Tales from the Icebox Lagoon.

Refrigerators. We all have one. We all love them. They came about out of necessity like toilet paper and ear plugs. Let's face it girls, all that salt preserving our food wasn't doing much for our water weight either. And then the bright shining moment came. An icebox! Now you can keep things cold. Then it got bigger, better, more amazing. But, every advance has it's own flaw. They now make refrigerators that have a freezer on one side, fridge on the other, one with a freezer drawer, and even one with two fridge doors and a freezer drawer on the bottom. As a housewife, I lust after the latter, but as a military housewife on base housing, I have the standard freezer on top fridge. At least it's not "avocado" (read, baby poop green).

I have nothing against a refrigerator, except, well, let's go back to the beginning. The beginning of my housewife training. My mom used to tease me an say she didn't need a dishwasher, she had me. Thanks Mom. But there was this strange phenomenon that only happened when I was in the home stretch of a marathon dish washing session. My pile would multiply. Oh, yes, you guessed it, my mother would choose that moment to clean out the fridge. Opportunist.

And that is where my beef is with the refrigerator. Somewhere between the second shelf and Cassiopeia is a black hole that renders bits and bowls invisible to the searching eye. Making the fridge look full of food just waiting to turn into some culinary masterpiece, or at least a sandwich. What you find, though, upon further inspection, is some fuzzy applesauce, a bowl of moldy chopped tomatoes and s dish of... whatever that used to be. Even the occasional "when did we have soup?"

And then when you have kids you get the added benefit of reaching to the back of the fridge to get out those stale french fries that they just had to save for later. And the plush ice cream cone that they couldn't let melt. That one was in there for a month. I still haven't cleaned the shelf of the remains of their Valentine's Day suckers. Thanks, Mom.

I guess the good vastly outweighs the bad. Especially if you have one of those swanky new ones. But for now, I guess I'll just have to settle for the Tales from the Icebox Lagoon.

Sharing is caring... psst pass it on.

We're taught from a very young age to share. Our teachers and family "encourage" it. We all have things that we love that we want to pass on to other generations be it through a sibling, classroom, or through your own children.

My favorite things to get passed to me are from my grandparents and they have no monetary value. I've inherited my army of Christmas cookies and the best peanut butter cookie recipe in the world from a grandmother. I've gotten lessons on pies and making noodles from scratch from my grandfather. I've learned many Thanksgiving lessons from my other grandmother. In fact, it sometimes seems as though I've got grandparents coming out of my ears! But they all pass on amazing things.

We have traditions that have been passed down from parent to child for who knows how long. They're all things that make us feel warm and cozy. I recently decided to pass something on to my daughter.

The Wizard of Oz! My favorite movie and that of many many others. It was an event when it was on tv. Even when I was a kid, The Wizard of Oz being on tv meant that all other plans changed. Now, it's on blu-ray collectors edition, but it's still just as amazing every time. I always remember being afraid when the witch threw fireballs at the scarecrow (overkill maybe?), I want a flying monkey and think the poppies are pretty. It brings up so much goodness for me. Now my little girl is sitting way too close to the tv (a whole other story) resting her head in her hands content in a childhood rite of passage.

It feels good to have shared this... but the disc is still mine!

Three little words

Words are amazing. There are some who think that without words, we are animals. There are three specific words that make a huge and changing impact on our lives. Not "clean your room" or "eat your peas". No, I'm talking about "I love you".

Those three simple words mean so many many different things. And the meaning morphs over the years. Consider this, as a child, I love you has a completely innocent meaning. You love your parents, and your friends, and you even love that kid you just met at the park. When you get older, in those dreaded teenage years, you love your boyfriend. (Lord help us.) Then you get, you know, old, and you love your spouse and junk. And when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much... Yep, kids. And you love them. And then they learn to talk... and it's all over from there.

At first they love you for real, and then they learn. Oh ho, do they learn. When my babies tell me they love me, they either actually mean it, have made a truly epic mess or really really want something. When my daughter painted the dining room with chocolate syrup, she loved me. When my son desperately wanted some dumb toy he saw on a commercial, he loved me. And when he got a boo boo and I made it better, he loved me.

I know from experience what it will soon turn into. I love you Daddy, give me money. I love you Mommy, I failed science. I love you guys, I wrecked the car, got a tattoo, ran over the neighbors dog, got arrested please bail me out did I mention I love you. And then the cycle will repeat and I will get as much joy out of laughing at my kids becoming parents as mine get from watching me. And yes Mom, you were right. I love you (I'm sorry for ever being a teenager.)

A word on television

Back in the day, it was all black and white and there were only like three channels. Then came color. OMG! It's like blowin' my mind. Then cable, satellite, and now you can watch television shows online, on any number of mobile devices, or stream television shows from the internet to your tv. Yes, it does seem redundant, but a LOT of us are doing it. I'm guilty. It truly is turning into more than an idiot box. It's like an idiot world. (and I am an idiot girl.)

The other issue, other than Jersey Shore, is monitoring your child's overall consumption of waves from the tube. Television is a dangerous place to leave your child. Some of our favorite programs that are seemingly benign, turn into loaded weapons in the hands (or brains) of children. I'm not saying that by watching CSI, your kid is going to grow up to be a murderer. It's more a problem of nuance and content. My son has lovingly dubbed every show I watch as a "creepy show". It sometimes bothers him that all I watch are creepy shows. He has a point. Dead people are creepy... as are police officers stuck in the 1970s.

There is an attitude out there that "We saw that stuff, and we turned out fine". I think that's fine until my kid is snarky like Dr. Greg House. That being said, I am not above using those beautiful kid channels as a temporary babysitter. PBS, Disney and Nick Jr. are like magic. Like a ray of sunshine in a crazy day. Who knew that a mother could be so happy to have their child learn about dinosaur poop or a talking sandwich having a party in someone's tummy. We, as parents mercilessly mock children's shows. I think it's because we're secretly jealous. Jealous that we can't make them behave as well as Dora and Boots.

So when you really really have to shower (by yourself), the kitchen is still dirty (from last week) or your brain is going to explode, turn on the good ole television, run away and know that your children will be learning... something (not the least of which is a song that will make you hate them). Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggety dog!

Every Mom's Crazy ('Bout A Sharp-dressed Kid)

Jammie's, PJ's, pants, shorts, t-shirts and skivvies, nightgowns, unmentionables, ooh la la or footies, whatever you wear, pajamas are an important part of the day. For those with outside jobs, pajamas symbolize the glorious end of the day. For we stay-at-home moms, they sometimes are our only reminder that we forgot to shower today.

For my childrenthough, they have many different meanings. My daughter who is both quite contrary and often convinced she is a princess, loves changing clothes. To her, her pajamas are the clothes in her dresser that she can reach. To me, her pajamas are what she puts on to spite me and slow me down when we're trying to go somewhere and are running late. She mostly sleeps in her diaper and whatever bit of clothing that managed to make it to bedtime.

My son is a completely different story. On nights between baths, he sleeps in his clothes. He hates his pj's. Hates them. This is a kid who is afraid of his skull and crossbones underwear, but still I see no threat looming from his Batman pajamas. Granted, they lost a lot of their cool factor by not having a cape, so I suppose that is warranted. If I even suggest that we might want to maybe start thinking of putting on pajamas, a noise erupts from him that is somewhere between hurt little girl and a banshee.

I used to worry about their weird Jammie attitudes, their jammatudes if you will, but really, how are pj's that much different? Who says you have to sleep in pajamas? At least that's what I'm telling myself today.

Out of the Pan... With the Big Spoon

You won't know until you have kids.

We've all heard it, thought it to be a big bunch of B.S. and were proven wrong. The thing is, they were always talking about love. "I love you so much. You won't know just how much I love you until you have kids of your own." Skepticism translates that as "You drive me completely bonkers, but I love you anyway. I'm waiting for the payback you'll get when you have kids of your own." I however, like to look at it in a different context. The context of food.

Let me set this up for you. It's dinner time, the kids have been completely nuts. Completely. You had to shake a giant wad of poop out of a pantleg today, for crying out loud. You have your vices to help you through. You try to make them family friendly, you know, so you don't become an alcoholic and have to enter a 12 step program, though the solitude of rehab makes you smile. No, no. Your vice is food. Junk food. Tater tots (God bless you, farmers of Idaho.), chips, that jar of M&M's (just one, you swear.), and most importantly, macaroni and cheese. The creamy yellow-orange goodness may not be your specific kryptonite, but you have one. Don't deny it. You know you do.

Now, let me ask you something? When you make this particular dish for your family, do you test it for poison? (wink wink nudge nudge) Just one bite turns into half of the pan. Or the tots just sort of come to life and jump out of the bag... I guess somebody will have to eat them. There are, after all, starving people in China (to be read in the voice of the mother from A Christmas Story). We've all been there.

But I've noticed something. The mac 'n' cheese is never as good once it reaches a plate. (Unless it's been left on a plate, but that's a different story.) It's far superior eaten out of the pan. With the big spoon. I don't really think there is anything magic about the vessel from which you recieve your food, I think it has more to do with perception. Sneaking a bite in the kitchen is dangerous. You could get caught. It's thrilling. You're riding a motorcycle 100 miles per hour down the highway in really sexy boots with the wind blowing through your perfectly groomed hair. Oh yeah, you're that dangerous. All because of the macaroni.

Scoff if you must, but when you spend your days with toddlers, you need all the thrills you can get. Diets be damned, it's always better out of the pan, with the big spoon.