This Is Some Award-Losing Nonsense, Right Here

In honor of my shiny new super-organized (for now, but check back in 30 seconds) office, I present an entry without any topic at all. But disorganized, stream-of-consciousness writing is a valid art form as long as you do it while sitting in a chair, at a desk. FACT. Are you sitting at a desk? I have just legitimized everything you do today. You are a serious professional and nothing will change that. Go on, drip yogurt on yourself. You've earned it.

Apologies to the non-desk sitters in the audience. I was you! All the way up until yesterday! And while I will never forget my roots, I have already forgotten where I was going with this sentence. I'M AT A DESK! To the next topic! Hurry!

1) MY HAIR & ASSORTED AW SHUCKSING

Thank you to everybody who complimented my hair yesterday! In the old days, people used to have to write their own daily affirmations on their mirrors in lipstick. Now we can just post flatteringly-blurry photos of ourselves online. What a glorious time to be alive.

I will add the caveat that those cell-phone-mirror-reflection shots completely hide the unfortunate Chia Bangs, which yes, are still there and are still unfortunate. At my last hair appointment they were the first thing my stylist noticed, and was like: "This is because of the BABY, you know that, right?" I answered that yes, I did, sigh, hormones be crazy, etc.

She examined them closer and added: "But wow, I don't think I've ever seen them THIS BAD before."

*shoots Internet a LOOK, like, the hell?*

However! I will own that from slightly more far away, I am having a Good Hair Phase right now. I recently switched to one of those weird shampoo bars from Lush (the one for oily hair, for my scalp could slick down an entire flock of seagulls and some baby seals in the morning, AND YES I AM JUST THAT SEXY), and I cannot believe I never tried one before. I believe the technical term is "amazeballs." 

I weigh almost the same as I did the day I gave birth to Ike (oh yes I do), my chin is melting into my neck (I now stare covetously at other women's jawlines like I used to stare at anyone who had bigger boobs than mine) (which was everybody) and I have crow's feet that are more like octopi-spider-zilla tentacles, but dammit, my hair looks nice most of the time kind of.

Christ, I felt a lot better about myself approximately four paragraphs ago. Perhaps we should change the subject.

2) IF A BLOG AWARD FALLS IN THE FOREST...

Did you know I was nominated for a Bloggie this year? Me the fuck neither. 

Last week we attended Parents' Day at Ezra's school and another mother congratulated me for it. And I stared blankly at her because I had no idea what she was talking about, plus I always get momentarily disoriented when someone in real life turns out to be a blog reader, and I freeze and mentally go through my writing because 1) oh dear God, I hope didn't say anything stupid about them, and 2) oh dear God, this person has read approximately fourteen thousand words about my boobs.

Anyway, yeah. I was nominated for Best Parenting or Family Weblog, along with the Bloggess, Aunt Becky, How To Be A Dad and Parenting, Illustrated With Crappy Pictures.

I, uh, didn't win. OBVIOUSLY.

3) LUCKILY THE CRIB RAILS ARE PRE-CHEWED FOR HIS BITE-MARK CONVENIENCE

Oh hai. I am up to NO GOOD AT ALL.

I haz a plan. A terrible one.

LOOK AT WHAT I HAVE DONE.

LOOK AT IT.

'Sup, bro?

Nook

I bought a desk this weekend. I have not sat at a desk since 2006. April-ish, if I recall correctly.

I bought a desk at Ikea and a fake potted plant, came home and sorted through a good four years of clutter, pushed an (Ikea) dresser down the hall into the boys' room, which I traded them for an (Ikea) bookshelf that I pushed back into my room, my office. 

The blinds should be replaced and the walls desperately need painted; the stuff I hung up is stragetically cover up the worst of the scuff marks in the meantime. Everything else is just whatever I could find lying around the house, like a former remote-control organizer basket now holds envelopes, thank-you cards, my memory card reader and a bottle of fenugreek capsules. I'm storing pens in a candleholder because it seemed nicer-looking than a plastic Thomas the Tank Engine cup. I dunno. Maybe not.

It's nothing you'll ever see on some creamy yummy aspirational design blog. There's a litter box in the closet. 

Naturally, I love it beyond all sense and reason.

I Want To Belieeeeeeeeve

I have no idea how we got on the subject of Bloody Mary -- the ghosty sleepover dare, not the drink -- but somehow, we did. A little vodka may have been involved, but I am definitely sure that tomato juice and celery were not. 

Jason and I both grew up in very, very religious households, and because of this, had both achieved adulthood without ever -- EVER -- attempting the Bloody Mary game. We believed that just by THINKING about Satan or evil things, one was technically inviting demonic influence, or even full-on possession. That shit was real, man, in an incredibly literal sense, and the idea of actively baiting a ghost/demon/evil spirit like that was a genuinely terrifying prospect that neither of us would ever mess with. 

I have a vague memory of standing in a darkened bathroom after first hearing the story from my friends...and THINKING about maybe giving it a try, and the very second the idea popped into my head, a car drove down the street and a glimmer of the headlights flashed in the mirror and I freaked out and ran back to my room, hid under the covers and prayed for forgiveness and protection from my sinful wandering brain. 

That was farther than Jason ever got, however, and he admitted that he still couldn't bring himself to do it. Despite long since abandoning the fire-and-brimstone religion of our childhoods, and happily indulging in a steady TV/movie habit of supernatural horror -- we LOVE all that Paranormal Activity/American Horror Story/True Blood/Walking Dead garbage SO VERY HARD -- the Bloody Mary game was still something that genuinely freaked him out, because what if?

So obviously, because I am a complete asshole, I got the idea that we needed to confront that fear head on. Right then, right there. We were gonna walk into the nearest bathroom, hold hands and summon up that damned urban legend and finally put this ridiculous shared part of our childhoods completely behind us. Once and for all. Together. MOVE ON FROM FEAR. GROW WITH LOVE. ALSO I THINK THIS WILL BE SUPER FUN AND LATER YOU CAN BRAID MY HAIR.

At first -- and second, third, fourth, and so on -- Jason flat-out refused. No way. No way! He couldn't. He wouldn't. I made offers and promises and some very dirty bargains, but in the end I finally managed to convince him to follow me into the bathroom via a very persuasive argument of come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on (breathes) come on come on come on etc. 

We stood in front the mirror with the lights off. "BLOODY MARY, BLOODY MARY, BLOODY MARY!" I called out confidently; Jason slightly less so. I waited a few seconds and then switched on the light. Nothing happened. We'd done it! Two thirty-something parents of three had gone and played a made-up game most people stop being scared of sometime in middle school, and we survived it without a single jump scare or coincidentally-timed lightbulb flicker.

Afterwards, I was gleeful and amped up -- I felt invincible, free, reckless and daring. Like the first time I voted for a Democrat, or dropped a casual f-bomb into a conversation. Jason was...well, he was headed towards the liquor cabinet for another drink.

I followed him, giggling stupidly and trying to think of any other similar games we could play. Let's have a seance! Order a ouija board! Is The Exorcist on Netflix? Blair Witch? Candyman? ZOMG ADRENALINE OF THE FORBIDDEN.

Jason opened the cabinet. And then screamed and jumped backwards.

I remember screaming too, but I don't remember hitting the floor. But there I was, cowering behind the dining table and flat on my stomach with my arms covering my head, while Jason laughed and laughed and laughed...until he was on the floor too, because bitch, you TOTALLY had that one coming. 

Spurt

I posted this picture to Instagram a couple days ago, but I'm reusing it here because it's now the last-known photo of Ike without a ring of multi-colored bruises across his forehead. Which I'm guessing he'll be sporting for the next few months, at least. Oh my GOD, this child.

Last Thursday he started crawling on his hands and knees, pulling to a stand, making shaky (and mostly unsuccessful) attempts at cruising around the furniture, doing a combo wave/sign-for-milk thing with his hand and mimicking the words "kick kick kick" while, uh, kicking.

And I do mean, literally, Thursday. All of that. BOOM. I hadn't even lowered the crib mattress yet. I woke up with a little helpless baby and like, five hours later was the proud parent of a full-blown crazy person. Who is hellbent on injuring himself and/or eating random pieces of Scotch Tape he finds on the floor.

(Also: Mushrooms. Very big fan of sauteed mushrooms. Not such a fan of chewing the mushrooms, however, so every diaper change is like SURPRISE MISE EN PLACE!)

(That was gross and unnecessary, I'm sorry. It's just that Ike didn't seem to appreciate the cleverness of the mise en place joke and I guess I got a little huffy about getting the humor side-eye from someone whose butt I was currently wiping, and thus decided to inflict that terrible visual on y'all for validation purposes. Perhaps I'll try to work it into tomorrow's Top Chef recap as well. MOMMYBLOGGERS BE TALKING 'BOUT POOP ALL THE TIME YOU KNOW IT.)

(I could delete it, yes, but I'd have to come up with a better closing for this entry but Ezra just came out of his room wearing only his underwear and COVERED in ballpoint pen because LOOK I'M A TREASURE MAP, MOMMY. And indeed, there's an X on his belly and apparently some kind of sea monster on his left leg.)

(Seriously, where are my children getting their hands on all these stray office supplies, when I cannot find tape or pens or a goddamn paperclip to save my life? Jesus. Next time I feel the need to label some file folders I'm just gonna check everybody's pants first and go from there.)

More Real-World Style Tips From A Real-World Fan Of Occasionally Wearing Pants

Hey so remember the time I rubbed all y'all's faces in the fact that I got sent a heapload of free jewelry? And then was like, "okay I guess one of you can win some free jewelry too?" Yeah, so it turns out that a lot of you seemed to be very much in the pro-free jewelry camp (shocking!!1!), and also in the screw you, blogger, I can buy my own jewelry myself camp.

The post was a success, is my point, and I was then repeatedly asked to do another sponsored post/giveaway for JewelMint's sister site, StyleMint. Repeatedly! There is only so much resisting of free clothing with a side of bonus money a girl can do, you guys. 

So really, this is all your fault, if you think about it. DEAL WITH IT.

StyleMint operates the same way as JewelMint, only with clothes: Take a style quiz, get recommendations based on your answers, and every product comes with helpful Styling For Dummies suggestions to give you ideas on how to wear it and look like you have not given up on life. It's a membership site, so you can either treat yourself to something new each month or check in and opt to skip the purchase that month. (Maddeningly, despite very responsibly setting a reminder for myself on the first of each month in iCal, I have yet to take the "skip this month" option over on JewelMint yet because BUY ALL THE THINGS.) 

I was a bit hesitant about the StyleMint offerings because...well, they're designed by the Olsen twins. I am...not an Olsen twin.

In today's performance, the part of an Olsen twin will be played by Photoshop's shape tool, while the part of Amalah will be played by a hulking behemoth wearing too much jewelry and being vaguely threatened by a towering stack of cloth diapers.

So I was afraid that wearing something designed by an Olsen twin might result in something like this:

The giant sentient stack of vicious cloth diapers is probably unrelated to the shirt, BTW. 

I am happy to report that no one will be forced to see my midsection, as the shirts I ordered -- chosen carefully with the guiding style principle of Can I Breastfeed In It -- are downright roomy and forgiving around that particular, ahem, problem area. I can indeed breastfeed in them without destroying the necklines like I've done to dozens of less-stretchy v-necks. They also, as promised by the site's expert stylists, go with jeans. And also other jeans! Pants in general, actually. Which is nice. I think they might look kinda dumb with yoga pants, though not like that's ever stopped me before. 

(I wore one to New York this past weekend and while the top itself was super cute, I did learn the hard way that there is no cute top in the world that will EVER make having your picture taken next to a really handsome male model be a good idea. You feel badly about yourself and your neck then eat your feelings via the craft services table. But that's another sponsored post for another sponsored day. Alas!)

Anyway! TL;DR; just take me to the giveaway part, crazy lady: Two thumbs up, fine holiday fun. Get 20% off your first tee with code AMALAH20 between now and 2/29. AND YES, you can win any shirt of your choice by commenting on this post before Friday at noon, ET. Winner will be chosen at random and I will email you the good news and maybe even offer you some expert styling tips of my own for your selection. (HINT: IT PROBABLY LOOKS GOOD WITH JEANS. SHHHHH!)

Outside the Box

When the flyer came home in his backpack, I groaned. The Valentine's Day class party was going to have a "theme." A 1950s sock hop, with music and dancing. Dressing up in poodle skirts and "greaser" costumes was encouraged. Please remember that all treats must be store bought, not homemade.

Sometimes integration in the general education classroom sucks. No way would the room parents in special education plan something like that, with so many of the kids easily unnerved by changes in routine and costumes and noise and cupcakes frosted with Red 40 dye. But there was no party for the special ed class -- parties fall exclusively in the domain of the homeroom. The giant overcrowded homeroom, like the one I toured just over a year ago with other parents from the preschool program.

We observed it with wide, terrified eyes -- one mom grabbed my arm and squeezed it while shooting me a WTF look, because we were both thinking the same thing, because our kids won't be ready for this environment in a million billion years. The kindergartners moved around the room in quiet, controlled movements, focused on independent activities, tuning out their dozens of classmates all scattered in different centers, while the teacher quietly went over a reading activity with a small group in the corner. They were writing words in lowercase letters. I swallowed hard and pressed my fingers into my palm -- hard -- and fought back some tears and an overwhelming, crushing sense of Noah's delays.

The principal tried to assure us that the classroom didn't start out like this, that there's a huge difference between September and January, and that there's a huge difference between this January and next January, for our kids. I don't think any of us believed her. One year? No. A million billion. If that. 

I almost didn't send him in on Valentine's Day. I almost kept him home, just because. Why put him through that? He stayed home on Halloween and seemed downright happy to miss the party and the costumes, and it's not like he has any real grasp on Valentine's Day or why we made him write his name on 30-plus cheap-o Star Wars-themed Valentine cards the night before. When I mentioned the party to him, he seemed immediately on-edge and unsure, his THINGS ARE DIFFERENT alarm going off in his head. 

But then I suggested that Jason and I could come to the party, too. And he jumped up and down and clapped and threw his arms around me in a hug because YES YES YES, come to the party. Well then! I may be a bitter, paranoid pessimist sometimes but I'm also not an idiot: One day my very existance will horrify and embarrass my children, so I should accept my invites while I can still get them. 

We arrived, Noah was thrilled. He pulled us around the classroom to show off his favorite things -- mostly the shoebox full of insects that he almost knocked over while excitedly explaining the lifecycle of the mealworm to us -- and then introduced us to his teacher, who we have met many times before but who indulged Noah and shook our hands. "It's so nice to meet you," he said with a laugh. 

Some kids dressed up, some kids danced. Most of the kids put on the sunglasses they'd been given as a party favor. Noah picked his up and eyed them suspiciously. "I don't think I'd like to wear mine," he said. He put them down, then offered them to his tablemate who'd already managed to break his own pair. 

Absolutely nothing unusual happened, the whole time we were there. Except for the fact that absolutely nothing unusual happened. Noah was calm, Noah was happy. He knew and understood the classroom routine; he was good-natured and flexible when the routine was changed. He was not the loudest or quietest or the craziest or the weirdest or the shyest or the bossiest or any other -est. 

He has self-control. He has focus. He has friends.

***

This time last year, Noah was already really into Legos. But only if they looked like they looked on the box. He would argue with us endlessly if he disagreed with the directions, pointing over and over at the finished product on the box, adamant that we were telling him the wrong thing and trying to trick him into building something different. 

If we bought him general free-play sets of assorted blocks, he would study the pictures on the package and meticulously reproduce them, and then refuse to build anything else. 

This weekend he designed and built an alien ship, complete with working side doors and a cash register from the Krusty Krab for a control panel. Later he built the alien's house. It doesn't have a door because the alien is made of goo and can just ooze in through the window. 

I don't remember when, exactly, he stopped worrying so much about the box. It happened when I wasn't paying attention, I suppose. Sometime between this January and last. A million, billion years ago, apparently. 

I'M ON A TRAIN

Surprise! I'm currently en route to New York City. You know, for stuff. Just the usual glamorous kind of drop-of-a-hat jet-setting that I am all about. To call this trip "last minute," however, is such an understatement that I think it might actually be offensive to minutes.

I'm not even 100% sure I'm allowed to tell you anything else about the trip until later because I signed the contract thingie at 5 am this morning and therefore haven't the faintest idea what I just agreed to. I HAD A TRAIN TO CATCH AND ONLY THREE HOURS TO MAKE A 22-MINUTE TRIP TO THE STATION HOLY SHIT PANIC.

(If you don't see at least one Instagram photo from me later, best to just go ahead and assume the answer was "white slavery" and delete me from your bookmarks.)

Anyway, since we all know that each and every independent, unsupervised venture outside my own front door is an exercise in terror, allow me to recap the happenings thus far.

(NOTE: I have been on the train for 14 minutes.)

1) Spent entire night attempting to comfort violently teething baby. Failed miserably. Currently operating on 45 minutes of sleep. Goddamn vampire teeth. God. Damn.

1a) Alternated between coos of soothing lullabies and bitter regret over delaying trip until this morning instead of bailing the hell out last night. Because you just know the kid is going to sleep for 17 hours straight tonight, right, when he's 100% Jason's job? You know, I know, the entire universe knows.

2) Walked halfway to Metro station before realizing I'd forgotten my cell phone in my car, back in the parking garage.

2a) Went back to car, grabbed charging cable to yank phone off passenger seat and over center console to where I could rea...

2b) WHEEEEEE FLYING iPHONE SAYS I'M FREEEEEE

2c) Retrieved newly-shattered phone from under the car.

2d) Shit.

2e) It still works and all, but COME ON.

3) Failed to grab first seat I saw on train, thus ended up sitting backwards at one of those table things with a couple of the noisiest, chatty mcchattersons ever.

3a) They don't "do" Twitter. Just don't see the point, you know?

1) Well, to bitch about people like you, for starters.

2) Oh my God, if top-volume Adele can't drown out your insipid conversation, YOU NEED TO DIAL IT THE FUCK DOWN, YOU'RE SIX INCHES AWAY FROM EACH OTHER.

3b) The good news about sitting in the only backwards seat in the car is that I can type all the caps-locky shit I want about everybody else without worrying about my font size.

3c) The bad news about sitting backwards while hate-typing is the vague sense of impending motion sickness. Oh, God.

Official Post-Valentine's Day Recap ExtravaganzSQUIRREL!

I had a really nice Valentine's Day, thank you for not asking, but allowing me to pretend that you did. We're all organic and conversational up in this bitch!

For the first time in years, I was thoroughly pleased with my own gift-and-card-related offerings for Jason: 

Geeky Han-and-Leia bracelets from Spiffing Jewelry.

Super-highly-mature card from Wit and Whistle.

Usually I get completely out-gifted by my thoughtful, creative husband while I'm like: Here's a sweater? It's red? I bought you some chocolates but I ated them? 

Not that Jason did too shabbily himself, or anything. But he's an established pro at Valentine's Day -- gifts! flowers! candy! pampering! home-cooked gourmet meals and champagne! -- so I'm usually just happy to not suck too badly at it. 

Since the babysitter works on Tuesdays, we played hooky had a lunch date together at a restaurant nearby, a place we've gone several times with ALL OF THE CHILDREN in tow, and the hostess gave us a suspicious side-eye when she sat us, like "aren't you the ones wot show up with all them kids usually? where's your baby? oh dear God, did you leave him in the car?"

Then we both went to the Valentine's Day party at Noah's school, which thrilled him to no end, because NOW I CAN SHOW YOU OUR MEALWORM FARM, MOMMY. 

OH WOW, BUDDY, THAT'S SO COOL.

(Shudders.)

After that, we came home and basically counted the hours until bedtime, so we could enjoy a fancy grown-up dinner in peace. (And you know, rrrrroooomance.) We were almost home free by 7:30, because everyone was already acting so tired, so I corralled the boys upstairs and oh yeah, that's when the giant fucking squirrel got inside the house and holed up in the living room for awhile.

WAIT WHAT. 

I was rocking Ike to sleep when I heard Jason yelling -- and I mean YELLING -- a string of oh my Gods! and Ceiba! Ceiba! Ceeeeeeiiiiiiiibas!

I could tell he was trying really hard not to let a string of f-bombs loose too (FUHcrap! WHATTHEFUHHHreak!), what with the children still being awake and busy brushing their teeth, and I tried to figure out what in the hell he caught Ceiba doing that would warrant such an outburst -- actively taking a crap on the couch? Climbing in the fridge and helping herself to our creme brulee? Sneaking a cigarette? Doing DRUGS? WHAT?

I was completely stuck in that I Must Remain Hushed And Zen Despite All Hell Apparently Breaking Loose Downstairs spot, since Ike was alllllmost asleep and if I dared raise my voice to find out what was going on, I knew he'd jerk fully awake and be all, "Welp, that took the edge off! Let's party!" for the next five hours. So I kept my mouth shut and assumed that whatever it was, it had to be something Jason could handle. Plus, I still feel like he owes me a little bit for daring to be on a business trip right at the exact moment the oven decided to catch on goddamn fire. 

Jason appeared at the nursery door about 15 minutes later. He looked like he could use a drink or seven.

"We are never," he said quietly, so not to startle the baby, "EVER. Leaving trash out on the back deck again."

My mind flashed back to the morning of the shredded, scattered trash bag. Really? All that was over the dog getting into the trash? There couldn't possibly have been anything grosser in it than all the Disgusting Paper Towels of Horkgate Grossness that I had to clean up, unless, oh God, did Ceiba eat something dangerous? Is she...wait, no.

"I put the trash inside the recycling bin," I protested. It was a small bin, without a lid, but still too high for Ceiba to get into. "How did she get..."

"Not Ceiba," he said. "I picked up the bag and brought it inside so I could take it out front to the curb. And...a squirrel jumped out of it."

Not just any squirrel, apparently, but the biggest, fattest squirrel Jason had ever seen -- easily as big as our dumb little dog -- who had decided to take up permanent residence inside our trash bag. It took a flying leap out of a hole in the bag somewhere in the kitchen and took off into the house, eventually settling behind a bookcase in the living room. Ceiba (being dumb, little) ran after it, even though the thing could have probably bitten her head off, honey-badger style.

While I stayed upstairs, obliviously rocking Ike to dreamland, an epic struggle of Man, Squirrel, Pursedog and Broom had been going on without me. 

"I locked Ceiba in the bathroom and eventually chased it out the door with a broom," he informed me. "So it's gone now."

"Did you take a picture of it?" I asked, while shaking with silent, gasping laughter, as I am both 1) experienced when it comes to harmless yet spastic wildlife trapped in the house, and 2) an asshole.

No, he did not. I know! I'm disappointed too. That would have made it officially the best Valentine's Day ever. But I guess you'll just have to take my word for it that it was at least a pretty close second. 

Cooking With the Mighty Zah

Happy Valentine's Day, everybody! And good news! Thanks to the money-grubbing powers that be (AKA MY OWN SELF), I accidentally scheduled a sponsored post for today so y'all are spared having to read something goopy about my husband. Instead, we're going to talk about vegetables, thanks to Hidden Valley Ranch.

Vegetables are romantic, right?

(I know where your mind is going right now and I do not like it. I LOVE IT.)

Specifically, I'm supposed to talk about getting kids to eat their vegetables. LIKE I HAVE ANY IDEA. The only kid in my house who is currently not a jerk about consistently eating his vegetables is the baby. Because vegetables are pretty much the only food group he is aware of. 

I make all of Ike's food, and I...well, I make his food because I think it's fun. It's very easy and satisfying and it makes me happy to see my baby's face light up when he tastes something fresh and delicious and baby-birds his mouth for more, more, more. Plus, it's cool to have a baby who eats vegetables beyond the jarred green beans and carrots. There's only a short window before the Great Beige Food Phase, so I like making the most of it, while I can.

The variety in Ike's diet, however, is also owed to a certain older brother's tendency to grab random things in the supermarket and sneak them into our cart. So then it's like playing a game of Chopped at home, as I try to figure out what to do with celery root, kale, a pomegranate and two tomatillos. 

The good news is I can put that same big brother to work in the kitchen. My homemade baby food insanity is contagious, I guess, because Ezra absolutely LOVES helping me cook Baby Ike's Veggietabuls. 

First up, baby veggie stock (to cook stuff like rice, grains, lentils, etc.), adapted slightly from this cookbook. Peel a shallot (or leek, or some spring onions...something mild) and cut into pieces. 

Crack open a sweet potato like an egg. (Then, you know, peel and chop it like a sweet potato.) Use two for a more intense flavor, or if they're small. 

Add about six lightsabers' worth of asparagus.

Four cups of water. Bring to a boil, cover and simmer until the vegetables are soft. Mash and strain them. Refrigerate or freeze the stock; use the leftover veggies in a puree. The broth makes a nice drink option in a sippy cup, and will add extra flavor to bland baby cereals. Ezra also recommends adding pasta noodles or crackers to it for a big-kid lunch. 

Next up, roasted parsnips. Apologies for the blurry photo but OMG PLEASE DON'T PEEL YOUR THUMB OFF IN THE TWO SECONDS IT TAKES TO SNAP A PICTURE OMG.

Preheat oven to 400, arrange in baking dish.

Drizzle with olive oil and add some thyme or rosemary, if you want. Bake for 20 minutes, then puree in a food processor -- thinning with water or baby stock until it's the right consistency for your baby.

Don't forget to save some of the tiny extra-roasted end bits for your super-helpful assistant. They're the best part.

Finally, some old-fashioned basic steamed zucchini. All those springs and summers where I had more zucchini in my garden than I could ever possibly use? I just needed a Baby Ike, because that kid will eat a bushel a week, if I let him. 

But alas, it is winter, so I have no bumper crop out back. 

Luckily I have a REALLY good supermarket-sticker-remover at my disposal. The best place for the peeled-off stickers is your belly button, BTW.

Bring an inch of water to a boil, put (unpeeled) zucchini slices in steamer basket, allow your child to work at the stove because you are not a paranoid helicopter parent and he needs to learn to respect the heat and OMG IF YOU TOUCH THAT BURNER I WILL GROUND YOU FOR A MONTH OMG.

Steam for a few minutes until super-tender, then puree. Don't add any liquid to this one, but DEFINITELY let your preschooler man the food processor controls, because that's like, flying-a-rocket-ship-into-space level AWESOME.

Since we had all three batches going at once -- stock pot, steamer basket, oven -- we made everything here in a little over an hour. (After the zucchini steamed I added the rest of the asparagus to the pot and whipped that up, too.) Not too shabby.

I was going to make a mango puree for Ike as well, but decided Ezra deserved a little snack break. He ate the whole thing. This veggietabul business is no joke. 

Thanks so much to Hidden Valley Ranch for sponsoring this post, and to Ezra (who, despite SOME vegetable jerkiness, would admittedly eat a car tire if it was dipped in ranch dressing) for being so much fun to cook with. You're awesome, little chef-dude.  

This post is sponsored by Hidden Valley® Ranch. Discover how you can make vegetables delectable!

Technicalogical Difficulties

So I had this whole post planned for today, but this whole post centered around some photos I took with my real camera (I know, fancy, right?) instead of my phone, and thus everything depended on getting those photos off the real camera and I have now spent two! hours! looking for my memory card reader and then 20! minutes! trying every USB cable in the house, and yet the photos remain solidly, irrevocably trapped on the memory card because this is what happens when I try to like, not do things half-assed like usual. Lesson: NEVER TRY. AIM LOW. 

I'm telling you all this because I feel like I should at least earn partial credit. 

Anyway, here are some pictures I took with my phone.

And you know I have a good dozen more semi-identical photos of him sitting here in that same spot, making variations on the same two faces, so I would just count your lucky stars that I didn't post them all and move along. There is nothing to see here.

(DEAR MEMORY CARD READER STOP RUINING EVERYTHING WHAT THE HELL I JUST SAW YOU YESTERDAY COME BACK PLEASE)

(DEAR AMAZON KINDLE GOOD NEWS I FOUND YOUR POWER CORD SO NOW IF I COULD JUST REMEMBER WHERE I LEFT YOU WE'LL BE GOOD TO GO)

(DEAR A/C ADAPTOR OF MYSTERY PLEASE GIVE ME A HINT BECAUSE I'M TOO AFRAID TO THROW YOU OUT)

(DEAR SELF STOP YELLING AT YOUR ELECTRONICS THEY DON'T HAVE EARS)