cookies & creme chocolate pudding pops

It seems I have secret blog readers that just might want a recipe for the pudding pops that Little A has been praying for, for well… months now.  It certainly has been a hiatus of sorts since the last post.  Yes, well having a baby and sustaining life to said baby is actually quite a lot of work.  Throw in some 3 year old preschooler attitude and the days are long and exhausting lately. 

Ms. Preschooler Teacher is my new found heroine and I really can’t wait till school starts again for Little A.  Three cheers for September and routine and structure and cooler days!  Until then, these delicious and oh-so-easy pudding pops will tide you over in the last hazy, lazy days of summer.  (and I can’t take recipe credit.  It’s all Kraft  people.  Kraft rocks).

 

cookies & creme chocolate pudding pops

prep time: 10 mins plus freezing

makes 9 servings, 1/3 cup each

1 pkg. (4 serving size) jello chocolate instant pudding

2 cups cold milk

6 oreos cookies

1/ 2  cup cool whip  topping

1. beat pudding mix and milk in large bowl with whisk 2 minutes.

2. place cookies in resealable plastic bag; seal bag. use rolling pin to crush cookies.

3. add cookies and cool whip to pudding; stir just until blended.

4. spoon into 9 small paper or plastic cups. (or i use a plastic popsicle mold picked up from dept.store).

5. insert wooden pop stick or plastic spoon into each for handle.  freeze 5 hours or until firm.

**other variations:

butterscotch pudding with crushed teddy grahams crackers. 

banana cream pudding with actual frozen banana chunks.

vanilla pudding with oreo cookies and smartie bits.

pistachio pudding with skor bits.

enjoy!

to better things,

steph

sibling love.

she’s here!

after making us wait some overdue days, claire entered the world quickly on a clear, calm early morning.

the parking meter ticket at the hospital read 5:28am and she was born at 6:11am on friday, april 24th, 2009.

claire (clear and bright) ellery (cheerful)

8lbs, 2 ounces 21 inches

there was some concern with baby distress and a heart rate that lowered with labour- but with a few hours of monitering in the nursery she was deemed healthy. audrey’s taken to her and we’re all loving our new little family!

to better things,

steph

motherhood.

 In the beginning, Motherhood and I had some time adjusting to each other.  When Little A was a wee-ish one, I read many books about entering this sacred and bizarre land of Motherhood.  I wanted answers as to why it was difficult, why no one had seemingly told me how hard it was, and just where the heck had my identity gone in this jumbled up mess of parenting?!

Some books were all cheerleader-esque…  ”Yeah Mommy!”  “You GO Girl!”  “Playgroup-Mommies-are-Best-Friends!”   Yes, they may have made me laugh here and there, but they didn’t delve into the rite of passage of Motherhood.  I wanted to read about the giving up, the sacrificing of ones own body, mind, and soul to another little person.  I wanted to hear about how Motherhood wasn’t always bonbons and sweet puppies and happy walks in the park and baking sprinkle cookies. 

I wanted to know about struggles and difficulties and pain.  Why?  I wanted to know that I wasn’t the only one.  I wanted to know the hardships, because really, if you don’t know the hardships — how can it be better?  How can it be brighter? 

Eventually I came across a real winner.  A book that shared insights and was honest and true and poignant .  It was refreshing.  

Between Interruptions: Thirty Women Tell the Truth About Motherhood.

I had the pleasure of taking a writing class last autumn with the author, Cori Howard.  It was amazing to be able to dialogue with other mothers from all across the country (we met online via Skype) and discuss and share our experiences and writing.  It was invaluable to realize how individually and geographically different we all are, yet how universal the common bond of motherhood itself is.

So, all this to give context as to some of the writing that i’ve been recently posting, as well as a little plug to the Momoir Project.   (Make sure to check out the website if you’re interested in signing up to take a class yourself!)

To better things,

Steph

The Middle of the Night.

The Middle of the Night.

Stephanie Strauss Hall

 

Two.

 

That’s the total amount of times our daughter slept through the night the first year of her life. 

 

The first time was due in part to her initial immunizations that drugged her up and knocked her out.  Of course, this never happened again.  After that the immunizations were some sort of special serum to her body that said “Hey, let’s stay awake now!”  And the second time she slept through the night was just a fluke, I’m sure.

 

At first I attempted to follow the attachment style of parenting.  I become a fan of dear Dr. Sears and tried my best to cuddle and coo and comfort my little one.  No sleep.  I carried her around with me in a sling- you know “heartbeat to heartbeat.”  No sleep. 

 

I tried aroma therapy and lavender baths, baby massage, chiropractic care, and white noise.  No sleep.  I drove around in circles in my car attempting to get my little ten pound bundle of twitching energy to sleep.  I had all the drive-thru coffee shops cased and I was a regular customer with standing orders, and still, there was no sleep for baby.

 

After a while, I decided it was time to get tough – seriously tough.  “Enough of all this ridiculous nonsense!” I thought.  After all, I was the parent, and I was in charge, and clearly I just had to be more firm.  I would show her who was boss! 

 

My husband and I geared up for the controversial and heart wrenching “Cry It Out Method.”   We ditched our gentle and arguably wayward parenting ways and got in touch with our inner Ferber.  We were tough.

 

We had been warned that the “Cry It Out Method” had to be all or nothing.  That you had to commit, and that it would be hard, but within about 3 days the child would succumb and get to sleep successfully and on her own accord.   “Actually, maybe account for 3-5 days, if your child is spirited,” our family physician told us as we left the doctor’s office.

 

Plan in hand; we let her cry it out.  We let her cry it out for fourteen days.  Yes, FOURTEEN.  She did not let up.  She did not succumb, and it was clear that she would not give.  We were both in tears and our child – in obvious distress – was pulling out what little tufts of hair she had on her head.  Enough was enough.

  

Suggestions and advice abounded from friends, family and casual acquaintances.  We tried anything and everything whether it made sense or not. 

 

We were told that “She’s probably just cutting her first tooth, once it pops through, and then I’m sure she’ll start sleeping.”  First tooth came… sleep did not.

 

“She’ll probably sleep better once you start solids.”  Solid foods came and still no sleep.

 

“She probably just wants to move.  Once she starts to crawl she’ll be less frustrated and sleep.” She slid, crawled, walked, ran… to no avail.

 

We, the parents, were overwhelmed, frustrated and sleep deprived.  I, despite being raised as a preacher’s daughter, was losing my mind and I had four letter words leaping out of my mouth like popcorn from an air-popper.

 

I just really wanted, no, needed my kid to sleep.

 

So on any random weekday night when my little almost 1 year old daughter decided to only sleep from 9pm-12am and then stay awake from 12 am till oh… say 4am… that’s how it happened that we began to have the occasional 2am tea party.

 

Her and I donned our wide brimmed party hats from the dress up bin, wrapped our fleecy housecoats around ourselves and pulled out the antique china with tiny rosebuds on it.  We dined on crackers, cheese slices, and grapes carefully cut in half.  She sipped milk from a bottle and I sipped juice from a teacup…. all at 2am.

 

I finally gave up trying to look for how to fix her, and tired as I was, began to just enjoy the many waking hours that her and I had together.  Many parents comment on how fast the time went when their baby was little.  In some ways, for me, it did not go fast.  I was awake for so many of those moments and remember living them so vividly and fully. 

 

It was in those hours where I really began to stop frantically searching for what was wrong, and why she wouldn’t sleep, and instead started to notice who my daughter was and observe the things she did.  It was an important step in the journey we were on to accept our child on her own terms.

 

Someone once said that nothing good happens after midnight, but after spending many, many hours awake with my daughter; I have learned that this is certainly not the case.

soon to be sibling.

photo credit to sharalee prang; images of life.

The Things I Carry on This Thursday.

 The Things I Carry on This Thursday.

Stephanie Strauss Hall

It’s a Thursday morning and my daughter, ever the early riser, bounds into my room and leaps onto the bed. “It’s morning time Mommy!” She says this every morning as soon as daylight seeps into the blinds in her eastern facing bedroom waking her up.

I pick her up, slung on my left hip, her soft arms reach around my neck, and I carry her down the stairs. Even though she is fully capable to walk, it has become our ritual. Her waffle-weave pink pyjamas, littered with little designs of penguins and hearts smell like yesterday’s fresh laundry. I know one day she will be too big to carry down the stairs, and so I oblige the request.

The burr grinder sits patiently on the kitchen counter as I turn the dial just so and it makes its constant hum of fresh coffee grounds. The smell is spicy and earthy and rich. The kettle whistles away on the stove with its impatient steam of water, wanting, begging my attention. My coffee cup is smaller these days, I’m trying to cut back for the little life that is forming in my womb- yet I can’t quite go without coffee entirely.

I carry my handmade, green glazed pottery mug to our antique table (that so desperately needs refinishing) and my daughter and I set about eating our breakfast. We talk of the daily activities, we talk about nothing, and we talk about putting more soft, brown sugar on our porridge.

It’s midmorning and the sun is high in the sky. It’s undeniably bright, the type of sunlight that requires sunglasses. Our car follows the gentle curves of the road that I know so well. We park and scurry into the dirty white warehouse building that houses my daughter’s dance studio.

I carry her champagne coloured ballet slippers, with the heather gray soles in my purse. We do a quick change from the cobalt blue rubber boots she insisted on wearing to her delicate, feminine slippers. She leaps and twirls and spins across the mirrored room as the mother’s line the wall watching in our hard, plastic chairs.

The day goes by quickly, the sun sets earlier these autumn days. There is a perfect hour- the golden hour- just before the sun sinks into the horizon. In this hour everything glistens and gleams and glows. I and a newly engaged couple are meandering through the local park for an engagement photo shoot. The sun casts sideways in between the trees illuminating their new love.

I carry my black camera bag as it hangs over my right shoulder. I’m used to the familiar weight of my camera as I gather it in my slightly red, mottled and cold hands. There’s no time for gloves, I need to adjust all my settings. In my gear bag I carry my flash, extra batteries, extra memory cards, extra everything because I always want to be prepared. I interact and instruct the couple for photos, giving gentle guidance as the ochre and toffee stained leaves above us float effortlessly to the ground.

The sunlight has faded; twilight has arrived and the neighbourhood street lights are beginning to flicker and hum as they rouse for the evening. I am carry my camera gear into the house, carry my tired body upstairs to the washroom and melt into a puddle under the warm stream of a soothing shower.

As the handmade soap glides in lavender scented bubbles across my body, I feel the extra weight that is starting to gather at my midsection. I carry a life, a small person that will have a favourite colour one day, a favourite cereal one day, a passion and fervour for things I do not yet know. I carry the hopeful addition to our family who we anticipate the arrival of when the pastel pink cherry blossoms erupt with bloom next spring.

I absentmindedly step into my pyjamas to signal the day’s almost done. I make one last trek to the kitchen to heat up the kettle for its final duty of the day. The kettle seems more patient at nine o’clock in the evening than early morning. My tannin marked tea cup- the one with the faded lemon motif on the outside of the cup holds my tea bag. The green ginger tea wafts up to my nose and steams my freshly moisturized face.

I carry my tea, secure in my right hand, upstairs to the bedroom. I crawl into my bed, deep under the chocolate coloured duvet. The lamp on my night table beckons for more time. I read and sip, read and sip. Then I turn out the light.

***** 

written october 2008 for a writing class assignment.

i used the idea of light (natural and artificial) to carry the day, along with the physical things that i also carried.  the descriptive, physical elements are used to give a glimpse into a random day of mine (whether it be a thursday or otherwise). 

to better things,

steph

happy 3rd birthday!

happy third birthday to my beautiful little A!

30 weeks.

30 weeks. photo credit to sharalee prang; images of life.

(on the other side of the camera for once!) 

to better things,

steph

The First Time.

 

The First Time.

Stephanie Strauss Hall

 

The first time I took my infant daughter out for a walk to the local coffee shop- I wasn’t quite ready to be a “public mom.”

 

My daughter and I had spent the first two weeks of her new life snuggled in the warmth of our cozy home.  We got to know each other that way; her wearing little snap-up onesies and wrapped like a burrito in pastel receiving blankets, myself in plaid pyjamas or yoga pants with my hair thrown in a ponytail.  We were comfortable.  We took our time getting used to each other… in private.

 

The sun made a rare appearance one west coast, spring morning and I knew it was high time that the baby and I get out for some much needed fresh air.   My husband and I, (being first time parents and all) had just purchased the cadillac of strollers, and we could barely fathom the sheer amount of possibilities that this stroller could offer.  It had all the bells and whistles –multi-terrain tires and suspension – this stroller might even fly to the moon if you set it up correctly.  We even bought the original stroller color:  bright orange. 

 

I like orange, but not until that very day on my walk did I feel so obvious, so conspicuous, and so glowingly noticeable that at the extension of my fingertips was my new found role and responsibility.  The stroller – the striking, prominently orange stroller – held my baby.  Not only that, it held how the public now saw me:  mom.  Public mom.

 

Before now, when I was in public I was used to being perceived in different roles:  a woman, a young woman, a career woman, an attractive woman, a married woman, a pregnant woman, but still a woman.  Overnight, I felt as though I had gone from woman to mom.  Everyone looked at me differently.  Women looked at me differently.  Men looked at me differently. 

 

The stroller defined me.  Like a bright, flowing white dress on a bride, the stroller was an iconic symbol of motherhood.  I was uncomfortable with it.  There was no hiding from it.  It was there.  I was there.  My baby and I, with our stroller, were there and we were public.  I was Mom.

 

Slowly, with each outing, each walk, each stroller set-up in the mall parking lot, with every public appearance, I gradually began to wear the mantle of motherhood with more ease.  I won’t say that it came simply.  The fresh green spring buds from the first public walk had turned into dark, heavy, fall foliage before I began to feel poised and content at the helm of my stroller.

 

Today, my toddler daughter and I take a daily walk with the same orange stroller.  I walk with my head held high and I am now armed with the usual watered down apple juice in a sippy cup, goldfish crackers, and fruit snacks.  There is no more clandestine mom awkwardness.  I am a recognized mom.  I am known as a mom.  I am a mom who has been around the block.