I am the mom…

… of two teenagers. Baby Girl came downstairs to birthday cake and presents, and the party commenced. Ever since we’ve been scrubbing through the house, getting ready for further festivities tonight– although we are going to have to disappoint all the kids (including the ones over 35) who love the annual illegal fireworks show (during which I always stand halfway between the show and the house, in case the cops come– someone would have to bail out the daddies).

Holy Moly. The babies are teens. The thing is, I love teenagers, so that part doesn’t phase me. What does is how fast the time goes (which I know is a completely banal thing to say, but it’s true so fuck it…). But to be exact, the time w/the babies hasn’t seemed to fly– it’s gone along in real time. I have been able to enjoy where they are, and don’t regret time passed.

What does seem to have whizzed by is my own time. I don’t feel any different than when I was twenty-two, or thirty-two (okay so yes maybe the body has settled slightly south, especially after the babies), but mentally I don’t feel any older. I was born old in some ways, then was the youngest child in my family, and my extended family, by a lot. You grow up quickly when always surrounded by people 4-40 years older than you. I’ve always said that the role of the youngest child (in a family of 3+ kids) is to shut up, put up, and keep up.

Quick self portrait– me now:
So I don’t LOOK any older!!???!? yeah, well, whatever. I really don’t want to be one of those annoying Mid-Life-Whiny-Butts in a few years, so I’d better get myself right on over it now.

Now the story of my bad yesterday: We took the babies out to use the gift certificates from the grands, and while at Tyler’s the husband and baby girl started hooting when they saw this t-shirt. The boy and I followed the hawkish sounds, and somehow the whole thing ended with the boy buying the shirt. Talk about a bad mama.

best girl 2

So, Baby Girl just came in and said, “Go hang a salami, I’m a lasagna hog”.

Jeez, I love that child.

best girlfriend

So, Baby Girl turns thirteen on Saturday. She’s so damn cute it hurts to look at her, and she has the heart of an angel. I always tell her that I wish I’d had her as a friend growing up– she is supportive, caring, diplomatic, and a fierce advocate for anyone she loves. I just can’t believe she’s thirteen; I remember nursing her like it was yesterday, and carrying her toddler chubby self everywhere, and smelling the back of her neck. Actually I still get to smell the back of her neck– she chalks it up to another Mama Thing.

Right now she’s way into cooking, which is a great thing on many fronts. The 27th was our anniversary (nineteen years– woo hoo!) and Baby Girl brought us breakfast in bed.

The thing is, she’s a bitty thing, so while she’s been baking independantly for two years (her big bro and his friends beg for her chocolate chip cookies), she can’t use the stove (gas, flames, long hair, paranoid mom) so I bought her an electric skillet. Pretty amazing what you can do w/an electric skillet.

We were out of cheddar cheese, and she was making quesadillas (requested) so she used Velveeta. Great tortillas, simmered in butter til crisp, with Velveeta between– it doesn’t suck.

Right now she’s making lasagna. Life is very good!

burp

Holy moly, the food just won’t quit. From being at the in-laws for a feast on the 23rd, we segued right into our Christmas Eve tamale feast, and next day the Roast Beast. It is more than just a bit overwhelming. Some of our people couldn’t show up this year, so maybe we over produced, but still– I am perplexed. There is tart left.

I’m talking butter/pecan/brown sugar crust with yummy cream cheese/sour cream/etc. filling– then topped with fruit. It is truly awesome. Makes Central Market’s weiny-ass tarts look like jello salads. At Thanksgiving the nephews hoard pieces, along with the Cranberry-Pecan Pie. The babies are always right there in the pits, slugging for their share, and all this amidst an array of desserts– for any given holiday, I bake at least three, and there are other bakers in the family.

But today, there is tart left in the fridge. We gotta go to a fam-dam’ly party in north Texas manana, or I’d add it to our homeless feast. Once home we’ll make a bunch of sandwiches, defrost the party excess food, and go share. But you can’t freeze a tart (and I’m not getting into that entendre). It’s a conundrum.

I’m thinking that the family is a little depressed. I’m blaming Bush. It’s either that or global fucking warming. It is too friggin’ warm, nobody is eating my tart, and I’m feeling quite fussy.

Bumble Love

It’s time for a Bumble Fan Club. I’m going to work on the t-shirt design and secret handshake next week.

The other day I had to come up with a few poetic thoughts on Bumbles. First, a Bumble haiku was born:

I love my Bumble
He shines upon the people
With bosoms galore.

Then the following ditty, sung to the Oscar Meyer tune:

My Bumble used to scare me,
he was grumpy and he grouched.
But when we pulled out his bad tooth
His real self, it came out.

So we love our Bumble everyday,
and if you ask us why we’ll say,
“‘Cause Bumbles they just have a way
to make us smile every day”.

This is actually the second rendition of the Oscar Meyer Bumble ditty, as the first involved more bosom talk, and Baby Girl objected. She pointed out that the Bumble’s big boobies have nothing to do with his goodness.

Soon, I will have to compose an Ode to Bumble, or possibly an epic– who knows?