My latest obsession...

you know, aside from vacuuming, mystery novels and all things British...

Dates.

Now, sadly, there is not a photo to go along with this post. Because let's face it. No matter what kind of lighting or backdrop or artful arrangement, when you attempt to photograph a dried date...?

It looks like something that SHOULD NOT be put into your mouth.

Never-the-less, they are delicious.

Especially, as I discovered around Christmas, if you cave to the higher prices and buy Medjool dates.

Oh my.

Like candy.

Which I've come to realize is less about how sweet they are, though they are sweet, and more about the chewy-stick-to-your-teeth-like-caramel thing they have going on.

So good.

And worth rationing out as I have done.

But I'm afraid I have come to the end of my little jar and must determine where they can be bought post Holiday season...

I will let you know.

Some belated Valentine's day treats made by Gigi and E 

and a random thought on parenting...

Do you know I would be a terrible single parent?

Like ter...ri...ble.

I'm not knocking single parents, mind you. I think they are incredibly capable and brave people. I am just saying I am not one of them.

This I know.

Doing double duty? 

Yeah. Not this girl.

Maybe, you know, if I had to. But things would probably get ugly lop-sided. Ugly fast.

Maybe it's "Mommy guilt". Or maybe it's thinking too much. Or maybe it's having read an improbable amount of parenting books.

I don't know.

But I tend to approach most situations where E is concerned with a how-can-we-minimize-the-risk formulation.

My husband by contrast?

Well, his middle name is risk.

Case in point?

Training wheels. He took them off E's bike when she was barely 4. And you know what? She was ready. 

Another case in point?

The TV remote. He felt E needed to learn how to use it. I myself would have been fine running into the family room every 5 minutes when she needed help with volume or pausing something or even opening the DVD tray. After all, we didn't need anything getting reprogramed or reset to Spanish or something. But once again, she was ready.

And just recently?

 Math grades. Since we are homeschooling and she's an only child and easily moved to tears when things like subtraction don't come as easily as, say, addition I figured we wouldn't do letter grades. Or percentages. We could even say we were just being all modern and non-traditional about it, if we felt like explaining it away. But Josh apparently felt different. Or maybe he had no feelings at all. One day he simply explained to her the concept of getting 100% on her math pages; meaning not making any mistakes. And since then it has become a daily challenge for E. A successful challenge. She does so much better because she knows we are keeping track.

Novel, huh?

Not really. That's how grades work. I thought the risk of discouragement would outweigh the benefit of self-competition but I was wrong. 

Maybe I subconsciously bought into the whole self-esteem thing?

Then again, maybe not.

As I said, I am just always looking to minimize the risks.

But life is a risk.

Certainly being a parent is. Whether you are solo at it or not.

I'm just so thankful I have a partner who does the whole, rhetorical "what's the worst that could happen?" thing a heck of a lot better than I do.

Or E would probably have training wheels forever.

Coconut cream and blackberries for breakfast.

So good.

Especially when it is -4 outside.

Don't ask my why that makes a difference.

It just does.

Because.

It's -4 people.

Things that inevitably happen when my husband works 48 or more hours straight:

First and foremost I go insane.

Some household disaster occurs. Dishwashers overflow. Carbon Monoxide detectors malfunction. The toilet clogs. The computer hard drive self-destructs. I throw out my back. It snows ten inches.

This time it is my daughter's digestive tract that stages a revolt. While we are on our first playdate of 2015. Maybe our first playdate of the whole winter.

I hear the word diarrhea about 300 times. Like an endless, loop recording.

This is followed in quick succession by these stupefying phrases: "I wonder when I can have guacamole chips? I wonder when I can have a cupcake? I wonder when I can eat my Valentine's candy?"

I ignore each of these and their myriad repeats. For the most part. But each time I hear them I must admit a little bit more of my mental stability is chipped away.

Then there are the cat complaints. The cat who is "doing this, doing that, sitting here, licking there, clawing my legs, biting my face, basically refusing to be a docile lump I can man-handle at will and I feel the need to tell you about it like it's the first time. every. five. minutes."

Finally, we arrive at the cabin fever portion of the 48 hours. Namely being trapped indoors all day, each day, during this ungodly cold spell.

The only thing we can think of once the school subjects of Spanish, Science, Reading, Phonics, Spelling, Handwriting, Math, Typing, and Piano have been completed, the daily chores have been accomplished, painting and Play-doh-ing have both been suggested and undertaken, is to ricochet a bouncy ball here, there, and everywhere in the house. 

Then we are totally and completely surprised every time it is lost and needs grown up help in order to be located. 

And finally, when my already fragile nerves can take no more of the noise it makes careening off furniture, base boards and vent covers and I banished it's use to the basement, imagine everyone's shock when in 2 minutes flat it finds itself behind the chest freezer.

Of course, we can not just accept defeat. No, not without tears and the kind of oh so prolific "you have ruined my childhood forever because you refuse to move a pile of Goodwill-bound crap and brave damp and dust and spider webs to acrobatically retrieve it" protestations. 

Mind you, these are the same and yet uniquely tailored protestations I have already heard in the past 24 hours about such things as, in no particular order of importance:

   Doing Spanish 

   Leaving the cat alone

   The angry-welt ramifications of not leaving the cat alone 

   The purple paint dripping across my floor

   Not getting treats

   Turning the TV off 

   Not needlessly using the bathroom every 20 minutes 

   Getting ready for bed

   What books we read 

   How the blankets are arranged

   And... in general being home, alone, with a mother who has not only had it, she has realized she has at least 12 more hours to go...

Just a little pre-Valentine's Day love...

Can we just talk about hair for a minute?

I have a lot of it.

And it is long. 

Not crazy long. Actually, it's currently as short as I've had it for quite sometime. But still, it falls to about my mid back.

The funny thing is I am not really a "hair person". I don't do much with it, in other words. I'm not into elaborate hair styles or complicated hair accessories and I hate having any kind of product in it.

So why is it long, you ask?

I don't know. It just is. And every hair stylist I have been to looks at me and looks at my hair and promptly says... "Don't cut it."

I don't know why they say that. They just do.

Well, having long hair that I didn't do a whole lot with was all fine and dandy until we moved to Columbus Circle. And then all of a sudden my hair turned on me. With a vengeance. 

It tangled and snarled and revolted at the mere sight of water pressure and shampoo.

Despite conditioner and leave-in-conditioner and tangle-specific brushes it still took me, on average, 20+ minutes to deal with it, post shower.

E's hair morphed into kind of the same deal. 

A day when we both washed our hair turned into a rather protracted affair. Full of frustration and snags and so very much combing.

I know. Looking back I can't help but think, really?!

We were really just ok with all the issues? Like we have lives. It's not the 1800s. We could have just cut our hair...

But I wasn't spurned onto any real proactivity until my last hair appointment. When my new stylist, who is male, by the way, looked at the wet, matted mess of sheer torture sitting before him and asked "Is your hair always like this?"

I said, sheepishly, that yes, it was. But then I thought about it.

And the truth is, no. It wasn't always scream-worthy. Really.

So when did it start?

When we moved.

But that seems so, well, weird. Right?

Water is water, after all. And as far as other intervening influences, we have a new water heater. So our water, is in theory, less full of the bits of the inside of the old, disintegrating water heater. And our water softener works. We have a test kit to make sure. So that leaves, what?

Well, I did some online research and then my husband looked around at our plumbing and we discovered we have mostly galvanized pipes. Old galvanized pipes. That are likely leaching all sorts of stuff into our water. Heavy metals mostly, that build up on the hair shaft (skin and laundry, as well) and form lovely little bonds of...well...of heavy metals.

So we bought a showerhead filter.

Not a super deluxe one. But one with good reviews.

And let me tell you, night and day difference. After one shower, yes, but especially after four, five and six showers.

I will never go back. 

(Nor, now that we are talking about it, will I ever be lax about filtering our drinking water. Seriously. It's like the theme song from the first series of the TV show Monk. You remember? The catchy little Randy Newman number? 
"Do you know what's in the water that we drink? Well, I do and it's amazing...")

Yeah. Galvanized pipes. Who knew?

Well, lots of people. My husband, being one of them. The makers of showerhead filters, being some of the rest.

So if you live in a house old enough that it's pre-1960 and the plumbing has not been overhauled since and you feel your hair inexplicably hates you, you might think about investing in a showerhead filter.

Actually, even if your hair is great, you might still want to think about it. Because do you know what's in the water that we drink? 

Well, I do...