At least three times a week Piper sits in what I call the Cry For Help Corner, near the couch, and chomps as loudly as she can. This is our sign that she has snapped up a small item that does not belong to her. Before you question why there are small items for her to snap, I’m going to stop you. I have kids. The end.

Piper T. (the T is for Trouble) sits there and chomps until I notice her. Every time it goes a little like this:

“Piper, what do you have?”

Dog lies down and looks sorry-ish. I kneel down, and dog teeth tighten around the contraband.

“Open up, girlfriend.”

Dog does not willingly open up. I pry open her jaws, and remove a Lego, or part of the Little People nativity, or an army man. Today, it was an outlet cover that I forgot to replace after vacuuming yesterday. So much for blaming the kids.

This process, annoying though it is, never fails to make me laugh. This dog knows better. She knows she is not supposed to chew the treasure she scarfed off the floor. She knows, but she cannot stop herself. The temptation is too strong.

Sorry, not sorry.

I can’t get mad at Piper. To be angry at the dog for giving in to the siren call of Lego men would make me a hypocrite.

I spend huge chunks of time fighting my own siren calls. Whether it’s lurking around on Facebook for more minutes (hours?) than necessary, or eating a(nother) doughnut, I know what is and isn’t good for me, and I don’t seem to care. My jaws are clamped tightly around my personal outlet covers.

I did a Google search on Why do we do things that we know are bad for us? There were 1,290,000,000 results in 4.8 seconds. I’ll be honest, I only read half… of one article. But it’s clear that I’m not the only one wondering about this.

Truthfully, I read several whole articles, and it seems that we humans are not bright. You can arm us with facts and figures, but we’re only going to take away from those facts and figures what we want to take away. We twist and turn the statistics to suit our needs. Not everyone who smokes gets cancer. Not everyone who drinks and drives has an accident. Not everyone who saves back copies of the newspaper ends up on Hoarders. Certainly, we are in the not everyone contingent.

An article by Susan McQuillan in Psychology Today claims all of these bad decisions that lead to bad habits are impossible to fully shake.

“For one thing, once a habit is established, you will never completely ‘unlearn’ it. You can stop overindulging, you can pointedly replace bad habits with better ones, but every habit you’ve ever picked up is there, somewhere in your neural network, just waiting to be rediscovered,” says McQuillan.

Fabulous. But it’s not all bad news. Even though those negative habits linger, oh, forever, we can work hard to write over that file. We can arm ourselves with coping mechanisms, and learn to redirect our brains.

In a 2009 New York Times opinion piece, Noreena Hertz says that we are wired to optimism, which is why we assume we’ll be the one positive statistic in a world of less than good news.

“The dangerous allure of the information we want to hear is something we need to be more vigilant about,” she says.

Hertz concludes that we need to “actively push ourselves to hear the bad as well as the good,” so that we can acknowledge all sides of an issue, or a bad habit. What does that mean? It means you have to not only accept the bad news, you have to continually remind yourself of that bad news. Smoking does cause cancer. Drunk driving is dangerous. I’m never going to read all these newspapers and they are a fire hazard.

Piper, I suppose, is wired to optimistically believe that one day, just maybe, I’m going to say, “Oh, that Lego? That one, you can eat.” She’s not engaging in realistic self-talk, such as, “I have my own toys and chewing on Legos is inappropriate.”

I am wired to think I can still eat like I am 20, or waste hours on social media without ramifications. I choose to fool myself, because it’s happier in Bad Decisionville. There are doughnuts in Bad Decisionville. People there work no more than 37 minutes each day and still manage to meet all of their deadlines. I’m not accepting the truths that I know.

It’s hard to say whether my Google search and subsequent knowledge makes me feel better about my bad decisions. I feel like I’m not alone, and now know there are science-y reasons for my failures. So I got that goin’ for me, which is nice, as Carl Spackler says.

Understanding why I do stupid things, however, does not take away the frustration I feel after – and sometimes during – the doing of the stupid things. Being human is so lame. Yet, what’s the alternative? Perfection, and a world in which everyone makes  the right decision every time.

No, thank you. Piper and I will keep our quirks and continue to make some questionable choices. Making the occasional not-so-fabulous decision is, after all, a symptom of the human condition. Apart from shaking hands with Jesus, there is no cure for that condition, so there’s no point in fighting it.

Sure, I am going to work on making better decisions. I cannot keep eating the doughnuts. Simply cannot. I’m not going to beat myself up when I slip, though, because it’s just science and brain stuff.

Now as for Piper, and whether she’s going to accept her pre-wired brain while trying to make a few better decisions, I can’t say. She can’t say, either. Because she’s a dog and does not talk.

I realize that it’s been a long time since I posted anything in the Food or Fitness categories. And truthfully, I’m kind of busy looking for new sandals on Endless today, so I almost kept up the no-posting streak. But then I thought, maybe just a quick update.

This? Is not me. Cool picture, though, right?*

I’m sure you all remember – because the goings-on of my life are exactly what you retain in your long-term memory –  that I completed my first triathlon in 2011. I intended to do that same race again this year, but life got in the way. I didn’t get to train as much as I wanted, or needed, to. Instead, I picked another race that gave me a little more time, and that race happens to be on Sunday. If you don’t hear from me next week, it’s possible I’m in traction.

You also may remember that I have issues with my feet and calves. Undiagnosed-maybe-plantar-faciitis-maybe-just-defective issues. After years of doctors and various therapies, my vote is for plain, old defectiveness. Throw some old age on top of the plain old and it’s a full time party around here. In 2001 I gave up on running, but in my heart I wasn’t done. Last year I walked the run portion of the tri and that was, how do I put this? Boring. And long. And I did not like it at all.

Thanks to my new best friend(s), I will run the race on Sunday. I won’t be fast or anything, but I’m going to run. How? It’s all thanks to a good doctor and these magic tools from Trigger Point Performance Therapy. No, this isn’t a sponsored post (but I do need a Grid roller, Trigger Point, so if you want to sponsor me via throwing one of those my way, that would be just fine with me).

I decided to tell you about Trigger Point not because I’m being paid to, but in case you, too, have suffered from mystery pain. Or even if you have pain with a name. Learning to use the tools provided me with relief I’ve been hunting for since 2001. Granted, I still have some pain in my heel. It’s manageable, though, and if I stay on top of rolling, stretching, and hydration (okay, so it is a bit of work to keep up with all of this), I’m able to run.

We’re all very excited about this, yes?

And that, friends, is my fitness update. Still no food update, except to tell you that I have eaten some today and will likely eat more in the near future.

I’m toying with a different kind of post for next week – something a little more feeling-y than I have posted here lately. If feelings aren’t your thing, don’t come around on Tuesday. If you want to see if I use bad words (yep) and tell a not so pretty truth (yep again), then I’ll see you Tuesday. Until then,

I wonder…

:: Have you ever had a mystery pain? What did you do about it?

:: Does anyone have a favorite tip for for staying motivated during long runs? (Not that I’m doing any long runs yet, but I would like to.)

*Photo credit: jolisoleil on Flikr

Kids and phones... deadly combo? (Photo credit: soopahgrover on Flickr)

Yesterday Healthy Child, Healthy World posted an article* about the dangers of cell phone use and radiation. I recommend you read it, but to save you time right now, here are a few of the key points:

• The bone marrow of a child’s head absorbs 10 times more radiation than an adult, while those of infants and toddlers will absorb even more.
• Every major well-designed study ever conducted has found that those who use cell phones regularly for half an hour a day or more for a decade have a doubled risk of brain cancer, and those who began using cell phones as teenagers have four to five times more disease, in less than 10 years.
• Most disconcerting are findings from the highly respected Prof. Nesrin Seyhan, the NATO-supported founding chairman of the Biophysics Department at Gazi University in Ankara, Turkey, whose studies repeatedly show that prenatally exposed rats and rabbits have fewer brain cells.

I read this information with a pit in my stomach. Not because I let my children play with my phone (I do, of course), and not because I use my cell phone more than 30 minutes a day (I don’t hold it next to my head that long, but I use it, and often).

The pit was because I don’t know when to panic anymore. Everything is dangerous. Whatever you are eating/wearing/breathing/using to read this post is going to kill you. Have a nice day!

I could go with a “don’t worry, be happy” approach to health warnings. In some ways I do; in some ways, I just try to have a little faith.

But really?

Faith – in whatever it is you put your faith – does not translate to please sit on your rump, shoot radiation into your brain, eat trans-fats, guzzle a hormone-laced latte, and watch Jersey Shore, and do not worry, it will all be okay. Because you? You have faith!

No.

Whatever you believe, I still think we have to do our part. We have to be responsible, active participants in our lives. So tell me, when do I panic about all the things I’m doing to harm my children? Is it now? I’m starting to think it’s now.

Our entire world is wireless, internet enabled, and radiating rays of one kind or another. Food is fake, chemically altered, genetically modified. The sun, it’s so bright, that I gotta wear shades, SPF 4 bazillion, and long sleeved shirts.

Things look kind of like this at our house:

• We don’t let the kids chew on our phones or even play with them that often. But occasionally, yes. They use the computer now and then. Not every day, but a lot of days. And they watch TV. Every day. The Cell-Computer-TV Trifecta: part radiation, part brain-rotting entertainment.
• We’re careful about food at our house. Not iron-fisted, but careful. We buy organic, and shop locally when we can. We cook. We also eat out sometimes, and accept times when we have little control, like at birthday parties or on Christmas when none of it counts (right?). Sometimes – brace yourselves – we order pizza or Chinese food. Yep.
• Mark and I make efforts to apply SPF to all four of us every day, and always for prolonged outside time. But I do let the kids go outside without sunscreen now and then. They wear hats, and sometimes even agree to sunglasses. But there are times when the hats get tossed aside.

Should I do more, and if so, how much more?

There’s this voice I hear when I’m trying to excuse potentially dangerous decisions. The voice sounds kind of lazy, kind of cranky, and says, We’re all dying of something some time, so just roll with it. Have a cheetoh! That lab rat only died because they fed it exclusively cheetohs. You? You also drink coffee and eat hamburgers, so you’re good.

And this much is true: I have no desire to live to a ripe old age, requiring my kids to agonize over my long-term care, or heaven forbid, change my diapers. No way. I mean, as long as I have my mental faculties and can get around, then fine. But the minute I break a hip or start to think I’m Rue McClanahan, I’d like for someone to “accidentally” “trip” me and send me tush over teakettle down the stairs.

We are all dying, and there’s something to be said for punching the clock before you become infirm. I have no designs on cheating death. Immortality is uninteresting. Immortality sounds exhausting.

But I absolutely don’t want my loved ones – my babies – to die a painful, cancer-ridden death because I let them play Peekaboo Barn. So tell me, how will I ever know if I’m doing enough?

When – tell me, please – when do I panic?

*Even though this article inspired some serious concern, I still got a kick out of the title: Cell Phones, Radiation & Your Child’s Health (Giveaway!). At a cursory glance, it screams, Radiation is fun! So Fun That We’re Giving It Away!

Thanks for a giggle, even if I never laugh again because I’m so worried about fried brains.

I wonder…

:: How do you process the never-ending barrage of new reports screaming, The Latest Everyday Object/Food/Activity That Will Put You In The Grave!! Tonight at 5, 6, and 10!

The Dino Wrangler.

The Candy Doctor.

The dinosaur really wanted the doctor’s stethoscope, resulting in many minutes of tears. Then the doctor lost his scrub cap and was deeply disturbed. (Perhaps he will not be allowed to scrub in on today’s cool surgery because he can’t keep up with his personal belongings?) Then we waved a Reese’s pumpkin in front of him and the memory of his scrub cap was permanently erased.

Crises mitigated, and we can call Halloween 2011 a reasonably successful venture. Now we face the aftermath: the candy. It’s hard to resist all that high fructose corn syrupy deliciousness, so here are a few thoughts on candy consumption management.

In An Ideal World

My favorite Skinnygirl recommends keeping a few pieces of your favorites in the freezer. They take longer to eat, so you enjoy each piece more and eat less.

In My World

Favorite candy is nestled in the freezer, resting ironically on bags of organic vegetables. Twelve hours later, a dentist is necessary after breaking a tooth on frozen candy. Frozen candy is hard; thawing is tedious. Note to self: this is not a reasonable option for simpletons who need instant gratification.

Caution: Thaw Before Eating.

Ideal World

Take all the leftover candy, put it in a Target bag and tie it shut. Put the bag in the garage with a note on it, asking your husband to take it to the office. (What the hell, neighborhood kids? Did the school night throw you off your game? Even with those three boys who charged the door, pushed me backward, and lurched at the candy like wee crack heads looking at a bowl full of free pipes, we had a lot of leftover candy.)

My World

Husband forgets to take the candy with him, citing important meetings and a lot of work-related stuff on his mind. Whatever. Spend the rest of the day making up reasons to go to the garage. Discover that the Target bag is “defective” and has “hole” in it. Look at that, a fun-sized Snickers bar just “fell” out of the bag. Weird.

The Mysterious Case of the Hole in the Bag. A Scooby-Doo episode in the making.

Ideal World

Realize that you are a grown ass woman, in charge of your decisions and in complete control of your cravings.

My World

Sure, that’ll happen.

I wonder…

:: If you have control over the candy, rather than vice versa, I don’t want to hear about it. You are freakishly strong and mature. Move along. (Nope, not a question. I’m aware.)

:: What do you do with all the candy? We let the kids have a piece or two a day for a couple days, and then they begin to forget all about it. Eventually I throw it all out. It helps that I managed to convince H that candy goes bad after a few days. Just wait until he finds out the stuff is packed with preservatives and contains not one bit of actual food, allowing it to last through the apocalypse. Boy am I going to be in trouble.

#iPPP

I almost missed #iPPP this week, because I thought today was Tuesday. Anyone else confused about what day it is? I’d love to blame it on the Labor Day holiday, but I lose track of the days on normal weeks. Addled, I tell you.

So. #iPPP. You know how I said most of my pictures are of food? I was not exaggerating. Here is today’s lunch, a complete splurge (as in, calorie splurge). It was worth every nasty, toxic, non-nutritional calorie. I’ll worry about the ramifications later. Or not.

I give you the Texadelphia Chicken Cheesesteak, with mustard blend sauce and jalapenos. That mustard blend sauce is rub-it-in-your-hair good. What, you don’t say that? What about slap-your-mama-good? No?

Bloggers Without Borders

From there, we move to something much better for us: Bloggers Without Borders. Have you seen this site? I’m in love. When personal tragedy hit, Erika and Maggy, two blogging buddies turned real life friends, turned their experience into Bloggers Without Borders. According to the website, their goals are:

1. To create a platform (through our website, blog and social media platforms) which allows bloggers to promote charitable events and projects and connect them with bloggers who want to get involved.
2. To offer advice and support to bloggers want to start projects.
3. To respond to the need in our own community (and beyond) by fundraising for specific causes as and when the need arises.
4. To use our platforms to raise awareness about chosen social issues through targeted campaigns.

Erika contacted me yesterday in response to the #TXBlogFireRelief campaign that Austin-area bloggers have launched. In chatting with her, I found out that Erika’s home burned to the ground last year, and I was so moved that she wanted to reach out to fire victims here.

Bloggers Without Borders offered to help #TXBlogFireRelief spread the word about the wildfire relief efforts. To that end, they are running a post today, and they are also helping out by tweeting and posting on Facebook.

I just cannot thank them enough, and I beg you to go give them your unwavering support forever. Is that too much to ask? I didn’t think so. Go check out Bloggers Without Borders, follow them, support them, love them. The end. (And thank you, too.)

And Stuff

I wanted to say thanks to all of you who are posting, tweeting, Facebook-ing about the #TXBlogFireRelief effort.

I can’t stress enough how long this rebuilding and recovery process is going to take. The Texas “fire season” always starts around now, but this year is fire season times a gazillion. (No, not a scientific quantification there.) We definitely haven’t seen the end of this.

I’m not completely sure how I’m going about it yet, but in some shape, form or fashion, I will post regular updates on relief needs. Even if you’re not in town, you can still help by sending cash donations to organizations or mailing donated items (you can mail directly to organizations or to me, just contact me if you want to do that). Please follow the hash tag, #TXBlogFireRelief on Twitter for updates, as well.

That brings me to today’s updates. There are a couple Facebook pages doing a great job of keeping running lists of relief efforts and needs. Please take a look at:

Central Texas Wildfire Recovery

Steiner Ranch Social Committee

And here’s a story from WeAreAustin.com (KEYE, the CBS affiliate), that is regularly updated. They have a good list of ways to donate online.

Don’t forget to link up your own post about the fires here. If you’re looking for more suggestions on ways to help, the posts in this linky are the place to go.

As always, thank you. I will never stop saying it, because it can’t be said enough.

One day perhaps I’ll return to posts with a point, but today’s not the day. Depending on how you view the world, I have either a lot of little points today, or no point at all. You’re entitled to see it however you wish.

Thing #1: Texas Beef Council

I’m remiss, more than a little, in telling you about a great day I spent with the Texas Beef Council, Nolan Ryan’s Beef and Chef Richard Chamberlain.  Thanks to my friend, Gigi, our co-host for the day, Austin bloggers were invited to a cooking class and demonstration.

I knew it was going to be a good day, but I have to say I was surprised by how much fun I had. Our hosts were all lovely people and I learned things. Can’t go wrong with that.

A) I was not much of a meat-cooker. I eat meat, but I didn’t like to deal with it prior to shoveling it in. I still don’t really like knowing what part of the animal the meat comes from or what it looked like in between grazing and ending up on my plate.

A1) I can cook meat now. Tenderloin steaks: run and hide, suckers, because I can make people weep with joy after I cook you.

B) I met some amazing Austin bloggers, and got to hang out with a few I was already happy to call friends.

B1) Gigi’s recap is great, including a picture of me appearing to threaten Blythe with a pair of tongs. See? Fun!

C) I ate the equivalent of about five lunches, all of which included beef and none of which included my children complaining about the meal.

C1) Need I say more?

Thing #2: The Passing of Time

I now have a kindergartener (just ask him, he’ll let you know he’s not a preschooler any longer). Graduation was last week, complete with an introduction to each matriculating child and announcements of what the children want to be when they grow up.

H wants to be a police offer, and his friend who lives across the street wants to be a fire fighter. We just need an EMT and the adults on this street will be well taken care of in our old age.

I didn’t boo-hoo like I expected to, but I did feel a tightness in my chest (this is where our resident emergency response team is going to come in real handy), and a pit in my stomach. Mostly, however, I felt proud of my big guy. My funny, sweet, law-enforcing guy.

In addition to my preschool grad, I also now have a two-year-old. H looked at me the other day and said, “Mom, you do know P is not a baby anymore, don’t you?”

Salt. Wound. Thanks, kid.

Yes, I know he’s not a baby anymore. I know he is, in fact, a tiny John Belushi/John Blutarsky. The kid finds bodily functions beyond hilarious and regularly throws his food. He’s into shirtless air guitar and removing his pants in public.

He’s so cute we could eat him. And don’t tell H, but sometimes I am a little stunned that P is not a baby anymore.

Thing #3: More staples. Different Head.

The truth is I didn’t forget to tell you this, because it just happened. Apparently it’s not a holiday around here without a trip to the ER. This time it was Mark, though, and he topped P by one staple.

Open cabinet door met head, there was blood, there was nausea (mine), and finally, three staples. I let him milk it for exactly six hours, and I hope he enjoyed that six-hour recuperation time, because come Monday morning there were pool parties to attend and garages to reorganize.  It’s his own fault, really, because he insists he feels fine. I could teach the man a lot about eliciting sympathy.

Thing #4: Triathlon Update

More of an update, less of a thing I forgot to tell you. I haven’t mentioned it in a while, maybe because it’s hard to fit in everything when you only blog once a week, but I am still training for the Danskin Triathlon. It wasn’t quite the training season I hoped for, but I’m going to finish the race. So that’s something.

I feel like my fitness level is improving, maybe not at the rate I had in mind pre-physical-therapy-athon, but it’s improving. So that, too, is something. I still can’t look at a picture of myself without wanting to smash all cameras and mirrors. I have to wonder, though, when – if ever – that won’t be the case?

Updates, done.

Except I’m sure I forgot some stuff, so don’t be surprised if another update post appears soon.

An education is what you have left over after you’ve forgotten everything you learned.

Somebody said that, or something along those lines. I’ve seen it attributed to Einstein. And Lennon.

Whoever said it, I find that it mostly holds true for me. You know I have a bad case of CRC (Can’t Remember Crap), but there are a few things that stuck. Like the theory that you will fill as much time as you have. Okay, okay, I can’t remember the name of that theory, but I know that such a theory exists. Or the concept of a eureka! moment happening when you give up and finally are not thinking about a problem. That’s a real thing, too.

Another thing I particularly enjoyed – and actually remember – learning about: Pavlov. And his dogs.

I felt an immediate kinship with those dogs. Perhaps because I think their work spotlights the fact that people and dogs have more in common than we like to believe. Or perhaps because I like to eat. At any rate, I got those dogs and their lab coat-induced drool.

Pavlov may feel that I’m oversimplifying here, but to me his work proved that we’re creatures of habit. Man in lab coat arrives, dogs get snack. Doorbell rings, people pretend nobody’s home. Don’t tell me you’ve never done that.

On a recent flight I noticed a Pavlovian response of my own: ride airplane, get gummy bears.

Until now, I always bought gummies to take on the plane, but I never realized that my psyche expected a gummy bear when flying. Then I find myself at the airport sans bears, and realize I have a sudden, overwhelming desire for the little guys. In my mind, all gummy bears are male. This is non-negotiable.

I mulled it over – lots of free time on an airplane – and am now aware of a few other habitual connections (and yes, a disproportionate number of them are food & beverage-related) :

:: Rainy days and soy lattes.

:: Christmas season and Lifetime TV movies.

:: Cold weather and chili.

:: Yard work and cold beer.

:: Sick days and tabloid magazines.

:: Car trips and comedy albums (Having small children really put a kink in this one – it’s either over their heads, meaning they whine and complain, or it’s totally inappropriate. But you know, they usually really listen when bad words are involved, so at least they’re quiet. I joke, I joke. Only things rated E for Everyone in our car, I promise.)

I wonder…

:: Do you consider yourself a creature of habit?

:: What are some of your Pavlovian responses?

:: Do you think gummy bears are boys or girls?

*********************************************************************************

I have been selected as an AboutOne Mom Panelist! Go here to read more and meet the rest of the panelists. And keep an eye out for some posts on how AboutOne is revolutionizing my household tasks and organization. Talk about a miracle product!

“Heh. She said balls.”

“Oooh. Maybe this is a post about fancy parties and she will have pictures of ball gowns.” (In which case, you are either new here or you haven’t been paying attention. Not a lot of ball gown-wearing opportunities around here.)

“Balls? Soccer balls? Footballs? Is this a sports blog?” (Again, only the uninitiated could be so misled.)

Probably, though, you thought,

“Heh. She said balls.”

In which case, you’re my kind of gal (or guy).

I won’t keep you hanging any longer (and yes, pun intended). The balls to which I’m referring are chocolate. And peanut butter. And they are slap-your-mama, rub-in-your-hair good.

My dad has been making chocolate balls every Christmas for 40 years. These things are legen – wait for it – dary.* If you have known my parents for more than 15 minutes, particularly at holiday time, you know chocolate balls. Chances are pretty good that you have eaten enough of them to make yourself sick. That’s part of the fun.

Someone, who shall remain nameless – but it starts with M and rhymes with Rahm, and she gave birth to me – once had way too many chocolate balls and a few too many gin and tonics. She couldn’t even look at a chocolate ball for several years after that. My dad continued to make them, though, because everyone else in the family and friends circle expects them.

The true beauty of these balls? They are not only crazy delicious, but they also provide comic relief. For our purposes here, my dad’s name is Joe. At least once at every holiday gathering, someone shouts out one of the following gems:

“Have you tried Joe’s balls yet?”

“Oh, Joe’s balls are delicious!”

You, because you are my very favorite reader (shhh, don’t tell the others), are in for an amazing treat today. After some careful deliberation, we – me and my dad, uh, Joe – are sharing the recipe with you.

The official name of these little balls of goodness is Lazy Cookies, but do not be fooled. While not overly complicated, this recipe is time consuming. It’s worth your time, though, because you end up with somewhere in the neighborhood of seven dozen chocolate balls to share with your friends and family; they transport well and they freeze beautifully.

Speaking of freezing them… The year I was pregnant with H, I was paranoid about my upcoming glucose test, so I didn’t eat any sweets at Christmas. My parents sent a bag of balls (yes, again, intended pun) home with me. I stuck them in the freezer, and promptly forgot about them.

Cut to a month later: glucose test over – as in I came home from the test and immediately ran to the freezer because what’s done is done, and I just remembered there are chocolate balls stashed in there – and I’m sitting on the sofa, feet propped up, making myself absolutely ill on chocolate balls. That’s a delayed Christmas miracle, if you ask me. Although in all honesty, like my mother before me, I passed on the chocolate balls the next Christmas.

The moral here may be that while these little round pieces of heaven are delicious, moderation is key. Eat a few, share the rest.

Do Not Eat In One Sitting.

Chocolate Balls

To make balls:
2 Sticks unsalted butter, melted
1 Cup graham cracker crumbs
1 Cup flaked coconut
16 oz. powdered sugar
6 oz. crunchy peanut butter
1 tsp. pure vanilla extract

To make chocolate coating:
2 oz. (1/2 bar) of Gulf Wax (paraffin wax)
12 oz. semi-sweet chocolate chips

Combine melted butter, graham cracker crumbs, coconut, powdered sugar, peanut butter and vanilla. Mix well (using your hand seems to work best).
Roll into balls (approximately ¾” to 1” in diameter).
Set aside.

Melt the paraffin wax in double boiler.
Stir in chocolate until melted.
Roll the balls in the chocolate, then set aside to cool (placing the balls on a wire cooling rack will ensure you don’t get little chocolate “feet” on your balls).

Store in a covered container or in the freezer. Depending on the size, yield is approx. 80 to 90.

*I love Barney on How I Met Your Mother. Suit up!

This is a how-to-terrify-your-kids-into-doing-what-you-want-them-to-do post.

My oldest understands that hot things burn you. He knows that burns hurt. Our issue is that he has never been burned, so his head knowledge is no match for that visceral, life experience knowledge.

The other day I took a pan of scones* out of the oven, and set it down on the stove top to cool. I turned my back just long enough to toss my hot pad back in the drawer, and when I turned back around my son’s face was about a millimeter from the lip of that oven fresh pan.

I gently, but firmly, say, “That’s really hot, please move back!” (Whatever – I screamed that sentence. I can’t lie to you.)

H looks at me, puzzled, and says, “I didn’t touch it. I just wanted to get a really good look at the scones.”

Technically he hasn’t done anything wrong. Technically. But I’ve been around 32 more years than this kid, and I know.

I know you could trip over your own feet and bump into a burning pan. Or forget your oven mitt and reach for a pan with your bare hand. Or suddenly sneeze dramatically, whack your forehead on the counter, and graze the edge of a hot pan.

These things happen to some people.

So I looked at H, and gently said (really – I didn’t scream this time), “I know. You didn’t do anything wrong, but you need to be very careful around hot things.”

He looked annoyed with all the mothering, leaving me no option but to scare him straight.

“You don’t have to touch a hot pan to get burned. If your face gets too close, it could melt off.”

I had his attention.

“Your face could melt into a big face-puddle on my kitchen floor, and your father and I would have to get on our hands and knees, frantically scooping your face-puddle into our hands, then run to the freezer and throw your liquefied face in there, hoping that we were fast enough.”

“Fast enough for what, mom?” He’s holding perfectly still as he asks this, a rare occurrence.

“Fast enough that we still have a chance of restoring your face to it’s original shape. Once we take it out of the freezer, we’ll have to reattach it to your head – don’t ask how, it’s not pretty – and just hope your face still looks like it used to. We’ll have to hope it still properly fits your head.

So don’t get too close to the stove or oven or hot pans or irons. We really don’t want your face to melt off. Okay?”

H is quiet (another rare occurrence) for about 22 seconds. And then he breaks into a grin.

“I know that’s not true, mom. My face can’t melt off!” And he laughs with great confidence.

I just shrug, grin and silently go back to my business. A few seconds later, he sighs.

“Okay, okay. I won’t get too close to the pan again.”

That’s what I thought, little man, that’s what I thought.

I wonder… Do you ever use scare tactics with your kids?

A note: No children were emotionally scarred in the making of this post. My son actually loves to be a little scared – he’s an adrenaline junkie. We’re always careful to reinforce that our crazy stories are made up, and he’s old enough to appreciate a little bit of scary make believe.

*So very domestic with my scone baking, yes? Don’t be too impressed: they were out of a can. But I did use the oven to bake the scones, so I call that homemade. And by they way, if you haven’t tried Immaculate Baking Co. products, you need to. They are all so good, and the scones are no exception. This is not a paid product endorsement. I just like you so much that I’m letting you in on one of my favorite products. But… Immaculate Baking Co., should you be reading, we should talk.