Oh, the good old (and dangerous) days

By Karrie McAllister

It’s been quite a few years since I said, “man, am I thirsty. Pass the hose, would ya?”
But that doesn’t stop me from getting a little nostalgic about my childhood days, and all of the risky and dangerous stuff we used to do.
How we ever survived without getting some horrible digestive disease from the garden hose, I’ll never know. And why we even liked the taste of the rubbery water is beyond me—it must have just been extra cold and didn’t require us to take off our shoes before going in the house. The point is that we actually drank the water and didn’t end up green and in bed for days. What daredevils we were back then!
And if it was super hot outside, mom would come out and set up some summer time water fun. First she’d slather herself in coconut oil to attract the sun’s rays, and then she’d hook up the sprinkler.
And everyone in my generation (or at least in my neighborhood) had one of two sprinklers—either the one that looked like the worms wiggling around in a mad, watery frenzy, or the Fun Fountain, Wham-O toys, circa 1977.
We had the Fun Fountain, which was nothing more than the head of a clown wearing a pointy hat made of hard plastic. And out of the top of the clown’s head shot a stream of water so powerful, that the hard plastic pointy hat was suspended what seemed like twenty feet in the air. And the “fun” part of this fountain was running through that stream of water…and surviving without a) breaking the stream so long that the hard plastic pointy hat knocked you unconscious or b)sticking your eye into the potent stream of water, thereby blinding you for days.
I’m telling you, HOURS of fun. And we really did learn to run fast. It was an excellent training tool.
And on super hot days when dad was home (because only he was brave enough to unfold the tarp in the back of the garage), he’d set up the classic and the original slip and slide.
There were no fluffy, padded slides like you see today. There were no super efficient watering systems. There were no pools at the end to stop you.
It was just a big, wide blue tarp we laid out in the backyard. And if we were lucky, mom let us have the last of the bottle of dish soap and we’d give the tarp a good squirt of lemony fresh before turning on the hose at the top. The fun part of this backyard toy was a) learning to stop before hitting the little metal eyelets on the edge of the tarp and b) having all the fun you could have before the tarp tore up your skin or the soap gave you a rash.
At the risk of sounding like an “old” person who says that things were better in their day, when they walked to school uphill both ways in the snow without any shoes, I’m afraid to say that those indeed were the good old days.
The good old days were dangerous, but they had that sort of spontaneous create-your-own-fun that I can only hope my own kids can learn to appreciate.
The word on the Internet is that the Fun Fountain was re-made in the early 1980s due to some lawsuits about kids getting their eyes put out by the merciless stream of water. They had to cut back that stream, so that the hat only went up a few feet. Children everywhere were reduced to getting wet only up to their knees, which probably means they had to drink extra water from the hose, just to stay cool.

The Thirdegnancy Condition: Here we go again

By Karrie McAllister

I tell you, if it weren’t for my bizarre new love of banana peppers, the box of fat clothes I had to dig out, and people constantly asking me how I am feeling, I would flat out forget that I am pregnant.
In fact, the other day I was driving down the road ignoring the hum of preschool babble in the backseat and thinking intently about my to-do list when I suddenly realized that, oh yeah, I really am going to have another baby. And I had completely forgotten about it.
This, I figure, must be an unnamed syndrome. It must be something like the Thirdegnancy Condition, a situation where a mother, totally consumed by her existing children and life, doesn’t really have the time or energy to feel all of those emotions and physical changes that happen during her first trimester.
Now, for me, as I enter my own second trimester, I suddenly realized that I have missed out on all of the stuff I did with my other pregnancies. And I’m really not sure if it’s because of the lack of time to deal with it, or just that my body has become so stretched out an accustomed to the hormone rush and constant tiredness, that I’ve become immune to it all. I’ll just call it the Thirdegnancy Condition.
I remember with fondness when I was newly pregnant with my first child. With no major commitments once work was finished, I laid on the couch reading parenting books until I fell asleep at 7:30. Looking back, I’m pretty sure I fell asleep so early because a) parenting books are really boring to read and b) my stomach was so full that my body purposely put me in a comatose state so that it could work on digesting so much food.
Yes, with that first pregnancy, I was fully convinced that if I ate ALL DAY LONG I would avoid morning sickness. I practically had a holster of graham crackers on my hip that I nibbled on constantly, which is ironic because knowing how much weight I gained, the food that I toted on my hip, ended up on my hip…and everywhere else.
By the time the second pregnancy came around, those graham crackers (and ham and cheese sandwiches, etc.) had all been run off, making lots of room for better things to keep me from getting morning sickness, like French fries and donuts. And having a toddler at home who was an excellent television watcher in the afternoon provided me with ample time for resting, not to mention an early bed time.
And when I wasn’t eating or sleeping, I was back at those parenting books, trying to figure out how to do it better this time around.
But now, with the symptoms of the Thirdegnancy Condition setting in, things are very, very different.
I have had no time for resting and no early bedtimes. Apparently during the summer, children require less sleep. They also protest things like afternoon matinees and the lucky chance to watch as much TV as they want as long as no one talks or touches mommy.
I have had no time for constant eating. Feeding two kids, two dogs, and one husband, if I’m not cooking, I’m emptying the dishwasher or scraping jelly off the table. I thought about digging out that old cracker holster, but I’d rather not have to worry about it ending up on my hips again.
I have had no time, nor need, for parenting books. I’ve already done it twice, and if I’ve got any bad parenting habits, they aren’t going anywhere. The Thirdegnancy Condition has taught me that while mothers are an endless supply of love, they also have an endless supply of adrenaline for their children. This third child of mine won’t be raised on What to Expect, it will be raised on instinct and survival, and somehow, the same amount of amazement as it’s siblings had; because if my new affection for peppers is any clue, this child will be spicy enough to not let me ever forget that there will be one more child adding to the hum in the backseat.

Continuing education is a snapping good time

By Karrie McAllister

Here we go again, folks.
Just when you thought you were clear of my bizarre animal stories for the year, another giant one crawled right into my backyard. And instead of looking at this oversized creature as a nuisance or pest, I decided to treat it like the wonder of nature that it was and use it as a perfect educational tool for myself, my children, everyone in the neighborhood, and even some friends I called who just had to see for themselves.
You will note that I said I live in a neighborhood, and although we back up to some woods, we have sidewalks and city water which gives me a false sense of security when it comes to the wilderness.
I am all for seeing wild animals when I am in the wilderness, and I fully expect them and appreciate that I am on their turf. But when my neighbor rang my doorbell and said “there’s a little friend in your backyard, I thought your kids might want to see,” I realized my territory had clearly been invaded.
Naturally my husband wasn’t home, meaning I would have to deal with this “little friend” all by myself.
This “little friend” turned out to be a turtle that was so big, it looked like a dinosaur. We estimated it to be over 30 pounds. And was it a friendly turtle? The internet is a wonderful tool, and provided us with the first information for the day. Snapping turtles have tell-tale tails that are jagged on the top, like serrations. And they have a massive head that looks like it’s ready to bite off your entire hand. So no, it wasn’t a friendly turtle.
So I ask you—if a 30 pound snapping turtle showed up in your backyard, what would you do?
I called a naturalist at The Wilderness Center who informed me that there must be a pond somewhere nearby, and she had simply come out to lay her eggs in a sandy place, and after she was finished, she would simply walk back home because snapping turtles can’t live without water. And as long as we stayed away, it wouldn’t hurt us.
It all sounded easy enough, but I started to panic when “Snappy” as she was so cleverly named by my son, crawled right under our porch to apparently lay her eggs.
So I ask again—if a 30 pound snapping turtle is laying eggs under your back porch, what would you do?
We did nothing but let her be, and for the rest of the day we checked on her periodically, took a zillion pictures of the same turtle in the same spot, and made the kids play inside.
As if that all wasn’t amazing enough, the story continues at 11pm, twelve hours after this ordeal began.
Our dogs were barking in the garage, and figuring they just needed to go outside, my husband went to do just that, but instead found our friend Snappy trying to get into our garage!
For the final question—if a 30 pound snapping turtle is trying to pick a fight with your dog, what would you do?
To make a long, unbelievable story short, it took my husband, his brother, a snow shovel, a push broom, and a wheelbarrow to remove this creature from our yard. At 11:30, my husband was spotted by neighbors pushing a wheelbarrow down the street to the nearest pond.
Needless to say, we did the right thing and informed all of our neighbors that we had deposited a snapping turtle that was bigger than a breadbox in the retention pond on our street.
And if any of them run into Snappy, they can just ask us what to do. After such a turtle-filled day, we’re practically local experts.

Friends should break bread, not share it

By Karrie McAllister

While visiting a friend a few weeks ago, she served the most delicious bread. It was moist, sweet, and I could easily see in my husband’s eyes that he was falling in love.
And like good husbands should, he overly complimented my friend on her baking. [Note: Any guy who wants to earn bonus points should always compliment a woman’s cooking, regardless of just how much you have to lie.]
And then he said those dreaded words, “Karrie, you’ve GOT to get this recipe.”
What he didn’t know was that this was no ordinary bread. This was the infamous, the notorious, the legendary Friendship Bread.
For those of you who have not yet been blessed with this delicacy that starts with a bag of spoiling goo, let me explain. A concoction of milk, sugar, and flour which has been added to and divided for years ends up at a friend of yours. She then follows the directions and after serving you the delicious bread, gives you your very own bag of goo, which is the ‘starter’ for the bread.
Once you have received your bag of goo, you keep it on your counter so that all the world can see that you’ve got a fermenting sludge that releases gases that you are caring for as if it were a pet. You’ve got to mush it daily for 10 days, and on the 5th day, you feed it.
(What’s next? I wondered. Take it out for a walk?)
On day five, with five days to go, you add yet more flour, sugar, and milk. Keep in mind that if you left a cup of milk on your counter for five days and then tried to eat it, the results would be anything but delicious. But for whatever reason, in the spirit of Friendship, the curdling, growing mixture will not only taste good, but it won’t kill you either.
After feeding your starter, you continue to mush it and let the toxic gases out of the bag until day ten rolls around. That is the day of baking. You are supposed to divide the goo into four, use one to bake yourself some Friendship Bread, and then put the other three sections into baggies and pass on this wonderful stuff to three of your friends, or three people you can sucker into doing this. Whichever you can find first.
For me, this was the hardest part. I’m not one of those people who are always asking things of my friends when I know they will say yes just because they are, well, my friends. I don’t do home parties (although I’m fabulous at shopping at them), and I do not participate in email chain letters (and am now up to probably 25,000 years of bad luck for not forwarding things on.)
I’m sure some of my friends would have actually enjoyed a bit of the goo, I just couldn’t bring myself to ask. If I asked, I know they would graciously accept the sludge and then for the next 10 days I’d be walking around in a cloud of guilt because for certain they’d be mumbling bad things about this goo, just as I had been yelling at mine for the entire time it lived on my counter.
Therefore, when it came time to pass on my bags of goo, I certainly did not want to burden any of my friends or even people willing to be suckered in with the mushing and feeding and baking. So I did the only thing I could think of.
I baked the entire starter’s worth of bread.
Six tasty loaves of bread and a bunch of muffins because I was feeling inventive.
And as a result of my being a coward, I now have a freezer full of Friendship Bread. Some I have given away, some we have eaten, but the majority rests in a deep freeze, waiting to be pulled out in the event that a friend stops by for a coffee, a conversation, and maybe a slice or two.
I just hope she doesn’t ask for the recipe.

Clipping away at family traditions for the good of my kids

By Karrie McAllister

I never know where I should be cutting my fingernails.
I know that sounds like a completely ridiculous statement, but it’s absolutely true.
Trimming my nails was not really something I thought about much growing up, because I learned from my mother that nails were clipped over the toilet.
And when I was old enough to do it myself, I did as I was taught, hunched over the toilet, trying desperately to get the little clippings to land in the bowl even though 90% of the time they flung off to far away corners of the bathroom.
But that’s how I thought it was done.
When my husband and I got married, we did not live with each other first, so those little everyday mundane things were rather shocking in the beginning. Just as I had been raised in one household, he was raised in another. And apparently his mother had different ideas.
I will never forget walking into our bathroom to find him hunched over the sink, clipping his nails.
“WHAT ON THIS GOOD EARTH ARE YOU DOING???”
“Uh, cutting my nails. Why? What’s wrong?”
“You’re not doing it over the toilet? You’re supposed to do it over the toilet. We always do it over the toilet. You’ve got to do it over the toilet.”
“Why? The little pieces just fling all over the place. This way I can just clean them up.”
And while he has a point about the cleaning up part, there was a greater issue at hand.
Where IS one supposed to clip their nails?
(Actually that’s not the greater issue. But if someone has good reasoning for a clipping location, please share.)
The real issue is this: Even if we’ve learned something from our parents, does it make it right? And if it’s not, what do you teach your own children?
A former co-worker once told me that the mother’s traditions are the ones that will be passed on because it’s usually the mother that spends the most time with the children. And for whatever reason, this thought stuck with me. Perhaps at the time I was thinking that I might have to concoct some traditions so that I’d have some to pass on, and hoping I’d not pass on any bad habits and poor clipping practices.
But now I know better. He was very right in his statement. I know this for many reasons. I know this because we celebrate my family’s horrendous Polish Christmas Even dinner and wash our hands with silver dollars on New Year’s Day. I know this because we leave the butter dish on the counter. I know this because we put the toilet paper going over the top instead of behind the back.
But I also know that I’m willing to accept new traditions as well. While I spent my entire youth eating chicken paprikash cooked with chicken on the bone, I now prepare it in the style of his family using cut-up chicken breasts. (Believe me, this is a BIG DEAL, and I’d appreciate it if no one told my Grandmother. She’ll have a fit.) And I know this cut-up method is the way I will teach my children to make it, shaking up the theory that only the mother’s traditions get passed on.
Meanwhile, I know half of the people reading this are wondering what chicken paprikash even is, let alone why it really matters how the chicken is prepared.
These people do not have relatives from Eastern Europe.
These people have not been trained by their parents and their parents before them on just the right way to prepare such an ethnic dish, and how that is the only way it should be prepared by someone who shares the same bloodline.
These people should stop focusing on chicken paprikash and start thinking about their fingernails and whether or not they need clipping, and if so, just where they are going to do it.