School is almost out for summer.

Gigi has a few more weeks and Lulu only has a few more days.

I’ve been looking forward to summer:  no lunches to pack, no homework to do, no praying to dear God that nothing forces me out of my car when I do the morning drop off in boxer shorts, crazy lady hair and bare feet.  So far so good.

Then, just when summer can’t get here fast enough, we have a day like today when I foolishly take Lulu bra shopping.

Holy smokes.

Drawers were opening left and right and 32 As through 46 Fs in pink leopard print, electric blue rhinestones and neon green lace were flying.

I’m pretty sure that saleslady never wants to have children now, and not because of my depressing cup size after having breastfed two kids.

(Goodbye, male readers.  Like my once ample bosom, It was nice having you around while you lasted.)

It was the perfect afternoon to give the girls an activity and to give you a giveaway.

I almost always make my own bread for lunches, but I also always keep a store-bought loaf in the freezer for emergencies.  Rudi’s Organic Bakery is one of the few brands that I feel really good about buying.  They use all organic, non-GMO ingredients, no high fructose corn syrup or trans fat.  They’ve also recently developed a gluten-free line as well that I’ve yet to track down but I’m excited to try.

Rudi’s is currently holding a Facebook promotion that is near and dear to my heart called “Let’s Doodle Lunch.”

Through the promotion, parents can join the Rudi’s Facebook community, upload their kid’s artwork, and get a FREE sandwich box with that art on top of the lid from now until June 30th.

The idea is to encourage healthy creativity, both on the sandwich box and inside.

The girls were totally into the idea of leaving their permanent mark on, well, anything that they can.

The true sign of razor-sharp focus is the sticking out of one’s tongue.

The true sign of pickle obsession is a pickle bandaid.  On an imaginary injury.

Once their designs, along with those done by other kiddos, are submitted, Rudi’s Facebook fans will have the chance to vote on their favorite design.  For each vote cast, Rudi’s will donate a $1 to The Lunch Box Project, a non-profit that is devoted to empowering schools to serve nutritious, whole foods to all students.

And to help you and your kids get started, Rudi’s is offering a really fun package to one lucky P&TY reader.

One winner from the comments below will receive:

• 1 art kit complete with paints, crayons, markers, etc., (note: we didn’t receive these art prizes for hosting this giveaway, but we do have this exact art kit and the girls love it!);
• 1 sketch pad for doodling;
• 1 black beret for creative inspiration;
• 1 reusable Rudi’s Organic bag; and,
• 2 free coupons good for any Rudi’s Organic product.

To enter, leave a comment below telling me your favorite sandwich combo.  (I do have another few weeks of lunches to pack, after all.)

Winners will be announced on May 18, 2012.  Good luck!

*Disclaimer: We got a few coupons for Rudi’s Organic products, but really I chose to participate so you guys could learn about the cool sandwich boxes and get the art kit!

It’s hot!

We’ve had record temps here in the Pacific Northwest for the last week.

You aren’t getting any complaints from me, though.

I dig walking to the gym instead of circling the parking lot in the rain for the closest spot to the door.  You know you do it too.

I dig pouring Pea Daddy the tiniest cup of coffee in the morning and the putting the rest in a jar in the fridge for a mid-afternoon iced coffee.  I need it more than he does.

I dig tank tops and exercising my right to bare arms.

I dig that The Bachelorette starts tonight and I’m over my self-imposed ban on trashy reality TV. (That has nothing to do with the heat or anything else relevant to this post, but is intended to inform Pea Daddy of my absolute control of  the TV between 9:30 and 11 p.m. tonight.)

You know what else I dig?

Eating banana splits for breakfast.

And I totally dig anything on a stick.

Banana Splits on a Stick

Inspired by this Pinterest find

Makes 6 pops

Print this recipe!

• 3 large bananas, cut in half
• 6 popsicle or lollipop sticks
• One 6 oz. container strawberry Greek yogurt*
• 1/4 c. chopped nuts
• 1/3 c. chocolate chips or chunks

*For a dairy-free option, try So Delicious Coconut Strawberry Greek Yogurt.  For an extra protein boost, stir in a tablespoon or so of your favorite vanilla protein powder.

Insert a stick in the center base of each banana half.

Using a mini-spatula or pastry brush, paint on yogurt.  Sprinkle on nuts and chocolate chunks or chips.

Transfer banana pops to a plate that has been lined with waxed paper and place plate in the freezer for 45 minutes or longer.

Remove and enjoy!

We love goodies like these that I can always say “yes” to.

Afterschool snack? Sure.

Dessert?  Help yourself.

Breakfast?  Don’t mind if I do.

And if you happen to be challenged in the front teeth department, there’s an easy solution for that.

Just slice, top and pop ‘em straight in.

If you got a problem, yo, I’ll solve it.

But not until after breakfast.

Even though Sunday won’t be my first Mother’s Day as a mother, it still feels very strange to me that there is a holiday that honors me for getting to experience the greatest blessings of my life.  For someone to give me a gift on top of that feels a bit silly.

That’s not to say that motherhood hasn’t had its difficult, gut-wrenching and even nauseating moments.

I can recall far too many ER visits in the past seven years.

An ill-timed blowout during my grandmother’s funeral.

The near daily exasperation from both girls’ inexplicable aversion to book jackets.  Every single book we own is naked.  And there are book jackets coming out of couch cushions, toy boxes and sock drawers.  I don’t get it.

But it’s better than being covered in poo during a eulogy.

No matter what kind of day we’ve had, whether we’ve lost teeth or just tempers, the girls and I have our nightly ritual that brings me right back to that spot I need to be as a mother.  A place of love, appreciation and silliness.  And it’s not just because I’m giddy that it’s bedtime and I’m guaranteed ten hours of peace.

My favorite part of our routine is after we’ve read our devotional, Gigi having explained effortlessly, with words that can only come from above, what the Bible verse we’ve read meant.  Meanwhile Lulu has done upside down “headstands” off the back of Gigi’s bed, her nightgown falling over her head and muffling her prayers.  Bless her.  Please.

I tuck them into their beds, their blankets up to their chins, a worn Lambie, ratty-haired Rapunzel and greying Blankie tucked under their arms.  Their freshly washed hair is splayed out on their pillows and I smell the sweet mingling of  shampoo and toothpaste.

A pair of little arms goes around my neck and a voice commands, “Eskimo kiss!”

We rub noses.

“Butterfly kiss!”

I flutter my eye against a small cheek.

“Real kiss!”

I press my lips against a small pair, a pair that presses back hard, in the hopes of capturing some gloss or lipstick.  Most nights I’m a disappointment in that regard, to daughters and husbands.

And then the final command:

“SNACK!”

We erupt into giggles, knowing there will be no snack, but amused by the nightly request nonetheless.

There’s a final “good night,” an “I love you,” and I turn out the light.  I glance back in the room as I shut the door, feeling grateful for the night light’s view of my sweet daughters burrowing in their covers, snug and most importantly, smiling.  They drift off feeling love and feeling loved.  As we all should.

Happy Mother’s Day, to my mom, and to all the other mothers out there.  May your day leave you feeling love and feeling loved.

And a snack wouldn’t hurt either.

There was a small casualty today.

It’s pretty much expected when I am trying too hard to do too much that something’s gotta give.

Something besides just trading out the color of headband I wore to the gym and considering that “getting ready.”  Or shaving with a squirt of Pea Daddy’s shaving cream and a dry razor.

Ouch.

I chaperoned Gigi’s field trip to the Oregon Garden today, but I was prepared.

I got up extra early to pack lunches, go to the gym, make breakfast and even get dinner started before we headed out.

Thanks for not pointing out that getting up fifteen minutes earlier would have meant time to make myself more presentable.  I knew I liked you for a reason.

The field trip was a success.

I made it home just in time to pack lunches for tomorrow.  To bandage my deep wound suffered from going off the trail to admire a coniferous tree.  To pop the lens back into the sunglasses I dropped on the asphalt (everyone gasped until I raised a hand and shouted, “Dollar Tree!  Dollar Tree!”).

I even found time to finish making dinner and photograph it to share with you, and then it was right back to the school to pick up Gigi.

And then I realized I what I forgot.

Pineapple.

Hey, at least it wasn’t a kid.

It’s a long drive back to the Oregon Garden.

And dinner’s ready.

Teriyaki Chickpea Stirfry

Serves 2-4

Print this recipe!

Teriyaki Marinade:

• 1/4 c. soy sauce, tamari or aminos
• 2 T. water
• 1/4 c. pineapple or orange juice
• 1 T. rice wine vinegar
• 1 T. maple syrup or honey
• 1 t. sesame oil
• 1 t. sesame seeds
• 1/2 t. minced ginger
• 1/2 t. minced garlic

• One 14 oz. can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
• 1 carrot, sliced
• 2 stalks celery, chopped
• 2 c. broccoli florets
• 1 c. pineapple tidbits (optional)
• 2-4 c. steamed rice
• 1/4 c. roasted peanuts, almonds or cashews

Prepare marinade by whisking together soy sauce, tamari or aminos, water, juice, vinegar, maple syrup or honey, sesame oil, sesame seeds, ginger and garlic.

Add chickpeas and allow to marinate for several hours or overnight.

Lightly coat a large skillet or wok with cooking spray or a spritz of oil and place over medium high heat.  Stir fry carrot, celery and broccoli until slightly tender and then add chickpeas and marinade to pan.  Continue to cook until sauce comes to a low boil.

Allow to cook for 8-10 minutes or until sauce is slightly reduced.

Add pineapple, if you remember, and cook for another minute.

Serve over hot rice and top with peanuts, almonds or cashews.

I know my family.

They will notice something is missing.

Funny, they don’t notice that I’m walking around with one lens in my sunglasses, a massive puncture wound in my leg or broccoli in my teeth.

Or at least if they do, they don’t say anything.

I knew I liked them for a reason.

Pea Daddy gave me a gift card, among other things, for my birthday.

With it, I bought a pair of really tight, electric pink pants.

I blame Pinterest, fashion blogs and my bolder, younger friends for their influence.

Funny how no one ever pins or posts pictures of five year-old saggy, faded jeans that you have to trim every few months when the strings along the hemline are fraying down into your $5 flip flops.  And that is why this will never be a fashion blog.

While for a usual date night, I’d trim my jeans, don my flip flops and we’d head out for Chipotle, something stirred me to be a little braver this year.

So last night I poured myself into my pants, put on two belts (one to keep them up and one for fashion’s sake) and we headed to Portland.

Toro Bravo is a highly renowned tapas restaurant in Northeast Portland that I’ve been eyeing for awhile.  It’s been visited by Mark Bittman of the New York Times and is well known for its flavorful, inventive dishes made with fresh, local and sustainable ingredients   And its sangria.

Pea Daddy offered to drop me off to line up while he found a parking spot.  I think he just didn’t want to be seen with my pants and hoped to dart into the restaurant after I’d already been seated.  In a dark corner.

Though we were seated immediately, this meal would have been worth the wait.

a) complimentary pumpkin seeds and peanuts (better than a bread basket);

b) sangria (x 2);

c) pickled vegetables and olives (we thought of Lulu amidst all the delicious, briny pickles);

d) artisan bread & olive oil (okay, so we ordered the bread basket) + groundwork’s greens with hazelnuts & asparagus (fresh and delicious);

e) potatoes bravas (which to my delight tasted like a gourmet version of supermarket deli fried potatoes with ranch);

f) churros with dipping chocolate (Pea Daddy wisely insisted on this).

I didn’t truly know it before last night, but I love tapas.

Little tastes of everything give you lots of freedom on your plate.  They give you room to explore.  To let go of inhibitions.  To release fears of committing to something you may or may not be able (or even want) to finish.

To discover you might just be a little braver than you thought.

As we strolled around Portland after dinner under a huge full moon, we saw people in lopsided sombreros that were getting more lopsided as the night went on.  In prom dresses with slits up to belly buttons.  In flannel shirts and tribal tattoos.  (Everything you see on Portlandia is 100% true.)

Suddenly my really tight, electric pink pants felt really conservative.  Maybe it was the adventurous meal or the sangria talking, but I made Pea Daddy avert his eyes as I ducked into a store.

And bought another pair of really tight pants in electric blue.

And a belt for keeping them up.

I like birthdays.

Last night I was in heaven as I sat on the couch in my free Alaskan Airlines t-shirt and washed out, grey boxer shorts with my recently pampered feet on the coffee table.  I’d just done the unthinkably torturous act of  rewinding and rewatching my favorite performances on Idol twice.  There was a slice of cake on my left, a slice of “can’t complain because it’s not his birthday” husband on my right.

It was then that I knew how hard today would be.

No “Happy Birthday” would play when I scanned my membership card at the gym.

No one would pretend to look the other way when I licked the syrup from my breakfast plate, used up all the hot water in the shower and pretended to lose my tweezers, razor and dental floss.

No one would immediately surrender when I reminded them, “Hey, it’s Mommy’s birthday” during a dispute over whose turn it was to play Angry Birds.  Seriously, it was my turn.

But I still have an inbox full of sweet messages from you, my tweezers are mysteriously still missing and there’s half of this in my fridge.

Thank you.

My heart has never been fuller, my eyebrows have never been hairier and seriously, carrot cake has never been this spectacular.

Spectacular Carrot Cake

Makes 1 9-inch cake

Print this recipe!

• 1 lb. of carrots, peeled and cut into 1-2 in. chunks
• 3 c. almond flour
• 1 1/2 t. baking soda
• 1 t. salt
• 2 t. cinnamon
• 1/2 t. nutmeg
• 1/4 t. ground ginger
• 1/3 c. maple syrup
• 1/4 c. olive oil
• 3 organic eggs or egg-replacer equivalent
• 2 t. vanilla extract

Cream Cheese Frosting:

• 1 c. organic or non-dairy cream cheese
• 1/4 c. organic butter or vegan margarine
• 1/4 c. maple syrup
• pinch of salt
• 1 t. vanilla extract

*This cake is gluten-free, grain-free and free of refined sugars.  Rather than modifying this recipe to use flour, you can find a more traditional carrot cake recipe here.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Grease two 9-in. cake pans and set aside.

Place carrots in a pot or in a microwave-safe bowl filled with about a 1/2 c. of water.  Steam carrots until soft, approximately 10 minutes.  Using a food processor or high speed blender, puree carrots, along with remaining cooking water, until completely smooth.  Set aside.

In a large bowl, combine almond flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger.

In a smaller bowl, beat together maple syrup, olive oil, egg or egg replacer and vanilla.

Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients and combine.  Fold in pureed carrots.

Divide batter evenly between the two cake pans.

Bake for 28-32 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center of each cake comes out clean.

Allow cakes to cool in pan for at least 30 minutes before carefully transferring to a cooling rack.

For frosting, beat together cream cheese, butter or margarine, maple syrup, salt and vanilla.  This recipe will yield enough to frost just the top and the middle of the cakes, so double it if you want to frost the sides too.

Or eat more than a spoonful.

Okay two.

Use half of the remaining frosting to frost the first layer of cake.

Top with the second cake.

And frost with remaining frosting.

I grated a little extra nutmeg on top because I love nutmeg more than any person should.

And because I love you more than any person should, I cut into my birthday cake at 10 a.m. to show you how great it is.

Only for you.

No other reason.

Some may frown upon eating cake for second breakfast.  Especially the day after your birthday.

Those are probably the same people who want you return to self-grooming, putting on clothing that you didn’t elicit while signing up for a credit card and only watching amateur karaoke performances once.

But I bet if you give them a slice of leftover birthday cake, they’ll get over it real fast.

At least, I hope so.

On Wednesday, I’ll be 34.

And since birthdays are all about indulgence, I hope you’ll forgive me if I indulge myself for a minute here.  I promise there’ll be cake in it for you later.  Just not the corner piece.  That’s mine.

Pea Daddy and the girls have been trying to get me to tell them what I want for my birthday, but it’s nothing they can wrap up and tape their homemade card to.

They can’t buy what I want.

I want to shamelessly wear even more pink.

I want the patience to wait with a smile for shoes to be tied on their own, even if it takes twice as long as doing it myself.

I want to walk to the park, even if it’s chilly and rainy and my hair will frizz and my nose will run.

I want to go out for ice cream.  I want to ruin my dinner.

I want to smile so big my eyes squinch up and if it gives me wrinkles.  I want more smile lines.

I want to read one more story, even if it’s late and I’m tired and hoarse from doing the voices.  I do the best grandma voices.

I want to continue to share my life here, without fear of judgment.

I want to continue to share my life here in a way that brings me joy and just maybe someone else too.

I want to concern myself less with myself and concern myself more with Truth.

I want to measure my success by how my husband, my daughters, that woman in the mirror and my Creator feel about  me.  And only by that.

Nothing.

Else.

Matters.

I want to love this beautiful life even more.

At 34.

At 64.

At 94.

And that is all I need.

Well, that and a homemade card.

And the piece of cake with the most frosting.

Thank you for reading.  Thank you for letting me share.

Thank you for helping me grow.

I am always up for a challenge.

Entertaining the girls by myself this weekend while Pea Daddy was away on a business trip?

That’d have been way too easy.

Hosting their first sleepover ever while being the sole responsible adult?

Bring it.

At first, things were going far too smoothly.

Personal pizzas were built and cheese and pineapple were openly shared.

Ropes were jumped, hoops were hula-ed, nails were sloppily painted the most God-awful colors imagined.

And though I had to put the kibosh on a little potty talk, hearing the word “boobs” a couple times was hardly anything to get frazzled about.

But then we had root beer floats.

Call it excitement, call it bad luck, call it being blinded by Gigi’s florescent green toenails, but something in Lulu possessed her to dump her entire float onto the living room carpet.

Fantastic.

I thought about swearing off food in the living room, swearing off sleepovers and swearing off root beer floats.

I definitely thought about swearing.

But instead I said the only thing I could.

Aw, boobs.

Root Beer Float Popsicles

Makes 4-6 popsicles*

Print this recipe!

• 1 can or bottle of root beer**
• 1/2 c. non-dairy or organic milk
• 1 T. maple syrup
• dash of salt
• 1/4 t. vanilla extract

*I have this popsicle mold from Tevolo, but depending on the size and type of popsicle mold you have, you may have to adjust the recipe accordingly.

**Pea Daddy’s favorite brand of root beer is Virgil’s, but I also like to use Zevia Root Beer to make these a low-sugar treat.

Fill each popsicle mold 1/3rd of the way full with root beer.  Freeze for 20-30 minutes or until mostly frozen.

In a small bowl or liquid measuring cup, combine milk, maple syrup, salt and vanilla.  Remove popsicle mold from freezer and  pour a small amount of vanilla mixture into each popsicle mold to make the “ice cream” layer.  Freeze for an additional 20-30 minutes or again, until mostly frozen.

Fill each popsicle mold the rest of the way with root beer.  Insert popsicle sticks and freeze for an additional hour or two or until completely frozen.

Why didn’t I make these before the sleepover?

To think, my carpet might have one less stain on it right now.

Still, I realize that carpet can be replaced.

Memories can’t.

The girls are already asking when they can have another sleepover.

I’m always up for a challenge.

And a popsicle.

Bring it.

There’s a sign that hangs in our breakfast nook that says, “God grant me the patience to endure my blessings.”

Amen.

There’s no question I’ve been blessed.

There’s also no question I have my patience tested.

Daily.

I can endure batting helmets worn to the grocery store in case there’s an errant pitch in the produce department.  I have no idea why two pairs of sunglasses are needed, though.

I can endure digging the purple cat multivitamin out of the bottom of the bottle when a yellow bear just won’t suffice.  And a yellow bear never suffices.  (Anyone want to buy some yellow bear vitamins really cheap?)

I can even endure the yogurt handprints on the furniture, the early morning pickle requests and the high heels strewn all over my closet.  Hey, somebody should wear them.

What I have a harder time enduring is bedtime.  By eight o’ clock on our totally nap-free days (which is every day, since 2008), the cranky factor is high (both the girls’ and mine) and the patience is oh so thin.

So after our nightly devotional and tuck-in, Pea Daddy takes over, planting himself in the hallway between the girls’ room with a book, and I retreat downstairs to relative peace and quiet.

One of my blessings falls asleep immediately.

One of my other blessings puts up a bit of a fight.

Every night.

Pea Daddy can handle most requests for water, extra stories and lullabies of “Soft Kitty.”  But some nights I have to gather all the patience I can and head back upstairs to diffuse The Bomb.

And this week, things got nuclear.

“I DON’T WANT MY ROOM TO BE GREEEEEEN!  I WANT MY ROOM TO BE PURPLE!”

“Lu, it’s almost nine o’ clock, you have to go to sleep,” I explained.

Yeah, like that was going to work.

“BUT WHY DOES GIGI GET HER ROOM HER FAVORITE COLOR AND MY ROOM IS GREEN?”

I tried to be logical.  Again, a dumb, dumb move.

“Well, we painted both of your rooms before you were born.  It just turned out that pink ended up being Gigi’s favorite color.”

I should have stopped there.

“We didn’t know if you were going to be a boy or a girl, so we decided to paint your room green.”

Then, an ear piercing scream.

“THIS IS A BOY’S ROOM?! YOU PAINTED MY ROOM A BOY COLOR?!”

Stupid, stupid, stupid me.

“Lu, I tell you what, we’ll paint your nails purple tomorrow, okay?  Then when you want to see purple, all you have to do is look down at your hands.  But now it’s time to go to sleep.”

“I DON’T WANT TO GO TO SLEEP IN A BOY’S ROOM!  I WANT TO GO TO THE PAINT STORE AND GET PURPLE PAINT NOW!”

I mentally took inventory of the amount of money in my wallet that was available for the Swear Jar before saying,

“The paint store is closed, Lu.  Tomorrow we’ll paint your nails.  Maybe this summer we can paint your room.”

Sobs.  A snotty hug.  And finally a little peace.

Until the next morning.

A little before 6 a.m.

I heard a small voice call out,

“Mom, my favorite color isn’t purple anymore. It’s red. Let’s paint my room red!”

We started with her nails.

God grant me the patience to endure my blessings.

It’s a girls’ night again.

Because I am a jerk 99% of the time, I decided to do something kind for my husband and relinquish my ticket to tonight’s Coldplay concert so he could take one of his guy friends along instead.

Truthfully, I am not all that much of a Coldplay fan and find that if I listen to more than two of their songs in a row I am overcome with the need to immediately sit in front of a sun lamp, hold a puppy and chase an entire bottle of Vitamin D pills with a jug of Sunny Delight to try to cheer myself up.

And so I’d rather stay home with the girls where there is a steady stream of estrogen and good cheer.

Mani and pedis in shades of pink with Hello Kitty faces on our big toes to boot.

Movies that involve either Barbie, princesses, mermaids or all three.  Yes, there is such a thing.

Dinners of strawberry filled-salads.

But to round it all out, something bold, like firing up the grill and throwing on a few juicy slabs of….

…plantains.

We’re wild women.

Plantains, if you aren’t familiar, are banana’s starchier cousin.

They’re not nearly as sweet, not nearly as banana-y and not nearly as easy to peel.

*Not a plantain.*

But they withstand heat well, and make a great starchy side when you are wanting something other than a potato.

Something a little frutier.

And dare I say, something a little girlier?

Grilled Plantains

Adapted from Cooking Light.com

Serves 2-4

Print this recipe!

• 2 soft black plantains, peeled
• 1 T. coconut oil, melted
• 1 t. brown sugar
• 1/2 t. cinnamon
• salt to taste
• chopped cilantro, optional

Prepare grill to medium heat.

Peel plantains and cut in half lengthwise and crosswise. Cut plantain halves in half crosswise. Combine coconut oil, cinnamon and salt brush evenly over cut sides of plantain sections.

Place plantain sections, cut sides up, on grill rack.

Grill 7 minutes or until flesh is soft. Brush plantains again with oil mixture and turn sections over; grill 3 minutes.

Sprinkle with extra cinnamon and salt and garnish with cilantro, if desired.

Though these were a fantastic side to our salads, they’d also hold up to heartier fare.

Beneath some zesty Tempeh Chili.

For dunking in a Spicy African Peanut Stew.

Or even in place of fries next to a homemade bean burger.

But we were far more ladylike tonight.

Until Gigi decided to teach Lulu how to burp the alphabet at the dinner table.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

Which I think was exactly the point of girls’ night in the first place.

No Sunny D needed here.