A sentimental feeling

I haven't blogged for a while. I feel like all I want to do is have snarky posts like all the super funny mommy bloggers who use the f-word so well and drink a lot. And while I can THINK the f-word pretty well and dream of drinking a lot, I find myself not quite as cool as I would like to be. SOOO... what better time to write a little sentimental diddy than when I should be packing for our trip that begins in 3 hours. Procrastination... get some. I have been a sentimental fool these past few weeks thinking about my eldest's upcoming birthday. I cried on the first, the second, the third and expect tomorrow to be no different. I cry for all sorts of reasons. The fact that a year goes by so very fast. The fact that my tiny baby who couldn't live without me is already starting to not need me, the fact that every year he gets older is one year closer to him marrying someone I don't like... that last one was a joke (kind of). Mostly, I cry because I am so happy that I get to be his mom. Which brings me to the real reason for this post: me. I'd like to pretend that his birthday is all about him. But its not. He's too little to care still. He just gets excited because he gets to open some presents and eat extra cake. And that's how it should be, for now. No, birthdays right now are all about the parents. Our feelings, our projected wants, our long repressed wishes for birthdays past. And our longing to freeze time in its place and not move forward to face what the teen years may have in store. I remember this moment four years ago. I was probably still sleeping at this time of day (that hasn't happened in FOUR years), but when I awoke I was still HUGELY pregnant and wondering when that magical moment would happen. Would I KNOW (ha ha) would it be fast, slow, could I actually do it? And most importantly when??? I wanted July, then I wanted to have him on August 3rd, so we could be Sept 1, Oct 2, Aug 3, and so today was the day! It had to be. And as the morning rolled on my spirits sank. Nothing. Not one contraction. I still didn't even know what a braxton hicks felt like. I was going to be the pregnant lady that never gave birth. We continued on like it was any other pre-baby day. We went berry picking, we made ice cream, that evening we got in the hot tub at our apartment complex, and bam! my world changed. And today while thinking about my little son, that is growing up, and up, and up, I realized that at that moment I changed. And I have realized one more thing. The first born is not more loved, or more special because they are first and can't be replaced, they are special for how you are changed. For how in the blink of an eye, (well not really, my "eye blink" took 7 hours) your whole world is never the same, ever again. It's not about you for one minute longer. And that is hard to fathom before that moment. That every cell in your body, every thought in your head, can be so consumed by another creature, that food is unimportant, personal hygiene irrelevant, and you realize there is nothing you wouldn't do for them. And that is why I am taking this moment to make it about me again. About what happened to ME four years ago. In some ways it is more miraculous than the birth of a child: the birth of a mother. And the real reason first born are so special-- not because of what they are, but because of what they have made you. In my case, a mother. Happy birthday tomorrow, the boy who made me a mommy. I love you!

Old McSandven Had a Farm

Three posts in one month. All this fresh air MUST be going to my head. We have been hard at work here on the farm, canning, brewing, roasting. We are practically self sufficient. It's fun. I refuse to grow anything with a brain that I might have to eat (chickens, cows, goats, dogs) but I'm happy harvesting the stuff that grows off of good old sunshine. The previous owners of our home left us with plentiful gardens and so we are reaping the rewards. I've included some recipes that anyone can make that taste downright delish. Now warning: I'm not a measurer... not even in baking, which is why my sauces are better than my soufles. And I have a philosophy on salt and garlic. Double whatever the recipes says. And NEVER use unsalted butter. A total waste of calories.


So my first recipe is for homemade sundried tomatoes. Which, wait for it... don't have to be dried in the sun. These little boogers are expensive; so grab your slightly mushy romas and go to town. Quarter them, lay them in a single layer on a cookie sheet, and bake them at 200 degrees for 6-12 hours. Start checking on them around hour three, and when they are completely dry but not crunchy, they're done. You will have to pull each tomato slice out individually because like people, tomato slices dry out at different rates. Bag them and freeze them. Voila! If you start this in the afternoon and don't want to stay up all night checking on tomatoes just turn off the oven and start again in the morning. You can just leave 'em in there. Also, if you need to run out for a gallon of milk because your baby calves (I mean children) have just drank the last three gallons in the fridge, no problem, off goes the oven for the hour or so that you're gone. They're surprisingly resilient once the dehydration process has begun (also like people).


Recipe two is for a tomato sauce that my friend Julia sent me from her favorite noodle place in Salem, OR. The Willamette noodle company. It's super easy and delicious. I have used it for spaghetti sauce, lasagna sauce and pizza sauce. Mmm. Here is the link:

You say tomato, I say to-mah-to -- let's call the whole thing sauce... Want something to do with all those last-of-the-season tomatoes springing (or would that be falling) forth from your garden? Try this easy recipe for a sure to please rustic, roasted tomato sauce that is perfect for all of your favorite pasta dishes -- makes for a good pizza sauce too! Tomatoes, rinsed, halved and sprinkled with salt and freshly ground pepper to taste Handful of peeled garlic cloves - figure one clove per cup of tomatoes Onion, roughly chopped - figure 1/2 an onion for every 3 cups of tomatoes Drizzle olive oil over all the veggies along with a small splash of Balsamic Vinegar Roast in oven at 350 degrees for 25 minutes Put all roasted veggie goodness in a food processor or blender and process to your desired consistency. This sauce is great as is or add some cream (and maybe a splash of vodka!) to make an Italian classic. Fresh herbs of your choice can be added at the end to enhance the fresh-from-the-garden flavor.  Cooked tomato sauce freezes beautifully so make extra, freeze in air-tight containers or freezer bags and thaw as needed -- a terrific way to enjoy garden-fresh goodness all winter long!

Truly wonderful! 


Right now I'm making a salsa with green tomatoes, so I'll let you know how that goes. We just canned 12 jars of grape jelly made from the juice of red catawba grapes, and Tor just bottled 50 bottles of Red Ale beer. Lars calls it beard. So we think that is going to be our "label". We are having a truly enjoyable experience out here in Walla Walla. The "farm" is a great place to come visit (hint) although we may send you home with some beer, salsa, jelly, and tomatoes.

Yes, I am JUST a mom

Oh don't groan yet. I plan on something very witty and insightful (opposite of usual right?). I love being a mom. And I've gotten to the point where I am not ashamed to admit it. I am quite content telling people that I am just a mom. There are many responses to this answer and a few I find somewhat amusing are:

 There is the "good for you" response. People usually say this when they secretly think I should be ashamed of my "just mom" status. It's the same response as if someone were to say "I'm gay" or "I'm getting a sex change" or "I'm giving away my dog"... Good for you.

Then there's the "Do you plan on working someday?" question. This one has less hidden meaning and more outright scorn. My inner response is "nope, I'm milking this for all it's worth. I'm hoping the hubby doesn't catch on until his deathbed." My outer response is usually "mm, I don't know."

Then there is my favorite: "don't say JUST, you're not JUST a mom". Thanks for reminder. Maybe I should walk around saying, "you're not JUST the president", "you're not JUST a doctor", "you're not JUST a CEO", "you're not JUST a barista at Starbucks". See how that kinda demeans the whole profession?

The common thread of all these responses? The person on the other end of the conversation is the one with the problem of me being just a mom. Not "just the mom". Yes I have hobbies, interests, concerns outside of motherhood. I am a wife, a friend, a sporadic and crappy blogger... but at the end of the day my main job is being a mom.

All this is to say that I am happy being just a mom. I am not offended that people think I am just a mom, I am offended that people think I need to be more than just a mom.  I get to spend my days with the two sweetest, cutest, funniest people in the whole world. I get to watch them grow and mature. I get to teach them the things that are important to our family and our values. I get to see their first steps, first words, first songs. I don't worry (as much) that they are being fed, and kept safe, and happy. I get to see it all first hand. I like my job. How many presidents can say that?


(I am in no way disparaging working mom's, just happy I'm not one)

After note*** My friend Kate just posted that another response is jealousy. And I would just like to say that I get it. I get how blessed I am. I get that not everyone has the ability to stay home with their kids. I am very grateful. I don't take it for granted (much).

Dog People

I am not a dog person. After years of trying, I am coming to grips with that reality. I have always really, really wanted to be a dog person. But alas my mother would not let us have one growing up. She is not a dog person. Yes, I blame her. Perhaps her mother was not a dog person either. Perhaps this problem goes back generations. Who knows? Who cares? The end result is the same: I am not a dog person.

The reason I tell you this is that we recently had dog people come visit. They are very nice people. And they love their dog. Good for them. Someone has to (love dogs). Their dog however does not love children. Which is fine. Not everyone loves kids. I really only love my kids, and my friends' kids. I guess I'm not really a kid person either. Anywho, in the course of the dog trying to eat my kids, these dog people told me a few interesting things that I would like to... ahem, correct.

If I were to give dog owners (sans children) and potential dog owners one piece of advice it would be this: dogs are not practice children.  People are always getting dogs to test the child waters. But if the only reason you are getting a pet is to see if you are going to be a good parent, chances are you're not... and you probably won't be a good dog owner either. Yes there are some similarities in care... it's not okay to leave your dog or your child in a hot car, abandoning either one of them in a wheat field should be avoided at all costs, remembering to feed and water them is always a good thing. However there are many more dissimilarities. Examples include:

• You don't get to train your six week old (child) to poop outside and you don't get to leave your 6 month old (again, child) at home for (x) hours with a bowl of water and some piddle pads.
• On the same note, asking a neighbor to let your child out during the day and feed them while you are in the Bahamas will get you in a LOT of trouble.
• If your child bites another child, they get disciplined. If your dog bites a child, well they get you know'd.
• Dogs, by law, are not allowed in restaurants or grocery stores (in most states). Children sadly are.
• Dogs carry a backpack with their own water and food on hikes. Children get carried IN backpacks along with the water and food.
• You don't get to talk to your children the same way you talk to a dog. "Sit", "Stay", "off", "do your businesss", never work on kids. Kids ask "why?"
• While spaying or neutering your dog is the responsible thing to do, that's really frowned on with children.
• When your kids grow up and have babies you don't get to pick who they "mate" with or give away the extras. Selling them is kind of taboo too.
• Making your kids eat on the floor in the kitchen is a good idea and will save the carpet, just don't do it when guests are over.

I'm sure there are more I'm not thinking of. I thought I'd stop while I was still (somewhat) ahead.

P.S. I still really, really want my children to be dog people :) 

No Sleep Till Brooklyn (Why we haven't given up Aravis)

**Note: I wrote this two days ago, but blogger wasn't working and so I am just posting it now. Re-reading it, it seems a bit harsh and unloving. So I would just like to state that this was written in a desperate, sleep deprived moment. I've decided to "publish" it anyway with the hopes that maybe someone will identify with it, or at least understand why I am so cranky all the time :). On a positive note, we put Arie in the stroller last night and she only woke up three times to eat. Which may sound like a lot for an almost 9 month old, but compared to a couple days ago is practically sleeping through the night. I would also like to say that I know exactly how much of a blessing my little daughter is, and if this is the worst of the dilemmas I face while raising her I will count  myself one fortunate mama.**

I have NEVER pulled an all nighter. Not once. Not in high school, not in college. Not as a childless married girl to my night happy husband. Not until my kids.

I remember distinctly at a junior high slumber party being one of the first to fall asleep. I got my shoes thrown at me. I didn’t stay up all night “studying”/studying in college. I went to bed early (for college) and got up early. My college roommates couldn’t convert me (I learned to sleep with the light on… Julia). Not even my husband could convert me (I learned to sleep thru movies and with the light on… for hours). I worked night shift as a nurse for 6 months and honest to God, it was the worst six months of my life. I worked three nights a week and I dreaded it with such a passion that I quit my job a month early to “plan my wedding”. I think I might have done myself physical harm if I’d had to work one more night shift. All this is so that you’ll understand how bad I am without sleep. I don’t do it. I get mean. CUSSING mean. There has been many a fight with my sister and my husband that didn’t end well because I was up past my bedtime. The only thing worse for my temper might be hunger. But that’s beside the point.

You’d think God would know this about me and give me a couple of pillow angels. But not. He has a way of “stretching us”. In other words, giving us the last thing we want. Lars was a terrible sleeper. The first year of his life was horrible. I remember rocking him one night and thinking he was possessed and that an exorcism was in order. We drove him to get him to sleep. We pushed the stroller down the halls of our apartment building. We rocked his car seat so violently that we put the crash standards to the test. I remember the day we put him in his crib and he fell asleep and slept six straight hours. He was one. I swore to Tor that I did not want another baby. But as soon as he started sleeping well, the mommy amnesia (more like anesthetic; you don’t forget it just becomes numb) kicked in and I wanted another baby… after all the next couldn’t possibly be worse.

Aravis was a dream. She slept forever. I had to wake her up to feed her. There was a little hiccup at day three right before my milk came in; we thought we had a dud and wanted to send her back. But on day four my milk came and she slept even better. Then month five hit. Whammy.  Angel baby becomes the dark lord. Over night. Let the cussing begin. So, for the past three months we have struggled with not only sleepless nights but the thought that maybe WE are the problem. One night, I broke down and told Tor that I think we break babies. Two nights ago I told him I don’t want any more kids (I do right now, let’s see about tonight). I am pretty rational in the day. I can spout a million reasons why she’s not sleeping. But come one a.m. I am a LUNATIC. I blame myself, Gas, teeth, Tor, God. I cry and pray and beg her to sleep. When she does finally fall asleep it’s earth shattering… and late. But it doesn’t even matter that I am sleeping on the foot of the bed, or more recently the floor.

When we were struggling with Lars I bought some sleep books to help out. That isle is huge. There are thousands of books about sleeping. And there are two camps. With the odd ball thrown in aka pinch their mouth closed while they are nursing to keep them asleep. Eh? I hate the expression WTF, but if I were to ever use it this would be the moment. Anyhow back to the two camps. There is the soothe them back to sleep and hope they outgrow it soon camp and the let them cry until they fall in a heap in the bed camp. And both sides have very strong feelings. Don’t post your thoughts on facebook. You will come back bloody. Let’s just say we tried the one camp for one night and decided it wasn’t for us so we lived at refugee camp hope with Lars.

Second babies are different. You are harder. Edgier. Less compassionate. It’s probably lack of sleep from the first, but the sleeping heap starts to sound more tolerable. When Arie decided not to sleep I brushed off the books and set to work. She cried off and on for three hours the first night and then slept beautifully. Enter cold. Friggin’ colds. She can’t breathe through her little nose (which is how babies breathe, p.s.) so she was up with that. Then she started teething. Friggin’ teeth. I would rather my babies be toothless until their teens (when they can’t stop sleeping) and sleep now. Currently we are on day two of the sleep strike. From 1 am to 4 am, we get no sleep. Period. She cries. We hold her. She coos, and smiles and acts charming, except that it’s now two and I’m feeling pukey, and Tor has to get up in three hours. So, we strap her in to the stroller and let her cry. Pull her out, nurse her, rock her, threaten her. Nothing works. So tonight operation sleeping heap will once again commence. Tor and I are moving out of the refugee camp and onto the futon and Arie is going to work things out on her own. Some of you will judge me. Some of you will say about damn time. And some of you could care less. But here’s what I say to all you: judge not lest ye get the non-sleeper. And those of you who could care less… just wait. Your sleepless nights are ahead of you. Because either you’re not parents (yet), or you’re getting old. And some day you will be a parent and it will happen to you, or you will get old, and not be able to sleep for no good reason. And for those of you who say that all your kids were great sleepers and you don’t know what I’m talking about and I should just do BabyWise: that guy is a freak (google it), you are lying, or there is something wrong with your kids and it will materialize at a later date. Mark my words.

On a happier note, the next blog will be about Shop Talk.

Oh, I guess I didn’t answer the question why we haven’t given away Aravis? Because she is so stinking cute, and sweet, and wonderful that I could cuddle her forever. And I love her. And she’s mine. That’s why. 

I Still Haven't Died! (alternately titled Tor will be so proud of me)

I was just looking at the date and title of my last post and suddenly felt this overwhelming sense of sadness. Time goes by SO quickly. It was 15 months ago that I posted last! A whole year of my life has gone by uncharted by blogginess. It's almost like it didn't even happen.Yet so much has happened. We got a dog, we got a baby, Tor got a "real" job (to begin shortly), we got rid of the dog, we kept the baby. My little boy is growing up (much to my consternation), and yet as any mother of an almost three year old will tell you, regressing at the same time. It's been an interesting time. I have lots of excuses for not writing: nothing to say, laziness, sleep deprivation, feelings of inadequacy, feelings of superiority... you name it. But consider this my spanish/native american/caucasian new year and this is my resolution: I will be a faithful blogger. Even if it's only to myself.

First things first. We got a dog. BIG mistake. I thought that it would teach Lars to love animals. I thought it would teach me to love animals. I had grandiose plans of puppies and little boys (make that puppy and little boy) romping in fields of daisies while I sat on a blanket reading a romance novel and only growing heavy in my belly from my second child. Things went awry. ALL things. The dog was fine, only problem was it acted like a dog. A really energetic dog. Long story short, there were no fields of daisies, and Lars does love animals (but he thinks they're called damn dogs... joking people), I didn't read a single romance novel my whole pregnancy, and let's just say that these here hispanic genes make sure everything grows heavy during pregnancy. So Gus got a new home with a wonderful family that loves him and doesn't cuss at him (as much) and my family got back a mom/wife who doesn't cuss (as much) and actually smiles once in a while. End of that story.

So cute it makes you wonder what I was thinking to give this up?

Story number 2: Baby Aravis. When we found out my darling daughter was going to be a girl I was disappointed for a millisecond. I again had visions of romping, but it was with two boys who would grow up to be best friends. After that millisecond was over I was delighted... and scared. Girls are so much scarier than boys. As a girl I know this. I know what I put my parents through. I know what I put my husband through. Girls are dramatic, and hysterical, and moody. We don't act rationally. We think with our hearts. You may say "but I know girls that aren't like that". Me too. But this girl will have MY genes. She's doomed to be all those things. Even if her dad's portion evens her out. She'll still be half of ME, which every one will tell you is quite enough.

So I was scared. WE were scared. Tor knows me pretty well by now too. He had visions of what might be the next 20 + years of his life. Plus girls never leave. Boys grow up and get married and make familes of their own (heartbreaking in its own right). Girls grow up and get married and expect their mother to never leave them. We're saddled with this Chiquita for a while.

After a little preterm labor scare she decided to be late. If the fact that she's my daughter hadn't been proven (by being in my uterus) that definitely sealed the deal. Stubborn. My mother wanted her to be born on my birthday (cruel for a number of reasons, the least of which was that would have been 9 days past my due date), but I was determined to thwart her (my mother) even if I had to glue certain, um, areas, together (my legs people!).  Arie was born right in between; Four days after her due date, and four days before my birthday. Her own little person. She's awesome. Except for not sleeping. That part sucks (but that's it's very own post).

My beautiful daughter just seconds old.

Part 3: Tor's job. Tor is the smartest person I know. Which is saying a lot. Because before I met him I was pretty sure that I was the smartest person I know. But, he's truly brilliant. And not the "makes himself look smart at others' expense" kind, but the humble kind of brilliant. He's an anesthesia resident. Which in itself is humbling. Being a resident is humbling. Working for less than minimum wage for four years while your student loans multiply exponentially from the interest is humbling. Being an anesthesia resident is doubly humbling because people don't even think anesthesiologists are real doctors. Some doctors don't even think they are real doctors. But let me just say this: someone keeps you alive while the surgeon is cutting into your body. Who do you think that is? That surgeon is relying on another really good doctor to keep you ALIVE while he fixes whatever is wrong with you... doesn't really matter what that something is if you die while he's fixing it now does it? Off that wagon and on to the next one.

The interview process to become a non-resident (attending in the university setting, plain old doctor in the private sector) is grueling. Paperwork and cold calling hospitals and groups to find out if they're interested. Asking other doctors to pull strings for you, asking other doctors to write recommendation letters for you, pestering those busy doctors when they don't do it soon enough. It's tough. Tor got through it all and he/we got an awesome job in Walla Walla, Wa. It really is awesome too. But some people just aren't so sure. "So did you pick Walla Walla, or couldn't you get a job anywhere else?" Typing this out makes me just think duh. But some people are so dumb, duh needs to whack them in the head. I think Tor's automatic response should be: "I didn't know you were pregnant" and then stare at their belly, whether they're a man or a woman. Because really, it's just as rude. But maybe I'm sensitive. I mean, he's not shoving his brilliance down people's throats so how are they to know?

This post is getting long, so I think I will save Part 4: "why we haven't given Aravis away" for another day. And I will be posting again soon. It's my spandianasian new year's resolution. I have to.

What is more brilliant that that?

No I Didn't Die

I know! It's been a long while. I'm sure there are people out there who think I've died. Which makes me segue into a funny story about my mom. Tor and I went backpacking right after we got engaged. I told my mother where we were going, but in a Debbie Rubottom moment she forgot and called me every five minutes for 3 days. The phone messages got more frantic until the last one resulted in this: "Leah, did Tor dump you, and you hit your head because you passed out from dehydration from crying so much, and died, and now the cats are eating your body?" Yes, that's how the female brain in my family works. So, for my mom, no I didn't even get eaten by cats.

What I did do was get pregnant. Oh the misery! For most of these past months I have begged to die. I'm better now. The parasite in my body has decided that symbiosis is a better deal then just killing the host. To put it more simply: I am an idiot. Not because I am having another baby, but because I timed it brilliantly with the procurement of a puppy and the decision to move to a larger house. All during the worst morning sickness ANY person has EVER had. Don't any of you who think you had it worse argue with me.

It's really too bad too. I had all these really good posts lined up. One for Thanksgiving, one for Christmas, all these fun-filled posts about our new puppy and Lars. Now they are all sealed in  the vault otherwise known as pregnancy brain.

However, we are very happy to be having a second baby, due at the end of August. Yes, it was planned. There are two trains of thought on both my kids having August Birthdays. The "cheap and convenient" camp that says that now I will only have to have one party for both kids (everyone knows how much fun birthday parties are). And the "that's awkward" camp that says "hope they are at least born on different days".

In my current pregnantly hormonal state I say Who has time to think that far ahead?

Food for Thought

We just finished up a very Portland-y weekend. We visited Powell's, the largest bookstore in the world, then the farmer's market, then the Saturday market. I think Portland may have the most markets in the world too.

Lars tried to steal a pepper from the farmer's market. So, as a reward, we bought an ice cream cone to share at the Saturday market.

Speaking of stealing-- we saw the funniest thing while at the Saturday Market. I will try to re-enact it for you (in words):

As Tor and I were strolling through the Saturday Market an obnoxious man, with an equally obnoxious bike bell, starts dinging it incessantly at a little old lady in front of him. She finally hears him and gets out of the way. The man says "I was dinging my bell a lot for you to move, couldn't you hear me? I was dinging it a lot." I thought for a minute or two about saying something, but I am practicing restraint in the area of stranger anger, the little old lady was fine, and I think he may have been high.

***I'd like to digress at this point and state that I really don't like bikers, they think the little "share the road" stickers they wear are for themselves and cars, forgetting the hapless pedestrians that get in their way, and act altogether entirely too superior for my liking. My husband is a biker and I point this out to him daily. Plus the whole bell thing really pisses me off. I understand using it on paths and trails to indicate that you are quickly approaching on the left. I don't understand why some feel it can take the place of all communication. Especially in crowded areas where you should not be riding a bike. Anyway, back to the story.***

About 15 minutes later we see this guy run up to the bad man on the bike (or BMOTB from here on out) and start yelling at him that you don't steal bikes in this town. The BMOTB says he didn't steal it that the bike is his. The other guy says, and I quote, "You see this f-ing shirt I'm wearing, you see this f-ing hat I'm wearing, it matches the f-ing logo on the f-ing bike. Obviously it's my f-ing bike, you f-ing idiot." The BMOTB and he fight for a few more minutes and then finally the other guy just takes the bike and leaves. The BMOTB grumbles a little but doesn't really act too upset that "his" bike just got stolen by some other guy. We sit down to eat our ice cream cone near the fountain at the market and the BMOTB (without the B now) walks up to the couple next to us and says: "Can I have some change, I don't do drugs or anything." When the people give him a buck he decides they're on his side and he tells him the sad story of his bike. It goes like this, "Some guy just accused me of stealing his bike. Yeah. He just came up to me and started yelling and took the bike. I mean, I was just walking along and there was this bike sitting there with no lock on it or nothing. Just sitting there. No one was around or nothing. So I took it. I mean there was no lock or nothing. And then that guy says it's his bike. But if it was his bike why wasn't there a lock on it or something?"

Hmm... Good point. I will remember that the next time I want a new pair of shoes. "But there wasn't a price tag on them or nothing. I mean if you're gonna sell something don't you think you should put a price tag on it or something?"

He asked us for some money too, but we were heartless and said no.

Here are some pictures from that day.

If only I were a little taller, thievery would be so much easier.

Thanks mom!

Yay! But now that I've got it, what do I do with it?

Maybe I eat it!!!

Facebook Update: You may remember from a few posts back that I said that Wiley Driskill would not be my Facebook friend. Well, he still won't, but now Facebook is giving me updates on who he WILL be friends with. Evil, evil Facebook.

A Great Christmas Idea

I have a great Christmas idea out there for anyone who just doesn't know what to get that very special person in their life who likes to keep everything. Tor has a problem throwing anything away, especially his favorite running t-shirts from high school and college. We came up with the idea of turning them into a blanket that was actually useful and could show off his running days and all the competitions he was in. I will give step-by-step directions to anyone who wants to tackle this project on their own, or I will be happy to design and sew you one to give as a gift. Please facebook me or send me a comment if you are interested in a t-shirt quilt for yourself or someone else!

Facebook Killed the Blogging Star

I have a confession. I am a Facebook addict. I am also the world's biggest hypocrite. After more than a year of yelling/swearing/begging Tor to stay off the stupid thing I have succombed to its powers. I check it first thing in the morning and last thing at night and about every 10 minutes in between. I stalk the friends I already have (I look at their walls, their photos, their friends, I try to look at their friends' walls) and I look for friends I haven't had for years. I am neglecting my house, the bills, the kid, and sometimes when my addiction becomes too much I give in to the ultimate in degradation and Facebook in front of the husband (who yells warranted profanity at me).

I look up people from the past and I compare the then picture in my brain with the now picture staring at me from the computer screen. I am gleeful when they look fatter, homelier, older than I do and I am somewhat sad when they have that killer body I didn't even have on my wedding day. I am a little happy when I see that those "popular" kids from my high school seem to have peaked the day we all graduated, but I can honestly say I am happier when I see someone who has made a life for themself outside of those days and looks like they are doing well. My obsession has become so deluded that I actually friended someone I went to school with but didn't recognize or remember and then googled her to figure out who she was. It took me a week.

It has even killed the blog. Why blog anymore? No one pays attention anyway. You can get the shorter version thru Facebook. Those little updates are all anyone really needs. We don't want a three page diatribe when it can all be summed up in two words. Where else is it cool to speak in third person? Where else does someone think telling the whole world they are going to bed is interesting? I have 100 friends on Facebook, I have 10 people who read my blog and 11 of those are related to me. Why go on?

I'll tell you why. Video may have killed the radio star for a while, but not forever. MTV doesn't even play music videos anymore. The last time I watched a music video I had braces and still had a crush on Wiley Driscoll (who, according to Facebook, has a kid, but won't friend me back). The last time I listened to a favorite tune was just this morning, on Pandora. No videos anywhere.  I predict a blog revolution. People everywhere rising up and wanting to hear what their friends really have to say... I predict the end of an era.

But I wouldn't bank on it. Not enough people read my blog.

Lars Pooped on the Floor, Happy Birthday to Me

My birthday was a fun filled event. Lars pooped on the floor for the first time, we went camping, and celebrated with a nice dinner at Portland City Grill... in no particular order.

Turning 31 is pretty awesome. It is so much stinkin' older than 30. It's crazy. At 30 you can still cling to a whiff of your twenties. You can pretend and shrug it off, but when 31 hits and you wake up and realize that you have been in your 30's for a whole year, well, it's a bit of a bummer. I still talk to Tor about wanting to do this or that when we grow up... not sure when that is gonna be. Soon I'm sure. But I digress. I think what makes 31 so awesome is that on my birthday Lars pooped on the floor. Tor thought it was dog poop at first, but we don't have one of those so we're pretty sure of the culprit. After that little incident we are pretty nervous at the beach. We cleaned up the little spot, got all spiffied up and went to dinner at Portland City Grill. It was marvelous. Everyone there was celebrating a birthday, so it was a little like a really expensive chuck-e-cheese, but the food was amazing and the view -- stupendous!

We went camping again this weekend. Great fun. I wrangled the air mattress and pack n play into the tent so we were comfy cozy. The air mattress went flat halfway thru the night so we slept in a sloshy pool of air for most of the night. This post is a bit jumbled so here are pictures to better explain everything.

Birthday macaroons and roses from Tor

My favorite picture ever!

Camping at Oxbow Park in Portland

Lars eating sand and peanut butter. Yummy.

Smores. Mmmm

Very friendly deer. We figure someone must feed him. Her?

It's Brokey

So... It's been a hard week. First I cut myself slicing tomatoes (Tor sharpened the knives so it's his fault) and then I broke my Toe. Which is also Tor's fault. Here's how:

I was going pee and I heard the phone ring. I was so excited to talk to someone other than Lars who only says jibber-jabber, points, and sometimes whines that I jumped up off the toilet (I was done) and ran with my pants around my ankles to the next room. Well, I tripped over my pants and when I went to correct myself I accidentally kicked the door, wedging the jam in between my pinkie toe and the toe next to it. My pinkie went right. The rest of my foot stayed left. I answered the phone and Tor simply said Hi. Like he had no idea what just happened. Like he had no idea how much trouble I went thru just to answer the phone.

I thought I had just jammed my toe, so while cussing I looked at it and said, "Oh man Tor-- I just broke my toe."

"Nuh-uh". Pause. "Are you serious?"

"Well... It's pointed the wrong direction. I think so. Crap, do I have to go to the hospital? It's just a toe?"

"Yeah, I think you should, I'll ask my attending and you ask Julia. Call me back".

After four doctors and a PA told me to go to the ER I reluctantly did. I knew they were just going to tape it to the other one, but you should always listen to a medical professional, and really listen to five. I hobbled to the car (parked 1/2 mile away because I'm too cheap to pay for parking and way too cheap to pay for a cab) and drove myself to the ER with Lars because I didn't want to inconvenience anyone, where I valeted said car and checked myself in. They took xrays, lidocained my toe, pulled it out and taped it to my other toe. Easy-peasy afternoon. My discharge instructions were to wear hard soled shoes and not exercise, and if it turns blue and gets cold to come back in.

I am such a sucker.

Lessons learned:
1. Do not run for phone when peeing. No one is that important.
2. ALWAYS shave your legs.
3. If you know in your heart that "they" are just going to tape your toe, listen to your heart and stay at home.
4. This is the most important: ALWAYS refuse lidocaine. That stuff burns like Hell. It was worse than child birth. Just have then yank it like in the old west. Worse case scenario you wake up later having passed out from the pain.

Other notes:

Tor later told me he knew that's all they were going to do, but he didn't want to be the one responsible if my toe ended up looking weird for life. Just like a Dr. to think of himself and HIS bottom line even with his own wife. I'm totally suing!

The triage nurse had no sense of humor or any personality what-so-ever. If you don't watch it honey, "they're" gonna replace you with a cost saving machine.

My phone dictionary only has brokey in it and not broken. Apparently it was programmed... not here. (Maybe someone from the deep south reads my blog, I don't want to offend)

I am just another example of the whole you can bring a horse to water but can't make it drink phenom. Even if we somehow manage to insure all of the U.S. (which I'm not opposed to, all you "crazy" liberals out there who think just because I'm skeptical of the current ideas in congress I must be a hard-hearted neo-religious zealot) how are we going to make sure that they/we don't all continue to utilize the highest costing path (the ER) for simple little toe problems???? If I had a PCP and a neighborhood clinic I would have totally called them and asked their advice. But I don't and I probably won't. I'm not proud, just an example.

The end. Rant over.

It's Been a Long Time Baby

So sorry to have kept my readership hanging, but it has been a busy time in the Sand-Bottom household. Yes... that is the first tidbit of news-- Tor and I have decided to modernize our name and household and hyphenate. We will now be Dr. and Mizz Tor & Leah Sand-Bottom, Lars will also be a Sand-Bottom, or in his case a Sand/Poo-Bottom :~ Just kidding... we will stay the Sandvens, for now anyway.

We have had a delightful summer hanging with friends and family, new and old, and reminiscing about this time last year when a screaming, peeing, pooping machine entered our lives (and our hearts) and forever changed us.


Lars was born LAST August and one whole crazy year has already gone by. Little did we know (like every prospective parent) how much this little person would change our lives. I also realize how easy I could take this all for granted. I can easily see myself one day waking up on the sofa in a strange hotel room in a wine-induced haze, realizing that my son has just married the girl of his dreams (and hopefully not my nightmares) and the last fifty years have just flown by. (Yes I meant fifty. It's my fantasy and in it Lars lives at home until then.) So I have decided to remind myself of all the wonder-filled moments of the last year in one simple paragraph.


Water breaks in hot-tub, rush to the hospital, epidural please! Baby Lars is born at 4:40 am on the 4th, rush home, Tylenol with codeine please! This thing is ours? Sleep please?! Pee on the floor, pee on the bed, pee on dad, poo on the floor, poo on the bed, aren't diapers supposed to keep this stuff in? First smile, first laugh, roll to the front, roll to the back, first trip, first crawl, sleep please? First solid food, man that poop smells, first surgery, standing up, falling down, first steps, first word (maybe?). First birthday. Sleep pretty please???


My sweet little Lars,
Someday when you are grown up and read this (if the internet is still around and if someone hasn't deleted this blog) I hope you get how much your dad and I love you. I mean, hopefully we've told you a lot, and this isn't your first inkling, more like a final affirmation that you are LOVED. We loved you before you had a personality, or good looks, or a sense of humor, or monetary value. We loved you before you could love us back. When the world tries to convince you that love is for all those other things, all those other reasons, remember that you were loved before you were formed, that you were made by God and entrusted to us, and that we loved you when you pooped yourself.

Love, Mom and Dad

Here are a few more pics from the summer:

Camping with Jan, Ann-Mari, and cousin Sara

Lars' prison

That is the cutest outfit ever!!! Nice present too.

Lars helping his dad install the baby safety devices with a power drill

Lars pretending to be an Orangutan

Me and Jeanne

Jeanne and Lars slippin' and a slidin'

First Kiss

We met this little baby outside of our apartment building the other day. She was VERY taken with Lars and he with her. They literally (Tor hates that word, but I think I am using it correctly... all you ESL'ers out there can let me know) couldn't keep their hands off of each other. Lars' exuberance usually scares away the opposite sex, but she couldn't get enough of him. We think it would be totally awesome if they met up 20 years from now.

I'm Ba-ack

We had a great time vacationing in California. Michael died the day before we left and so we thought about making a short detour to neverland, but it is a winding 2 lane highway and traffic was gonna majorly suck, so we decided to honor the king of pop by pandora-ing his classics instead. I will have some awesome stories about bear cannon's to follow but I just wanted to let all my loyal blog followers know (I guess I'm mostly talking to myself) that we made it back safe and sound.

Californ-i-a

Yeah!!!

We are going to Cali for two whole weeks! We are all so excited. San Francisco, Santa Barbara, Wine Country and Yosemite here we come. I am sure I will have many Gulliver like tales to tell. The car is packed, the houseplants will soon go in the bathtub for an experiment in hydroponics, and we will be driving at night so that Lars will sleep. Wish us luck!!

Happy Father's Day

I have 2 people to give a shout out to--

First MY dad. He's totally awesome. As most know my mom has MS and he has to do a lot of extra work to make sure the house runs smoothly and my mom is taken care of. My dad shows every day that he knows what marriage is really about. He has stuck by my mom's side when most men would... not have. To say the least. Not to say that they have the perfect marriage or that my dad is the perfect parent, but isn't that what life's about? Dealing with what you've been given, making the most of it, and at the end of the day knowing that what you did may not have been easy, or perfect, but it was what was right. That's my dad... Ethical to a fault, very selfless, extremely patient, generous (even when he grumbles about it) and he sure loves his daughters.

I love you daddy, Happy Father's day!

My second shout out is to the love of my life, my best friend, the funniest, silliest, smartest, smelliest guy I've ever known... Tor. He's not my dad, but he's my baby daddy, or Daddoo as Lars likes to call him, and he deserves some major accolades for all he does. Not only does he work REALLY hard at his job, really hard at being a dad, and really hard at being a husband, he does it without complaining. I'm not joking. Maybe it's because I'm too busy complaining for the both of us, but he goes to work, enjoys it, comes home and helps with the baby, listens to me complain about how much work the baby is, helps with dinner, listens to me complain about how hard making dinner is, and then helps clean up. He is patient, kind, brilliant, humble, easy going, generous of his time, and he would do anything for a friend, neighbor, or family member. He loves Lars and I, and shows us every day.

Now, so this doesn't get too mushy, he does have his flaws: he leaves his socks by the bed, he leaves beer bottle caps on the counter, he is lactose intolerant and still eats way too much dairy, he digs stuff out of the trash and brings it home, he won't let me throw away leftover anything, he is so ticklish I can't get near any part of his body without him convulsing, he says "like" way too much, he likes to correct my grammar, he interrupts my stories with a billion questions, he flails his arms violently when he talks, he can sleep thru the baby screaming bloody murder, and he has webbed toes.

However, I want my son to be just like him.

I love you Daddoo!

My Apologies

Tor said my last post was very sassy and he was shocked at my use of foul language. I thought about changing it, but decided that like brief nudity on TV, it was necessary to the story. Instead I offer my apologies. To those of you who have never heard nor used either of the four letter words I refer to, my most heartfelt regrets that my silly blog has compromised you. To those that expected better of me-- you should have heard me during the hike.

HARDCORE

Tor has always convinced me to go on these crazy adventures. When I putter out, which is usually, Tor tries to prod me on by telling me that I am hardcore, to which I reply that I don't want to be hardcore, I want to be regular core. Well now I have to admit that I am crazy core.

I came up with the brilliant idea to go backpacking over memorial day weekend. We planned the route, checked the weather, checked when the trail was open, and researched backpacking with a baby. I carried Lars (22 pounds) and 20 pounds of equipment and Tor carried the rest.

Side note: there's always someone out there trying to out tuff you, and mumbling "i carried 60 pounds" to that person I say: shut the hell up, this is my story! (Yes someone said this to me recently and yes I am still bitter).

Back to story: Our trip started out beautifully, the weather was perfect, the trail was beautiful, Lars had a blast looking at trees and cooing (he is truly his father's son). Then we ran into campers who said "there's snow up ahead, be careful". We scoffed in our heads and continued on. After all, the book we had said that the end of May was the best time to hike this trail. It said that the wildflowers would be in bloom in the meadow... it was wrong.

We came upon snow about a mile later, it was very brief and again we scoffed (note to self: don't scoff at mother nature until you are positive she won't b*tch slap you for it later). We kept pressing on certain that a little snow would not slow us down. We lost and found the trail several times, and finally camped near a lake certain that the next day would be oh so much better.

Day 2 turned out the be the day that shall remain unnamed. The snow got deeper the trail harder to follow and find and my feet and legs got cold. Lars was still having a blast but I was not. Finally we stopped to rest at/on the middle of a hill/ravine and Tor decided we could no longer go forward. The trail was lost, we were nearly lost, night was coming and I was inconsolable. So, we turned around, hiked back up the mountain we had just come down, and camped in the middle of the trail (in the middle of the snow) so we would not lose it come morning. I cried a lot and Tor promised me tomorrow would be better.

The third day we turned around and hiked 12 miles up the other mountain we had just come down and back down the side we had climbed the first day. As we reached the beginning of the snow we spit on it and cursed at it and kissed the brown earth. We made it back to the car after 8 hours of hiking, drove home, ordered pizza, climbed into the hot tub at our apartment and promptly got the worst case of folliculitis ever.

I never got to see my meadow full of wildflowers, all I saw was dirty melting snow (which is impossible to walk in).

I swore the whole 2nd day and part of the 3rd that I would never step foot in the wilderness again, but like many things, the trauma has faded over time and we will be going camping this summer.

I had this recurring fear when I was pregnant and first found out that Lars was going to be a boy that I would be forever tired. I imagined my life as a long series of adventures in which I struggled to keep up with my adventurous husband and son. I am half delighted and half terrified that this prediction has become a reality.

Wish me luck...

At the beggining of our trip

Lars and I waiting for dinner in the tent

Lars' playpen of nature. We had to "fence" him in so he wouldn't crawl all over creation. He loved his little charlie brown tree.

Chillin' after dinner. Lars really liked drinking out of the camel pak

Camping in the snow. Mama was NOT happy.

Tor and Lars were much more suited to the cold weather.

Lars playing with another tree on a short break after we got out of the snow.

P.S. The weather was warm the entire time and we were never in any real danger of being lost. Tor is much too smart for that. Unfortuantely for us and some others it was a late snow season. That next day on the news I saw a report on two hikers who got lost for three days because they lost their trail in the snow.