Good Intentions

Yesterday I took dinner to a family in our ward that has been sick for several weeks, passing germs from one family member to the next. I heard about their plight on Sunday and asked if I could bring them something to help, dinner or treats, anything. They said yes and we set a time for food to be delivered.

I made a double-batch of our dinner, but I was careful to make the pan for us gluten free so I could eat it. Late in the game I decided to make bread for them, which meant I would be late to drop off the food. I built our dinner while theirs was cooking and left it on the island so I could put the hot pan on the stove when I pulled it out.

Peter and Sophie and Topher all wanted to go with me to take the food. I was busy making sure everyone had shoes and jackets, knowing that we were running late. I grabbed the hot bread with oven mitts and set it in the car. Then, still wearing the mitts, I grabbed the tray  with the tinfoil covered dinner and set it at Peter's feet so it wouldn't slide around.

Sophie carried in the bread while I took the dinner. We set it on their stovetop and I peeled back the lid as I explained what I'd made. It didn't look quite right and I suggested that maybe it had cooled and would benefit from being warmed up a bit. They thanked us and chatted as we walked out.

About three minutes after we left their house I had a sudden realization about why the dinner didn't look the way it should. I called Phoebe to confirm my suspicion. I asked her where the foil covered pan was, on the island or the stove. It was on the stove. That meant I had just delivered an uncooked, gluten free dinner and left the fully cooked, gluten full dinner at home. I hung up with Phoebe and called the family immediately. I explained in a rush what had happened and apologized several times. The individual ingredients were all cooked (it was chicken broccoli rice casserole, nothing was raw), but it wasn't warm and ready to eat. I think they were okay with it, but I was so frustrated and embarrassed that I'd done that.

When we got home I served the warm dinner that we had left behind to my family while I ate leftover sloppy joe meat that I found in the fridge. Delivering the wrong dinner was not cool, not being able to eat the one that we kept definitely made it worse.

This adventure was not funny at all yesterday. It's kind of funny today. I'm hoping it will be even funnier tomorrow. And I really hope that future attempts at service go better than this one did.

A Public Service Announcement

If you're ever in the position of making a batch of crepes for dinner (a recipe that you've multiplied by six this time, because the people at your house really love crepes), be mindful about which burner you turn on, especially when all that batter is in your biggest plastic bowl that you use several times a week.

Otherwise, a few minutes after pouring the first two crepes into your two hot skillets you might look at the small skillet on the back burner and wonder why the crepe appears to not be getting any darker.

And then your eyes might fly up to the little orange indicator above the burner dial, at which point you'll see that the back burner light is off, while the front burner light is on.

Then, as your brain begins to understand what's happening, you might reach for that great big plastic bowl and two things will happen at the same time: you'll notice that the batter in the bowl is beginning to bubble and you'll attempt to rip the bowl away from the offending burner.

Alas, you will be too late.

It is at this point that you'll watch a dozen eggs, nine cups of milk, six cups of flour, and a little oil and salt pour from what used to be the solid bottom of your bowl, thereby covering your glass stove top (plus some of the floor) with what was supposed to be dinner.

If this happens, it's okay to take pictures.

And cry.

It's also okay to let your husband and oldest child begin the cleanup process while you do something else, like possibly comfort a child crying over a completely unrelated issue. 

If you ever find yourself in this position, it's okay to eat cereal or leftovers or something else for dinner while you mourn the loss of several hard to come by food items and that poor melted bowl.

But it's also acceptable to decide to show your kids that you can get back on the metaphorical horse and, after everything is thoroughly scrubbed clean, make another batch (times six) of crepes, this time in a sturdy metal bowl and with the correct burner engaged.

If At First You Don't Succeed

I had the opportunity to sing in Sacrament Meeting yesterday. It was a song I'd sung a few times before, I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, arranged by Sally DeFord. My friend/accompanist and I met a few times to rehearse and I felt fine about it until Sunday morning. That's when a nervousness I couldn't quite explain crept into my thoughts.

The talk before I sang was a beautiful message about humility. While she was speaking, I had the thought, "Oh dear, I hope I'm not about to have a personal lesson in humility while I'm singing." I even prayed that I would let go of any pride that I might be feeling before I sang.

When it was my turn, I walked to the pulpit and began. The first three verses went well. I hit the key change on the fourth verse with strength and clarity, I remembered to slow down where the accompanist had requested because of a difficult key change. Then I hit the first note of the fifth and final verse.

And it was wrong.

I tried to recover, not quite sure what had gone wrong. I sang the next phrase and it was clear that I was not singing what the pianist was playing.

For the first time in nearly thirty years of solo singing in church settings, I stopped the song. Yes, I've made mistakes (like the time I forgot where I was and dropped a phrase from a song), but I'd never stopped mid-song before. I took a step back from the microphone, asked the pianist (who was laughing out of nervousness) to take it back to where the mistake had happened, then stepped back to the mic. We finished the song strong.

I walked back to the bench near the front of the chapel where my family was sitting. Bryan, sitting on the far end with all the children between us, mouthed the words, "Are you okay?" I shrugged. The next speaker, a member of the Bishopric, thanked me for the song, but the words felt empty. I spent the duration of the last talk making myself stay in the chapel because all I really wanted to do was crawl into a hole.

As we sang the closing hymn, the feeling of disappointment threatened to overwhelm my emotions. I wondered how I was going to make it through the next two hours of church.

As soon as the closing prayer was offered, a friend in the ward rushed over to me. She hugged me and whispered in my ear, "Thank you, thank you so much for messing up." I let out a surprised chuckle and she pulled back far enough so that I could see tears in her eyes. She quickly explained about her teenage daughter, a talented violinist who suffers from a great fear of failure during performances. It's almost to the point that she doesn't want to play anymore. My friend continued, "She saw that you messed up and it was okay and you were able to finish the song. You may not realize it, but that was for my daughter. Thank you."

I was surprised by this reaction, but touched. Over the next two hours I had several people, including a few talented musicians, comment on how much they enjoyed the song and that they were impressed I kept a smile on my face. I joked that I was glad I could provide an example of humility in action, that I was just trying to drive home the lesson of the talk. And then another mom said something similar to what my friend had said, she was so glad her girls had seen me stop and start again, that it would help them in their piano performing.

I apologized to the pianist and she hugged me and laughed and claimed all responsibility for the error. "I really have to work extra hard to pay attention to the music when you sing because I just want to listen." Her words were kind, but of course I couldn't let her take all the blame. Maybe we both hit the wrong notes at just the right time? I don't know, but I do know what counts is that we finished, despite stopping and going back a few lines.

I'm singing again on Thursday at a Relief Society activity. Let's hope whoever goes before me doesn't talk about humility this time...

Nuttiness

Last night was our ward Trunk or Treat. There was a lot of rushing around beforehand to get ready since I had volunteered to bring both chili (I actually took Taco Soup because I figured my kids would eat it) and a dessert (cookie bars that didn't finish in time so I had to grab a few packages of store bought cookies from Bryan's stash) and wasn't able to start on either until a mere hour and a half before the activity began. The kids were so excited to put on their costumes and there was some concern when no one could find Sophie's costume that had just been on the couch. We finally discovered she had put it away in the coat closet and we all made it, relatively ontime.

Everyone had a grand time showing their costumes, admiring other people's costumes, eating, obtaining large amounts of candy, typical Halloween stuff.

The real adventure happened on the way home. Usually the kids aren't allowed to eat in the car, but I knew they'd all want some of the newly acquired sugar, and I definitely did not want them staying up to partake of said treats once we got home. So I made an exception and told them they could munch while we drove. We had taken two cars so that Bryan could stay to help with cleanup if needed, so it was just me and the children in the van.

As we drove home, I realized two things: I hadn't gotten any pictures during the evening (which meant no costume pictures) and Sophie might have gotten peanut candy at the event and is the only child that can't identify those on sight. I told the kids that we would take pictures as soon as we got home and instructed Sophie to show Peter ( the sibling sitting closest to her) each candy wrapper before she opened it to make sure it was peanut free.

For the record, Sophie can eat peanuts, but she was in close proximity to Peter and hasn't learned to eat a treat while only touching the wrapper and not making any kind of mess, so the chance of exposure to Peter would be high if she ate something in the van.

We were more than halfway home when Sophie announced, "I don't like this one."

This was quickly followed by, "Oh no! She's eating something with peanuts!" from a rather frantic Peter.

One sniff told me that yes, something with peanut butter had definitely been opened in the van. It took a moment to discover that she was halfway through a fun-size Butterfinger.

At this point in the drive Peter was panicking about the crumbs he could see falling off the candy still in Sophie's hand while Sophie was crying saying, "I told them not to give me peanuts. I tried to give it back." The situation was tragic from both sides.

I told Sophie to finish the candy, because at least then most of the dangerous material would be gone. Then I told Peter that as soon as we got home he was to jump out of the car, empty the dryer, and transfer the laundry. Once that was done, I carefully transported a still crying Sophie out of the van and into the laundry room, then pulled off her entire costume and dropped it into the washing machine. I gave her a thorough shower and we brushed her teeth. While I did that, Bryan inspected the van and wiped down the floor of the laundry room.

Finally, after the panic and trauma had worn down, the kids were able to fall asleep.

We did not take pictures.

This morning Sophie and I ( and by Sophie and I, I mean mostly me while Sophie watched) went through her candy bucket piece by piece with wipes to remove the surprisingly large amount of peanut butter crumbs. Then I washed her car seat, vacuumed the van, and put her Halloween bucket through the dishwasher. Sophie was much happier this morning about the whole episode, though she kept repeating that she had tried to give the offending candy back. I continued to reassure her that she wasn't in any trouble, she just couldn't eat certain things around Peter.

After so many years of handling the peanut allergy, this is the first time something like this has happened. Perhaps my detailed description of our peanut removal process seems excessive, but even a small bit of peanut can cause a reaction. And because of the portion of the peanut protein that Peter is allergic to, any reaction could turn anaphylactic. When dealing with a literal life or death allergy, we don't mess around.

All of the candy has now been sorted. Each item containing peanuts has been traded in for something that won't kill Peter. I did give Cooper and Phoebe the option to keep their peanutty candy and take them to school to eat during lunch (neither of them sit at the peanut-free table and the cafeterias allow peanut products), with the reminder that they would need to completely wash their hands and mouths after they ate, but they both opted for the trade-in.

Between Bryan's work party and the actual Halloween night, we have two more chances to get pictures of the costumes. That means we also have two more batches of candy to sort through for peanuts.

Ah, the joys of Halloween.

Tuck and Roll

A word of advice: if your two-year-old, who is adept at doing somersaults, invites you to do one as well, say no thank you. Otherwise there's a good chance that you're thirty-six-year-old body will realize it's not as agile as it once was and you may spend the rest of the day sans your full range of neck/shoulder/head motion.

And if you choose to do the somersault, at least remember to tuck your chin to your chest. Holding your grownup sized self with only your head and neck muscles will feel, well, it won't feel great.

That is all.

Lesson Learned... Maybe

We got locked out again today, the same situation as a week and a half ago. Bryan had his house key at work, but since I had the code to the lock box I figured I would be fine.

Here's something new I learned today: the code resets each day.

The girls and I hung out in the garage watching Little Einsteins until Bryan came home and rescued us.

We now have four copies of the key.

At the Car Wash

Once upon a time I went to get my car washed. This was no ordinary car wash, this was a pay-inside-only car wash. However, since a bandit must have whisked away the appropriate signage, I didn't know what made this car wash special. I just thought it was busted.

After spending a few minutes fiddling with what I assumed was the pay machine and having no luck, I decided to take my business elsewhere. My boys, strong-minded young men that they are, called to me with loud voices that I should simply drive through the empty car wash so we could leave. However, the car wash looked ominous and I feared that without the proper code to use the car wash, driving though it might damage the van. Additionally, the day had already been full to the brim of similarly direct and bossy statements, so I decided to back-up, because an obstinate parent sets a lovely example for their equally obstinate offspring.

The reverse of the vehicle went smoothly, which was to be expected. I am an excellent backer-upper of cars and vans. I am not, however, very good at judging proximity to curbs. This very-special-not-busted car wash had another fancy feature: sharp, elevated curbs.

And that, dear reader, is when I ripped the trim off the side of my van. Well, mostly ripped. I had to manually yank it free of its remaining earthly tether since, in addition to missing informational signs and functioning external card readers, that particular gas station didn't have any screwdrivers.

The moral of our tale of adventure and woe?

Don't wash your car.

Murphy's Law

The Screen Time Plan was amazing. The kids were motivated and my house was cleaner than it's been in a while. However, thanks to a certain two-year-old who sometimes throws remotes, this is what the screen looks like now.

Their motivation was much lower today. We might need to rethink the plan...

Crepes, Anyone?

I made crepes for dinner on Sunday. I've made crepes many, many times in the past and know that it takes more than one batch to feed our crew. I cracked ten eggs into the bowl and glanced at the recipe. It called for one cup of flour.

Well, I thought, I put in ten eggs, so that means ten cups of flour.

Partway through I made a mental note that it seemed like a lot of flour for this recipe, but that didn't stop me. After all ten cups were in I looked at the recipe again.

And then I started giggling. I giggled all the way upstairs. I giggled as I informed Bryan that I had just ruined dinner. And then I giggled all the way back down to the kitchen to look at the recipe again. It called for two eggs and one cup of flour, not one egg and one cup of flour.

I could have made pancakes instead, but I really wanted crepes. So in went another ten eggs.

Good news: we only have one more freezer-sized bag of crepes to get through before they're all eaten!

One Is the Loneliest Number

As I sit writing this post on Sunday night (scheduling it to publish Monday morning), my phone tells me it is one degree outside. ONE DEGREE.

Cooper and I went to a fireside tonight at church for the Primary kids who are turning eight this year. When it was done and everyone was enjoying refreshments I saw my friend, who had participated in the fireside, walk into the room, keys in hand and perplexed look on her face. I asked what was going on. Her car was frozen shut. She couldn't even get the key all the way in the lock.

After a few more unsuccessful tries, I drove her home. One of my doors was frozen shut, but thankfully it was a back door and Cooper was able to climb through the front. When we got to her house, we discovered her door wouldn't open. Not knowing this was an existing issue (I don't drive this car that often), I thought her door had frozen. I offered to let her out through my door so I reached for the handle.

And it broke off in my hand.

I don't think cars like the cold.

Don't worry, I rolled down the window and opened the door from the outside, so we're not all still stuck in the car in one degree weather.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat

A few years ago my friend introduced me to the magic of dry shampoo. I don't wash my hair everyday (or every other day) anyway, so using dry shampoo is a great way to make my hair look fresh without taking the time to actually wash it.

However, dry shampoo makes my hair crunchy and hard to brush, but if you don't brush it through then it leaves a white film on your head. And it creates a cloud of heavily scented dust in my bathroom when I spray it on my hair. And it costs money, though my favorite brand is not an expensive one. And when you run out, you're stuck going back to hair that looks like it needs a wash.

In spite of the "ands" in that last paragraph, I do try to keep some dry shampoo on hand. Except right now, I don't have any. And this morning when I saw the state of my hair, I really wished I'd had some. That's when I remembered that a friend from high school used to put baby powder in her hair to take out the oil. I glanced at the bottle of baby powder next to the sink and made my choice. I gave a few quick shakes over the top of my hair and left to corral my children into the car for school.

I made sure to brush through my hair, just so it would all be worked through. Then I went to a meeting at the boys school and we had some friends over to play.

After our friends left I glanced in the mirror. That's when I saw that I hadn't actually brushed the powder out. No, instead it looked like I had a dye job that was growing out to reveal a natural head of white hair. Note: my hair is not white, not yet. I have a few white hairs, but that's all.

Maybe I should just wash my hair...

Leftovers

Yesterday in the car, the following conversation took place.

Cooper: (to Phoebe) Eat it.

Me: (realizing I haven't given them any food during this particular trip) Eat what?

Cooper: The food.

Me: (perplexed) What food?

Cooper: The food that was behind my chair.

Me: (thinking maybe I set down a package of fruit snacks in the back window behind his seat) You mean above your seat?

Cooper: No, behind my seat. Right down here.

Me: (panic rising slightly) What is it?! What are you feeding her?!

Cooper: (thinking for a moment) Chips.

Me: (unable to remember the last time we ate chips in the car) Stop! Stop eating! That's so gross! (flipping my mirror down to see Phoebe consuming yucky seat-cushion crumbs out of Cooper's open palm) STOP EATING THAT!

Time to clean out the car, wouldn't you say?