erm. well, then.

My apologies for the quiet, while armies of viruses held delighted, ancient victory dances on my bones.

ow.

They appear to be done now. But it was still radio silence today, while we disconnected all electronics, allowing the Window Guys to replace the window that has been broken for lo, these many frigid, blanket-wrapped winters. I used to shove towels in front of the study (a.k.a The Room In Which Children Do Not Go, Hey You - Get Out Of There) door, and no longer shall we do so. Heck, we shall now revel in the window-ness of the study, examining this new brave new world, in which windows keep out rain, cold, and even tilt - the better to be washed, my pretty.

Which may have a drawback, but I'm too giddy and unvirally-danced-upon to think of it.

But, returning to the viruses: it is possible, based on unverified rumors and highly reliable seventh-hand sources, that the flu has arrived. Again. Or possibly for the first time - I'm unclear. Not having had the energy to call my doctor, or even finish sentences for a couple of days, I really couldn't tell you exactly what walloped me, but I will say this: the next time that I mock the Man for being highly incompetent at being sick, laugh at me. Because on the day that I finally realized that I was running 101F, I then prudently decided to finish the filing, wrap some overdue baby gifts, and work on the next (and last!?) OT post for this blog. And pay some medical bills (hence, the filing). And send a couple of ridiculously overdue emails - and oh, I'm sure there was something else, but then I fell over.

Surprised. While on the phone, and trying to think about something involving a calendar.

This morning, I came to myself, skull splintering with a migraine, but nonetheless more mentally coherent than I'd been for much of the week. And was seriously tempted to roar. Somewhere in that week, the Eldest had swung on a towel bar (not built to hold your weight, buddy - whoops!) and we were now sans bar but plus bruised kid, I'd missed a chavruta, a playdate for the Eldest, a night out with a friend, getting the car inspected and....my MENTAL HEALTH DAY. Which the Man and I had scheduled (!) last week, and now poof! gone in a cloud of virus.

sighhhhhhh. But hey, at least I can now wash the study window, right?

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The question of feeding Imperfects, when mama Imperfect is non compos mentis, is hardly difficult. The Man makes pasta, cuts up cucumbers, tofu, and salad dressing features in there somewhere. The boys love it, but personally, I rather prefer the Man's crockpots.

Honestly? I have no idea what the Man made, but I can tell you that something smelled absolutely, unfairly delicious at one point. I fell asleep while trying to persuade myself to go and eat some, and woke up to find that someone had scraped the pot clean. Nonetheless, at some point it occurred to me that I ought to be making food, so I staggered out of bed and made this:

Comfort Food Soup:

adapted from Jeannette Seaver's Soups, this serves roughly 4-6 people

3 Tb oil

2 tsp caraway seeds (yes, yes, I know: caraway. But hang in there with me, people, somehow this actually works)

6 cups water

2 potatoes, cut small. Wash the taters first, if you like - I don't bother peeling them. But do cut them up small, because that helps.

1 onions, also cut up small (okay, diced)

1 package hot dogs, cut up small (because if you don't, the kids will pick out the hot dog bits. The goal is to make it sneakily tricky for them to just eat the 'dogs)

2 bay leaves

salt and pepper to taste

In a large pot, heat the oil. Add the caraway seeds, and when they begin to pop, toss in and saute the hot dogs and onion. When the onions are really nicely browned, add the rest of the ingredients. Stir, scraping the bottom of the pot to get all of the best bits off. Bring to a boil, then pop a lid on top - at an angle that will allow some steam to escape. Simmer happily for 25 minutes, then serve.

And serve again. And possibly, depending on the populace at your dinner table, stick an elbow in the spot best suited to letting you serve yourself fourths. Assuming, that is, that the viruses have stopped parading and are too busy doing something cirque du soleil-ish to stop you.

the uneven days of winter vacation

where one boy gets dressed, and the other - well. Our daily rhythms have vanished in a startled, grinning burst of winter break.

We've had playmates, the Eldest's first and eminently survivable sleepover, houseguests and important self-discoveries, such as my discovery that, if I must have reading glasses, then by golly: purple.

And houseguests (hat-making, farm-building, kid-loving guests) and chatter and amazing sushi and ooooh-warm soups and holy-freakin-moly cold, and - yes - talk. The Man and I had a series of those spiraling, serious conversations about how we parent, and how we want to parent. We believe strongly in explaining our parental lines in the sand, but that's developed into a compound 'do X, because otherwise there's natural consequence/irate parent consequence Y' approach. Which does not work so very well.

When you do that, the Eldest informed me, I can choose between the consequence and what you want me to do. He raised his eyebrows, waiting while I winced. Tucked under his covers, the Toddles looked up, clear-eyed and thoughtful. Good to know, I admitted. I'll have to think about it. I certainly don't like being the kind of parent who threatens. The Toddles shook his head. Me, neither, he told me.

Wincing, laughing, the Man and I began hammering out a new plan. Possibly involving a lot of hugs. Certainly requiring us to be honest about what we are capable of. Which one of us is more likely to be set off by a recalcitrant, naked person at 38 minutes past bedtime? Which parent can best manage a shrieking, you're so unfair rant over toothbrushing? A shoeless, shirtless small child whose backpack and lunch are still politely at the top of the stairs, while parental teeth grind, trying to herd the kids to the car - and the morning commute? We sat and talked on the futon, on the kitchen floor, curled up in bed, talking about the boys, about who we were, the parents we want to be, the people that we are - and could be. It was necessary, cathartic, and brutally honest. A good way to end the year, we told each other, and talked until a small boy arrived to insist that someone curl up with him.

And then it was quiet.

But in the quiet, gears turned,

How does it work? the Eldest mused, and ran for paper and pencil. He drew carefully, copying sculpture titles, the artist's name, and the details he could find. Oh, said a venerable gentleman observing one sculpture. It's using gears. He looked at the Eldest, to see if the child appreciated this bit of wisdom. Having just fought a round of the duh* wars, I held my breath. But the Eldest merely looked patient. Yes, he said. And there is the motor. And do you see the two springs?

...eyes looked,

taking notes on the wonders of rocks. The Eldest spent a full hour, drawing, wandering, exclaiming. My favorite is the aquamarine from Brazil, he told me. I rather liked some of the lapis lazuli, myself, but was struck by some of the more bulbous rocks. The Toddles, drawn to the meteors, stroked them comfortably. He showed me their inclusions, but discovered the joys of grin-and-duck when I aimed the camera at him. Urgh.

....hands worked,

[this photo blocked until Gamma has received her birthday gift]

And, alas, worked some more. This project took over three weeks, as the Eldest designed, budgeted, and redesigned once his materials arrived. And then, ack! had to re-engineer his work on the spot, as we learned some rather basic lessons about wire. But, said the Eldest, I wonder if we can do things with wire like Arthur Ganson does?

When we took Gamma's birthday gift to the experts (help!), we picked up some supplies. Maybe. Not, I suspect, as effectively as Ganson, but let's try and see, I said. Doubtfully.

...and oh yes, snow fell.

It's been a snowy pair of weeks, with bone-chilling winds. But snow somehow transforms teeth rattling cold into fun. So, the boys happily shoveled the walk on Thursday, stopping periodically to fling snowballs. It's not the best snow for snowballs, I was informed. It's too fluffy! But they cleared the sidewalk and stairs regardless.

Cheeks glowing, the snow critics headed inside for hot soup (see below) and onion tart. And a sense of deep satisfaction - right until the moment when the smaller critic was informed that he was overdue for a nap. [insert wail, whisk and roar here]

Folks, I'll be back with Part Two of the OT/sensory integration story, but for now, I'm off to help the Eldest sort recycled (okay, rescued) glass beads. He's singing quietly to himself at the table as he works, and his peaceful pleasure, the quiet, satisfied vibration of his work ripple outwards. In the kitchen, washing lettuce, I find myself smiling.

And then, he looks up. I love you, Mum.

My throat tightens, thickening. I love you, too, kiddo.

It's been a thoughtful, honest, loving - and as always, slightly cranky- end to the year at Chez Imperfect. With any luck, we'll begin the new year as we've ended the old one, ripe with the awareness of our gifts, and ruthless in considering our needs. But before I head over to join my order-from-chaos kidlet, I did want to say:

from all of the Chez Imperfect denizens, we wish you all a happy new year, rich with ripples of love, satisfaction and the work that makes us sing. And, of course, the imperfections that make us shine.

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A Wintry Day's Soup:

3 medium potatoes, washed and chopped roughly

2 large onions, or 1 large onion and 1 (washed) leek, chopped roughly

7-8 Jerusalem artichokes, a.k.a. sunchokes, washed and chopped roughly

1/2 inch ginger root, peeled and sliced into thin strips, or 1 tsp ground ginger

1 can of white beans of your choice: navy beans, chickpeas, butter beans, even Roman beans are good here. Drain and rinse.

salt and pepper to taste

3 bay leaves

6-8 cups water, or vegetable broth

1/3rd cup leftover white wine (or cooking wine, if you are so equipped)

4 Tb olive oil

optional: a sliced carrot

Saute fresh ginger and onions/leeks in oil until browned. (if using ground ginger, add when adding the rest of the spices) Add potatoes and Jerusalem artichokes, beans, spices, wine and enough water to cover the veggies by 1 inch. Let simmer for roughly 20 minutes, or until the potatoes are quite cooked.

Puree. Return to the stovetop and simmer for perhaps 5 minutes, adjusting seasonings. Serve hot, wishing you hadn't eaten all the garlic croutons yesterday. I like sprinkling them on top, said the Toddles, wistfully. Can you make some really, really quickly? And be done making them already?

Um, no.

*in which one side offers various sarcastic, oh jeez that's so OBVIOUS sorts of comments, while the other side suggests that perhaps those are, um, obnoxious. If not also disrespectful and somewhat indicative of the opinion that He Who is Dismissing is far superior than the Dismissed.

dinner? anyone?

Note to self: anyone making a highly aromatic soup on a fast day, gets what she deserves.

(siiiighhh)

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Badly Timed, Deliciously Smelled Tomato Soup

(serves 4)

6 cloves of garlic, smashed and peeled

2 tsp cumin seeds

1 stick cinnamon

3 slices of ginger root, matchsticked (note: smaller or larger slices as per your ginger-lovin' preferences)

2 cardamom seeds

1/3rd tsp coriander seeds

3 bay leaves

3-4 Tb olive oil

4 nearly overripe tomatoes (or canned equivalent), plus 28 oz diced tomatoes

salt and black pepper to taste

4 cups water/broth

toss spices and oil into a large pot, and let them heat - and start sizzling while you finish smashing and peeling the garlic. Fling the garlic in as you go along, because surely dinner should have been on the table 20 minutes ago? And hey, isn't anyone setting the table?

While you holler for the kids to come and bring plates, forks, knives and spoons to the table, roughly chop the fresh tomatoes, if you are using any, and toss those in. Remind the boys to bring glasses, also, while you open the canned tomatoes. Stir the pot, toss in anything remaining, cover and abandon to simmer while you go and chivvy the troops.

And dig up the napkins - how on earth did they end up down there? Hmmm. Resist the urge to go and find the guilty party (and congratulate him on his creativity), because at this point the soup's been simmering nicely for about 20 minutes, and you need to find a stick blender.

Use the stick blender.

Remind the children that dinner is traditionally eaten at the table. Remind them again. Disentangle the younger one from his Lego, and airlift him to his seat. Pour soup, and pass bowls of toppings, like cubed avocado, the slightly crushed tortilla chips from the bottom of the bag, bits of cucumber, and consider the days when you might've plopped sour cream on top.

Note: if you have, for some unimaginable reason, just discovered that your defrosted salmon went into the oven with a lovely pomegranate sauce (open bottle, pour) with a hint of plastic (take scissors, release salmon, release plastic), then possibly you are 1. overtired and 2. could happily dump a can of small white beans, great Northern beans or another mild white bean into this soup. Cook briefly, puree and serve with salad and maybe some of Gamma's improbably good croutons. Or, consider some leftover chicken, shredded and added post-puree, or possibly as a topping.

Note the second: this would never happen to me. Nope. Nuh uh. And especially not after a long, thoughtful conversation with the Man whilst returning home from Rosh Hashana, in which we identified a prompt 6 pm dinner as being the key to many happy widgets. Like timely bedtimes, less tired children and smoother evenings and mornings. Nope. I'd pick that plastic out before it melted into an alarmingly viscous sauce and swirled into the lovely pomegranate stuff. Yep. That's what I'd do.