Leveling a 30-year old Floor

We love our house! We love doing fixer-upper projects with our own hands and never hire out (friends don't count...they're paid in liquid refreshments and I'm certain not professionally trained). Now in this house ten years, I've had the itch to remove its circa 1980s style with the builder's grade oak trim and lovely gold linoleum that grace the floors of the main level of our house.

Here's what I was up against:

Hubby has slight OCD and noticed this raised line in the kitchen that ultimately paralyzed him from wanting to help me with this project. I got an extreme zoom of the raised spot - without the blue circle could you notice it?

He had it stuck in his head that we had water under the floor, our floor joists underneath were covered in mold and therefore we should not do anything. Logical.

A few friends noticed it, too. We all ignored it a while. Except the fact that those little divots and cuts (see that circular thing just above?) were becoming more and more noticeable and not getting clean.

Then we had friends with a toddler over. All of us were crawling on the floor playing with Toddler. I was embarrassed by what the floor showed, especially when our heads were so close to it. Ew. That's all I needed to convince hubby we needed to start.

But then he walked around with a 4-foot level and all hell broke loose. We were uneven in the hallway from the front door to the kitchen. We were uneven in front of the door to garage. We were almost half an inch off leading into the counter where our stools sat. 

Upon further inspection, floor joists were fine. No water damage, no glaring warped wood. We figured it was just age and a good rental floor sander would do the trick. Hubster did all the sanding while I was gone, but a $50 rental at Home Depot and our floor was just about ready. He cut out sections of the linoleum:

Isn't the gold linoleum lovely? I can't wait to cover it up forever!

Then came the more challenging part - under our counter where everyone hangs on stools, the floor goes down at least half an inch and there was no way new flooring would handle that much of a drop.

We picked up a bucket of Henry pre-mixed Patch n Level.

We were expecting something more liquid that a friend told us would flow on its own and be a self-leveler. This went down like wet cement. It worked fine for us and we even tolerated the smell. What didn't go as planned was darling daughter walking through the wet compound while barefoot.

She's not a toddler, people. She's 12. She's a solid kid made of muscle and sass. I had to carry her upstairs to the tub in fear she'd keep walking and spread the compound everywhere. She got cleaned up while I caught my breath and we set up barricades so she wouldn't do it again. I only swore a little.

We decided to go with a floating laminate looks-like-wood flooring I'll talk about later. You should love it as much as we do.

Oh, and her footprints are forever imprinted in this house. It was wet enough for her to sink in and dry enough to not level out.

*not compensated for where I shop or what brands I use.

#linoleum #byebyebadfloor #flooringcompound #30yearoldhouse #updatingourhome 

The Ripple Effect

We missed mother-daughter dance class the previous week. Coach taught the group more steps when we were gone so when class started daughter and I were lost.

"Just do what you know," said Coach, in an attempt to get us up to speed. Little did she know I did do what I know and damn I rocked it.

We're dancin'. 

The music is always too fast. We're cruising through the parts we do know and then we arrive at the point of the unknown. Other (normal) moms finish their part when the music stops. Not me. No. I am spinning in place thinking I've got this. During the spin I let one rip. Like full-on ripping denim sounding fart. It's something I know and I'm good at. My body's good at it.

At this point the moms are in a straight line directly to my right. The daughters are in a straight line to my left. My audible and I are the base of this V-shaped disaster with darling daughter, the understanding child of mine, right next to me, hiding her face in her hands. I see a physical ripple of mom heads turning to each other with "did she just do that?" "was that a fart?" "did that just happen?" working its way to the right with Coach at the end. She starts laughing. The daughters, now clearly understanding what happened, are screaming and pretending it stinks.

So I did what anyone should do in this situation. I yell out, "Okay! Now that we have that out of the way, can we learn the next move?!"

The way I see it you should hit any natural disaster head on.

Mother-Daughter Dance, Year Three, Day Three

Everyone who has survived two seasons of mother-daughter dance raise your hand if you're able.


I'll wait.

That's right. Me. I did. My daughter did.

We started Season Three with a bang and by bang I mean she's already rolling her eyes at me, I've already bounced her entire body to the floor off my boobs and I've got a new crowd of moms wondering what. the. hell. is wrong with me. I seriously look like the dancing overbite in Harry & Sally.


We've already blown through one coach...so far. I mean, it's the fourth night tonight, why not? The room is 87 degrees, we have daughters ranging in age from 4 to I think 25 (isn't there a cap?) and mothers of varying abilities to legally wear yoga pants. A couple moms are seasoned dancers which is bad news for the rest of us since doing the splits is still something I will never strive to accomplish.

The assistant coach has figured out my theme song to life is "Shake it Off" and thus plays it on repeat. Unable to help myself, I break into a geeky attempt at shaking mine off while a couple moms whoop at my fist pumps and darling daughter averts her eyes. She has a friend who has since joined her in misery and is also truly embarrassed by my lacking sense of rhythm. But I don't care. I'm like Harry above. Just keep dancing overbite.

Last week we had to jump with the end goal being threefold: 1) kick your heel into your butt, 2) stay in beat (5-6-7-8!) and 3) for heavens sake don't fall down. When I fall down I lose track of where I am which then puts daughter in a tizzy which causes us to giggle which ends with me crossing my legs so I don't leave a puddle.

Coach has also tasked us with practicing our sassy walk. I, of course, have not. Tonight's practice will include more "MOTHER" screams from my partner. It's a good thing "Shake it Off" is played so loudly so no one can hear my expletives.

Book fair was last night

Basil Pesto to Drool For

Our family goes gaga for pesto. We put it on grilled chicken, pasta, on toasty French bread and mozzarella. Sometimes Thing Two scoops it up with a spoon and eats it straight. This is a recipe that's simple and quick.

Start with 2 cups fresh basil. Mine came from the garden (one $1.99 plant in early spring produced enough leaves for several harvest fests plus a triple batch of pesto. I only have a teeny food processor so I have to do the basil first to make room for the other ingredients. Pulse to pulverized.

Pine nuts are the most expensive part of homemade pesto. One 1/2 cup bag is about $4-5. Maybe I should have shopped online...

Add 1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil, 1/2 cup Parmesan cheese and 2 cloves garlic. Pulse to pulverize.

Your finished recipe should look like this: make sure the pine nuts and basil leaves are pulsed to smooth and creamy. That's it!!

I put my pesto in ice cube trays to freeze. When I'm ready to cook with pesto I grab two cubes and the meal is fabulous.

Tip: I will frequently put marinade in a plastic baggie with chicken and freeze. While it's thawing for a meal, the marinade is working its magic and I don't have to wait the extra 30 minutes for it to sit. The flavor is stronger that way, since it's had more time to, well, marinate.

Homemade Basil Pesto

2 cups fresh basil, remove stems and wash thoroughly

1/2 cup pine nuts

1/2 cup EVOO

1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, grated

2 cloves garlic, pressed

Tiny bit salt and pepper

Pulverize in a food processor until smooth. Makes about 1 1/2 to 2 cups of pesto.

My Autism Hero

Her name is Katrina. He was four. I was lost.

My son was diagnosed with autism at age four and my world's axis tilted. I wasn't sure what to do, what to say, who to ask for help...I just knew I was thrust into the world of autism and had no clue what it meant.

When my brother heard our news he spoke with an acquaintance of his - someone he trusted would be the person I needed most even though she had never met me. Her name is Katrina. Her son, also four at the time, had been diagnosed with autism a couple years earlier. Without truly realizing it at the time, Katrina became my hero.

We talked on the phone a few times. She sat quietly while I cried into the phone unable to speak. She welcomed me into the world of autism. She talked about her son and we made connections between our boys. She gave me hope. She gave me strength.

And just as quickly as she entered my life, this guiding and non-judging and kind soul, she was out. We lost touch, maybe only meeting in person once or twice at an autism support class years ago.

Son and I and our family went through support groups, 101 classes, charity work, thousands of hours of therapy, hundreds of hours of research, dozens of hours of IEP meetings. I learned to love our autism world, having introduced me to the most amazing people I've ever met.

I think of Katrina so often, with a goal of being other people's Katrina as much as I can. When I hear of a new family entering our world I tell them the story of My Katrina and and what she did for me and ask if I can help be their Katrina. I've talked on the phone with new autism moms, new autism grandmas, new autism uncles. Some I've never met.

Fast forward to today. I was wandering a store and saw her.

My Katrina.

I left her alone not wanting to be that person...and I left the store. I came out of the next store and she was standing outside. It was a sign I tell you! I walked up to her, asked if she was My Katrina. I introduced myself as "you probably don't remember me..." She did. I told her she was my inspiration and my hope and my hero. Then I teared up. The inner voice who usually screams, "Keep it together woman!" was silent. Katrina gave me a huge hug, asked how my son was doing, and introduced me to her son. Same age, same beauty shooting like stars out of his eyes and a gorgeous smile.

Thank you, Katrina. Most likely you'll never see this. Most likely you'll never know exactly how much you mean to me always and forever. Most likely our sons will be just fine.

Thank you, Katrina. Thank you.

Last Mother-Daughter Practice had THIS in the Audience

Tonight was our last practice. We were greeted by an officer taking notes from a child and basically quite freaked at what was happening and why it was right inside the dance studio doors.

We know for sure they weren't there to arrest us for bad dance moves. However the cop talking to a woman at the other door to the studio also had a clear view of our room...and he was doing everything in his power to try to un-see what he was watching: middle-aged women and our dancing daughters.

By the time we were done both officers were gone. One car remained at the studio. Friend and I are convinced they went somewhere for a cold one to discuss that cartwheel we did.

Dancing Queen

Friend just suggested I do a blog. I sent her this. So I checked my last entry (far too long ago) and figured she might be reading tonight, here's a post.

Dance. We have recitals coming up. I have not kicked anyone mid-cartwheel. Daughter _has_ bounced off The Girls (aka girly parts that protrude from the rib cage) and hit the deck way too many times I care to mention. 

Two weeks ago she was to crawl through my legs and *pop* up as I lift her into doing the splits in the air. She cut her crawl short and well...her head was back where it all started, I fell down and got a serious case of dancer giggles, and Coach stopped the music due to our distraction.

Last night I did not think through my workout clothes and went dressed in The Shorts That Should Not Leave The House plus a Shamrock-emblazoned tank plus stark-white semi-hairy legs plus black dance shoes. Then Coach goes, "we're dancing in front of every $&#%*€?£¥ class in the building tonight" and I'm thrilled one of them is the twenty-year-olds in their tight pants and no undie line and I'm all like, "hey check out my shorts. They're not supposed to be here."

I sequined the sh*t out of two shredded tank tops purchased off a dance costume website for far too much money when I could have just cut the damn things myself. I bought the fancy dancer shorts. I have black tights that make spooge spill out the top.

I bought myself eyelashes. 

I'm soooo gonna audibly fart during recital. 

Sailing right along and then THIS happened

I hate these kind of titles every single editorial outfit does nowadays.

Last week we were sailing through practice. I have improved quite a bit and know all of the dance moves. My new problem is I do the moves at different points in the song than everyone else. But when I'm up front and I'm the only one kicking my leg up high, man. I nail it. 

So last week we were waiting for coach to get the next section worked out in her head and moms are chatting it up. Coach asks, "anyone do cartwheels?"

We're still chit chatting and yeah, I could at age 12. My arm shoots up as if an auto response to such s basic question. I look at coach. I look at my hand. Soon the wheels begin to turn again but it's too late. I'm a chosen one. 

I swear a bunch, do some extra stretches and she lines us up. I casually comment to the mom whose head is in my foot's air space to watch out because it's been oh 25 YEARS since I've attempted this. 

Song goes on. 5-6-7-8. We step. We sway. I go. I'm doing it! 

Left Wrist shouts out in agony as if to slap me across the face to knock some sense into me. Cut music. Girls are cheering. Moms are high fiving each other. One mom in the back comments she wished she could have seen the cartwheel by yours truly. Another mom proudly announces she HeARD it. 

And that my friend is a legacy I leave to my daughter. Loud, grunting cartwheels at age 40.

Mother-Daughter Dance Class, Day 4 - The Boob Bump

I'm improving. Coach says.

Actually, no, it's just that daughter is learning to get out of the way. I only stepped on her teeny little pinky toe once last night. She said it didn't hurt...

That other mom, the one in front of me...she can sway her hips when we do that step-turn-pivot-something. When I do it I feel like something straight out of "Napoleon Dynamite."

We added some parts last night, some parts that require me to 1) hold a beat; 2) do something with my arms; and 3) walk closer to daughter by the time we get back to "1". We have mirrors, it's not like I'm not forced to watch my flailing. Yet still on "5-6-7-8" I marched right over to her, arms opposite everyone else in the room, bumped her with my boobs and she went flying.

I got the giggles and we lost count. I honestly don't know if she hit the deck because I was doubled over laughing too hard and hoping I didn't also let one rip. Now THAT would be awkward.

Mother-Daughter Dance Class, Day One

Daughter jumped in jubilation when I suggested my feet were healthy enough to try dance class. It started tonight and following my first-ever dance class I think it might be worth blogging.

Here goes. First-hand experience, first-time dancer.

Walk in with 7 other moms and various aged daughters. Shortest person there is 2. I envy her perfected outfit. Coach tells us to start stretching. I'm in my tank, running shorts, new running shoes and mouth hanging wide open in fright. These shoes are too wide. They're sticking to the floor. Ah, I can get down there. Hang on...

Okay I'm down. How does Kid make her hands look graceful even when she's stretching? My mouth is still hanging open as I attempt to loosen my fists.

She makes us twist in this contorted position that is supposed to balance my body weight on one knee cap. It doesn't happen. Kid is providing positive reinforcement to get my back foot up so the wrong hand can grab it. I giggle which makes any success at this position even less likely. Coach walks by, I casually comment on bone-on-bone pain at the weight-bearing point and she says it happens with age.

I somehow get out of this position in time to spread my legs farther than they are supposed to while watching Kid point her toes, crawl to the middle and point and laugh at me. I'm wincing in pain thinking about what tomorrow morning will be like if I ever get out of this position. Then Coach says to do splits. What sadistic person thinks I can do the splits at a time like this? I may wet my pants.

We get lined up and begin foot steps. Something about a rocking horse? Cross one foot, step back, step over, don't trip, return to position. What? I stepped on my own toes on this one. Just when I think I have it down, she says switch feet. I stand there unable to move any feet watching all the other moms and that two year old figure it out. I silently swear at all of them.

By now it's 87 in the room, or at least my sweat glands think it is. Am I the only one dripping with sweat in here? We move to jumping. Friend says it's the split soar or something. Coach says it's like jumping a puddle. Kid says point my toes. They're all watching me. I wonder what to do with my mouth - do I let it hang open during these split soars? Where are my hands? Did I just fart?

And that's the end. Forty-five minutes gone in a flash. I do a high-five with Kid, wonder what color my knees will be tomorrow, discuss different shoes with Friend and walk out.

Didn't pee. Didn't shart. Didn't swear out loud. Dance day one: success. Time to ice.

Time Capsule

Offspring #1 has an end-of-year project that involves a considerable amount of work for mom. Offspring #1 has no interest in this type of thing - or anything that doesn't involve Legos, paper airplanes, Legos, or well frankly... Legos. Guess who gets to figure out what to fill a metal can with for some odd years later when graduation hits?

I'm thinking about putting some Legos in it. Will he notice those missing pieces or do I have to go buy a small set to stick in there (you know the ones : they're placed at eye-level in the checkout lane so each and every time you run in for milk, eggs, and carrots the kid asks if he can have one)?

In addition to the ten things Son (aka Mom) must pick out for this metal can, I was requested to write a letter to Son from Mom for when he graduates. I devoted time during this busy week to write a letter and here I am writing a blog about it instead.

And another thing. Where do I find a metal can big enough to stick all this stuff in? Does it need to be airtight? Will it be buried so bugs will eat my letter? Do I take a preemptive strike and have Son get a tetanus shot prior to graduation? Does this mean I need to drink cheap coffee for a while?

All these things a mother worries about.

Grocery Shopping + Kids =

Better half is gone tonight. It seems that's when the oddities occur and I'm still struggling to figure out why that is. Is he the calm in the storm? The missing link?

We're on our way to the grocery store. Mommy has to make one stop at Big Box Retailer for one item. After we're safely in the doorway, Daughter zeros in on the overloaded bin of PillowPets. It's game over, Folks. We are not advancing into the store. We have decided to inform the entire front half of Big Box Retailer that it's our duty and obligation to purchase that cuddly and soft and overpriced stuffed animal with random patches of Velcro.



And then I say no.



Oops.



I've now somehow managed to get to the checkout with my one item and attempt to leave the store. Daughter has now run back to the bin and latched on to the purple one.

What was to be a quick stop for one $5.00 item ended up with a deal made with the Daughter: Get stickers on your entire job chart and I'll get a Pillow Pet.

"The purple unicorn?"

Yes. Can we go now?

Ten minutes later we're loading our cart of consumables at the grocery store and Daughter is singing the Pillow Pet theme song at the top of her lungs. She discussing how she can get more stickers on her chart to get the purple one sooner. She's telling the checkout cashier she's getting a purple one.

I just wanna get home. Is that so much to ask?

Concussions Are Serious Business

Just ask Justin Morneau.

The other day Mini Me fell at the playground. Ms DareDevil herself was upside down on the monkey bars and ended up landing on her head four feet below where she started. Ice, love, cuddle time, OTC meds, and definitely no napping that day, ER the next day.

Did you know the medical community takes concussions very seriously? First thing they did was slap this on her.


It's funny. This link at Mayo doesn't say anything about monkey bars. Kids having fun. Ah.

So we're in recovery mode now, keeping Mini Me away from any monkey business, no water skiing, no bike rides. She's feeling better each day, but still sore. Thank goodness she's not wearing that accessory anymore (although we did inquire as to whether they had a pink version).

Doctor's orders were to keep her from doing anything from hitting her head again. So what does she do? Falls off a stool with an armload of books.

The best part of all this is today, four days after her fall, I can't move my head. We're talking the pain in neck where all you can do is move your shoulders pain.

Sympathy pain?
Stress?
Osmosis?

Competition

Growing up my brother and I were taught the tips and tricks of competitiveness. After all, it was a major component of our genetics we should learn how to work with it instead of against it. Basically it worked. I couldn't be anywhere but on top.


As I entered my thirties I realized that competitiveness had waned quite a bit. Was it becoming a parent that changed this in me? Was it the lack of time to be as intensively physically active as I was in my high school and college years?


Well tonight things changed and frankly it startled me a little. My son, in his 8.75 years, had his first baseball scrimmage. There he was, skinny kid with my build and his daddy's fielding abilities, watching the crowd as a grounder sped past him. I think I saw three balls caught the whole scrimmage. But hey! This is kid ball, most of them are novices. Great night for a ball game.

I started hollering. At 7 and 8 year olds. Who is that woman on her feet bellering for the gray team to round third? And why is she telling the gold team his foot pulled off the base? Did she just tell that batter where to hit the ball?

I parked my rear back on the bleachers and looked at my husband to see if what I thought just happened actually did happen. I kept my mouth shut the rest of the game but it dawned on me that in the next few years I'll be sitting in the bleachers quite a bit and I better learn to bite my tongue. It's not my game anymore.

But I bet I would be a killer third-base coach...

The Bully

My son was bullied after school one day this week. He walks to a neighbor's house after school and she saw it happen. So did another parent. The kid was confronted right away, scolded, and everyone went on their merry way. Both adults who saw it happen talked to Buddy to make sure he was okay. He said he was.

When I finally got to see him, he had forgotten about the incident. But we did talk about it for a long time and in the end, I knew he did the right thing (he yelled and yelled and yelled until he got an adult's attention). I know he's not scarred by the whole affair. He had his heros that day.

But his hero wasn't me. The child bullied was my own. I couldn't protect him from one of the things I fear most for him. I wasn't in control of his innocence and compassion. If this kid had asked nicely if he could please have Buddy's lunch money, and Buddy would have had anything on him, Buddy would have given it to him. His frustration was that the kid kept yelling to hand it over and not hearing Buddy say he didn't have anything to offer.

Two things: 1) Teach your children what to do if they get bullied. It's a scary moment when a bigger kid comes at yours, but please make sure they know what to do, who to tell, and when to deal with it. 2) If you have a child who has a history of picking on other kids, please make it stop.
Please.
Make it stop.

Price Tag Adhesive

I still try to figure out why certain unimportant objects trigger something I want to blog. But here I am beginning a blog on price tag adhesive.


Per previous blog postings, you know our household is gluten free. All baking (the three times I've done it the past 12 months mind you) has been done with GF flour so naturally the shiny blue canister received as a wedding gift sat full of wheat flour unused.


Something possessed me to finally clean out that canister tonight. Enjoy the gluten, dear raccoon friends in the back yard. No guarantees on its freshness. What was peculiar to me is the price tag on the under side of that canister was still stuck to the bottom of that canister. It was a gift 12.5 years ago and still sticky!


So I pointed this out to my husband of 12.5 years. He laughs. We have a chuckle jokingly about how completely NOT surprising and how sticky our relationship is after all these years yet we haven't outdone the price tag on that flour canister.


So how is it that we can compare ourselves to price tag adhesive? Especially since we've had 12.5 [married] years of LIFE thrown at us?

• Each day ends with "I love you." No matter how hard we're fighting.
• Each morning begins with a squeeze. Cheeks optional (you pick).
• Laughter can ease virtually any moment.
• Date nights are a must!
• If life throws lemons directly into the face of reality, squeeze every last drop out.
• Discover a tv show to watch together. Snuggle.
• Allow offspring to witness kissing and hugging.
• Major decisions are done only after much thought and much discussing.

Hey there, Sweetcheeks. I'm stuck on you.

What Age is Grown Up?

Picture it. It's a rainy Saturday morning. I'm ready to pop because the living room has Legos spewed across the entire living room, the carpet in the kids' rooms is barely visible, and there is toothpaste in places in the bathroom I never thought was possible. All I want to do is get the children out the door to buy a birthday gift.

*pop* So quickly and easily I am pulled out of my approaching-crabby state because around the corner from the scattered Lego room is my husband slamming one of those balloon things on a string that are designed to do exactly what he's doing. The child is giggling uncontrollably. The adult continues to whack the balloon on his head.

There is no longer an adult in the house, but that's okay. Rainy Saturday mornings are meant to be filled with balloons on strings, giggling children, and building blocks in the living room.

Mom, You Didn't Tell Me

Dear Mom

You didn't tell me a few things about being a parent that I've had to learn as I've grown as a parent.

I could still use a little assistance on how to make first-initial shaped pancakes. Actually, while we're at it, I could use a lot of help learning how to make that first pancake on the griddle edible. I usually throw it away. Did you know kids don't have patience for a sacrificial pancake?

While we're on the topic of staple kid food, I could have used a tutorial on making rice, too. Seems I can't prepare two infinitely simple foods.

You never shared that I would be perfectly comfortable walking around at work with sludge on my shoulder. Or that vomit wouldn't bother me - including fresh vomit contained in my fully-functioning purse while standing in line at the pharmacy waiting with 23 other people who also witnessed my moment of panic.

I didn't know I would be able to easily and legally burn through medical flex dollars on Barbie and SpongeBob BandAids. I also didn't know a BandAid fixes anything. I learned that BandAids are frequently used for non-existent injuries to please a screaming, crying, overreacting toddler.

Did you know an adult at an office gets a lot of comments on Barbie BandAids on her finger?

You always fed me bananas on peanut butter sandwiches. Kids don't like banana-peanut butter sandwiches. Did you make that up?

I don't believe you ever fully extrapolated exactly what a "stool sample" entailed.

How do I answer the question of where babies come from? At what age do they ask what actually happens in the hospital? What did I believe when you told me?

When my four-year-old child informs me, "Mommy, life isn't always fair," do I laugh at the maturity of that statement coming from someone wearing a plastic tiara, a four-foot wide tutu, and puddle jumping boots or do I cry because she's right?


At what age do I step in and control the wardrobe selections? And then what age do I have to stop again?


Come to think of it, I didn't get the memo on how the smell of a freshly-bathed and lotioned infant could render me completely useless until I had sufficient cuddle time.

And Mom, there are a few things I figured out after I became a parent that have helped me figure out what it really meant that you had eyes on the back of your head. I honestly didn't figure this out until my oldest child started getting into mischief.

Reflections are everywhere. I now know I can check things out in the reflection of the pan on the stove and see which offspring is climbing on the counter for another pickle.

I figured out how to sneak a peek without a child noticing, turn back around, then discipline with my back turned. This, Mom, is how you did it. This, Mom, is how I got in trouble stuffing food in Brother's mouth when I thought you were around the corner. (I hate meatloaf!)

I have learned to recognize the specific sound my older child makes when he's sighing and can tailor my question to whether he's frustrated and needs help or I think he can work through it. And I can tell which child is walking into the room based on her footsteps.

I can now anticipate a fight, someone getting hurt, and when something as simple as an unsharpened pencil can do damage to kitchen walls, the seemingly-safe clock way up on the wall and a potted plant. I can sense without hearing the water sloshing out of tub. I know a silent child in a room without toys is dangerous and should be addressed immediately.

When I was young I could not understand how you could do all this. Now I know and I consider this valuable information going forward. And I get how a chocolate fix is needed no matter what time of day.

Should I tell my kids these revelations? Nah. I think I'll let them figure it out, too. I'll continue this evil tradition.

P.S. Mom? I love you.

Yes, you can find gluten-free chocolate

If I had my way, I’d eat three square meals of chocolate a day with snacks of something salty and then more chocolate. Or maybe mix in a bowl of cereal to round everything out. Then kids came into our lives and well, they need vegetables and don’t function well on just chocolate. Our oldest son has had a decorated medical history and what put us into action were the 13 containers of medications lined up each morning. I was missing something. Something huge that was causing his body to go berserk and I had to figure it out.

Knowing our son has an ultra-sensitive system, I knew we were looking at a long road ahead. The gluten-free (GF) diet seemed like a good place to start. I saw no reason not to try it – so many parents were celebrating the benefits, it couldn’t hurt him to try it, and with all our son’s health issues surrounding food, maybe it could help. I also decided to try it with him (after first researching GF chocolate and if wine was safe) so he wasn’t eating alone and to see if it could help me, too.

We figured out after only a few weeks that all the medication our son was taking was masking other issues – that his body was not able to accept wheat and gluten. The medications weren’t treating the main cause of his discomfort, just easing the symptoms. By eliminating gluten and wheat from his diet we saw an improvement in his energy, no more dark circles under his eyes, no more random eczema flare-ups, and most importantly, we were able to eliminate over half the medications he was taking each day. For me, it meant no more stomach aches after I ate, being able to claim a “regular” routine if you catch my drift, and not feeling as bloated.
Unfortunately fast food joints are extremely limited for GF kid-friendly food. Companies claiming to have a GF menu don’t take into account most kids don’t eat lettuce and that the general worker mixes batter-caked onion rings with the supposedly-GF fries. But the great thing is more and more education is happening surrounding the GF diet and it’s becoming easier to spot gluten and there are many more name brands (what I call mainstream foods) that are labeled GF.

FDA law requires food labels to list wheat as one of the top eight food allergens so it’s easier and easier to spot safe food. The internet is a wealth of resources for finding mainstream foods as well as specific GF brands. Our pediatrician recommended a pocket guide for taking with to the grocery store. I swap tips and ideas with other GF families.

Grocery shopping has become a game for me. Where can I find the best deal on the right products? Can I get free shipping? Can I find a mainstream brand instead that might be cheaper? It took a lot of research and a bit of patience to figure out what foods were GF. Now that we’re 9 months into the diet I know which brands are good and that makes shopping much easier.

New Mom asked if I had any final recommendations for food choices. I guess it’s pretty simple and you’ve heard it before: you are what you eat.

Just know you can be GF and also be an M&M…