Oh great Pioneer Woman, why must you be so cruel?

First you post a picture of this.

Which inspires me to make a second trip to Wegman's in one day just to get the right stuff to make this marvelous work of dessertship.


Then I spend gratuitous amounts of time (I'm sure would have otherwise been spent doing excessive laundry, dusting and molecular science) attempting to duplicate such a lovely creation.
And the result is this very suspicious substance.


The brownie part is really good, when you peel off the stretchy elastic caramel layer.

But peeling off caramel is just not an activity that should be humanly possible.

I don't remember my first communion much. I was probably nervous about having to do something that real live people were going to be watching and (horrors) taking pictures of.

How stressful.

But if that was how I felt, I know I remember that at least I liked wearing the dress. The veil not so much, (headbands are never comfortable) but the outfit felt special.

This was taken right before we left for the supercrowded overstimulating ceremony. It's the nicest shot I could get. Or at least the most sincere. The others look like I'm forcing her to smile while swallowing worms.

I thought I planned ahead. I had her try on the dress several times, (which I picked out since she wanted to spend zero time online shopping in the scary basement. Fine by me I thought) to make sure it fit ok. I knew it was too tight in the shoulders, but the alternative was to send it back for a larger size and an even heftier charge for shipping and stuff.

And we decided to go with too big rather than too small for the shoes. Smart right?

No.

It wasn't.

And I made the headband so I give her that one. The stubborn thing just wouldn't stay up. Though how could it when she wouldn't stop fussing with it? But all these factors coupled with a hot crowded church and a sensitive girl make a very unhappy 8 year old.

Halfway through the mass, I looked over at her to find the paper I used to stuff in her shoes to make them fit was shredded in her hands and all over the seat.
And she was crying.
What am I supposed to do? Wave my magic wand and make it all fit right instantly?
Poor first kid. They're always the most screwed up one.

But oh, the power of a Happy Meal.
Now that's magic.

She knows she is only going to wear this a moment longer.

This lovely dress I fell in love with and would wear myself if I could.

Katie's doomed. It is her destiny to wear it too and if it doesn't fit, I'll make it fit.

But poor Daniel.

What's wrong buddy? Just because you have been acting grumpy the whole day and I kept saying cut it out, you're not getting out of church on a Saturday for pretending to be sick
and I refuse to feel sorry for you.

C'mon, just smile once will ya?

And then, about three hours later, he threw up.

I'm a terrible, terrible mother.

Every year for Mother's Day, all I want is for Tim to cook me dinner.

And every year, something else comes up.

Plans change, life happens, and after 12 years of marriage, (well, I should only count the 8 years I have been a mother) Tim has always gotten off the hook for one reason or another.

This year, I got my wish.

Now one might guess that a person such as my husband may not be capable of "cooking" and that I should prepare myself for something frozen or some sort of pasta, undercooked and sticky.

I did. That's why I requested a No Pasta rule to begin this tradition. And this WILL be a tradition. Tim made the most delicious, moist and wonderful meal I've had in a long time and I'm ashamed to say I was surprised it came out so well. He cooked marinated chicken out on the grill. And since the last time we used that thing was years ago when we found a family of cute little mice in it, the memory of grilled deliciousness was long gone.

AND Italian bread. AND a salad. AND he set the table AND cleared it AND he did the dishes.

Now many people may be lucky enough to think "What's the big deal? My husband cooks all the time. Grilling isn't really cooking anyway." But this particular husband has been known to have to ask what kind of kitchenware to use to cook Kraft macaroni and cheese in and to get out a 2 quart saucepan to fry up some eggs. So to be simply impressed with his accomplishment is an understatement.

I savored this meal like it was my last.

Which it won't be. Because I've upped the stakes. Every year he has to top the last. His only condition was that on Father's Day, I change the oil in the car.

Leave the kids with Daddy for what will surely turn into hours of trying to decide which magazine to peruse while the nice mechanic fits us in his busy schedule?

Sound like a plan.

I've been taking a closer look at myself and my mothering skills with Mother's Day looming ever closer.

Am I as patient as I should be? Will my explosive temper be what my family remembers the most?

Am I as fun as I think I am? Or am I a boring fuddy duddy who's always too tired to play?

Do I prepare meals that will be remembered fondly by my children and someday they'll try desperately to duplicate them but they just can't seem to get it right?

Do I do everything I can to make sure my kids are safe and make wise choices?

Like not staying out in the sun without sunscreen?

Apparently not.

It must be genetic.