragrant blossoms that seemingly form overnight. They are so lovely. Just like my grandmother.

Dinner last night: barbecue short ribs, mac and cheese

The Rare and Wily Risotto

2011-08-03T08:28:00.005-08:00

The only time I've ever eaten risotto was over 10 years ago. Friends took us to a nice restaurant and I thought I'd impress my tablemates by ordering some exotic dish that included wild rice risotto. It was, to use highly-technical jargon of the gourmand, gross. I figured risotto was just one of those foods that I'd have to grow accustomed to . . . but I've never again been willing to eat a spoonful of moldy sand. WHICH HASN'T BEEN DIFFICULT, considering no one I know eats risotto, let alone serves it to company.

Last week, I put the kids to bed, crawled into my own, and fired up the Hulu to watch my guilty pleasure: Food Network Star. I watched as Wolfgang Puck threw down his napkin in disgust, picked up his plate, and trotted into the kitchen to show a student chef how to make a proper risotto. His advice was to use WARM chicken stock until the consistency of the risotto was nice and CREAMY. What? Huh? Puck's risotto looked nothing like the tepid brown pebbles I had been served. Had I been deceived somehow?

Over the years, I've watched many cooking shows. It seems like the one thing that TV cooks have in common is serving their masterpieces "over a bed of risotto." Maybe it's time for me to give it a second try.

So I bought a container of Arborio Italian-style rice. It was just sitting there on the grocery shelf next to all the other brands of rice, like it wasn't some fancy foreign gross-tasting rice.

I cooked it up, served it with some barbecue salmon and corn on the cob, and guess what? EVERYONE loved it and asked for seconds—even the twins! Well, maybe not my 13-year-old who declared she doesn't like fish OR rice . . . before even touching her dinner. When creating the next X-Men film, the screenwriters really should give one of the mutants my daughter's superpower: the amazing ability to know what something tastes like without ever taking a bite.

If you're feeling adventurous, try risotto. It really wasn't hard to make at all, other than having to stir constantly (but that's why you had kids, right? Call one of 'em into the kitchen and make him or her stir while you prepare the rest of the meal). Here's the recipe I used, sans white wine.

Dinner last night: barbecue salmon, risotto, corn on the cob

Exactly one year ago:

Light at the End of the Tunnel

Exactly two years ago:

My Name is Kim and I'm a . . . Soccer Mom

This Just In . . . Strange Child SMILES After Receiving Shot in Arm . . . Allows Nurse to Shoot Her a SECOND Time . . . Details at 11 . . .

2011-08-01T11:24:00.000-08:00

Click on arrow to play:

Dinner last night: turkey and swiss wraps

Exactly three years ago:

Things to Do with Your Kids This Weekend 14

Who Are You and What Have You Done with My Daughter?

2011-07-28T10:31:00.003-08:00

My 11-year-old is a bit of a flibberty gibbet, so when she announced that she wanted to attend camp this summer, I gently discouraged her. And by "gently discouraged," I mean that I stated firmly, "no way, kid." I proceeded to list her recent transgressions, including but not limited to UNMADE BED, UNKIND WORDS TO YOUR SISTERS, NOT LEAVING A NOTE WHEN YOU TAKE OFF ON YOUR BIKE, and NOT HELPING OUT AROUND THE HOUSE. Then I mentioned her past transgressions: falling out of a tree and breaking her arm when she was 8, getting lost at the sea life center when she was 4, and toddling out of view at the park when she was a baby. I also mentioned that she's only eleven, has never been away from home, and would become terribly homesick, when I may or may not have actually meant that Mommy would miss you too much if you were gone for an entire week.

Thus began a campaign of responsibility designed to prove to me that she is deserving of swimming in a lake, riding a horse, and sitting near a blazing fire. She began making her bed every morning, preparing breakfast for the family, and STARTING MY COFFEE. She and her friends set up a successful lemonade stand down on the main road. Her entrepreneurial spirit kindled, she typed up a flyer requesting odd jobs and rode her bike throughout our neighborhood distributing them to all the retired couples who might need some cheap labor. Sure enough, people started calling and putting her to work weeding their gardens and picking up trash and trimming raspberry bushes and sweeping decks. In one week, she earned $60!

After an entire season of playing soccer without making a single goal, she transformed into a scoring machine. She volunteered to take the twins outside and play with them. She asked her dad if he needed any help with yardwork. She asked me if I needed any help with housework. When we said sure! she completed her tasks without complaining. SHE ASKED PERMISSION BEFORE CUTTING HER OWN BANGS.

Our daughter convinced us that she is mature enough to handle a week away from home.

Miss Responsibility, waiting to board the bus to summer camp

Dinner last night: spaghetti and meatballs

Exactly one year ago:

Our Very Own Cuckoo Clock

Exactly two years ago:

Now I Know What My Friday's Five Bloggers Feel Like

Exactly three years ago:

Mamma Mia!

Milestone

2011-07-25T10:11:00.000-08:00

I don't know what it is about our family and monkeybars, but each of my four girls has been determined from a very young age to master them. We're talking 2 years old, trying to reach for the rings! This summer, the twins finally figured out how to keep their grip while swinging ALL BY THEMSELVES.

They're getting so big! And, no, the irony is not lost on me that my brave playground soldiers are still sucking their thumbs.

Dinner last night: chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn on the cob

Exactly three years ago:

Things to Do with Your Kids This Weekend 13

On a Clear Day You Can See Forever. On a Hazy Day, Not So Much.

2011-07-22T02:24:00.019-08:00

Our house is surrounded by birch, spruce, and alders. I love looking out at the trees, but I must admit that I miss the view of the mountains from the living room window of our previous home. Fortunately, a quick drive up the hill provides a vista of the water and distant mountain range.

From my house, the sky looked clear and blue.
But up here, the view isn't as crystalline as I was hoping . . .

. . . though it's not too bad when I turn around and
set my sights on the mountain tops that are closer.

Clearer yet is the path that meanders through the trees.

Forget about walking. I'll just plop down in the grass . . .

. . . and listen to the birds sing.

* If you want to see an entirely different view of Alaska, check out Life Sentences, where Amy's husband is posting about his stay way up north in Kotzebue.*

Dinner last night: chicken and dumplings

Exactly one year ago:

The Fall Comes on Little Fireweed Feet

Exactly three years ago:

Height and Weight, Please

Busy as a Bee

2011-07-18T02:17:00.032-08:00

Beautiful patches of lupine currently dot the Alaskan countryside, so I thought I'd move in closer to practice some macro photography.

As I was focusing on a sprig of purple, a buzzing bee caught my attention. I have never seen a bee's legs so heavy with pollen. That must be where the expression "bee's knees" comes from—it's really impressive to see a tiny bee carrying around such huge, brightly colored sacs of pollen. Here, I'll show you a close-up:

Woops. He hid behind a flower. Let me try the other side . . .

Dang it. There he goes again. BE STILL!

I guess a bee never rests. I'll have to settle for this shot. You can't see the pollen from this angle, but you can see how furiously his wings are moving.

I'm going to go take a nap now.

Dinner last night: chicken enchiladas

Exactly one year ago:

You Talkin' to Me?

Exactly three years ago:

Things to Do with Your Kids This Weekend 12

Pet Peeve #529

2011-07-15T12:44:00.006-08:00

I've noticed that with the onslaught of social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter and the prevalence of cell phones, kids are taking pictures of themselves and posting them everywhere. My peeve is with their weird come-hither expressions. Our youth seem incapable of smiling naturally for the camera; they photograph themselves mostly with their tongues sticking out . . . or with pursed lips . . . or flashing sideways peace signs.

Makes me long for the good old days when you had to sit still as a statue with a frown on your face for 5 minutes after the bulb exploded above the accordian camera. My own daughter, who is barely eleven years old, has taken up the practice of posing like an attention-starved diva just to irritate me. She took these shots of herself and her little sister on my cell phone and left them there for me to find:

Is it even possible to purse one's lips more than this?

Why, yes, mother. It is very possible.

She's even got our dog posing like an idiot.

Or maybe that is Daisy's natural expression.

Hard to tell.

Dinner last night: chicken pot pie

Exactly one year ago:

Beauty is Where You Find It

Exactly two years ago:

No Fun Like Balloon Fun

Exactly three years ago:

The Great Sippy Cup Rebellion of 2008

Dash of Bouncy House, Sprinkle of Water Slide, Deluge of Fun

2011-07-06T09:32:00.003-08:00

I reside in Alaska, which means I live in an igloo where snow blizzards rage year-round; however, yesterday was a gorgeous summer day up in the 70s, so our neighbors busted out their waterslide.

The kids got into a romping game of "Aliens," which involved chasing and shooting and lots of screaming in delight.

My 5-year-old daughters thought these twin babies were pretty cool and screeched, "They're twins, too! They'll grow up to be just like us!" I do believe I detected shudders of horror rippling through the shoulders of the other adults standing around in the yard. Yeah, well, enjoy the gentle splashing and matching swimsuits while you can, people. Your time for "Aliens" is coming.

Dinner last night: teriyaki steak, potato salad

Exactly one year ago:

Bound to Happen

Exactly two years ago:

Things I Learned Over the 4th of July

Different Strokes for Different Folks

2011-07-01T09:25:00.001-08:00

The twins recently turned five and received their first bicycles, which were their only gifts from us. Oh, wait. Except for the umbrellas that my husband purchased on a whim. Don't ask me why they need umbrellas on a cloudless summer day, but they sure do love playing with them.

Dinner last night: baked salmon with mango salsa over cous cous

Exactly two years ago:

Small Peeve

Exactly three years ago:

With a Spring in My Step

A Kid by Any Other Name is Still a Kid

2011-06-29T02:36:00.051-08:00

I was sitting at my daughter's soccer game last night, listening to parents cheering on their kids, when I realized that a lot of today's popular names weren't even around when I was a child. I can't remember knowing a single Kayla, Kaylie, or Kylie when I was a tyke, but they're everywhere now. Or Cheyenne. I never heard of a girl with that name until last year, when I noticed THREE throughout the summer on the soccer fields, although to be fair, one was spelled Sheyanne. Two of my daughter's friends are named Morgan; my best friends in junior high were Sandi and Diane. I love the name Michaela, but I haven't seen it spelled traditionally since my friend christened her baby 18 years ago. All the young girls with that name, and there are a lot of them, go by Mykayla now.

When I was little, boys were named Johnny and Randy and Kevin; they seem to have been replaced by Cody and Tristan and Brendon/Brandon/Brennan.

It's weird to think that my own name may some day be considered old-fashioned. Maybe it already is. I really don't know. Or care. 'Cause I'm that grouchy Old Lady Kim who leans out her window and shakes her fist at those pesky Jasmines and Parkers running across her lawn.

Dinner last night: spaghetti with meat sauce, garlic toast, green salad

Exactly one year ago:

There's No Place Like Home

Pleasantly Plump, Perfectly Coiffed

2011-06-28T02:46:00.029-08:00

You asked for it . . .

Comments are closed, she murmured coyly.

Dinner last night: barbecue salmon, cous cous

Exactly one year ago:

Goodbye, Albuquerque, I Barely Knew Ye

Exactly two years ago:

We Have a Leftie

Pretending to Look Excited

2011-06-27T02:16:00.005-08:00

I grew up in small town Alaska, where the sport of basketball rules, as it does in most of rural Alaska. In a few of our larger towns and in the big city of Anchorages, though, hockey is huge. The Alaska Aces recently won the ECHL National Championship and were awarded the Kelly Cup, which has been making its rounds across the state. The traveling Cup provides opportunities for sports nuts like my husband to force their wives to stand up in restaurants with the gargantuan trophy so their young children can snap blurry pictures on cell phones.

Seeing this very picture of myself prompted me to march straight to the hair salon and chop off all my hair. I'M NOT KIDDING.

Dinner last night: roasted turkey sandwiches

Exactly three years ago:

Things to Do with Your Kids This Weekend 9

Scent of Lilac

2011-06-24T02:37:00.004-08:00

I love the purple lilac that grows outside my kitchen window. It's just starting to bloom, and should be glorious in another week or so.

I once read somewhere that lilac is the best scent for the kitchen . . . you know, hand soap and candles and such. I can't remember why lilacs are supposed to be superior in cutting odors, but I believe it. Actually, now that I've thought about it, I don't think it was lilac. It might have been lavender. Oh, well, no matter . . .

a sprig of fresh lilac in the kitchen is still a wonderful thing.

Dinner last night: cheeseburgers on the barbie

Exactly one year ago:

Kids are Kids

Exactly two years ago:

Backyardigans

Daisy Among the Daisies

2011-06-22T02:15:00.008-08:00

Dinner last night: scallops pasta alfredo, green salad

Exactly two years ago:

So Much to Talk About, So Little to Say

Sitka Rose

2011-06-21T07:08:00.003-08:00

It's that time of year when I start wandering about my yard and the fields near my home, camera in hand, taking the same sorts of pictures of the same sorts of flowers that I photographed last year . . . and the year before that . . . and the year before that. What can I say? I love wildflowers.

Wild rose bushes run along the east side of our house, and when you look out the family room windows, you catch an eyeful of their pink blossoms. This year, they look a little beaten up. Straight out of the bud, the edges of petals are already wilting. Curled and shriveled. Kind of like me. Art reflecting life, I guess.

I wish I was brave enough to have named one of my daughters Rosebud.

Dinner last night: oven-baked chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, broccoli, green salad

Exactly one year ago:

Greetings from the Face of the Sun

Exactly three years ago:

Summer Solstice

Still There

2011-06-15T22:19:00.000-08:00

On my way home from a recent trip to Homer, Alaska, I drove past a field. Not just any field. My husband and I refer to it as our field.

Shortly after he proposed, we walked out to the edge of this clearing, where the bluff overlooks Kachemak Bay, and set my little Kodak on a tripod to snap a picture of us all young and smiling and excited about our future together. The sun was shining then, and the sky was clear blue; the mountains rose magnificently behind us as we grinned at the camera.

That photographic moment occurred some time in the Mesozoic Era, back when cameras used these spool-y things called film—I've long since lost track of the negative and any print of our engagement portrait. But the field is still there, remarkably the same. And so are we. Of course, we're not young any more, but we're still smiling! Well, maybe not smiling, but at least we're not crying. And now that I think of it, we're not so much excited about things as we are exhausted.

Dinner last night: pasta and meatballs

Exactly two years ago:

Water Babies

Don't Worry, Kids. Mama's Keeping Her Day Job.

2011-06-14T20:58:00.012-08:00

I spent an extended weekend in Homer, Alaska, attending the Kachemak Bay Writers' Conference. I've known forever about this annual conference (okay, not forever, maybe just a decade), but never had time in my schedule to participate. This year I finally made it a priority.

I don't know anything about writers' conferences, but from what I kept hearing from the presenters and attendees, this particular conference is pretty special. First, it's still going strong after 10 years, which evidently is unheard of for most writers' conferences. Second, it's set in one of the most spectacularly gorgeous spots on the earth: Kachemak Bay. I'll spare you a travel essay raving about the beaches, mountains, and ocean life; suffice it to say that you need to add VISIT KACHEMAK BAY to the top of your bucket list.

Kachemak Bay (in the winter)
the area is even more beautiful when it's warm and green in June

Third, the conference attracts Pulitzer-prize-winning and/or commercially successful and/or amazingly talented authors and poets. Past keynote speakers include such luminaries in the literary world as Tobias Wolff, Billy Collins, Amy Tan (author of Joy Luck Club—how sick am I that I didn't attend that year?), and Anne Lamott.

Rita Dove,
Pulitzer Prize winner and former Poet Laureate of the U.S.
leading an informal Q and A session

I was slightly intimidated by the many published writers attending the conference like they were mere mortals, was definitely inspired by the workshop leaders, and was a smidge depressed by the seemingly impossibility of anyone ever getting widely published again in this digital age of niche interests. A portion of the conference revolved around the business end of writing: editing, representation, publishing, distribution of one's work, etc. I mostly ignored those workshops and panels since I have no immediate plans to publish my riveting tales of twin toddlers cutting their hair, but I did converse with an interesting literary agent from New York City who sat at my dinner table one evening and the following day at lunch. I'm pretty sure he was trying to get me to sign with him. That's a joke. Not the sitting at my table, because HE DID. You would have been proud at how classy I behaved, never once clutching at his arm and screaming, Help me become the next JK Rowling!

My favorite presenter was probably Donna Jo Napoli. I was not familiar with her work, but looked forward to her talk on Historical Fiction with Respect to Children's Books. By the time the workshop ended I was in love with my new favorite author, and ended up buying a couple of her novels written for middle school readers. Did I mention she has authored over 70 books? Amazing.

Then there was the professor from the University of Alaska Fairbanks who led a great workshop with tons of useful information and strategies for dealing with omniscient narration. He reminded me of so many of my English professors at UAF; that is to say, he's very proud about the fact that he hasn't owned a television set since 1973. Also, he despises Dean Koontz. When I was in college, the contempt was directed at Stephen King. I understand where purists are coming from—literature should remain first and foremost an art form—but whatever. I love me my John Grisham novels.

Lest you think I'm all high and mighty with my liberal use of such terms as omniscient narration and luminaries in the literary world, I'll end this post with a description of my favorite moment from the conference. Over lunch—and it's important to note this incident occurred during the noon hour in a meeting room and not at 2 a.m. at Alice's Champagne Palace—an Open Mic was scheduled for writers who wished to read excerpts from their current works.

The final participant to step up to the podium described herself as a writer of "erotica science fiction." I'm fairly certain I know what science fiction is; however, having never read erotica, I mistakenly presumed it to be literature of a titillating nature. Heaving bosoms, throbbing loincloths, and such. Um, no. Turns out, erotica is merely a nice-sounding label for pornography. This woman started narrating the most graphic, er, love scene you can imagine. Actually, please don't. Just trust me that the reading was inappropriate.

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, and successfully refrained from elbowing the person next to me. I mean, really, the situation was begging to be commented on by a loud-mouthed blogger who finds it hysterically surreal when the word "phallus" echoes over the sound system of a banquet room. And the kicker? The audience applauded appreciatively when the author finished her selection. We may not know the definition of erotica, but we Alaskans are polite.

Dinner last night: goulash

Exactly one year ago:

Baby Fever

CSI: Special Hair Unit

2011-06-09T10:39:00.005-08:00

My friend once told me about walking into her dining room to find her daughters under the table, sitting in a pile of hair. "It looked like a crime scene," she described. I now know what she means.

The other day, I felt that sudden sense of "uh-oh." Maybe it was mother's instinct, maybe it was just my subconscious picking up on the silence from the other room, but I knew something was wrong. I ran into the living room, where the twins were playing around a small box. Both of the girls looked guiltily up at me, and spoke quickly in rehearsed voices that were a tad loud, a bit too forced in cheerfulness: "We cut our Barbie's hair!" One daughter waved a pair of scissors at me as if to prove the truth of their statement. See, Mom? I have the scissors right here!

The odd thing was, no Barbies in sight. Also? The twins are NOT allowed to play with scissors. EVER. You may think this rule was enacted for their physical safety, but it's more about my sanity. Too many important papers, beautiful fabrics, and socks have been destroyed by twins with scissors.

I looked into the little box that sat between them. It was full of hair. Not Barbie hair, human hair. "Stand up!" I ordered. "Turn around!" At this point in the story, a good CSI agent would whip out some photographic evidence of the bloodless trauma that occurred in our house that day. But I'm not a forensic specialist, just a distraught mother. I wasn't thinking about documenting the moment with my camera.

One twin—the instigator of the entire mess—confessed that she had cut off the ends of her own braids. Actually, she didn't so much confess as hang her head silently in agreement while her sister screamed, "She did it! She did it!" She'd snipped off the beautiful 3" golden curl hanging from each plait, and then turned on her sister, whose long hair happened to be swinging loose and free in the wind.

Not only are the twins terrible liars, they are terrible beauticians. Entire chunks were chopped from the bangs, sides, and back of the victim's hair.

The silver lining of the story is the very next day, the girls' grandmother was returning from vacation and would be spending the night at our house. Grandma Vickie is a professional hairstylist who owns her own salon. The girls are now sporting shorter bangs and nicely layered, shoulder-length dos.

It all worked out, except for poor Daisy Doodle. I should mention that the girls also cut random pieces of fur off the dog's back. And there's no amount of grooming that can fix that.

Dinner last night: mac and cheese with hot dogs

Exactly three years ago:

Just Another Day in the Life

Is It Legal to Marry a Hardwood Floor?

2011-06-07T02:38:00.039-08:00

I'm in love with the new maple flooring in our family room. I never really cared one way or the other about the old carpet—it had its pros and its cons—but I sure despise it now . . . well, not so much the actual carpet as the process of pulling it up. Wow. That was a good 4 hours of hard work, particularly the tedious job of prying up staples and tack strips from the subfloor.

Oh, but the prep was worth it. We now have a beautiful new clean hardwood floor that I adore. Hey! "Floor that I adore!" I'm a poet and I don't even know it! You may not think I'm clever, but my new floor thinks I'm hilarious.

Dinner last night: leftovers

Exactly one year ago:

Wiped Out

Where to Start?

2011-06-06T09:37:00.001-08:00

I was offline last week and it just about killed me. We emptied the family room in preparation for our new floor installation, and the poor little computer sat lonely and unplugged in the hallway for days on end. So much has been going on and I couldn't even post one thrilling sentence about it! You missed out on the new maple hardwood, our good weather, a soccer tournament, oh, and the twins CUTTING THEIR HAIR. Well, the modem is back in the wall now, so watch out . . . daily posts this week, starting with:

Soccer!

Why am I using an exclamation mark? "Soccer!" sounds like fun, which it might be for the players, but not necessarily for the moms who have to drive their 13-year-old daughters to game after game after flip-floppin' game for the first big tournament of the summer. Someone needs to invent a new form of punctuation that will express my combined feelings of exhaustion, slight headache, and pride in my kid's ability to pass a ball across a field using only her feet. "Soccer : P" doesn't quite work.

Dinner last night: barbecue chicken, hot dogs, watermelon, cherries

Exactly three years ago:

Things to Do with Your Kids This Weekend 6

My Weekend Can Beat Up Your Weekend

2011-05-31T02:18:00.044-08:00

Glorious weather. We're talking in the 70s, people! GLORIOUS. The three-day weekend was a perfect balance of work around the house and yard with fun and relaxation.

We took lots of walks and picked handfuls of dandelions.

We rode our bikes.

Memorial Day is the first weekend many Alaskans begin gardening in earnest. The plants have been hardened and finally can go in the ground, unless you're a scatter-brained brown thumb who forgets about her bean plants, leaves them out over night too soon, and kills them. Then you spend Memorial Day weekend at the greenhouse, purchasing your starters. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Who needs gardens any way? Hanging baskets are less work. Harumph.

Dinner last night: barbecue chicken, baked beans, potato salad, watermelon

A Prayer in Spring

2011-05-27T02:52:00.010-08:00

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;

And give us not to think so far away

As the uncertain harvest; keep us here

All simply in the springing of the year.

—Robert Frost

Dinner last night: teriyaki salmon burgers

Exactly one year ago:

Let the Torture Begin

Exactly two years ago:

Boots at the Beach

Exactly three years ago:

Dirty Details Revisited

I Fear I'm Raising Savages

2011-05-26T12:36:00.005-08:00

Read this article and tell me what you think. My kneejerk reaction is one of puzzlement.

Why would parents—mothers, in particular—try to prune the "boy" out of their boys? What is wrong with a tough, rough and tumble boy? Why can't boys run and play and yell and crash their toy cars and shoot their play guns without their parents being accused of promoting gender stereotypes? Is allowing little boys the freedom to express their testosterone-fueled tendencies fundamentally worse than stifling their energy and encouraging them to wear pink, play with Barbies, and use their inside voices? Everyone seems so concerned about the few "who do not fit into gender norms" that our society is vilifying the majority who do.

I'm a rube from the wilds of Alaska, but I appreciate a strong, hard-working man who doesn't cry when his feelings get hurt, and I'm secretly hoping my daughters will grow up to marry men who haven't been shamed as boys to be quiet, sit still, and paint pastoral landscapes like good little gender-neutral citizens.

To all you moms out there who are letting your boys "just be boys" . . . good on ya.

Dinner last night: tuna noodle casserole, watermelon

Exactly one year ago:

Stealth Birdwatching

Exactly two years ago:

School's Out!

Sand Dunes are da Bomb

2011-05-23T02:56:00.099-08:00

How was your weekend? Mine was great. I grabbed my girls and a couple of their friends, and told them to go take a flying leap. Off a sand dune, that is.

And, boy, did they jump . . .

. . . and roll . . .

. . . and ROLL . . .

. . . AND ROLL!

Yes, that is a real sand dune. On the coastline. In Alaska. It's too cold to wear swimsuits, but 60° temperatures don't stop us from getting sand in our shorts.

Dinner last night: chicken ranch pizza

Exactly three years ago:

Things to Do with Your Kids This Weekend 4

Freedom

2011-05-20T10:06:00.000-08:00

No one—and I mean no one—is happier to see the school year end than my 10-year-old daughter. She has big plans for the summer, including but not limited to: building a fort in the woods behind our house, riding her bicycle every day, and eating lots of ice cream.

School's out for summer!

Dinner last night: chicken pot pie

Exactly three years ago:

That Darn Cat

People Call Me Many Names, but "Helicopter Mom" is Not One of Them

2011-05-18T02:53:00.003-08:00

My 13-year-old was awarded Outstanding Science Student of the Year.

I am embarrassed to admit this, but I didn't even realize my daughter was taking science this year. Had you asked me two weeks ago about 7th grade science, I would have responded "No, I think they take science next year in 8th grade." She has never said one word about science, science class, science homework, or science teachers. You may be thinking, "But, Kim, surely you talked to her science instructor at parent/teacher conferences." AWKWARD SILENCE.

The only parent/teacher conference I attended this school year was at the end of first quarter, and the only teacher to whom I spoke was the 7th grade math teacher. You see, the conferences are held at night. In the hot, loud gym. And you have to wait in long lines to speak with each teacher. I COULDN'T TAKE IT! I made it through the math line, and I was done. Er, finished. Whatever. No more parent/teacher conferences for me.

What about report cards? Yes, she does receive them, and I look at them briefly. She receives the same grade in every class, and I'll let you figure out which letter of the alphabet is repeated. A quick glance is all I need to see that she's excelling; I'm too impatient to itemize each line on her report card.

When I asked my husband if HE remembered our daughter ever mentioning a science class, he had to think for a long time. "Yes!" he finally cried, in a rather triumphant tone. "Remember that one time in the car when she complained that they were starting a unit on the human reproductive system? She yelled GROSS and refused to discuss it any further."

Okay, five points for recalling that brief conversation, but . . . "What's the NAME of her science teacher?" I questioned. He looked at me blankly. "Do you even know if her teacher is a man or a woman?" I asked snottily. He sighed and turned away. Ha! I stand victorious. He has no clue, either.

Well, whoever you are, middle school science teacher, thank you for awarding our daughter with such a prestigious honor.

Dinner last night: steak, baked potato, broccoli, orange cream cake

Exactly one year ago:
Why Did the Moose Cross the Road?

Exactly two years ago:

Talking Shop

4 Out of 5 Birthdays Prefer May

2011-05-16T08:26:00.001-08:00

Hoo boy. We're entering the last week of school, which means tons of end-of-the-year activities, including a big dance recital. Soccer practice has started THREE nights a week. In addition, the twins have their birthday . . . one week later, my husband celebrates his birthday . . . two weeks after that, my 10-year-old turns eleven!

May—or as we call it around here, Month o' Cake—is crazy busy.

Birthday. Birthday. No birthday. Birthday. Birthday.

Dinner last night: baked ziti, green salad

Exactly three years ago:

Things to Do with Your Kids This Weekend 3

Eagle Eye

2011-05-12T10:29:00.003-08:00

Weirdness. Blogger freaked out this week and ate this post, along with all the lovely comments. Where did they go? Only the Internet knows. I'm re-posting, because I figure you can never have too many pictures of bald eagles. Also, I apologize for my use of "big butt"—an obnoxious phrase that should be replaced with something less offensive—but I'm feeling ornery and am leaving it in. Big butt, big butt, big butt.

On a recent drive, we noticed a bunch of eagles' nests—at least five—built up high in the trees. It's that time of year when momma birds sit on their eggs and wait.

Can you spot the nest?

Here, let me zoom in a little closer . . .

You need some kind of context in order to fully comprehend the size of the bald eagle sitting there, guarding her eggs. Maybe I should haul my huge rear end up there, you know, for comparison's sake, so you can see just how enormous that bird's nest really is.

On second thought, looking at that momma's sharp beak and beady eye,

I believe that my big butt and I shall stay right down here.

Dinner last night: barbecue chicken, potato salad, baked beans

Exactly one year ago:

Emotional Wringer

Exactly three years ago:

The Cat Who Came to Dinner

The Art of Throwing Rocks

2011-05-10T10:32:00.000-08:00

Oh, dear. The twins are going through a rock-throwing stage. They love to throw rocks. And not just any rocks. They sneak out into the road at the end of our driveway to throw those rocks. Fortunately, the road is a little dirt lane with the rare passing car, but still. Stay out of the road! Stop throwing rocks!

In an effort to harness their powers of evil, we headed to the beach to let the girls pitch as many rocks as their little hearts desired into the ocean. Lessons were learned. Hitting the back of your sister's head with a rock? BAD. Hitting a floating seagull? GOOD.

The first order of business is to select the perfect rock. This kid prefers hefty-sized.

Next, you throw that sucker with all your might.

This child prefers small pebbles.

Also? She throws like a girl.

Pretty soon the entire family is down at the water's edge. It's rock fever.

Except for Daisy . . . she's too busy smelling dead things on the shore.

Dinner last night: cheeseburgers on the barbie

Exactly one year ago:

Moonlighting

Patience, Patience

2011-05-04T02:34:00.033-08:00

Another couple of weeks and maybe I can start shooting some scenic photographs again. Until then, I'll spare you pictures of green moss and sparkling brown mud puddles. Won't be long now until Alaska is looking gorgeous. The geese are arriving daily—always a sure sign that warmer weather is close behind.

My husband and I argued in the backyard about what kind of whistling bird we could hear warbling and chirping from somewhere in the trees. My husband said it sounded like a robin. Yeah, RIGHT! Cute little robins do NOT make a fuss like we were hearing. I figured it had to be some kind of mutant vulture that had found its way to the frozen north. Good grief! The noise!

Hmm. Squawking vultures look remarkably similar to cute little robins.

Dinner last night: teriyaki chicken, rice, macaroni salad

Exactly one year ago:

Gearing Up for Summer

Exactly two years ago:

Spring Cleaning

Please, Sir, I Want Some More . . .

2011-05-02T02:38:00.024-08:00

My 13-year-old participated in Oliver! as a member of the choir of orphans and ragamuffins. I'd forgotten how many great songs come from that musical, including "Consider Yourself" and "Food, Glorious Food" (or as I was brainwashed by TV commercials to mutter under my breath: "Cheese, Glorious Cheese!")

My street urchin is the one in the middle wearing ye olde spectacles.

Dinner last night: margherita pizza

Exactly three years ago:

Mud Puddle Fun

Don Rickles, I am Not

2011-04-29T02:41:00.163-08:00

The other day, I was walking down the hallway at my daughter's middle school. My husband's former roommate from freshman year at college happened to be strolling just ahead of me with his pride and joy: identical twin daughters. He and I have conversed many times when our kids were not around about our lives with twins, but on this occasion Scott was able to gesture to his girls and mention, "Hey, Kim! These are MY twins." I am not exaggerating when I say his daughters are extraordinarily beautiful. Scott really must obtain a license to carry a concealed weapon, because in another year or two, he will need to start wearing a long leather duster from under which he can whip out a pump-action sawed-off shotgun to scare away all the teenage boys.

In response to his introduction of these stunning creatures, I drily remarked, "Gee, Scott. Too bad your girls are so ugly." Except the delivery was all wrong. It was more like, "Gee, Scott." pause *crickets* pause "Too bad your girls are so UGLY." pause *blink blink* pause

I don't think Scott quite heard me—or maybe his brain was trying to process my hilariosity—but one of the girls immediately widened her eyes in horror. She couldn't believe that some poorly-dressed, elderly woman had just verbally abused her. I should have gone for the hyperbole factor, with "and FAT, too! and MEAN!" until they realized I was joking. But, no.

I attempted a conspiratorial wink with an explanatory, "Heh! You're beautiful!" to the girl, but it came out as an eye tic and indecipherable mutter. Then, in desperation, I turned to Scott and in a overly bright voice, exclaimed, "Your girls are gorgeous!" He looked confused and kept walking. The girls rushed past in awkward silence.

When will I learn that if you have to explain a joke, it isn't funny. You see, I was saying the OPPOSITE of the truth . . . er . . . um . . . pfft . . .

Also, Don Rickles is a totally hip and contemporary reference.

Dinner last night: ham and bean soup, cornbread

Exactly one year ago:

To My Four Faithful Readers, I Salute You!

Exactly two years ago:

Happy Blogiversary to Me

Exactly three years ago:

Here We Go . . .

A Threat, an Apology, and an Excuse

2011-04-27T02:54:00.048-08:00

Which do you want to hear first?

Okay. The threat: if I have to look at a moose's rear end passing by my living room, so do you.

The apology: I am deeply sorry for my dirty window. That is truly horrifying.

The excuse: Our beagle, Daisty, scratches on that particular window when she wants to be let in. The window is nowhere near a door, mind you, but it's the perfect spot for a dog to stand and stare imperiously down on her humans, who tend to lounge on the comfy furniture in the living room. I have no idea why Daisy's scratch marks look like hand smears. Oh, wait. I do know. I have 4-year-old twins with muddy hands who like to pretend they're beagles scratching on the window.

Please don't judge my housekeeping skills . . .

. . . or I'll make you look through dirty windows at a moose's heinie.

And that's not a threat—it's a promise.

Dinner last night: shrimp salad

Exactly one year ago:

Do You See What I See?

Exactly two years ago:

Fool on a Sewing Machine

Fun Overload

2011-04-25T10:17:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure which is more fun . . .

coloring Easter eggs, or . . .

hunting Easter eggs, or . . .

eating the candy inside Easter eggs!

Dinner last night: ham, scalloped potatoes, green beans, green salad, jello salad, pistachio salad, dinner rolls, peanut butter pie

Good Friday

2011-04-22T09:48:00.000-08:00

Here we are, heading into Easter weekend. I hope your family is able to celebrate this holy season together.

My 13-year-old has invited two friends over tonight. They've requested pizza or cheeseburgers for dinner, but I may offend their delicate natures by making spaghetti and meatballs instead. Sidenote: when I was younger, my friends and I used the phrase, spending the night or slumber party; today's kids say, sleepover. Also, playdate? We used to say, visit or go play with. You know you're getting old when your children roll their eyes at perfectly good lingo, but that's another post for another day . . .

On Sunday afternoon, our best friends and their two little boys will come over for Easter dinner: ham and scalloped potatoes, because we're fancy like that. We'll hide a ton of eggs for all the kids to search out. The backyard is a soggy mess, but the front yard has dried nicely, so I think we'll plan an outdoor hunt.

Have fun looking for eggs in the woods, kids! Don't let the moose getcha.

May your basket be filled with lots of jelly beans. Or something like that. Happy Easter, gentle readers. He is risen!

Dinner last night: pasta alfredo with shrimp

Exactly one year ago:

The Pressure is Killing Me

Here, Moosie, Moosie, Moose

2011-04-19T02:33:00.054-08:00

My sister-in-law drove up the AlCan Highway a week ago for a brief visit to Alaska. Along the way, she snapped pictures of all kinds of wildlife, including fox, caribou, eagle, and coyote. She only needed a moose to complete her collection. "Oh, don't worry," I assured her. "You'll see plenty around our house."

Not a single moose showed its face while she was staying here. Of course, the minute she left, a skinny-legged twig eater set up camp in the woods behind our house.

Don't be shy, fellow. Come on out and say hello.

Good boy!

That's close enough, mister.

Familiarity breeds contempt.

Dinner last night: sloppy joes

Family Room Shenanigans

2011-04-18T02:29:00.039-08:00

After staring for months at the patch of wall in our family room that I painted yellow LAST YEAR to see if I liked it, I finally decided that yes! I think I do! Maybe? and committed to painting the rest of the room. One thing led to another, and now my husband and I are in the midst of a full-blown redecoration . . . wait, it's more than that. Renovation? No, it's not quite that involved. We're not knocking down walls or anything. Re-do? I guess that's what you'd call it. We're painting, swapping out light fixtures, putting in crown molding and trim, etc.

If I were a good blogger, I'd offer up a complete BEFORE and AFTER post, but I'm currently in the MIDDLE. I should wait until I have a finished product, but I can't stand it. I've got to show you bits and pieces of what we've done so far.

The first thing we did was paint. I quickly realized that all yellow would overwhelm us with its sunny brightness, so I used green on accent walls.

Then, we replaced the fluorescent lights with these modern fixtures (still fluorescent). I can't show you a picture of the old lights, because my husband already disposed of them, so you'll have to trust me that these are a great improvement!

Next, I headed to the fabric store, while my husband stayed home and replaced the almond? bisque? off-white? outlets and switches with clean, white panels pictured above. I love this paisley material and will use it over the windows.

Right now, we are in the process of painting crown molding and trim that we will install ourselves.

The most exciting part of the new look should be the flooring. We currently have a speckled? mottled? multicolored? carpet about which I used to proudly crow, "It hides a multitude of sins!" The family room is the one area in the house, other than the dining room, where we allow the kids to eat and drink. Unfortunately, after years of four children eating snacks during movies, the carpet is no longer hiding anything. The stains are gross: chocolate milk . . . juice . . . ground-in gold fish crackers . . . urine from the dog—at least I hope it's from the dog, but with my girls, who knows? We've ordered maple hardwood flooring, which should be here in 2 weeks? 3 weeks? 6 months? This is Alaska, so I won't hold my breath. It'll get here when it gets here. Until then, try to visualize the glory that will be my family room floor:

Tell me you love it. Especially the yellow walls. They make the room feel like a cheerful and airy sun parlor, not a kindergarten classroom on crack. Right? RIGHT?!

Dinner last night: leftovers

Happy Days Are Here Again

2011-04-13T10:06:00.000-08:00

According to the calendar, spring began in March. We've still got snow on the ground, BUT the driveway is clear, so the girls have been riding their bikes in circles and drawing lots of pictures with sidewalk chalk.

I outline their bodies on the ground, and they color them in.

Look at what my little eye spied . . .

. . . a bud on the lilac tree! Maybe the calendar is right. Spring IS here!

On second thought . . .

something tells me we won't be hunting Easter eggs in the backyard this year.

Dinner last night: homemade chicken noodle soup, cornbread muffins

Exactly two years ago:

Rising from the Ashes

They Haven't Killed Me . . . Yet

2011-04-12T09:45:00.000-08:00

I was bending over to buckle a twin into her carseat when BRRRPPPT, an electrical shock ran through my lower back, as it does every six months or so. That's it. That's all she wrote. Can't move. Lumbar muscles have gone into a rock-hard spasm that pitches my entire torso over to the side. This episode has been particularly debilitating; in fact, I would rate this as the second-worst back pain I've ever felt.

The gold medal was awarded to the time when I worked at an office early in the morning by myself—as I crossed the room with ONE FILE in my hand, not even a heavy stack of books, my back inexplicably seized up on me. I literally fell to the floor in agony and COULDN'T GET UP. I wriggled across the floor like an eel? worm? cockroach? and was able to brace myself against the wall into a sitting position. About an hour later, a co-worker arrived and helped me stand. I eventually drove myself home and shuffled to my bed, where I lay on my side for 3 days, crying and moaning in pain. I couldn't take any medication due to my pregnancy with twins at the time. Let me tell you, the actual delivery—ripping babies from my womb—was a piece of cake after that experience with back pain.

This very morning I read in the paper about a woman who was left on the floor for 3 days by her twin sons, until she died. How much do you want to bet her back went out and she dropped to the ground in pain, but the twins were too occupied eating goldfish crackers and watching Clifford the Big Red Dog on TV to notice?

Dinner last night: sour cream enchiladas, refried beans

Exactly one year ago:

Sunday Morning Transformation

The Running Man

2011-04-04T09:48:00.003-08:00

About two years ago, I was waiting to turn my car onto the main road, when I saw a guy in a hoodie jacket shuffling along the bike path. When I say shuffle, I mean a Tim Conway old man shuffle—he was BARELY moving. The thing was, he wasn't elderly. He looked to be in his late 40s. Even if his countenance was exceptionally boyish, he couldn't have been more than mid-50s in age. He was slim and handsome and inching along. It was clear to me that something was wrong physically, and my best guess was that he was recovering from a stroke and working through partial paralysis.

Since that original sighting, I've seen him regularly in the mornings. His shuffle has gradually evolved into a walk and then a kind of walk-run. This morning, I passed by him and he was actually moving forward in a slow jog. He's still a turtle, but he is definitely a JOGGING turtle.

You know, I wanted to stop my car right then and there, hop out, skip over to that guy and give him a big hug. I didn't approach him, though, because after the hug, what would I say? Awkward. Still, I hope that some day I'll be brave enough to let him know how inspirational he has been to me. To see him, day in and day out, forcing his body to move, makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time. You go, dude!

Dinner last night: spaghetti and meatballs, garlic toast, peas, green salad

Exactly one year ago:

Happy Easter

Pitter Pat

2011-03-25T02:26:00.006-08:00

Be kind to thy father,

for when thou were young,

who loved thee so fondly as he?

Dinner last night: shepherd's pie

Wrestling with My Bias

2011-03-23T02:29:00.018-08:00

At the beginning of the school year, a note came home with my daughters stating that an unnamed fellow schoolmate with a severe peanut allergy could not be in the same room with peanut products. Wow. That's a serious allergy. And my lunch preparations were seriously cramped.

I struggled at first with the fairness of administration banning every kid in the school from eating peanut butter. It's not like a prohibition on anchovies. Who snacks on anchovy and jelly sandwiches? Or celery sticks with anchovy paste slathered down the middle? A ban on anchovies I could handle. But peanuts? Peanut butter is a staple in our house, as I'm sure it is in many families' homes.

After a few weeks of complaining under my breath as I prepared tuna or egg salad or sliced turkey sandwiches, I started thinking about the issue from the perspective of the mother of the allergic child. She has just as much—if not more—trouble trying to come up with healthy, safe lunches for her allergic son or daughter. And is it really such an awful thing to ask that her baby be allowed to attend school without threat of anaphylactic shock? A child shouldn't have to face death just because another kid likes PB and J. The convenience of sending my girls to school with peanut butter sammies is not worth a stint in the slammer for involuntary manslaughter.

The other day, I read a news article about a parent revolt in Florida. They want the lone child with a severe peanut allergy who attends their kids' school to stay at home and let the rest of the students eat in peace. Now I'm all confused again. It does seem a little crazy to prevent everyone from eating peanut products and to make the teachers supervise an extra 10–20 minutes of hand-washing and mouth-rinsing for the sake of ONE child. On the other hand, it doesn't seem fair to banish a student just because s/he was born with an allergy. What do you think? And then tell me how I should think, 'cause I'm swinging back and forth here.

Dinner last night: spinach salad with steak and steamed potatoes

Purty

2011-03-21T02:39:00.136-08:00

If you're scheduling a trip to Alaska this time of year, you might want to rethink your plans. It's pre-breakup. We're still in the clutches of Old Man Winter, but his grip is weakening, which means the weather is kinda cold, sorta warm. A lotta icy, a little muddy. A buncha snow, a bitta dirt.

Puddles are showing up on country roads . . .

. . . and on city streets.

Sidewalks are too wet to sweep . . .

. . . and piles of snow are no longer fresh and white.

Some of us moan and complain about the weather, while others choose to sing and dance:

Dinner last night: pecan-encrusted chicken, snap peas