So, I get it.  We are still in the beginning stages of our relationship.  You haven't asked any questions about my dating history, and I haven't divulged any of my deepest secrets, But, since we are on our 4th date, there are a few things you should probably know. 
1. Cupcake-print flannel pajamas are my outfit of choice when I'm in my home. If you come to my door unannounced, there is a good chance I will be wearing them. You don't have to feel awkward because "no, you didn't wake me up" and "no, I'm not sick." I just have an unnatural obsession with flannel and wild prints. I'm working on it, ok?
2. Despite what I may have told you in middle school, I do actually LOVE country music. I really wanted to jam out to some alternative music or hip-hop like all of the cool kids, but I couldn't even because "Fancy" never let me down.  I hope that's not a deal breaker. 
And most importantly,
3. If you can't get down with good food, then we will have to call it quits right here, right now.  I am not just a Foodie, I am a Food FREAK. Stirring, sautéing, braising, buttering, smelling, eating, these are the verbs that I LIVE BY, and as far as I am concerned, my Village People will too. 

If you haven't already asked the waiter for the check (because your cat called to tell you that he is stuck in the litter box), then we can continue this 4th date right here and now with the very first edition of Food Freak Friday.

Have you ever signed up to bring someone a meal? You have great intentions of blessing that new mama or helping out that friend while her husband is deployed, but alas, it is 3 p.m., you have nothing in the works, and you're supposed to deliver the meal at 5.  RELATED: Your own children are staging a mutiny because they have already watched their TV quota for the day, and are being forced to play outside. This really helps with your mental sanity as you try to come up with SOMETHING, ANYTHING to take this sweet family that is NOT delivery pizza.  Fear not, my love.  This recipe is for you.  It is my secret weapon.  My hat trick.  You make this, the people will be cheering your name for days. Everyone will love you.  You'll wonder what life was even like before you had the knowledge of this culinary golden ticket. 

So, here goes...

Let's not talk about the name of the recipe.  It's the only thing I know to call it, but if it does nothing for you, please don't even read it.  I promise, everything else about this recipe is a gold mine.  So first, gather these things:
(As written, this recipe feeds our 2 adults/2 kids family perfectly, but if you want a little more, just double it all! Treat yo' self.)

• If you're feeling like an overachiever, you can throw on some freshly grated parmesan cheese, or toast up some french bread with a spray of olive oil. But feel no pressure, you just do you. Deliver this meal to the family in need or eat it for yourself. I promise you won't be disappointed! And if you are, you can fill out a comment card and give it to your waiter.

Wishing you kudos in the kitchen,

A week ago, my big guy turned 4! In honor of his birthday, I wrote him this letter...Maybe you can relate?

Dear Britton,

It’s a big day for you. As far as you can see, your day is to be filled with cupcakes, presents, and, only because I love you (and apparently don’t care about my own sanity), dinner at Chuck E. Cheese. These are what four-year-old birthday dreams are made of, sweet boy. Soak it all in because your toddler days are coming to a close. But, for me, I can’t help but look beyond the traditional birthday hullabaloo and focus on this new season before us. 

There is a newness that accompanies a birthday, anticipation of what lies ahead, and even you could feel it today.  Sitting at breakfast, excited about the endless birthday celebrations to come, you asked me a simple question, “Mommy, what do four-year-olds do?” 

You have a way with questions, little one.  A way that often brings me to my knees, hoping beyond hope that I can speak just an ounce of truth into your soul.  Praying I don’t waste an opportunity to encourage and disciple you. But, this simple question rendered me speechless. The reality is, dear child, that parenting you this past year has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  (If we’re being honest, you are genetically predisposed to be an obstinate three-year-old, since my parents still graciously tell stories of my epic tantrums and sassy backtalk. You are the flesh of my flesh, Britton, ain’t no denying it.)

To be fair, there were good days. Plenty of them.  Like the day you asked, “Mommy, why did God forget your penis?” (Still not sure how to answer that one, mostly because I can’t stop laughing when I replay those words in my head.) Or, the day you insisted on wearing your snorkel for every waking moment, but then got incredibly frustrated when you couldn’t eat and hold the snorkel in your mouth at the same time. Or, the moments you would snuggle up next to me just to whisper, “I love you, Mommy”.  And my favorite, as if all stars were perfectly aligned, the night you sat down for supper and said, “Wow, Mommy, this is a lovely dinner you made.”  I nearly fell out of my chair.

But, as I’ve heard from mom after mom, guiding, instructing, and disciplining three-year-olds is not for the faint of heart.  It is constant, it is grueling, and it is often without reward. The past year has been beautifully frustrating in more ways than I can recall.  Beautiful as you began to take on the world with all of the humanness you could muster and frustrating because you started taking on the world with all of the humanness you could muster.  We are broken creatures, made in God’s image with conflicting desires for things of this world, and that opposing combination exposes itself so vividly in a toddler. Every parenting moment lives in the balance, wavering between gracious obedience and passionate defiance. Your compassion can turn into rebellion in the time it takes me to pour milk into a sippy cup. (Because, of course, I poured it into the purple cup and I forgot that you hate all things purple. My bad.)

It was a wild party yesterday. So wild, in fact, that I passed out at 8:30 p.m. from all of the excitement that came with telling the entire Interwebs that I wrote a book. I’m calling it my Book Mitzvah – the day I took public responsibility for having written a book. 

If you’ve never been to a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, you need to become friends with a 12 year-old Jewish child immediately (or maybe don’t, because that would be creepy). I was incredibly awkward in middle school (imagine braces, head gear and an oversized Starter jacket), and much to my surprise, didn’t have many friends of the male variety. Consequently, I was never invited to a Bar Mitzvah, but I have attended three Bat Mitzvahs, and let me tell you the truth: those three parties still rank in the TOP 5 parties I’ve attended in my entire life, weddings included. They come complete with themes, food for days, non-stop dancing, and haphazardly throwing a child up in the air while they cling for dear life to a chair. It is a recipe for greatness.

Desiring a similar level of festivity for this monumental occasion, I threw myself a Book Mitzvah. The news launch was scheduled for 8:00 a.m., which left the entire day for huge celebration. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the invites out in time and only had two attendees. Since they are family – and by law need someone to watch over them at all times – they basically had to come.  But, that’s ok, it’s about quality not quantity, right? So, on to the party.

First stop: Breakfast celebration! It’s a party after all, so you can order whatever you’d like. My oldest guest requested yogurt with a spoon. Easy. Done. Yogurt removed from the fridge, lid peeled off, spoon out of the drawer, plopped into the yogurt…cue earth-shattering screams and tears flowing like the Colorado River.  
“I WANTED TO PUT THE SPOON IN THE YOGURT!” he cried. Oh, of course. How could I be so ignorant and helpful? He sent that yogurt back as if I had served him raw meat with a hairball on top. Redo on the yogurt. This time I nailed it and was able to stop the first party foul from bringing down the house. 

On to my next guest. This little guy requested an “egg in a hole” - a Rich family favorite. (You fry an egg in the middle of a buttered-up piece of toast and try to tell me it doesn't make your family's list of culinary masterpieces. Not possible.) It is the quintessential party food, and the smell of hot butter on the stove really put me in the spirit.  It’s my party, I thought, I might as well make myself one!  Perfect. Two "eggs in a hole" all cooked up and ready to be served.  Plated, delivered, and personally cut up to accommodate for this guest’s small mouth and limited teeth.  I turned around to grab the most delicious part of the meal, my coffee, only to resume eye contact with the youngest guest who was now feeding his highly requested meal to the dog. 

This Book Mitzvah was off to a great start.

Hoping the rocky start was simply a fluke, I decided to pump up the party with some Peppa Pig to go around.  Since my guests aren’t even old enough to wipe themselves, I thought Peppa and George could get them in the Book Mitzvah spirit. Turns out, they were feeling more of a frat house vibe and less of a classy Book Mitzvah vibe, because by the time I came to join them after breakfast cleanup, the guests were completely naked in the living room. Obviously. Because boys need exactly zero reasons to take their clothes off - especially since it is so difficult to attend to their favorite appendage with clothes on. Wanting to squash this type of enthusiasm as quickly as possible, I had a brilliant party idea: Let’s go to the beach!

We piled in the van and headed to one of our favorite spots.  THIS. Try to hate it.

The beach trip ended with mandatory nap times for all. I celebrated naptime with a cup of coffee and my favorite music playing in the background: SILENCE.  By the time the boys woke up from their naps, I knew we only had a couple more hours to redeem this Book Mitzvah.

For party favors, I thought we might get lucky by finding some fun junk mail in the mailbox that I could convince the guests was sent specifically for them.  Without even trying, there happened to be a small package addressed to ONE of my guests.  Perfect, I thought, An ACTUAL party favor.  Upon opening the package, I realized that no greater gift could arrive on such a celebratory day than this: A Red Whistle.  From the Grandparents.  Few days in my life go by without me praying this specific prayer: "Lord, bring more noisemakers into my life.  Bull horns, whistles, drums, kazoos.  I want them all. I beseech Thee to honor this desire in my heart." God answered loud and clear.  Except for one small detail.  There was only ONE red whistle.  Which then caused this to happen:

This Book Mitzvah wasn't quite turning out how I anticipated.  

And then, I heard from YOU. And YOU! And yes, YOU!. Every share, every like, every comment, every post.  I read Every. Single. One. and cried like a baby.  Before I clicked "Post" yesterday, I literally counted in my head, "1, 2, 3, JUMP!"  And the crazy thing is, I didn't know where I was going to land. I still don't.  But, I am so incredibly humbled by each and every one of you willing to walk through this journey with me. My village people, don't you ever leave me. As you can already tell, I need you like my sons need that red whistle: DESPERATELY.