The Little Red Hen

Since experiencing a serious life change, my mom has been adapting. She is a damn chameleon. She is working on living a positive life, full of exercise, and free from carbs. I'm proud of her. She is strong and rising above. But I can not, will not, support her new carb free life. Mostly because I am jealous of her self control. I have to draw the line somewhere! A girl needs her cheat days!

After visiting my little sister in Utah, my mom returned home with a simple, no knead, 4 ingredient, homemade bread recipe. Its no surprise that she went to Utah and came home with a recipe of some kind. That's what the Mormons do. Feed you. Bless you. And feed you some more. Thank god too, cause my skinny mom needed some bread. Some blessings. And some more bread.

Anyways. When my mom walked into my kitchen with this recipe and ended her carb free hunger strike- I was like hell ya. Lets bake and laugh and eat.

It was all fun and games until we realized that the bread dough needed to rise over night. Bummer.

I woke up yesterday morning feeling like I had just had the worlds funnest one night stands. After having a slumber party with my kids and my mom, I woke up to just my kids and a text message from my mom....


Mom: don't forget- put it in a cast iron pot with a lid

Me: Um. I don't own a cast iron pot. I'm not a pioneer. And the last time I was at girls camp was circa 2001.
Mom: Use a f*cking pot. Follow the directions
Me: Um. Okay. I'm not making any promises. A pot is very different from a dutch oven. What is all this flattening and proofing and rising business???
Mom: OMG. You can saves lives but you cant bake bread? Just put it in the oven and bake it @ 500 degrees

This is what happened.

rising and proofing

no dutch oven- no problem. i just used the insert from one of 100 crock pots, and prayed it wouldn't crack and/melt at 500 degrees

inside my 500 degree oven

out of the oven. note the melted lid handle. yep. that happened.

it must have been delicious. as evidenced by the scraps left for me on the counter by the animals at my house
thanks guys. i feel like the little red hen.
 

It looks like I can save lives AND bake bread. Hells. Yeah. Oh. And mom, a little lesson in one night stands...If you stick around the morning after you might get to enjoy some homemade, delicious, Mormon bread.

To my little sis Jillian and her Utah family- thank you for the bread recipe. I will think of you and pray before I enjoy this delicious, righteous treat. But. Please don't send anymore recipes. My ass doesn't need the empty carb calories. I live in Wisconsin and I have no self control.

From Wisconsin, with love,
-A

 

Child Labor, Training, and Love

You know you have successfully reached adulthood when the most exciting thing you have to look forward to is shopping for window blinds. Yep. My life is riveting.

My week in review and a look ahead,

My kids are rotten. 90% of the time. So. In an attempt to teach them all a lesson, I have been hounding their little asses to help me around the house. Normal parents call it "chores." Crazy people call it "child labor" and take pictures and laugh like the wicked witch of the west. Yeah sure every kid needs to learn responsibility, yada yada yada, but I'm on a mission to make them as miserable as me. You see. I hate housework just as much as they do. I'm looking at this as a partnership- the more I make them do, the less I have to do.

its about time he earns his keep and does his laundry

laundry butt

So while my hubby rambles on about politics and government, I am following my kids around the house with a camera and a chore list. Yesterday it was Hudson's turn. I was tired of his adorable laziness and his desire to play with toys- all over the house. I don't know who he thinks he is, a 2 year old?

Lucy and Kane are proving to be a little bit harder to crack. They are manipulative little demons. They are skilled and quick to execute their trickery.

Just this morning, as I was waking my 4 year old beast for school, she started to fight, writhe, and wail- "I hate you. I hate school. I wanna sleep for 2 more minutes!" yada yada yada.....

My response, "too bad. lets count.... 1, 2, 3, yep that's 14 more years of this crap. So wake up and you will be one day closer to moving out!"

She doesn't know it yet. But she has a long list of "chores" waiting for her when she gets home that probably wont teach her a thing. But. It might be fun to try.



pay no attention to my huge thighs, im working on it!

Since the excitement level in my life is borderline pathetic, I have decided to start training/running. Not running around the house with my head cut off, I am pretty good at that already. But training for a purpose. A race. A 5k. A half marathon. I don't know. Something. I hate it. I hate running. Almost as much as Lucy hates waking up in the morning. But I am determined to learn to like it. Or die trying.

Yesterday I had to break in new running shoes. Instead of running on the treadmill and watching trashy reality TV, my preferred method of "training." I forced myself outside, into the fresh air, to run by all the farms we live by. It was nice. I wasn't able to catch up on any Real Housewives or the Kardashians, but it was nice. The fall air was crisp and gloomy. Just the way I like it. The landscape was beautiful and refreshing. I even stopped by the horse farm close to our house.

You cant hear them, but they are yelling, "hey fatty thought you were running."

On my run back home, while listening to the dark sultry music of Adele, I couldn't help but think. Think about where I am in my life. Where I want to be. What I want to accomplish. Whats important to me, yada yada yada.

I may hate running. But I feel better once I am done (I hate when skinny people are right). I think it is helping me to refocus my life. Focus on whats important. Focus on the things I can control, and take medication for things I can not. I always like my kids a little bit more when I get back from a run. And I am starting to feel a little bit sexier for G. Running may just be what the (crazy) doctor ordered for me to handle all the stress I carry in my heart these days. And all the voices in my head.

If running doesn't help. Then G, and my kids are screwed. Cause that means, I am just too crazy for help. Wish them luck.

Loves.



-A

Flies and Honey

I decided to go into work tonight for three reasons: over time. to avoid hellish bed time antics with thing 1 and thing 2. and to avoid watching the presidential debate.

2 of those 3 things did happen. I made some extra cash. I didn't have to fight with the little Schuey's to go to bed. But. EVERY TV in the ICU was tuned into the debate.

Arg. I hate when I have to contain myself in public just because hospital policy says so. It is so f-ing annoying.

If Human Resources tells me one more time that I have to stop yelling at the TV in my patient's rooms and telling people how stupid they are- I am going to freak the F out.

Wake up Republicans. You are about to vote for the anti-Christ. He is a rich, hippocritical, pretentious a-hole who interrupts worse than my 4 year old. Hey jackass, the PRESIDENT is talking. SHUT UP!

He obviously learned nothing in Mormon Sunday School. Or Seminary. The golden rule means nothing to him. The still small voice is not helping him to choose the right.

C'mon Mitt, pull your magic underwear out of your ass and move on. I'm bored already. The (has been) Mormon in me is ashamed of you.

Politics aside, what happened to charity being the pure love of Christ?
Or service being the hands of heaven on earth?
What about feeding the poor and healing the sick?
What about honesty, stewardship, integrity?
I do believe that Jesus himself taught his disciples to be fishers of men.To love one another, as he had loved them. To lead by example and spread the word of God. The word of Love. Service. Gospel.

Hey Mitt. Word of advice. You are going to have way more missionary opportunities, and perhaps higher ratings, spreading love and empathy than you ever will casting judgement and blame.

My grandfather, an amazing Mormon Bishop, used to say, "you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar."



Peace and Love,
-A

Ghetto Spooky

A few weeks ago my good friend Keri, who happens to also be the health unit coordinator for my ICU, asked me and big daddy G to check out a Haunted Bed and Breakfast she had heard about. With G's birthday in October and us always looking for an excuse to get a baby sitter and disappear- we were all in. I didn't really ask Keri much for details. That was a mistake.

Keri made all the arrangements, I just handed her my credit card. I figured she had her shit handled. Its basically what she does for a living. She is a COORDINATOR. Hello. Duh. Yeah. Uh. Huh.

Anyways. I took some time off of work last weekend and we left the kids with enough food and water to last the weekend. We were anxious, but excited to get away. G is usually up for anything. I, however; am a scardey cat who is afraid of her own shadow. SO.  I was anxious. G was ready for a cocktail.

Twitter post @mamaschuey: On my way to a haunted mansion for a romantic getaway with big daddy. I hope the ghosts like my new lingerie. #imafraidofthedark.

We met up with our party of friends to start our spooky weekend. Our 4 couples basically booked the whole haunted mansion. This mansion, and it's ghosts had no clue what they were in for. And apparently, neither did we.

This place was beautiful. Beautifully restored, manicured, and maintained. Ghosts and all. But the ghosts weren't as spooky as the location of this beautiful, haunted mansion. No one mentioned it was smack in the middle of the Milwaukee Ghetto. I bet you all the ghosts that haunted this mansion actually died on the streets out front.

The good sports we are, we figured it couldn't be as bad as it looked. The place was packed with people. And by people, I mean none of them looked dangerous enough to offer me drugs or try to shank me. They didn't even offer us real alcohol. It seemed harmless. Really.

Twitter post @mamaschuey: I guess these ghosts are Mormon. Huh. Who knew? #imthirsty.

 

We toured the mansion and all its spooky beauty before we were forced to endure a live production of a dinner theatre that was meant to reenact Sherlock Holmes and his trusty sidekick Watson. What really happened resembled more of a bad PBS special on Sherlock Holmes and old London, England. If Mitt Romney caught wind of this act, he would for surely pull all funding. Just saying. Hokey. But a real nice theatrical college try.

Since the night was young and G was getting older by the minute, there was no booze, and no real ghost sighting, we all decided to head downtown for a good time. Forgetting our ghetto location, while sitting outside discussing our new plan- many people reminded us that we shouldn't hang out on the street.

Smarter then the rest of my friends, I decided to hail a cab. You cant really hail a cab in the ghetto. So I used my iPhone to track one down. Smart.

While in our 20 minute, expensive cab ride out of the ghetto and towards the promise land of alcohol and college kids, the cabbie insisted that we not try to walk home but call him back for a safe ride. Very nice of him. The conversation went a little like this..,

Garth : "So I shouldn't walk down the street at all?"
Travis (Keri's man): "Not even me? For a quick smoke?"
Cabbie: Looking at G and Travis, "Maybe for a quick- no. Not even you. You smoke on the porch!"

G getting the low down lecture from our trustee Pakistani cabbie. Can you say BFF?

 

Unsure if I should laugh or cancel my reservation, I decided to get drunk instead. That way. I figured I would snore through any attack by ghosts or gang members. Win. Win.

Not. Back in our gorgeous Victorian bed and breakfast suite, I started to hear unfamiliar sounds. Scared. I wouldn't use the mirror riddled bathroom or leave the bed- fear of the lava eating ghost monsters. I laid in bed, trying to sleep through the scratching and pounding sounds that would turn out to be just Travis- being an asshole. Mind you, G did nothing to protect me. In fact, he pushed me towards the side of the bed closest to the ghostly sounds. LOVE.

Hung over and exhausted the next day, we all gathered around the dark Edgar Allen Poe themed breakfast chamber for bad coffee and french toast. We all shared the spooky happenings of our nights: some of us got lucky, some of us got spooked. Others slept like shit. It was money well spent. Really.

Happy 37th birthday to my handsome husband. I love you. But next time, you get to sleep by the ghosts.
xoxox
-A

Deal Breakers

On the surface my life seems to be slowing down. Settling down. I am no longer living in fear of the next earthquake that might shatter my world. I'm sure glad the (has been) Mormon in me had enough food and water saved for these last few months. Because, I hardly left the house. And when I did, I usually forgot to put a bra on.

My parents divorce is the new normal. The new normal feels weird. Wrong. Inconvenient. But. Its my life. My new life.

It would be nice if all the water I have been treading these past few months made my legs look like a pro-tennis player. But we cant have it all, can we? I will survive. I am surviving.

All this change is changing me. Helping me to appreciate the people in my life. What they have to offer- their flaws, but also what they bring to my life.

It has been a year since this picture was taken. A lot can happen in year.

There is no certainty in the life. No one thing is permanent. I never know what tomorrow will bring.

I can say, however; that I believe that my love for my children is as permanent as it can get. Despite my constant frustration with their little attitudes, I love them. Forever. But. They better never do drugs. Or listen to country music. Those are deal breakers.

I believe that my parents love me. Always. Their choices are their choices. Any disappointment I have doesn't change my love for them. I am who I am today, because of them. Both.

But. They better not ever do drugs or listen to country music either. Deal. Breakers.

peace and love,
-A

Twitter Me

So. I finally joined twitter. So if you weren't getting your fill of me from Facebook or my blog, and you aren't completely bored with anything that I have to say. Check out my daily rants on twitter, too.

I am fully aware of my aura of arrogance. But I prefer to think of it as having a schizophrenic personality with a false sense of self importance.

But whatever.
Peace-
amanda @mamaschuey

Missing the Bus

 

This is what missing the school bus looks like.

 

I forgot to set my alarm last night.

And since Lucy is a marathon sleeper (once she finally falls asleep),

we opened the front door this morning to see the school bus driving away.

 

Perfect.

 

That isn't the funniest part of the story.

 

I have only been to Lucy's school one time- Back to School Night. And since we just moved and I have a terrible sense of direction,

I was forced to use google maps on my iPhone to help me navigate my way this morning- in my glasses and pj's, with no makeup, and no bra.

 

But guess what? We beat the bus and Lucy got to school on time. Yeah, I think I am still in the running for mother of the year.

 

Happy Columbus Day Everyone.

-A

Suburban Paradise

We have officially settled into our new home.

We are very happy. We searched all over our little town for the perfect house- and settled in a quiet little suburban neighborhood.

A neighborhood full of families, perfectly manicured yards. And Republicans.

Don't get me wrong. Everyone is very nice. They all came by to welcome us to the neighborhood. The next door neighbor man even ran over when Lucy drove her bike down the culvert in our front yard- head first. Such a nice man. I'm not sure where Lucy's parents were, but thank god he was around.

The kids have all made friends. And Lucy rides the bus with all of her classmates.

Its been really great. So far. You see, G and I haven't been very honest with our new (republican) friends. Mostly because G is afraid of conflict. As I jog by all the Mitt and Ryan signs, waving to my neighbors, I wonder- how long before the cat is out the bag?

Yes. I let my kids dress themselves. Yes. Sometimes, my kids ride their bikes without shoes. You might even catch a glimpse of a naked child, as they escape the house after bath time. My dog, will on occasion, shit in your yard. Hudson ate some sidewalk chalk this afternoon and Lucy smacked a bee hive with a broomstick.

Look out. The riff raff just moved in next door.

Don't worry. You are always welcome. Just bring some wine. And if you go out of town, we will definitely get your mail. But watch out for the dog shit.

Oh and. By the way. We are democrats.

peace and love,
the schueys

Friday Night

It's 9:22pm on a Friday night. Hudson is sound asleep. Lucy is too. As excited as I am, I'm kinda bored. I don't know what to do with myself. I'm thinking about waking everyone up to play with me.

Yes. That is my finger- tickling Lucy's nose. She is just lucky I don't have a sharpie and she isn't old enough for me to put her bra in the freezer. If she wasn't in my bed, I'd probably stick her hand in hot water.

Pajama Day

I feel like I have joined the land of the living dead.

My level of exhaustion is impressive. I am changing lanes and merging into full on chronic fatigue syndrome. All thanks to Lucy.

Lucy is a fighter. A warrior. A warrior princess who only gets stronger by sucking the life force out of sleepy, zombie parents.

Every night, during our bedtime battle, I fear the morning. I fear the alarm. I fear the land of the living.

I appreciate all the suggestions and concerns of my friends and family. Yes. I have done some Internet research. Yes. I have tried naps. Yes. I have tried no naps. Yes. I have tried locking her bedroom door. Yes. I have tried it all. She is impermeable. I bet you that my little bedtime warrior has the power to convert Mormon Mitt Romney to Pro-Choice.

I decided last night, while pretending to watch the presidential debate, that if the government needs any help with prisoners of war, they could always send them to my house. I will lock them in a room with Lucy. And she can water board their asses until they crack. If that doesn't work. Well, then I can take them to work with me and they can answer the call lights of deranged patients for hours on end- since I am too tired to.

Anyways, as I continue my daily battles with Lucy, I tell myself that I should take more and more pictures of her. Pictures that are speechless, still, and sweet. Pictures that will capture the moment and document a lifetime. Pictures that will hopefully, one day, help me to look back and coo like a baby. Remind me of the love I have for her. Remind me that all of these sleepless nights, battles, and tears were worth it. Hopefully, my (dark) angel will one day make me proud. Cure cancer, fly to the moon. Hell, just sleep through the night. And wake up human.

 

Lucy had pajama day at school. So if you need me, just look for the zombie mom still in her pajamas. Yep. That's right. I'm in my pajamas too, its only fair.