The Pile

There is a pile in my basement.  It started off as one, single item.  That one, single item is on its way out, has a destination in mind and is simply waiting.  Then that one, single item became two and three and eventually, a pile.  And yesterday, I added something else to that pile.  My old and worn copy of What To Expect The First Year.  I placed the book atop the baby bath towels that now look impossibly tiny, yet once seemed to swallow Abby and Alyssa whole.  The towels were placed upon several receiving blankets that were the perfect weight to protect the girls from too much sun or a light fall breeze.  The blankets were placed atop the baby bathtub, the Bumbo seat and tray, the boppies, the bouncy seat and the Baby Bjorn.  Each item thoroughly cleaned, yet indelibly covered with sweet memories.  

Like the first time I placed Abby in that blue tub, her eyes its exact color.  The squeals of delight she let out as the water splashed on her toes, tummy and nose.  And even the last time I placed Alyssa in it, realizing that she was too big--and too capable--to need the confines of its plastic protection.  Into the big tub she went---joyfully!  The Bumbo seat, where both girls perfected the whole sitting up thing, transfixed by hockey games on TV or the lights of the Christmas tree.  The bouncy seat that became a fixture in our bathroom, allowing me to take a shower when I needed one as desperately as the baby needed a nap.  And the Baby Bjorn that didn't really seem useful until Alyssa came along and I needed two hands to help Abby yet still hold Alyssa.  She toured our neighborhood many times from that vantage point, the idea of her nestled so closely to me was incredibly comforting--even as I huffed and puffed up the hills with the extra weight of her warm body on mine.

Other vestiges of babyhood have disappeared as well.  The mobile that "Herc" broke (how Alyssa pulled it totally apart is beyond me!), the swing and even the changing pad that became obsolete pretty quickly as Alyssa figured out that squirming through a diaper change was a whole lot more fun than being peaceful and still.  To the floor we went for that chore.  Gone is the gigantic bink they give you at the hospital; neither girl liking it for more than a couple weeks anyway.  Packed away are my pumps; thrown away are all of the corresponding Medela bottles I used for months and months.  So, too, are the bottles Alyssa took--replaced with sippy cups and straw cups.  The crib and pack 'n play mattresses are both lowered and each week I clean out another drawer of clothes that no longer fit my Babe.

Yet walking downstairs and setting that book on top of that pile caught me emotionally off guard.  The first year is over.  Packed away in memories and pictures and experiences.  I wasn't expecting the reaction to be as visceral.  But there I was, in the basement, crying.  Over a pile.  I'm not an idiot; I know that Alyssa (and Abby too!) has to grow up.  I know she is a nearly-walking one year old with a mouthful of teeth and a headful of ideas.  I also know that there will be no more babies in our home...and although that is our choice, it still made me sad in the moment. 

The moments are so brief.  The crying all night long moments?  Brief (though not at the time).  The I wonder what her voice will sound like moments?  Brief (replaced with I wonder if there will ever be silence moments).  And in making this pile, I was reminded that these pieces of our kiddos' lives, once seemingly impossible to live without, are moving on to someone else who can use them.  For brief moments.

I'm sure it's no coincidence that I would find a perfectly-suited blog post on a friend's FB wall last week.  The week Abby and Alyssa turned 6 and 1.  The post was entitled something like "When Did I Last Wash Your Hair?"  And I thought it was a funny look at the life of a busy Mom who was so crazed she couldn't remember when she last bathed her kids.  I wanted to laugh, so I clicked on it.  Whoops.  No.  It was about not realizing that she had washed her daughter's hair for the last time because now, said daughter, could (and insisted upon!) do it herself. 

Abby now closes her door when she's getting dressed.  She works so hard to get her hair into a pony tail and select an outfit that matches and will earn my approval.  When she yells through the door, "I'm ready, you can come in now!" I open the door to a girl, beaming with pride.  She is, in that moment, both my little girl and far too grown up for my liking.  And I wonder, when was the last time you asked me to help you get dressed? 

We celebrate a ton of firsts, don't we?  We record them and mark the occasion.  But we don't do that with the lasts because we don't always know those moments are the last moments.  Like the pile in the basement, it creeps up on you.  One moment at a time until BAM, you're no longer rocking your baby to sleep as you nurse her.  One moment your tiny girl is in your arms and fits right there, the next, you carry her up to bed and there seems to be a mile of limbs and body and hair to hold.  One moment you're hovering behind the wobbly and excited steps of your little one as she attempts the stairs, the next, you're calling her to come downstairs for dinner.  One minute there's one, single item and the next, a pile of memories and baby needs.

 
The one, single item that started the pile?  Our family bassinet.  More than a dozen babies have used it, each of their names written on the bottom.  And now that bassinet is headed to my cousin for his first child.  And someday be the start of his pile, too.

While it might be nice to have that space reclaimed in my basement, I'm sure I'll be pretty thoughtful about having all that stuff leave.  And I'll be sure to mark the occasion, not simply let it slip by unnoticed.  It will be the last time that bassinet (and everything else piled on top of it) is in my house.  I'll notice.

Abby checking on Alyssa in the bassinet

The F Word(s)

Did you know that Abraham Lincoln had at least 9 failures before becoming President?  And I'm talking FAILURES.  Losing jobs, nominations, even being defeated in a Senate run.  Twice.  Ouch.

And yet his face still graces the penny and the five dollar bill.  The Lincoln Memorial in DC boasts more than 4,000,000 visitors a year.  Soooooooooooooooo, fair to say he managed to become a pretty big deal despite those failures?

Politics not your thing?  Well, Michael Jordan.  Did you know that he missed more than 9,000 shots over the course of his career?  Sure, that's more shots than the average NBA player even takes, but still.  How about 26 times, he was given the "make this shot to win" ball and missed.  He.  Missed.  But holy cow do we hold him up as one of the greatest.

Walt Disney (fired because he lacked imagination and good ideas), Oprah (deemed unfit for TV) and Elvis---they all failed, suffered serious rejection and probably, as taboo as it may be to utter, some hurt feelings along the way, too.

Who cares, right?  Why bother pointing out that they've failed?  Am I mean-hearted or cynical?  Am I somehow reveling in the idea that these folks who've been more or less placed on pedestals may, in fact, be somehow less deserving of said status?  Nope.

I'm pointing it out because failure is not fatal.  In most cases--don't make me go all legal-ese here and point out instances where failure is, in fact, fatal.  Let's go with that for the purpose of this post, shall we?  Alright, thanks!

And why do I care that failure isn't fatal?  Because this post is as much a note to me as it is to you.  I mean, I can't know your circumstances (unless you'd like to share them with me, and--by all means--do!), but I know mine.  And I know that I've been grappling with that F word for a while now.  And I'm grabbing it by its theoretical shoulders and shaking it.  It's been bullying me--or rather, I've been letting it bully me--for far too long.  And it stops.  Now. 

Raise your hand if you've been bullied too.  Go ahead.  I'm not judging.  I'm hugging.  And understanding.  And caring.  And challenging.  I'm challenging you to kick it to the curb.  I'm challenging myself to kick it to the curb.  We're stronger than our failures, aren't we?  Aren't we?  Yes, yes we are---that's the answer you were looking for, by the way.

So we've arrived at the point in the post where we meet Failure's friend, Fear.  The other F word.  Ugh.  Now that is a serious bully.  Talk about a 1-2 punch.  Blech.  Makes my stomach knot up just writing their names. 

Fear.  Go ahead.  Visualize what FEAR would look like if it was sitting next to you right this moment.  I bet you went to something ugly and dark and scary.  I get it.  It is fear, after all.  And that bugger is strong and unrelenting and sometimes (gulp) irrational.  Oh.  The horror of it all.

So Failure and Fear get together, team up into one crazy super villain and suddenly we're powerless to defend ourselves.  Or so it seems.  So.  It.  Seems.  And seems is the operative word.  F&F take up residence in our heads and mess 'em all up.  We don't think properly, we don't make sane decisions and we for darn sure don't let the spiraling out of control thoughts win.  Oh, wait.  We do.  Blech, I say.  Again.

If only we all had that Cher character in Moonstruck to slap us across the face and demand that we "snap out of it!"  And yes, I'm totally dredging up an eons-old movie reference there.  Deal.  But you agree, don't you?  Sometimes the best thing, the thing you need the most, is that kind of slap.  Maybe literally, too. 

I guess this post is sort of my own version of that slap.  No, I'm not slapping you--I'm slapping myself.  I've let Failure and Fear get way too cozy up in this brain 'o mine and it's time I tell them to get lost.  Beat it.  Scram.  Okay, now I'm going all 1950s here.  Scram?  Whatever---the point is, Fear & Failure need to pack up and go.  Fast.

The longer they stick around, the longer I see them as normal or familiar.  And Lord knows I don't want that.  I can't help myself when they're here and I sure as Sam can't help anyone else.  Mercy!  Now.  How does one evict Failure and Fear you might be asking.  Hell--I'm asking that, too. 

Thankfully, I went to church on Saturday and listened to Pastor talk about the loaves and fishes.  We've all heard the story.  But tonight's twist was less on the miracle of how so little fed so many, and more about the idea is that Jesus urged the Disciples to feed the people who had gathered.  "You do it," He commanded.  YOU do it.   Interesting.  It got me thinking about what I needed to do...not someone else, but me.  Myself.  I.  Taking action, making a difference.  Huh.

 

Back to this eviction process; it is up to YOU.  You have to be your own Cher, in a manner of speaking.  And if that seems too tough right away, let's crowd your head with so much other good stuff that Failure and Fear get all, "Peace out, Cub Scout."  Invite confidence (even if you have to fake it initially).  Invite happiness, success and experience.  Invite determination, dedication and ability.  Invite perseverance and a powerful driving force behind your goals and your actions.  Invite positive words, thoughts and people.  Invite a little patience, too, while you're at it.

I said that Failure isn't fatal.  And yet here I am, trying to get rid of it.  Confused?  Yeah, sorry about that.  See, the thing is, Failure may not be fatal, but if it's holding you back, that is pretty harmful.  So it needs to go, not because it's something we hope and pray we never encounter, but because it can, too often, handcuff us and prevent us from moving forward.

Alright, so you've invited all this other stuff, leaving little room for Failure and Fear.  You're taking a stand against this bully and you're looking at what can be rather than what can't be.  You're off to a great start.  Now what?

How about setting some new goals?  For me, the goals I set---and missed---are staring at me, taunting me with “You failllllllled, Amy.  You misssssssssed.”  And while trying and failing is infinitely better than not trying at all, maybe it’s time to try new things.  So I’m setting new goals.  And no, I’m not waiting for a new year or even a new month to start them (though the OCD part of my brain kind of wants to launch these goals on August 1).  I’m starting today.  Now.  With a small goal; read for 20 minutes before bed.  I can do that.  And the reading will be just as good for me as the feeling of accomplishment I’ll get from successfully completing the task.  And that will fuel me to do more, and more, and before you know it, I’ll be driving the Accomplishment Train and Fear & Failure will be growing smaller in the rear view mirror. 

That is, until they crop up again.  Because they will.  And all I can do when they do is read this post again, be smart and know that I’m stronger than my fears and that my failures alone won’t define me. 

Jalapeno Stuffed Chicken Breasts

Bar food.  First thing that comes to mind?  Other than "pairs well with beer."  Chances are wings are on the list.  Maybe potato skins.  How about jalapeno poppers?  Oozing with creamy cheese, a little crunch and a good bit of heat, too.  Did I mention the beer?  Cold and refreshing in an icy mug.....mmmm!

Well, that is certainly not a recipe for a well-rounded meal and I cannot, in good conscious, recommend such a meal.  What would people say?  Ha!!

So instead, how about if we take some of the elements and put a dinner-y twist on them!?  Introducing Jalapeno Popper Stuffed Chicken.

I came across this recipe (no, not during a "Pinning While Hungry" bender, thank you very much!) a few weeks ago and decided to give it a go.  I will say that I used fat free cream cheese and subbed in Panko breadcrumbs.  One was a noticeable difference, the other not so much (hint: it was the bread crumbs!).

This meal was easy to prepare, and, paired with veggies and a salad, it was a far cry from the grease-lined basket o' junk at the bar!  I will also say that if we make this again, we may lighten up on the amount of cheese; there was a good bit left over and we had some big pieces of chicken to stuff.  I mixed the left over cheese with a little ranch and hot sauce to use as a dipping sauce, but we decided we really didn't need it.

The chicken was moist with flavorful and just the right amount of heat.  Hot sauce be damned!

What You'll Need:2 boneless chicken breasts
6oz cream cheese, softened
3/4 cup Monterrey Jack cheese
1/3 cup jalapeno peppers, diced
1 cup flour
2 eggs, whisked
2 cups plain bread crumbs
olive oil
salt and pepper
kitchen twine or toothpicks

What You'll Do:Preheat your oven to 350 degrees

Make a slit in the middle of each chicken breast, not going all the way through, but making a pocket into which you'll stuff the cheesy goodness.  Season the chicken with salt and pepper.

In a small bowl, mix the cream cheese, Monterrey Jack and jalapenos until well combined.

Using your hands, stuff the cheese mix into the pocket in each piece of chicken.  You don't want it to be overly full, but don't scrimp!

Now, either tie or secure the chicken breasts closed with the toothpicks; whatever you've got!

Get your breading station together; each of the the three elements in its own bowl.  Dredge each chicken breast in the flour first, then the egg, then the bread crumbs.

Put those puppies in a screaming hot pan with a little drizzle of olive oil.  3-5 minutes per side should do the trick.  Then, it's into the oven they go to finish off.  20-25 minutes and about 5 minutes of resting before you tear into them.  The chicken is meant to rest.  Oh, fine, you can too!

I suppose that if you want to go for the bar vibe, you could crack open a beer, charge yourself way too much for it and stand in line for a while at the ladies room.  Or not.  Either way, enjoy  your dinner!