Weekend? What Weekend?

I was dreading this weekend. I really was. Jam packed with activities and obligations, it wasn't going to resemble the traditional 48 hour breather. Not one bit.

It all started Friday morning. Son #2 who, a few weeks back, spent his spring break recuperating from surgery to repair his deviated septum, was in town for a follow-up with the plastic surgeon. Let me back up a bit. The boy's nose was broken five years ago in a gym class mishap. The first two surgeries he had to rebuild and repair his nose didn't take. This time, we went to a world-renowned specialist who didn't disappoint.

In short, my son no longer resembles a hockey player who had a close encounter with a high-speed puck and the chances that he'll be able to breathe out of both nostrils once the swelling finally goes down are most excellent.

As such, my son and I flew downtown after dropping my youngest off at school. Afterwards, we had to come flying back to the 'burbs so I could pick son #4 up from school, followed by son #5, then finally son #3.

That evening, though, son #2 and I headed off to a Chris Tomlin concert. It was - as my youngest would say, "fantab"! Not the type of concert at which you'd find me spilling beer on myself or standing in my seat or anything (not that I ever did that, but I've heard of people who have), but I did sing along at the top of my lungs and joined the crowd in using my cell phone like it was a lighter to demand an encore. Crazy, I know, but true.

I went to sleep at midnight. Saturday morning, my alarm went off at 6:30 and I shot out of bed. I had to get son #3 to his ACT exam. On time.

With a calculator, three number 2 pencils and a photo ID in hand, I dropped him off and sped back home to pick up son #2. He had a bus to catch downtown that would take him back to campus. As we were just about to enter downtown proper, son #1 called. Seems, after taking an exam that will propel him to career greatness, he found himself on the Magnificent Mile not far from where son #2 would be catching his bus.

And we had forty-five minutes to kill. What are the chances?

After a delightful, albeit brief, catch-up with my eldest, I deposited one boy at a bus stop and the other at a train station so they could return to their respective campuses and I headed back to suburbia.

Still with me? Good!

I zipped along the expressway, calculating if I had enough time to stop at the store before retrieving son #3 from his ACT test site. Defying the laws of physics (and the state police), I made it back to my 'hood with thirty minutes to spare. Dare I chance it? I decided to brave the Saturday morning grocery store crowds. It was my Dad's 83rd birthday and I had a party to host, dammit.

Blowing through the store with the force of a megaton bomb, I made it to the test site right on time. As I pulled into the pick-up zone, I got a text from son #3.

"Kirsten is giving me a ride home."

I replied, "I just got here."

His reply? "Sorry."

I drove home mulling my options. Yes, I could guilt him into cleaning the house top to bottom for me, but on realizing that saner people would've arranged a car pool situation ahead of time, I decided to drop it.

But I did make him vacuum. And dust. And clean the upstairs bathroom. Then I let him chill. He did, after all, just take a really, really hard test...

By four pm, my house was filled with relatives, the grill was hot and the steaks were thawed and seasoned. By seven pm, the guests were gone. By nine, I was in bed.

Today, in comparison, was sublime. Mass this morning, band concert at the high school this afternoon. Piece of cake. A lesser plate spinner would've caved to self-pity. Not that I ever did that, but I've heard of other spinners who have.

So Much To Do, So Much Time

Since getting laid off from my full-time day job on the last day of 2012, I find I am just as busy as I was before, but things are definitely different.

First and foremost, my stress level has dropped significantly. I know this goes without saying. Working forty-plus hours a week while taking care of a large family and elderly parents, volunteering and trying to launch my freelance writing career while stalking literary agents would make anyone's blood pressure rise, right?

Funny thing is, I miss it.

The adrenaline that kept me going (along with lots of caffiene and refined sugar) left me feeling more productive than ever. The word count of my to-do lists rivaled that of "Gone With the Wind" and I was spinning my plates at warp speed.

Still, there were moments when I actually wished for a bit of a break - a sabbatical, if you will. I'd fling myself full-time into my freelance career, publish not one, not two, but maybe all three of my manuscripts, all while purging every closet of clutter and doing a deep clean on my entire house.

Be careful what you wish for...

When everything came to an abrupt halt, I reeled. Which freelance endeavor should I focus on first? Which manuscript should I hawk the loudest? Which closet should I tackle? Are the cobwebs behind the entertainment unit really that bad?

Thankfully, my boys' schedules remained the same and this gave my days some structure.

I filled the hours with making stick-to-their-ribs dinners, baking way too many batches of cookies, logging mile after mile to burn off said cookies, and curling up with books I'd put aside for way too long - only they weren't written by me.

I struggled long and hard with the writing projects I never seemed to have enough time for when I was working and I couldn't figure out why.

Were my aspirations to become a full-time freelancer misguided? Had I convinced myself that a spot on the coveted NY Times bestseller list was not mine to have?

Then my husband nailed it. I had too much time on my hands. The urgency was gone.

This revelation hit me like a thunder clap. Of course, he was right. Just take a look at the number of posts I published on this blog last year compared to this. The numbers speak for themselves.

But no worries.

I'm back. The dark circles under my eyes may be gone, but I am back.

As my wise mother keeps telling me, all things happen for a reason. And she's right. If I hadn't been laid off, I wouldn't have been home to take care of my second oldest son when he recuperated from a recent surgery. My dad would've missed a number of doctor's appointments that my sibs were unable to get him to. My middle son would've been scorned by his peers who demanded that he bring homemade muffins to his high school English class when it was his turn to bring breakfast. The list goes on.

Still, I do yearn for the days when my level of productivity is not measured by loads of laundry washed and folded, but by the number of procedures tested and documented.

I can dream, can't I?

In the meantime, I'd better go. I smell a batch of snicker doodles burning in the kitchen...

Working Mother Makes Lots of Dough

Sensational headline? I think not.

I have been stuck inside with three boys who are reveling in their wholly-unexpected, but thoroughly appreciated snow day.

Trusting they would use their pent up energy for good and not evil purposes, I instructed them to check  homework they had completed the night before to ensure they really did do their best and then shovel.

Beyond that, I fully expected that they would make themselves nourishing meals and snacks and clean up after themselves.

So confident I was in my sons' strength of character that I hid in my office for a couple of hours so I could prep my manuscript for submission to unsuspecting acquisition editors.

However, when I ventured into the kitchen at approximately 11am, I found dishes piled high in the sink and a half-empty pancake mix box sitting open on the counter that was sprinkled with chocolate chips - an ingredient I hate to see squandered. At least five inches of snow sat in our un-shoveled driveway.

"Boys!' I yelled with no small amount of urgency. An avalanche of snow cascaded from the roof above and tumbled onto the back deck.

As they stood before me, I asked, "Why are there chocolate chips all over the counter?"

"We made pancakes. It's what the recipe called for," my youngest boldly explained.

I sent two out to shovel while the pancake maker stayed inside with me and helped clean up the kitchen. By the time the others came back inside, it was time for lunch.

I informed them that there were plenty of sandwich fixings and returned to my book. A few minutes later, there was a tap on the door.

"We're out of bread." It was the older half of my shoveling crew.

I dashed back to the kitchen, certain I had purchased some just yesterday during my mad rush to stock up on chocolate in advance of the storm.

As I suspected, there, smack in the middle of the kitchen table was the new unopened loaf. I turned to my son, eyebrow raised and asked, "Well?"

"I don't like that kind," he said matter-of-factly.

"Too bad," I replied. "I'm not driving to the store in this weather just to get a different kind of bread."

"Can we make some?"

At this point, I was ready to screech, "Do I look like Martha Stewart to you?"

But, I didn't.

I remembered that my Mom would bake rye bread on snow days. Yummy, chewy, warm homemade rye bread slathered in butter.

My mouth began watering and I peered into the most remote corners of my pantry, looking for the ingredients. Certain I had everything I needed, I countered my son's request with something a little more delicate. A challenge, if you will.

"Only if you help me."

Lacking the enviable upper arm strength that I'm sure our pioneer ancestors flaunted, I gave him the job of kneading the dough. For ten minutes. It is, after all, what the recipe calls for.

Mom's Swedish Rye Bread

2 packets active dry yeast
1/4 cup warm water
1/4 brown sugar
1/4 cup molasses
1 tbls salt
2 tbls shortening
1 1/2 cups hot water
2 1/2 rye flour, sifted
3 tbls. caraway seeds, optional
3 1/2-4 cups of flour

(Preheat oven to 375 degrees.)

1. Softened the active dry yeast in 1/4 cup warm water in a large mixing bowl. Set aside.
2. In another bowl, mix brown sugar, molasses, salt and shortening. Add hot water and stir until sugar dissolves. Cool to lukewarm.
3. Stir in sifted rye flour. Beat well. 
4. Add yeast and caraway seeds. Stir in additional flour.
5. Cover with a clean towel and let rest for 10 minutes.
6. Sprinkle clean surface with flour. Knead dough for 10 minutes.
7. Place dough in lightly greased bowl. Cover and let rise in warm place until it doubles (about 1 1/2 hours). 
8. Punch down dough, turn out onto clean surface and separate into two pieces of dough. Form them into balls. Return them to two separate lightly greased bowls and cover for 10 minutes.
9. Pat balls into round loaves. Place on greased cookie sheet. Cover with clean towel and let rise until double (about 1 1/2 hours).
10. Bake for 25-35 minutes. For softer crust, brush with melted butter.

The Great Snow Day Debate

Impending deadlines aside, wth a "winter storm warning" in effect from the wee hours of tomorrow morning until midnight tomorrow night, my first instinct was to rush to the store earlier today. 

Like a football player with the ball tucked securely in the crux of his elbow as he dives over a mass of bodies huddled on the one yard line, I threw myself into the crowd fighting for the last cart. 

Elbowing my way around the greedy shoppers, protecting my kitchy clutch like a coveted game ball, I made a beeline for their well-stocked supply of, you guessed it - chocolate, while the others scurried through the aisles, stocking up on carb-rich supplies like bread and beer (liquid bread, really).

As I approached the mob at the checkout line, the harried cashier took one look at my measly purchase and pointed to the end of the line located back by the freezer section. After several minutes of enduring the glare of other parents, their carts overflowing with enough food to last them through Memorial Day, I thought it best to blend and threw some milk and eggs in my cart for good measure. 

Two hours later, I arrived home with my stash. 

Was it worth it? Let me put it this way - there is no way, on God's white Earth, that I am going to weather this snowflake tsunami without a little cold cocoa comfort.

My boys, on the other hand, displayed a different reaction entirely. As soon as they heard rumor of the meteorological warning, they crossed their fingers and toes, hoping that school is cancelled tomorrow.

For the record, this plate-spinning telecommuter has mixed feelings about snow days. 

On one hand, a day off for the boys means that I don't have to worry about making lunches and getting them to and fro. I could focus on my work. The only interruption in my day would be shouting out rosters for the shoveling shifts.

On the other hand, I'd have to field the inevitable requests to help with boots and snow pants, dole out hot chocolate, and ensure that they spend at least some of their new-found freedom on studying at least a little bit and practicing their instruments.

My personal opinions aside, every single weather authority agrees that we are in for a winter wonderland version of Armageddon.

So confident am I in their forecasts that I don't even plan to set my alarm. I just know that I'll be awoken by the velvety voice of our school district's superintendent, informing me of the cancellation.

Now if I could just get him to keep a door unlocked for me at one of the schools so I could sneak in and get my work done there...I'd even give him some of my chocolate.