Yesterday was the 4th of July, and naturally, we grilled out. I also made my grandmother's German Potato Salad. John is pretty sure this is required summer holiday food.
But I almost didn't make it. The recipe wasn't where I normally keep it, and I had a moment of panic that I had lost it. Most of my favorite recipes had found their way onto Forkinit.com (a recipe sharing website that my brother Christian set up), but for some reason, that one hadn't.
Thankfully, I found the recipe, the dish was made, and all was well. I also made sure that the recipe made it on to Forkinit today. Just to avoid any more panic. =)
The incident got me thinking though. Mostly about Grandma, and food. So many of my memories about my maternal grandmother revolve around food. I remember she and my mother canning and freezing food almost every summer of my young childhood. We did it both at her house, and at ours. I loved to help freeze corn and beans, and can tomatoes, peaches, and pears. Of course, most years my delight revolved around gnawing on the corn cobs after most of the corn had been cut off, and less around snapping the ends off green beans, but as I got older I felt honored to be able to cut the corn off the cob myself, and help make up the pickles in her large crocks.
Grandma made and canned jam too, and sauerkraut. Our pantry was always stuffed with home canned goods, and the extra freezer had a never-ending supply. I don't think I knew you could get frozen vegetables from the store until I was at least 10 or 11.
Not all the food memories are pleasant for me. To this day, I don't like oatmeal. I ate it at Grandma's though. For the longest time, I thought "Eat such things as are set before you" was one of the ten commandments. Recently, John asked for brats and sauerkraut for dinner. The smell brought back memories. I can't remember what Grandma served with her kraut, but I didn't like it then either.
But I always liked, and still do, her German potato salad. Grandma was only a few generations removed from the old country, and German food was a proud part of her heritage. I'm sure if I quizzed her children, they could each name a dish of their mother's that they remember and love. But I'm pretty sure they can all remember this one. When Grandma turned 75, they threw her a surprise birthday party, and tricked her into making potato salad for it. My aunt told her it was for a church potluck, and she "just couldn't make as well as you Mom."
Grandma did a lot of things well. She raised 10 kids, and worked as a nurse after they were grown. She was a strong woman with very definite opinions, and a very strong faith. I was only 14 when she died, so I'm sure there are many things I don't remember, and many memories I can't do justice to. But I do like to remember her. Every time I make her potato salad, there's a little bit of Grandma that makes me smile.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
A new kind of normal
Seven weeks ago, our family grew again. Baby Nathan joined us, after a surprisingly short labor, and life would never be the same again.
Nathan is a sweet, happy baby, and well loved by his big brothers, not to mention his parents. He's a big boy, and growing fast. I don't remember the other two outgrowing their carseats and baby carriers so quickly. But he is undeniably a blessing and a joy.
I spent the first half of this pregnancy afraid of losing him, and the second half being more uncomfortable than I thought I could stand. I was so tired, and just sore all the time. I fear my boys suffered from my lack of energy, but there were enough things to keep us busy, and out of the house. Thankfully they didn't require ME to move too much. =)
Almost as soon as I had Nathan, I felt SO much better. Of course, I was tired, but being able to move again was so wonderful! I felt so good, I may have overexerted myself a few times. =)
Then, John went back to work, and my mother left. And, I realized how much had really changed. Suddenly there were three little boys needing my attention. Three little boys who were hungry, usually at the same time, two older boys who quickly discovered Mommy's lessened ability to move when she was nursing. No to mention, I was still tired from the lessened sleep. The house quickly deteriorated as I rediscovered how much time one spends nursing a newborn. Nathan is a good eater, but not a fast one.
Then there was the week where I didn't managed to get food or clothes for myself until almost noon, and that was only through the aid of PBS kids, and a 15 minute nap on the part of the baby. For some reason he didn't want to sleep much in the morning that week. The house was a mess, I could barely walk in my room, the kitchen was constantly overflowing with dishes, and I was reaching breaking point. I didn't realize it until John asked me: "Do you enjoy being the mother of 3 boys?"
It caught me by surprise. Of course I loved it. I had three sweet boys, and the bigger ones doted on the baby, even if they still fought with each other like cats and dogs. But I was tired, and overwhelmed. John asked what he could do to help, so we spent the next week-end deep cleaning, and getting back to where I could stay on top of things. We found our room again, cleaned up the backyard, and generally reorganized the house. It looked so nice! And amazingly, it still does. It's not always spotless, but I can maintain a lot easier. It's amazing how a clean house can change your outlook.
I'm learning to live with a new kind of normal. Some say the hardest adjustment is when you go from one to two kids, some say from two to three. Both have had their challenges, with John by my side, we can do this. It's been seven weeks now, and the last week or so, I'm finally feeling like things are back to normal. But not the normal of before. A new normal. A normal with a small baby who needs lots of attention, a nearly five year-old who grows more independent by the day, and an almost 3-year-old who wants to be so as well.
The are a great help to me, especially with their baby brother. They adore him, without any of the jealousy I feared from Andrew. He will come and tell me when the baby is crying, then go back and say "Baby Na-fan, it okay" He'll even try to give him his binky. Timothy wants to hold him and talk to him, and will grab diapers for me whenever I need them. If I phrase it right, both will happily unload the dishwasher, or do pretty much any chore I ask. Well, except clean their room. =)
Normal has changed, but I am immensely blessed. I have three beautiful boys, and a wonderful husband without whom I couldn't survive. We make a great team. And cute kids. =)
Nathan is a sweet, happy baby, and well loved by his big brothers, not to mention his parents. He's a big boy, and growing fast. I don't remember the other two outgrowing their carseats and baby carriers so quickly. But he is undeniably a blessing and a joy.
I spent the first half of this pregnancy afraid of losing him, and the second half being more uncomfortable than I thought I could stand. I was so tired, and just sore all the time. I fear my boys suffered from my lack of energy, but there were enough things to keep us busy, and out of the house. Thankfully they didn't require ME to move too much. =)
Almost as soon as I had Nathan, I felt SO much better. Of course, I was tired, but being able to move again was so wonderful! I felt so good, I may have overexerted myself a few times. =)
Then, John went back to work, and my mother left. And, I realized how much had really changed. Suddenly there were three little boys needing my attention. Three little boys who were hungry, usually at the same time, two older boys who quickly discovered Mommy's lessened ability to move when she was nursing. No to mention, I was still tired from the lessened sleep. The house quickly deteriorated as I rediscovered how much time one spends nursing a newborn. Nathan is a good eater, but not a fast one.
Then there was the week where I didn't managed to get food or clothes for myself until almost noon, and that was only through the aid of PBS kids, and a 15 minute nap on the part of the baby. For some reason he didn't want to sleep much in the morning that week. The house was a mess, I could barely walk in my room, the kitchen was constantly overflowing with dishes, and I was reaching breaking point. I didn't realize it until John asked me: "Do you enjoy being the mother of 3 boys?"
It caught me by surprise. Of course I loved it. I had three sweet boys, and the bigger ones doted on the baby, even if they still fought with each other like cats and dogs. But I was tired, and overwhelmed. John asked what he could do to help, so we spent the next week-end deep cleaning, and getting back to where I could stay on top of things. We found our room again, cleaned up the backyard, and generally reorganized the house. It looked so nice! And amazingly, it still does. It's not always spotless, but I can maintain a lot easier. It's amazing how a clean house can change your outlook.
I'm learning to live with a new kind of normal. Some say the hardest adjustment is when you go from one to two kids, some say from two to three. Both have had their challenges, with John by my side, we can do this. It's been seven weeks now, and the last week or so, I'm finally feeling like things are back to normal. But not the normal of before. A new normal. A normal with a small baby who needs lots of attention, a nearly five year-old who grows more independent by the day, and an almost 3-year-old who wants to be so as well.
The are a great help to me, especially with their baby brother. They adore him, without any of the jealousy I feared from Andrew. He will come and tell me when the baby is crying, then go back and say "Baby Na-fan, it okay" He'll even try to give him his binky. Timothy wants to hold him and talk to him, and will grab diapers for me whenever I need them. If I phrase it right, both will happily unload the dishwasher, or do pretty much any chore I ask. Well, except clean their room. =)
Normal has changed, but I am immensely blessed. I have three beautiful boys, and a wonderful husband without whom I couldn't survive. We make a great team. And cute kids. =)
Monday, April 16, 2012
Never mess with an extremely pregnant woman... Or, how to make Mommy feel better....
I don't usually like to whine. At least not in such a public forum. But it's been a long week, so bear with me.
While I haven't actually hit my due date yet, I am still, surprisingly pregnant. Pregnant and miserable. I don't usually handle my last trimester very graciously, but in these past several days I seem to have reached new lows.
At about 36 weeks, I started having contractions. I wanted to make it to at least term, so I put myself on semi-bed rest, and breathed a sigh of relief when I made it to the next weekend. Good Friday was the 37 week mark, so I knew I was fine to deliver at any time. Not that I wanted to deliver Easter weekend, but if he was ready, so be it. Even so, we took a chance and drove to the beach that day. The beach is about 90 minutes away, but I felt we'd be okay.
I was right. At least as far as labor went. No baby. But, when my 2 year-old decided to go swimming in the surf by himself, I took off after him, without even thinking to yell for John. Now, running that hard when you're that pregnant was probably something no one wanted to watch, and is definitely not something I recommend. When I hit the edge where the dry soft sand met the wet hard sand, I went down hard. But even winded, I didn't stop until my son was safe on dry ground again. Then the adrenaline passed, and I barely made it back to our stuff. John took Andrew, and I collapsed under the beach umbrella and stayed there. Thankfully, the baby began moving fairly soon, so I knew he was okay. My groin on the other hand, was not. I spent the next few days trying not to cry every time I moved.
Since I wasn't moving much, my feet swelled up, adding to my discomfort. I can't really reach my feet, haven't been able to in weeks, so I sadly had to just watch them swell. John had a basketball tournament at church, and had to work tech over the weekend, so I barely saw him. Tuesday he was finally free, and able to help me put the boys to bed. That night he graciously agreed to sit with them until lights out, and I headed downstairs to put my feet up. That's when it happened.
I blame my swollen feet, but I'm still not entirely sure why I missed a step and tumbled head over feet almost the whole way. I ended up headfirst, striking my head on the last 3 or 4 steps, and coming to a stop when I hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs. John was ready to call 911, but thankfully I was able to get up (with help), and spent the rest of the night icing various parts of my body. The baby once again moved around fairly quickly, assuring me that he was fine, so I waited until the next day to call the midwife, and then called the chiropractor.
I know I am very blessed to have walked away from that with nothing more than some nasty bruises and a broken toe, but the resulting contractions (which I was warned could happen) got me excited that maybe the baby would be joining us soon. I figured as long as I was already miserable, I might was well get it all over with and begin the recovery process all at once.
Thursday, I even thought I was in labor. The contractions were coming hard and fast, and were really starting to hurt. But, at my appointment that day, I was informed that no, not yet, but it could happen. About 4:30am the next morning, I was starting to think that maybe this was really it, but no. The contractions stopped once again, with no sign of a baby.
Friday, I hoped all day, but went about my life as normally as possible. (Physical pain notwithstanding) By Saturday morning, when for the first time in several days I hadn't been woken by contractions throughout the night, I was starting to resign myself to waiting a bit longer. We took Timothy to his school "Family Field Day" and then took in a free FSU football game. I was actually feeling pretty good for someone who's 9 1/2 months pregnant. The bruises were healing, and aside from my swollen belly and feet, I felt I could function. Baby needed more time to bake obviously, so I would be patient.
Yeah.... That feeling lasted until the next morning. I dragged myself out of bed, and made it to church, but I was feeling really sapped by the time the first half-hour was up. It didn't help that I was dealing with what felt like EVERY member of our congregation offering advice, encouragement, their own (or their wives) birth stories, and having people I barely knew touching my belly, rubbing my back, and... let's just say that I was ready to bite someone's head off before church even started.
I know they all meant well, and they're all wonderful people (even the ones who's names I couldn't remember), and I know I must have looked pretty miserable for them to have been trying to make me feel better, but really, all I wanted was to crawl back in my bed and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. This baby had been teasing me for almost 2 weeks with his impending arrival, and I really didn't need the rest of the world reminding me of it!
Thankfully, we made it out of church without my doing anyone any damage. I even managed to be polite to everyone I spoke to. My sweet husband put me to bed, and I felt better after a 2 hour nap. Mainly, I think it was the alone time.
Unfortunately, I'm still slightly bitter about still being pregnant. I mean, I want my body back, dang it! I'm tired of not being able to move, of feeling like I need a crane to get off the couch, of not being able to fit into ANY of my shoes... And, after 2 weeks, I'm done getting excited over every contraction. They happen every time I move, so I'm over it. John, not so much. He made the mistake of asking about my latest "stop-and-breathe" moment as I was getting up to make the boys some lunch, and I snapped at him. Then promptly broke down crying for being such a witch. He wisely steered me out of the kitchen and into the bedroom and held me until I calmed down, assuring me that it was okay.
It was then that we heard our offspring getting into the fridge. Nervously, I sent John to check on things, and he discovered our sons tearing lettuce into a bowl and adding whole baby carrots. They were making me lunch. John helped them cut some tomatoes and shred some cheese, and my little angels brought me my salad. I then started crying to a totally different reason, but I felt so much better.
This baby really doesn't seem to be in a hurry to come out, so I should stop being so impatient. I will have plenty of time to hold him, and soon, this discomfort will be but a faint memory (That's how we are able to get pregnant again right? By forgetting?). But for now, I need to remember the rest of my family, and cherish them as well. I'm going to try. Hormones make it difficult, and I will probably do my best to avoid anyone outside of the men in my life, but I am treasured, and I need to do better showing them that I treasure them too. I am so blessed.
I still miss my shoes though.... =)
While I haven't actually hit my due date yet, I am still, surprisingly pregnant. Pregnant and miserable. I don't usually handle my last trimester very graciously, but in these past several days I seem to have reached new lows.
At about 36 weeks, I started having contractions. I wanted to make it to at least term, so I put myself on semi-bed rest, and breathed a sigh of relief when I made it to the next weekend. Good Friday was the 37 week mark, so I knew I was fine to deliver at any time. Not that I wanted to deliver Easter weekend, but if he was ready, so be it. Even so, we took a chance and drove to the beach that day. The beach is about 90 minutes away, but I felt we'd be okay.
I was right. At least as far as labor went. No baby. But, when my 2 year-old decided to go swimming in the surf by himself, I took off after him, without even thinking to yell for John. Now, running that hard when you're that pregnant was probably something no one wanted to watch, and is definitely not something I recommend. When I hit the edge where the dry soft sand met the wet hard sand, I went down hard. But even winded, I didn't stop until my son was safe on dry ground again. Then the adrenaline passed, and I barely made it back to our stuff. John took Andrew, and I collapsed under the beach umbrella and stayed there. Thankfully, the baby began moving fairly soon, so I knew he was okay. My groin on the other hand, was not. I spent the next few days trying not to cry every time I moved.
Since I wasn't moving much, my feet swelled up, adding to my discomfort. I can't really reach my feet, haven't been able to in weeks, so I sadly had to just watch them swell. John had a basketball tournament at church, and had to work tech over the weekend, so I barely saw him. Tuesday he was finally free, and able to help me put the boys to bed. That night he graciously agreed to sit with them until lights out, and I headed downstairs to put my feet up. That's when it happened.
I blame my swollen feet, but I'm still not entirely sure why I missed a step and tumbled head over feet almost the whole way. I ended up headfirst, striking my head on the last 3 or 4 steps, and coming to a stop when I hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs. John was ready to call 911, but thankfully I was able to get up (with help), and spent the rest of the night icing various parts of my body. The baby once again moved around fairly quickly, assuring me that he was fine, so I waited until the next day to call the midwife, and then called the chiropractor.
I know I am very blessed to have walked away from that with nothing more than some nasty bruises and a broken toe, but the resulting contractions (which I was warned could happen) got me excited that maybe the baby would be joining us soon. I figured as long as I was already miserable, I might was well get it all over with and begin the recovery process all at once.
Thursday, I even thought I was in labor. The contractions were coming hard and fast, and were really starting to hurt. But, at my appointment that day, I was informed that no, not yet, but it could happen. About 4:30am the next morning, I was starting to think that maybe this was really it, but no. The contractions stopped once again, with no sign of a baby.
Friday, I hoped all day, but went about my life as normally as possible. (Physical pain notwithstanding) By Saturday morning, when for the first time in several days I hadn't been woken by contractions throughout the night, I was starting to resign myself to waiting a bit longer. We took Timothy to his school "Family Field Day" and then took in a free FSU football game. I was actually feeling pretty good for someone who's 9 1/2 months pregnant. The bruises were healing, and aside from my swollen belly and feet, I felt I could function. Baby needed more time to bake obviously, so I would be patient.
Yeah.... That feeling lasted until the next morning. I dragged myself out of bed, and made it to church, but I was feeling really sapped by the time the first half-hour was up. It didn't help that I was dealing with what felt like EVERY member of our congregation offering advice, encouragement, their own (or their wives) birth stories, and having people I barely knew touching my belly, rubbing my back, and... let's just say that I was ready to bite someone's head off before church even started.
I know they all meant well, and they're all wonderful people (even the ones who's names I couldn't remember), and I know I must have looked pretty miserable for them to have been trying to make me feel better, but really, all I wanted was to crawl back in my bed and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. This baby had been teasing me for almost 2 weeks with his impending arrival, and I really didn't need the rest of the world reminding me of it!
Thankfully, we made it out of church without my doing anyone any damage. I even managed to be polite to everyone I spoke to. My sweet husband put me to bed, and I felt better after a 2 hour nap. Mainly, I think it was the alone time.
Unfortunately, I'm still slightly bitter about still being pregnant. I mean, I want my body back, dang it! I'm tired of not being able to move, of feeling like I need a crane to get off the couch, of not being able to fit into ANY of my shoes... And, after 2 weeks, I'm done getting excited over every contraction. They happen every time I move, so I'm over it. John, not so much. He made the mistake of asking about my latest "stop-and-breathe" moment as I was getting up to make the boys some lunch, and I snapped at him. Then promptly broke down crying for being such a witch. He wisely steered me out of the kitchen and into the bedroom and held me until I calmed down, assuring me that it was okay.
It was then that we heard our offspring getting into the fridge. Nervously, I sent John to check on things, and he discovered our sons tearing lettuce into a bowl and adding whole baby carrots. They were making me lunch. John helped them cut some tomatoes and shred some cheese, and my little angels brought me my salad. I then started crying to a totally different reason, but I felt so much better.
This baby really doesn't seem to be in a hurry to come out, so I should stop being so impatient. I will have plenty of time to hold him, and soon, this discomfort will be but a faint memory (That's how we are able to get pregnant again right? By forgetting?). But for now, I need to remember the rest of my family, and cherish them as well. I'm going to try. Hormones make it difficult, and I will probably do my best to avoid anyone outside of the men in my life, but I am treasured, and I need to do better showing them that I treasure them too. I am so blessed.
I still miss my shoes though.... =)
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