Oh Mom, its so cute that you think Happy Hour is the worst parenting thing you’ve ever done. Allow me to take you on a walk down memory lane…

Easter morning, probably sometime in the early 90′s. As is your tradition, you made Easter baskets for us with candy and a present. The farm had rabbit hutches and we had been begging for our own bunnies, so on this lovely Easter morning our baskets held baby bunnies. One for each of us (it was just Apple and I, Ginger wasn’t born yet) and we were thrilled. I named mine Hopkins, Apple named hers Flora. We loved our baby bunnies, played with our baby bunnies, kissed the baby bunnies…our house was positively brimming with baby bunny bliss.

But now its time to go to church…our hair was curled, the matching frou-frou dresses and Easter hats, white socks with lacey edges and white patent Mary Janes…kiss the baby bunnies before you go, they will be waiting for you!

Fast forward to after church. We all tumble out of the car and are so excited to see the baby bunnies, we love the baby bunnies Mom! Dad had gone in the house first, but before we could go inside he said Girls, why don’t you play on the swingset for awhile? And so we did. Dad and Mom went inside, and a few minutes later Dad took a garbage bag to the trash bin, but we didn’t notice that…we were swinging and thinking about our bunnies!

Finally Dad says girls you can come inside, its almost time for lunch. We burst into the house, where are the bunnies, we want to play with the bunnies, we LOVE our bunnies!!

To which you and Dad uttered the words…”What bunnies? ”

The baby bunnies! Our Easter bunnies, we love our bunnies so much, where are the bunnies?

You and Mom looked at each other quizzically. What are you talking about girls, there aren’t any bunnies?

Oh but Mom yes there were, the bunnies we got for Easter! I remember the bunnies, don’t you remember the bunnies Apple? She remembers the bunnies too Dad!

The infamous Easter of 1988

And then Dad took it one devious step further- did you all DREAM that you got bunnies for Easter?

I paused and looked at Apple. Do you remember the bunnies? Apple started to cry.

But…the bunnies…we had bunnies…didn’t we?

To which you and Dad, said WOW, you all dreamt that you had bunnies! That’s the craziest thing! Well, Easter dinner is almost ready and your grandparents will be here, so go get ready for Easter pictures!

And until I was in my twenties, I thought my sister and I had both dreamt about bunnies. Until I was in my twenties, I just thought our cat Mo was a good mouser. And until I was in my twenties, I didn’t know that you and Dad would rather delude your girls into thinking we had some mind-dream connectedness, for a decade and a half, rather than explain the facts of life, the predator-hunter food chain bunny carnage that happens when you have a cat and baby bunnies.

I rest my case. And RIP Hopkins and Flora.

Honey: “Mom, what was the most awful parenting thing you have ever done that you’ve never admitted until now?”

Dear Honey,

It pains me to admit this, but I did have one bad parenting moment while raising you.  Shocked? I knew you would be.

So, my dear Honey, I will tell all ……if, IF, you promise me one thing.  No sharing this information with anyone I know!  And for goodness sake don’t put it on the blog, those people already think I am a lunatic.  Man privy?  Why don’t you edit these things?

Anyway, here is what happened ……  It had been a long winter on our quiet rural farm in the middle of the godforsaken frozen tundra. January, you can imagine, why do we live here anyway?  You were 9, Apple B. was 5, and Ginger B. was … I don’t know … .somewhere between teething and potty training I think.  Snow so high it prevented our little homeschooling family from going anywhere for weeks.  I was getting a little  - well, edgy.

Out of sheer boredom I had resorted to cleaning out the cupboards. I found a set of two mismatched wine glasses, some plastic cocktail swords, and a set of paper napkins that said “Dinner will be ready when the smoke detector goes off”.  Probably one of your fathers attempts at humor.  I was about to stick them in the Goodwill box when you found them and wanted to play.

“Fine,” I said.  “you and Apple B. climb up on the stools and you can have a cocktail party while I make dinner.”  I put cranberry juice in the wine glasses and called it “wine”. The kitchen island became “the bar”.   And, yes we called this game “Happy Hour”.

I cut up bananas and grapes on a plate and they became hors d’ouerves.  Stabbing them with your little plastic swords kept you two busy for half an hour while I cooked dinner.  Fabulous!  We made it a nightly event!  Every afternoon at about 4:30 or so I would tell my precious little girls to “Belly up to the bar girls, it’s Happy Hour!”  You would eat anything I put in front of you with those swords so the next day I cut up cucumbers and tomatoes,  then carrots and lima beans. {Nice try Mom, I know we didn’t eat the lima beans}  I was going to get Mother of the year for this -  my kids were eating raw veggies and loving it!   I couldn’t wait to share this at the mothers group.  I was a genius …… until your Grandmother, my Mother-in-Law, came to visit.

She had been there for most of the afternoon.  Testing you on reading and math skills while I was out of the room (she never did support the whole homeschooling thing), and checking under the couch for dust bunnies (anyone who spent all their time teaching couldn’t have a clean house).  It got to be about 4:30 and I was heading to the kitchen to start dinner when I heard your sweet voice sing out…… to your very Catholic, Italian, unhappy that her only son married a Methodist, tea-toddling Grandmother …….”Belly up to the bar Gramma, it’s Happy hour!”

I don’t think there is much else to say.

Love from your Mother,

Queen B.

Graduate school. Don’t do it. Learn from my experience dear friends, and save yourselves. My life has been consumed by pathophysiology, family theories, and the role of the advance practice nurse. And this is going to take me two years to finish. Kill me now.

I have been subsisting almost entirely on junk food and, most importantly, iced coffee. I’ve been looking at recipes online, and have tweaked mine to be exactly the way I like it – cloyingly sweet and tasting nothing like coffee. Hah!

I dump a bag of ground coffee (my favorite is Caribou Lakeshore) into a container with a gallon water. I let it sit for six hours until I cracked and had to try some, but admittedly the stuff I let steep overnight is the best. Strain it through a paper towel or some coffee filters, and then pour half a glass over some ice cubes. Extra credit if you used the extra coffee you have left from making Black Magic cake (below) and make coffee ice cubes. Fill the glass to 3/4 with a mix of evaporated milk and sweetened condensed milk, and then top it off with some 2% milk. In a word? A-ma-zing. And as the coffee ice cubes melt, the drink actually gets stronger instead of watery.

I have also become addicted to what is easily the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had in my life- Black Magic chocolate cake. And I’m a chunky girl, you know I’ve tried them all. I don’t really know what to say about this cake, other than get into the kitchen and bake it. Immediately. Its moist and dense without sticking to the roof of your mouth, the frosting is to die for, and- it has coffee in it!!

So how has your Labor Day weekend been?