"Prep time"

In trying to simplify meal planning and execution, I've decided to dedicate each weekday to a certain type of meat that I can build a meal around:

• Mondays = meatless (at least, they're supposed to be meatless -- they usually end up having some type of meat since Seth likes flesh)
• Tuesdays = chicken
• Wednesdays = fish (tuna, salmon, cod, tilapia, etc.)
• Thursdays = beef
• Fridays = pizza

The schedule has been going rather well for me these past few months. And, if I get really daring (and the chickens have been good contributors), I throw a quiche into the mix.
Since making up my own recipes and having them actually taste good is not my bailiwick, I usually follow the directions in my cookbooks to a T. In doing so, I've come to realize that the cookbook author's idea of "prep time" and the time it take me to actually prepare the meal are two completely different numbers.

For example, the recipe on the back of the pizza yeast packet that I use to make Friday's pizza says the "prep time" is 15 minutes. I've begun to think the people at Fleischmann don't make pizzas in the real world. This is how my pizza-making experience usually goes:

4:30 -- "Okay, Kieran, it's time to go make the pizza."
Kieran: "Have to go potty."

4:32 -- "Okay, Kieran, let's go make the pizza."
Kieran: "We need the bread hook."
We put the mixer with the bread hook on the counter and, because I still can't remember the recipe even though I've used the same one the last 10 times I've made the pizza, I find the recipe.

4:33 -- I get the flour and begin looking for the one-cup measuring cup that Cael has yet again pulled out of the drawer and hidden somewhere.

4:36 -- I find the cup, measure the flour, and pour in the yeast and sugar and salt. And then I remember the water needs to be hot, so I put the measured water in the microwave.

4:38 -- I pour in the water, add the oil, and begin mixing it all together. Kieran covers his ears as the mixer spins.

4:39 -- Cael wakes up from his nap. I go get him and realize he needs a diaper change.

4:42 -- I begin grating the mozarella (the best is from Simply Cheese).

4:43 -- Cael wraps himself around my legs and wails because he's hungry and thirsty. I get him a drink and some marshmallows to munch on.

4:44 -- I finish grating the mozarella and mix the herbs into the tomato sauce (Seth can't abide ready-made sauce, so we make our own).

4:45 -- Why am I not ready to put the pizza in the oven by now?

4:46 -- I tell Kieran to stop wrestling Cael to the ground. And then I physically separate the two boys. Cael fake cries. Kieran sincerely apologizes.

4:48 -- I add the remaining flour to the dough, mix it up, roll it out, and remember I haven't yet gotten out the pizza stone. I wash my hands off, find the stone, put it on the counter, and then put the dough on it. And remember to turn the oven on.

4:49 -- Kieran: "Have to go potty."

4:51 -- Cael puts on Kieran's shoe, toddles around, falls down, needs to be picked up and reminded he's ok.

4:52 -- Mommy needs to go potty.

4:53 -- I put the sauce on the pizza and decide to add some ham and pineapple. I get the deli ham from the refrigerator, chop it up, open the can of pineapple, drain it, and strategically scatter a few pieces on the sauce, hoping maybe this time Kieran won't detect the pineapple and pull his pizza apart trying to remove it.

4:56 - I add the cheese.

4:57 -- Kieran rides his tricycle around the kitchen while Cael chases him. I stop them both and ask them to go into the living room so I can get the pizza in the oven without them running into the oven -- or me. Kieran obyes. Cael requires physical displacement.

4:59 -- Seth walks in the door and the boys run through the kitchen to greet him. I ask him to keep them contained so that I can get the pizza in the oven.

5:00 -- Somehow, the pizza finally makes it into the oven and, thirty minutes later, "prep time" is finished.

Just a little note to all the cookbook authors out there -- give me a call the next time you're ready to write a new recipe, and I'll be happy to tell you how much time "prep time" it really takes.

One cool dude

This is another post about Seth and his hypermiling escapades (not to be confused with Ice Capades). Aren't you glad?

It's summer time (at least in the northern hemisphere). And it's hot. And, because using the air conditioner in the car decreases one's fuel mileage, Seth doesn't use the air conditioner while he's driving his car. And, because driving with the windows down decreases one's fuel mileage, Seth doesn't drive with the windows down. He drives with them up. The whole way home (or wherever he's going).

And have I mentioned that it's been really hot lately? Yes, well, think "sauna-in-a-car" as you picture Seth driving 1.25 hours home every weekday during the hottest part of the afternoon.

And think "drenched with sweat" as you picture Seth walking in the door every evening. Or don't. Because that's kind of gross.

Last summer, he tried a hand-made vest stuffed with ice from the ice machine at work to keep him cool on the drive home. Since he's switched jobs, however, his new place of employment lacks the necessary ice machine to make the hand-made vest work.

And then he found the StaCoolVest (notice under "Uses" that "hypermiling" is not listed). And he fell in love. And he just knew that this was the solution to his overheating woes. (Of course, I've known all along that the solution is to A. turn on the AC and/or B. roll down the windows.) And he ordered one.

And the FedEx guy delivered it the other day.

And later that evening, Seth spent some time following the directions on getting the Thermopacks activated and into the freezer.

And the next morning, he transferred them from the freezer into a cooler in the back of his car, where they waited to be used with the vest on his drive home. 

 And later that evening, he arrived home sweat-free and ready to be hugged by his son. That's one way to stay cool, I suppose . . . .

(Note: For those wondering . . . according to Seth's calculations, he saved $1200 last year with his hypermiling ways, so the savings in fuel costs outweigh the cost of the vest in the long run (no pun intended). And the health savings (since he's intent on hypermiling) are my peace of mind knowing that this will lessen the chances of his having heat stroke on the way home. Also, according to Seth, weight doesn't affect mileage -- it has more to do with the way one drives and the airflow around the car and not using the a/c.)

Not just a statistic

The God of the Bible is a God of order. He created the universe in an orderly fashion and endowed it with laws to follow (laws of life, laws of chemistry, laws of physics, laws of mathematics . . .) so that it all works together for His glory and our good. As His image-bearers, we reflect Him in our attempts to order and classify things. In the math problems we solve. In the probabilities and statistics that we put together.

One of the questions people often ask after hearing about Kieran's diagnosis of Williams syndrome is, "What are the chances that your next baby will be born with WS?"

The standard answer is, "Because WS occurs from a spontaneous mutation on one of the gametes (i.e., neither Seth nor I are "carriers" of the disorder), we have the same chance of having another baby with WS as we did with Kieran -- about 1 in 10,000."

We like to toss numbers like this around -- one in ten thousand babies are born with Williams syndrome, one in one hundred babies born to older women will be born with Down Syndrome. Or, to put it another way, Kieran is one of about 30,000 people in America living with WS today.

And yet, it can become easy to forget about the One who created so that 2+2 always equals 4 when we're in the middle of figuring out the answer to questions like these.

I was reminded of this when I read this testimony of a pastor who found out his son would be born with spina bifida. (If you haven't already, take the time to read his testimony or watch the video--you will be blessed. And you will need a tissue.) In his letter to his unborn son, Pastor Josh says, "You are not a statistic."

The reality is that each child is created by God just the way He wants him or her to be. As the Lord reminded Moses, “Who has made man’s mouth? Or who makes him mute or deaf, or seeing or blind? Is it not I, the LORD?" (Exodus 4:11)

And when Jesus answered His disciples' question about the reason a man was born blind, He didn't say, “It was neither that this man sinned, nor his parents; instead, he's just that one in a thousand [or whatever the "statistics" are] who are born blind." Instead, Jesus said the reason was "so that the works of God might be displayed in him." (John 9)

You are not a statistic. Kieran is not a statistic. Cael is not a statistic of "healthy" children. Seth's sister Mimi, who was born with Down syndrome, is not the one-in-one-hundred statistic. They are each the result of the handiwork of God, who created them to bring glory to Himself and for our good. To display His good works.

It seems to me that there's a danger in relegating children with disabilities to being the result of a "statistic" in that we then go on to classify their lives according to statistics -- there's a high probability that he will have signficant learning disabilities, that life will be difficult for her, that he will live in pain for his whole life. And we no longer see each baby born as an individual created by God with the potential to be full of His giftings.

And, I would think, the even greater danger with the "statistic mentality" is that it then becomes easier to take the lives of these "statistics" while they are still in the safest place possible for them -- their mother's womb. And we end up with even sadder statistics like this one: more than 90% of children with Down syndrome are killed before they are born. Because their parent didn't want a statistic.

So how should I answer when people ask the question above? Maybe something more along the lines of this . . . "Kieran is not a statistic. He is a blessing to us from God who created him just the way He wanted him to be. If God chose to give us another child with Williams syndrome, we would receive him or her with thanksgiving, just as we would a healthy child."

More from the weedwacking front

After the accounts of Kieran's weedwacker obsession and aversion to horses, my talented friend, Dan Lietha (who also has a blog), put together this picture for me to show Kieran, suggesting that perhaps it may encourage an affection for horses in him.

When he saw the picture, Kieran said, "Take it out." Apparently horses aren't allowed to have weedwackers.

And the other day, when I flipped on the TV, an infomercial on an exciting, new weedwacker just happened to be on.

 It kept him enthralled for its entire duration.

He surely does love weedwackers.

The 21st century is here

A few weeks ago, I mentioned that the Holler was on its way to joining the 21st century with the advent of a cell phone booster and subsequent cell phone. And I also mentioned that the 21st centuray was in a holding pattern since I had to return the cell phone and get a new one.

Today, the 21st century actually made its way into the Holler (or, it at least came as close as it can get with the cistern still hanging around). The new cell phone arrived, the lady from Page Plus Cellular was able to program the phone, and I am now on my way to making and receiving calls and texts. On a cell phone. In the Holler.

Will wonders never cease?

And now I begin the unenviable task of transferring all the numbers in my old cell phone to the new one. Let the good times roll. Or call. Or text.

Cael wasn't interested in smiling today

This afternoon, we were out playing on the play set and Kieran had climbed into the fort part of it. Cael wanted to follow suit, so I helped him up and he sat down beside his brother. No wrestling commenced, so I quickly seized the opportunity for a photo.

Except that Cael didn't cooperate.

Oh well, Maybe next time.

Butterfly therapy

Last year when we went to the butterfly exhibit at a local conservatory, Cael was still in utero.

Today when we went to the butterfly exhibit at the same conservatory, he was much more free to move about the country -- or the conservatory.

As you all know by now, Kieran has moved on from a butterfly fascination to a fascination in other things (which gives me hope that his current obsessions will also pass), but he still enjoyed seeing the butterflies.

And his cousins enjoyed bringing the butterflies they caught to him to check out.

And, in other news, I finally found and purchased a double stroller today, thanks to SIL Ruth's tip that she'd seen one at a consignment shop down the road from her house. Yay me.

Horse fail

One of the suggested helps for those with special needs is hippotherapy -- working with a therapist and using horses for therapy. It's something I've thought about for Kieran since he's been on a few smaller horses in the past and seemed to enjoy it.

I have the pictures to prove it.

Exhibit A. Riding a pony at a local pumpkin farm last October. Notice the complete lack of tears and fear. He looks content, right?

Exhibit B. Riding a pony at a dairy farm we visited while in Florida over Christmas. No worries, right?

So I was understandably eager to find a nearby place that provides hippotherapy to get him started (he's still showing evidence of low muscle tone and lack of coordination in his movements--things which hippotherapy is supposed to address). I checked around and found a place not five minutes away (and believe me, there's not much that's just five minutes away from us).

A few Fridays ago, I took the boys to meet with the owner. Kieran was looking forward to "seeing some horses," but when we got there, we didn't get the chance to actually get close to the horses since it was a bit rainy. So, we made plans to go back on Monday and start. I talked about it with him over the weekend, explaining that we'd go see the horses and maybe ride one of them, trying to get him ready for what we'd be doing.

But when Monday rolled around and we rolled into the parking lot at the stables, something snapped in his brain and he decided horses weren't for him. He started crying (and I mean crying) when we got there and just wouldn't stop. He wasn't interested at all in seeing the horses or getting near them.

I really don't know what happened -- too much talking ahead of time? Anxiety is common among those with WS, so I'm wondering if somehow I made things worse by talking about it with him? I don't know. But it seems, for now, that hippotherapy will not be on the agenda for the summer.

So we'll move on to something else -- music therapy, I guess . . . .

Subduing the chiggers

Note to those with the middle name of "Crunchy": Please stop reading now. Really. You won't want to go any farther. I talk about chemicals in this post.
If you've hung around me or this blog for any length of time, you know that there's one thing about Holler life that I cannot stand. In fact, I downright hate this one particular aspect of it.

I can handle bathing in rain water. And I'm not particularly bent out of shape about not having cell phone reception here. I don't even mind seeing the occasional fox stroll across the lawn (like Seth did the other evening).

However, I do. not. like. chiggers. I hate them. I hate the fact that they're practically invisible so you can't tell if you have any on you until they're gone, leaving behind large itchy welts that itch like nothing else. And I hate that those itchy welts stay itchy for weeks and that there's not much that calms the itch. And I hate that they inhabit our lawn.

I got my first chigger bite of the season the other day. I hate it. I hate the chigger that bit me. I hate the itch it left behind on my hip. And I don't want my sweet little boys (well, one of them is sweet, the other one who shall remain nameless but whose name begins with C and who looks like this

has recently begun showing signs of being on the strong-willed end of the spectrum) to have to contend with chigger bites. 

In my research, I haven't found many "earth-friendly" solutions to the problem of chiggers other than spraying pesticides. At one Internet recommendation, I spread sulfur and ended up smelling like rotten eggs. And still with chigger bites.

Another site recommended frequent mowing to rid one's lawn of chiggers. I'm fairly certain that if Seth mowed every day that we probably wouldn't have a chigger problem. And I'm fairly certain that when I suggested this to Seth, he suggested I was crazy in the head.

So I'm left with few options:

1. We can never go outside again. And that playset that Seth so recently built will never again be used. Until winter. When there are no chiggers. (Incidentally, this was my MO today after having received the chigger bite yesterday--we stayed indoors all day.)

2. I can hose the boys down with bug repellant whenever we go outside. (Although I'm not completely confident the DEET-free eucalyptus-lemon oil stuff I bought works against chiggers.)

3. I can throw everyone and everything in the bath immediately upon entering the house after having spent any length of time outside. (We would probably run out of water fairly quickly with this option.)

4. I can spray something such as Talstar on my lawn to rid the Holler of chiggers and enable us to once again play freely in our yard and on the playset. (And this is where I lose the crunchy people.)

I chose the last option. And tonight, after Seth mowed the lawn, I filled up the three-gallon sprayer with Talstar and began spraying our lawn. Since I have no idea if the chiggers like to congregate in any particular area, I sprayed the whole thing. The whole acre. I took seriously God's pre-Fall command to "subdue the earth" by subduing the post-Fall chiggers.

Here's hoping it worked and we can enjoy our great outdoors for the rest of the summer.

The 21st century comes to the Holler

We live down in a valley -- a hollow, or "holler" as the neighbors call it, in the earth. We don't have access to city water (we draw our running water from a cistern filled by rainwater) and only recently was our lane paved.

As you drive down the hill into the Holler, you'll lose cell phone reception at a certain point. Those little cell waves just can't bounce their way down here-- they skip right over this depression in the earth. So, although we have cell phones, they don't work at the house and we only use them as necessary when we're out and about. Thus, I've had the same cell phone for the past five or so years and use a cheap pay-as-you-go cell plan.

Since Seth is now a manager at his job, he was given a Blackberry so that he could be contacted at any time, day or night. The trouble was, the Blackberry didn't work in the Holler, so really, he could only be contacted during the day. When he was at work.

A few weeks ago, his coworker finally purchased some kind of reception booster thing for him that works off our DSL Internet connection. So there are now cell waves bouncing around the Holler.

We hadn't bothered to get one before because it was a type of Catch-22. We need our land-line phone so that we can get DSL (we also don't have cable in the Holler and satellite Internet service is notoriously slow), so even if we got a cell booster, we'd still need the land-line/DSL for it to work from, so we couldn't switch to using our cell phones exclusively, so would still only need the cheap phones/plans we'd been using for years. And the cheap phone/plan we were using wouldn't work with the booster, anyway. And we couldn't find other cheap plans from carriers that would work with the booster. So it never really make sense to get one. (Are you as confused as I am yet?)

But, now that we have one, we (or really, I since Seth has the Blackberry) have options -- or at least the option to have options. Seth found a cheap plan that works with the booster and then found a relatively cheap (yet still Smart) phone to work with the cheap plan. So I ordered the phone the other day and then set about trying to port my current cell number to the new phone and set up an account with the new carrier last Saturday.

At least, I tried. I spent the entire day on the phone with both my old and new carriers. Seriously, I was actually on hold with the old carrier for 4.5 hours--that's not an exaggeration. And the only reason I'm not still on hold with them is because I accidentally hung up the phone.

And the outcome of all that time spent listening to elevator music and reminders that "my call was important to them" was that the new carrier couldn't program the new phone, and I need to return it and wait for a replacement.

How's that for an unexciting denouement to this story of technological advancements?

So, the twenty-first century has almost come to the Holler. At least I can hear it knocking . . . . Maybe some day soon it will actually join us.