Chicken Beans, That's What

Duncan and I spend a lot of time together in the kitchen. He, rummaging through the pantry for something to eat. Me, cooking, sweeping, loading the dishwasher. Sometimes he "helps" me make meals. He's a cooking commentator, really. He tells me what I'm doing, what I'm going to do next, and announces what a great job I'm doing mixing or chopping or whatever the case may be. If there's chocolate involved, he's also chief pourer and taster. Sometimes, he spots an ingredient he's not familiar with, which always surprises me from a kid who has asked for avocados, mangos and agave since he was barely old enough to talk. Such was the case with Garbanzo beans. I tried to explain that they have two names, Garbanzo beans or Chickpeas. He could never remember either name, and so decided they would henceforth be called Chicken Beans. It has completely caught on. At our house, at least.

Super high in protein and fiber, and really versatile, I'll try pretty much any recipe that includes the lauded bean. Here is one we've made for years, great for those who like chicken beans but maybe don't love the strong taste of hummus. Mmm, hummus. Anyway, use this concoction like you would egg or tuna salad, or even as a dip.

1 1-lb can garbanzo beans, drained
1/3 c. chopped celery
1 TB minced green onion
2 TB relish (dill tastes better than sweet in this)
3 TB mayonnaise, Miracle Whip or Vegenaise
1 tsp mustard (I like dijon, but any kind works)
dash of garlic powder or minced garlic, to taste

Combine all of it in a food processor, and blend to desired consistency, chunkier for a sandwich, smoother for a dip. Keep it in the fridge. YUM.

Proof

...that I've lost my mind. I have never wanted a dog, or any indoor pet bigger than a goldfish. I'm an animal lover from a distance (I do love horses, but then they don't live in your house). Dogs are fine, but they're stinky, hairy, loud and just in the way a lot of the time. Watching my parents trying to live with an insane Wheaton Terrier in their early empty nest days was enough to solidify my "no inside pets" policy for good. The dog would regularly do his business outside only to come back indoors with a few nearly-camouflaged poop ornaments still adorning his behind. And then he'd sit on the carpet. The same carpet my kids were crawling around on. {{Shiver}} Plus, as I mentioned, the dog had some screws loose, something my parents could not have known when they brought home an impossibly cute little puppy.

My life is nuts. Four kids. One baby. One son with special needs who requires a lot of energy. I am cross-eyed-dizzy loony-bin-ready pretty much all day every day. But here's where the dog thing starts to make some sense. I say, several times a week how much it stresses me that I can't be by Noah's side every minute. You never know when a seizure is coming. You never know how bad it's going to be. You never know when he'll figure out a knob or lock or handle or latch for the first time that lets him cut himself loose and run. And run. When he gets free, he has no sense of danger or direction and he doesn't answer to his name when you call him. He has only escaped a few times, but it was terrifying each time. Enter Service Doggy.

A lab or retriever, trained in search and rescue and in reading other cues or issues in a boy like Noah may actually allow me to breathe. No more guessing which way Noah went. No more wondering if, out of sight a few minutes too long, he's seizing and choking on something life threatening.

Questions remain. Can I deal with even more poop in my life? Can I handle more appointments for a 4-legged family member? Can my gag reflex be desensitized to, among other things, hot steamy dog-food-laced breath in my face? I don't know. Maybe. There may be a dog out there, getting ready to stand by Noah when nobody else can. But maybe a well-placed micro chip and several surveillance cameras are much less hairy solutions.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Snore...

I'm tired. So very, very tired. I have this baby who, although she just turned one, still has no interest in sleeping through the night. I'm coming up on 400 straight nights of getting up anywhere between 1 and 4 times. I find myself at my wit's end too early in the day most days, my patience and energy running out way before the daylight does. I start to complain sometimes, but I'm stopped in my tracks.

You see, I am a woman. In many ways I admit I've seen us as having gotten the short end of the stick. Between PMS, childbirth, post-partum blues, maintenance of the outward appearance, and many other things that come with being a woman, there's a lot to complain about. But there are blessings that no man can fully understand. Of six pregnancies, I've managed to grow and give birth to four amazing children. I've been able to give birth to all of them within the walls of my own home, and to experience the work that made their arrivals the sweetest bliss of my life. Something out of this world happens when you've felt the whole thing, every pang, stretch, burn and pain. There's a floating-above-the-earth euphoria that engulfs you the moment that baby arrives. For me, that is the closest to God and the closest to God-like that I've ever felt.

I am a woman, and so my friends are my sisters (and brothers) whom I love and to whom I am loyal right down to the last helpful thing I can say or give to them, even when distance or time may separate us.

I am a woman, and so although I face challenges imperfectly, I will, even crawling, keep moving forward.

I am a woman, and so when you suffer, I feel it with you.

I am a woman, and I am the glue of my family, past, present and future.

I am woman, and I believe I have not only a Father, but also a Mother in Heaven, who like most mothers, quietly and lovingly guides me, especially in those areas where women have stewardship.

I am a woman and I am tired. I'm busy and I'm a mess. But on the inside, I feel like this...

...and I wouldn't have it any other way.