How not to cook a turkey

Ahh. We survived Thanksgiving. I managed to cook most of a Thanksgiving meal alone-- and clean the house single-handedly, while S. lay recuperating from a, er, procedure that required him to be pretty much flat on his back for a couple of days. I even managed to erect the Christmas tree and string it with colored lights, bubble lights, and two different kinds of garland so the family could trim it after the meal. In truth, it was the most pleasant and relaxed holiday we've had in years.

Two days later I cooked another turkey, this one a gift someone had passed to my sister, who in turn passed it to me. Now, I have never cooked a whole turkey, as we are a white-meat-eatin' bunch. I knew I had to remove the package of giblets, which is a nice euphemism for "blackened and horrifying internal organs that we took out but put back just in case someone other than your cat actually wants to CONSUME them" and though the wrapper said to remove the neck, it looked pretty well gone to me.

Four and a half hours later, I found it, in all its gristly goodness, inside the cavity which I had tentatively searched before cooking the bird. I guess it was waaay down in there. What an end for a turkey--not only will we kill, pluck, and dismember you, but we'll also stuff your excised body parts back inside you like some kind of mafia murder! I also realized I had cooked the entire thing upside down, which of course is a little embarrassing, though my mother in law assured me Emeril recommends this for juicier results.

After I got past the horror of bones falling out everywhere, weird fatty stuff, cartilage, and various other anatomical surprises, I managed to salvage a nice amount of white meat, which was what I was after in the first place. The legs, thighs, and wings went to family members who eat such things. The rest went to the cats, who were in turkey parts nirvana.

Possibly the only meat-preparation experience that even comes close is the year A. boiled the carcass in an attempt to make turkey broth. "Turkey Frame Soup," I recall, was the straightforward and unappetizing title of that one. I scrubbed my roaster pan with a silent vow to stick with turkey breasts in the future, and to beware of gifts that come with their necks stuffed inside them.

Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank

It's happened. My little girl, all arms and legs, has stretched her way out of a size 6X and has entered the world of girls' size 7-14. A survey of her closet revealed she needs some dressy things for church and the upcoming holidays, so I thought--a couple new dresses. No big deal, right?

After searching numerous stores, I found a few cute dresses--but all in the little girls' (4-6X) department. The selections in the bigger girls' section were a discouraging variety of sparkly formal numbers that resembled prom dresses--pretty, but a little much for your average Sunday--and cut down versions of women's dresses. And of course, mini tramp-wear such as the one pictured above.

Now, if this Barbie-esque gown showed up in C.'s closet she'd probably faint with ecstasy, but that's not the point. She's SIX. Where are the sweet Peter Pan collars? The smocked bodices? The jumpers, petticoats, and trimmings that announce to the world that you are a little girl, not Britney Spears in training? Oh, yeah, they're over at Strasburg Children, at $100 and up a pop.

One would think that a size 7 girl and a size 14 girl would have very different fashion requirements. As I recall, when my mother and I were shopping for me in that department, lo those many years ago, the styles were slanted more toward the younger end so that by the time you were a size 14 you couldn't wait to graduate to the glamorous Junior section. Now, it seems, the opposite is true: Early teens can look like fully developed, sexually mature women, and the little girls can come along for the ride.

Just as it's silly and pathetic for women of a certain age to wear miniskirts, it's ridiculous for a flat-chested child to wear a dress that in its normal environment is designed to highlight the curves of a woman. Call me old fashioned, but certain styles--the first little heels, first spaghetti strap dress or sweetheart neckline--should be rites of passage as a girl grows, instead of her being encouraged to look sexy when she doesn't have a clear concept of what that even means. It's not cute. It's sad, and even scary.

My search continues. Several hours on Ebay yielded some promising options and a list of search terms of brand names that still manufacture girly-looking styles for girls (what a concept!) so I'll find something yet. If all else fails, there's always my sewing machine.

back in the saddle. . . again

I remember my first 10 speed. I teetered precariously on the too-large frame; its giant wheels dwarfing my scrawny 12-year-old body. Its tape-wrapped, curving handlebars and silver shifting levers were my badge of maturity; status. My first bike had been a hand-me-down from a cousin, a 70's banana-seat variety with a gash in the vinyl that allowed in rainwater and would nicely soak your butt each time you sat down for days after. But this one--this gleaming blue Schwinn--was all my own, unstoried and unblemished. My best friend and I rode almost daily, meandering around the flat Midwestern landscape, lost in preadolescent twitters and fantasies.

Flash forward 25 years: It's time for my oldest son to earn his cycling badge for Cub Scouts, and they need adults to supervise a short ride at the park. Though my dear father has been talking lately of refurbishing the aforementioned Schwinn, now tattered and forlorn in his basement, I declined and made a trip to our local bike shop, and bought the lovely Trek Navigator 300 you behold above. Not only do the gears shift by a simple twist of the grip, but the chain doesn't fall off in the road and it has 24 speeds! My bike euphoria nearly obscures the fact that my rear end is throbbing and that all the nice old couples out for strolls with their precious little dogs appeared more than a little disgruntled at the sight of 5 adults and 9 third grade Cub Scouts zipping along the path at the park. One of them even sighed audibly as we passed.

I went ahead and had them install the removable baby seat and rack, and our next step will have to be a hitch and rack on the minivan. There is no escaping full blown mother of three-dom. But as I set out on my maiden voyage this morning, just for a moment, I was just myself, just me, with the hum of tires, the autumn sky, and a solitary country road.

Is it Fall yet?

I admit it. I have been looking forward to school starting.

I say this with some measure of guilt, as I recall my mother saying that she always felt sad when we had to go back to school. In truth, when I picture my three little ones peacefully playing together, or curled up with new library books, or spending an afternoon spraying each other with the hose, entertaining themselves, I wish the summer could go on a little longer. But when I think of the more frequent scenarios of them following me all day, begging for television and snacks, interrupting me on the phone, pulling things out as fast as I put them up, and fighting incessantly, I'm grateful for the upcoming structure and schedule. It will be good for everyone.

It's not just stir crazy kids that make me long for the change of seasons. It's been too hot to go outside, too hot even to swim, the air quality so poor it's like breathing cotton. I'm sick of slathering everyone with sunscreen, wiping popsicle drips, suggesting fun and interesting activities to an unreceptive audience. We're housebound as Minnesota pioneers in winter, but without the scenery. Air conditioners just don't provide the ambiance of a crackling fire.

The catalogs are coming in the mail, laden with images of crisp days and autumn leaves, making the oppressive heat even less bearable. Our grass is brown, our spindly trees struggling for life, and everything in my garden has been decimated by Japanese beetles. Summer keeps hanging around like a guest you wish would leave. I'm ready for the date to be over.

Let fall come. I'm ready for whatever paltry showing the leaves will make, for apples, pumpkins, for a drive in the mountains. Set the clocks back. If we must hunker down, let it be because it's dark, and cool.

It's CRAB-tastic!

I have spent several of the past 24 hours diligently researching and ultimately purchasing 3 hermit crabs. Not for myself, mind you--my taste in pets runs along mammalian lines--but for my two oldest children, and the youngest, who is getting old enough to be a tag-along in everything they do.

I scored a perfect glass tank with lid at a yard sale this weekend for 3 bucks, and after cleaning it, making a trip to the pet store, and shelling out an embarrassing additional sum for a reptile feeding dish, crab food and treats, a hideaway hut, natural sponge, cork bark, "move up" shells, sand (or "substrate" as they call it, probably to justify its inflated price), salt water conditioner, and driftwood, we now have a groovy "crabitat" and at least 2 very happy children. The crabs seem to like it too.

Turn around, turn around

Tonight I rocked my baby. Or, rather, I rocked my three-year-old, who weighs more than 30 pounds and whose large feet hang considerably over the arm of the rocking chair where I have held, rocked, and nursed my babies since the arrival of the first one 8 years ago. He woke up, crying and disoriented, and for once welcomed my offer to rock and sing. Within minutes he was back asleep, rosy lips parted, just grazing the edge of my breast. Our lullaby ended, I held him silently in the darkness and wondered--where did all my babies go?

The voices of older mothers echoed in my thoughts: "Enjoy this time; it will be over before you know it." I hear myself repeating those sentiments to younger mothers, even as I struggle to comprehend them coming true in my own life. How can eight straight years of being pregnant or nursing--and sometimes both--pass so quickly?

Of course, in the moment, nothing passes in the blink of an eye. The countless evenings when Scott has worked late, leaving me with cranky, clingy babies, are all too vivid. I am intimately acquainted with the slow insanity of watching the clock and willing someone, anyone to come and relieve me from the constant, relentless needs of a toddler. I have wondered how I will maintain my composure, let alone my housekeeping, with everyone in the house all day, all summer.

Yet tonight I held my baby, marveling at the strange paradox of parenting--how days can be so long and years so brief. The lines from a favorite Judith Viorst poem mirrored my thoughts: And no more babies will disrupt/The tenor of my days,/Nor croup and teething interrupt my sleeping./I swear to you I wouldn't have it/Any other way./It's positively stupid to be weeping. Chagrined, I thought of how often I bemoan the fact that everyone NEEDS me so much; how overwhelmed I feel by the sheer volume of their demands. I recall how this independent child ceremoniously spat out the breast a little more than a year ago, effectively weaning ME, and wish, just for an evening, to be needed like that again.

Tomorrow will come with this same child at my heels, shadowing my every move, needing assistance in the bathroom approximately every thirty minutes, and testing every instruction I give him. Most likely I will look forward to his nap and bedtime as much as any other day. But I hope I can also focus on the leg hugs, nose kisses, and impossibly enthusiastic spirit of this little boy, because this stage, too, really will be over one day--before I know it.

Walking After Midnight

Late one night recently, I watched the documentary "Supersize Me." One of the many factoids I remember from my hazy late night viewing was that one of the doctors said that most of us get from between 3,000 steps per day (very sedentary) to 6,000 steps per day (average) as we go about our normal activities. He said we should aim for 10,000 steps per day. That got me thinking--how much do I walk each day?

I figured that since I live in the country with three kids, a dog, and a two story house that I probably walked more than the average, but those old jeans still don't fit, so I decided I'd keep track. I am discovering that the goal of 10,000 daily steps is harder to reach than I thought. I made it today, in part because I shoveled out an entire truckload of composted horse manure into my garden and started hand-tilling it in around some of my plants--hardly an everyday occurrence. Yesterday I took my youngest to preschool, went clothes shopping, and later in the evening went grocery shopping, and still reached only around 7500 by the end of the day.

Apparently the idea of aiming for a certain number of steps per day has been around for a while: the Japanese, who average 3 pedometers per household, have been doing it for over 40 years and refer to it as "Manpo-Kei," which takes its name from a pedometer marketing slogan from the 60's and basically means "10,000 step meter." (While interesting, I was disappointed: I thought the phrase would have some nice Zen-like meaning about health and balance, but no--it was a commercial). In one study researchers discovered that in an old order Amish community, the men averaged 18,000 steps per day; the women, 14,000. Contrast that to our average number of televisions and cars per household, along with our low daily step counts, and it's no surprise that more than a few of us can't get away with that extra Krispy Kreme.

So I'm thinking I'll keep track of my steps for a while and see if I can't raise my average, and while I'm at it, start pacing when I eat brownies. . .

Well, Duh

It's in the Observer today: 20 percent of kids under two have TVs in their bedrooms, and the cited study suggests this practice might adversely affect brain development. To which I say, um, we need a study to tell us this?

In addition, 43 percent of 3 and 4 year olds have televisions in their rooms. Never mind that the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends NO television whatsoever for children under two, and only very limited viewing after that; never mind that author Roald Dahl needed no such study to conceive of Mike Teevee as one of the more obnoxious characters when he wrote Charlie and the Chocolate Factory some 43 years ago.

Yet in spite of this, it seems everyone I know except my sister and maybe two of my friends lets their children watch TV with abandon. Even, perhaps especially, educated people who ought to know better. Their justification is that the kids watch Baby Genius Einstein Savant Jump Start Whatever, completely ignoring the recommendations and the evidence that early television is harmful to developing eyes and minds regardless of the program content. Watch a child reading and his eyes make jumps as he scans chunks of information at a time: 'saccadic movements' for the educationally geeky. Watch them watching television--actually, most of us can mentally picture the steady gaze of someone watching the tube--and there is no scanning, just a steady, vapid stare. Add to that the fact that the average program changes scenes or vantage points roughly every three seconds--tv's famous "flicker"-- and you have a child trained to constantly changing stimulation who is going to be boooooored and fidgety when he or she has to sit in an actual classroom watching and listening to a teacher who doesn't change activities every few seconds.

My kids watch TV. My oldest had to wait until he was around two and even then it was very controlled, maybe 1/2 hour each day; my second child didn't get to watch her own programs until around two but inadvertantly saw some television by virtue of her older brother. My youngest most definitely saw the most before the recommended age simply because he was in a house with two older siblings and I'm not a masochist. Without a doubt, sometimes we allow that extra hour-or two-simply because Daddy won't be home for two more hours or we need to get dinner on or talk on the phone or go to the freaking bathroom alone. It happens. But we ought to have the common sense to know it's not great and that there are tradeoffs. When my kiddos watch a lot of television they forget how to play. They whine and talk back. They fight more and mope around when they have to turn it off. They beg for toys and junk food and start to tell boring recaps of the programs they've been watching. They make me wish I could just turn it back on and be done with it, but it is then I know I have to stand firm and insist they find something to do. I have never been under any illusion that there is anything beneficial for them in any way, shape or form about watching television. I'm fully aware that when I indulge it, the benefit is for me and me alone. And considering the deprogramming (pardon the pun) that must occur after a few days of too much television, even that benefit is questionable.

I seriously question putting a TV in a child's room, at any age. Recently my oldest, who is eight, wistfully recounted how lucky a new friend of his is: he has a Gameboy, a Playstation, an X-box, and a TV in his room. "Can I ever have a TV in my room?" he queried, surely already knowing the answer. I told him not to feel too deprived, as his best friend's mother is with me on this one so he won't be alone. I explained my reasons weren't to torture him, but that his father and I had worked to limit his screen time and read to him every day of his life because we know that it will help him do better in school. He reflected a moment and said, "Well, Johnny (name changed, naturally) really doesn't do well in school at all." Exactly.