I know it’s not a huge deal–there are millions and millions of pins on Pinterest, but if you’ve ever spent any time on what I can only call “computer crack” then you know to take being pinned it as a big compliment. It’s all eye candy, fabulous ideas and it’s all to-die-for darling.

In case you missed it, the posted being pinned is the Lego Table post. Here’s the link if you missed it. Feel free to pin it!

What can I say, I feel like a co-ed with a handsome beau. (To be truthful, I feel like that most of the time since I married my college sweetheart.)

It didn’t come in last.

It’s taken us three derbies to finally relax a bit and “just have fun with it” per our den leader’s instructions. Three years to treat it like any other pack meeting and not the heated hotbed of competition it really is.

But let’s face it: by the end of the night, there are winners and there are losers and winning is more fun, plain and simple. For many of the dads involved, the derby is a chance for vindication. Redemption. Finally, they are allowed to use power tools without supervision! What time does Home Depot close?

Fueled by something visceral and instinctive, parents pore themselves into the derby. Must…win…pinewood…derby! (Maybe I’m drawing unfair conclusions here, but if I am, then I am very, very impressed by the craftsmanship of some of these nine year olds.)

My son and husband have been known to emerge from our two-car garage caked in sawdust and dramatically backlit by a dangling 60 watt bulb, brimming with confidence. With fresh varnish fumes still stinging their eyes, they’ve declared in hushed, reverent tones that the 5oz. creation in their hands is not only the culmination of blood, sweat, tears and hours of research on the Internet, but that surely this car will go down in the books as the fastest thing on four wheels ever to grace our pack’s track. This is the one, they’ve assured us. This is our year!

Only to come in dead last at the pack meeting.

So what made us switch from graphite lubricant zealots to “just have fun with it” spectators? Was it because this year, we just didn’t have the time to be zealous? Between my husband’s traveling for work and my son’s sports, music lessons, and homework, and what with me with a new baby at home, that pinewood derby car package didn’t even get opened until the night before the big race. (Never mind the fact that I had to hide the box again and again since the younger children were convinced it was a box of cookies no matter how many times I explained to them that it contained nothing more than one block of wood and four teeny tiny little wheels that must not get lost!! Then I forgot where I hid it.)

Or perhaps it was the fact that we didn’t have the bitter taste of defeat still in our mouths, having tasted victory at the “Raingutter Rigatta” this past summer. (One word: catamaran. It smoked all the other boats. Smoked ‘em! Not that we care about things like that…) The point is, we didn’t have as much to prove this year. Let’s let others have a chance to win. Easy come, easy go.

Whatever the reason, it was a great way to spend our son’s last pinewood derby–calm, cool and happy with whatever the results happened to be:

Not last! Yes!!

What makes this particular Sunday night so different, is that she is here. My mom’s downstairs right now getting ready for bed in our basement (or as she calls it, “the root cellar.” It does get a little chilly down there. Don’t worry, I equipped her room with a small space heater.) So tonight there was no one to call. We’ve been gabbing all week about our latest discoveries and our current projects. So now what? I feel like I’ve just had a big meal and need a little something sweet before I can leave the kitchen.

So I thought I’d write to you all about what we would’ve chatted about over the phone had I not been lucky enough to have the real McCoy here in the flesh all week.

I would’ve told her about how difficult things can be when my husband is out of town on long business trips (which is why she came.) I would’ve told her about presenting “The Masters of Art” lesson in my daughter’s classroom and what did she know about Chagall for next time? Then I would’ve thanked her again and again for sending me to Europe all those years ago and for paying for all those Humanities classes. Fifteen years later, it’s all paying off….Second graders are getting grade A lessons here.

She would’ve told me all about her recent capers and treasure hunts with her good girlfriends, the latest party she is throwing and what do I suggest for the menu? Then I’d pick her brain as to what I should serve for my husband’s birthday this week and she’d have some fabulous idea. We’d talk cool new iPhone apps, the buzz on Pinterest, and why she still refuses to get on Facebook.

She would tell me one or two of the many acts of service she’s performed that week and I would comment how I envy her opportunities to serve. Then she’d tell me to stop being so silly. I serve five people who call me “Mom,” 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and how on earth can that be considered to be anything other than Christlike service? That would make me feel better, empowered even, and more patient with the sibling bickering I hear down the hall..

I’d get the scoop on the interesting cases that have walked through the door of my dad’s law office, and which ones he was bringing home to sleep in the guest room until they got back on their feet. We’d talk weather and once again I’d feign surprise at the “70 warm and sunny” report she’d invariably give (it’s always 70 warm and sunny where I grew up) and I’d spend a few minutes trying to convince her that I actually like having four seasons but she never quite believes me. It would end when she’d ponder all the fun wardrobe pieces “70 warm and sunny” doesn’t make allowances for. She’ll just have to wear her faux fur hat when she comes to visit then, it’s settled.

And visit she has! Faux fur hat and all! True, we didn’t get to chat on the phone tonight, but I did get to watch her play Connect Four with my five year old and do a real live victory dance complete with cheer. “Nana doesn’t throw games” was her battle cry. I’m thinking of having T-shirts made. Then she played my eight-year old at Boggle and declared her a genius. (We already knew that, but since “Nana doesn’t throw games” we knew it was a real compliment.) We spent time on FamilySearch.org, face-timed my mother-in-law, and not only did she help with dinner, she helped do the dishes too.

Now that’s better than any phone call.

So in my attempt to “pay it forward” I am posting my husband’s ingenious solution to The Lego Problem. (Lego connoisseurs know what I’m talking about.) The teeny tiny pieces, the fleetingness of a completed set, the need to dump out the whole tub so you can find that one little yellow hand, the MESS.

So here it is, brought to you by Ikea and that brilliant hubby of mine:

It’s nothing too fancy. It’s an Ikea table with two large Lego base plates super glued to the top. This Dino Lego set has been standing since Christmas morning. I know, impressive. All other pre-lego table sets have only survived a maximum of 72 hours, if that.

The Legos are sorted by color: a drawer for grey, white, black, red/blue, green/yellow/orange, and my three year old’s favorite drawer–the “guy” drawer. (All the Lego guys and accompanying hair, arms, hands, weapons and the like.)

We used two 48 dot X 48 dot gray base plates side by side. We bought them from Lego.com. The glue we used was E-6000 from Michael’s. Little tip: When gluing on the two base plates, affix several Legos down the bridge between the two plates to be sure that when the glue is dry, Legos will snap perfectly between the plates.

The Ikea table is $39.99, drawers a few dollars more. Click here for the link. The cool part about the table is that the drawers open from both sides, so several children can build at the same time.

The hardest part about this project is of course sorting the Legos. It took my five year old and me over 3 hours to sort all 427,839,098 Legos pieces into their corresponding drawers. Okay, I made up that number, but that’s what it felt like! (By the way, that was Luke’s homemade Christmas present to Andy–to sort his Legos.)

The funny thing is, as my husband was putting together the table, instruction booklet splayed on the floor, allen wrench and 18 volt drill in hand, he remarked,

“Hey, Ikea furniture is like Legos for grown-ups!”

Oddly enough, the children’s Legos were more expensive than the grown-up ones!

I built that. I built that! Well, yes, I suppose my womb built the adorable blonde in the background, but I’m talking about the Lego Ninjago motorcycle. It took me the better part of the afternoon, but I did it. And for the first time, I “get” Legos.

It’s oddly satisfying. Flipping through that little booklet they give you, organizing your pieces into piles, and then like Michelangelo watching The David break free from its marble prison…there it is: A super cool flaming ninja motorcycle.

I know it says ages 7 and up on the box. It’s a child’s toy and here I am, the better part of 34 years behind me, comparing myself to the masters having snapped it together, but I had never done it before. My ten year old is my resident builder, but he was at school when Luke got this and since he’s still five and needed help, well, I stepped up to the plate (or “base plate” as we say in Lego-ese. I’m so Lego hip right now.)

Another thing I’m “building” at the moment is my photography know-how. As you can tell from the picture above, it wasn’t taken with my iPhone. Paul got me a real genuine camera with a “manual” setting and I’ve been doing some reading and I even signed up for a photography class. I’m learning all about F-stops and ISO’s and white balance. Very fun stuff if I can keep it all straight in my head and get the kids to smile and look at me.

With any luck, one day my blog will become one of those eye-candy blogs we all gawk over on Pinterest. Up until now, I’ve solely focused on the written word, but if my blog is going to stand a chance of getting noticed out there in cyberspace, it needs to look pretty too.

Besides, I like the idea of taking endless photos of my don’t-come-much-cuter-than-this children. So I’ll keep clicking away.

Both with the Legos and the camera.

Clic, click, click…

Flip-flop is one of those expressions that bothers me, (kinda like “I could care less” when what you really mean is you could NOT care less, that’s how little you actually care.) Most candidates accused of flip-flopping don’t change their opinion on an issue, only to change it right back again to their original conclusion. Most just…flip. Not flip-flop.

Don’t we all?

When I look back at some of the stances I fervently adopted in my younger years, I cringe.

I used to think that a jumbo white bagel slathered in cream cheese was a healthy breakfast and that margarine was good for me.

I used to believe I would never want a cell phone.

I can remember devouring parenting books when I was pregnant with my first child and in between chapters looking up from my book only to look down my nose at other parents whose children were so obviously “out of control.” Boy, was I glad I was going to be in control! Consistent, firm, always confident as to who would be the one in charge in this mother-child relationship.

I was a perfect parent before I had kids.

Now I’m the one saying things like, “Don’t judge me!” when my toddler uses the bushes at the park as his personal commode. Now I’m the one who, five babies later, still can’t decide whether “crying it out” is a necessary evil or if I’m causing neurological brain damage. (The days are short but the nights are long.)

I guess you could say I’m a flip-flopper. But is that a bad thing? Now I’m much more likely to eat a bowl of hot whole grains for breakfast instead of white starch and cream. (But it sure was yummy…) My cell phone has made my life infinitely easier. Why did I wait so long!? And most importantly, I’m much more likely now to offer a wet wipe, a treat, or a word of encouragement to my fellow “out of control” sisters in arms than I was ten years ago.

Life is about progress, growing and changing. I’m sure there are things I’m adamant about now that will be completely unimportant to me in another ten years. I may read through all my blog posts one day and laugh and laugh at how naive I was. What a know-it-all!

It must be hard to be a politician and have every opinion you’ve ever uttered documented and recorded only to be brought up in your face the moment you’ve decided to become a little wiser. So little room for growth.

It’s like that great Mark Twain quote, “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

This new year, I hope I flip on several issues until I get them right.

But flip-flops are still my all-time favorite casual shoe. You can take that to the bank.

First of all, Google is our best friend. Anything you want to find a low carb substitute for, just type it into google and there will be some blog post about it or a youtube video on how to make it. We’re still learning and experimenting but I’ll tell you what we’ve been eating this past week.

Lots of veggies. I’m like Elaine from Seinfeld with my “big salad” but since the kids aren’t big on salad, we do big veggie platters with dip instead. If I set a large plate of veggies and dip on the table after school, it’s gone by dinner. Ranch is a favorite, or sour cream mixed with onion soup mix. Very low carb.

Tacos. I know, tacos? Three whole taco shells are only 20 carbs. Fill them with shredded chicken, salsa, avocados…we ate them tonight. De-lish.

Eggplant lasagna. Full fat ricotta cheese and everything, just sliced eggplant instead of noodles. I personally liked it better.

Tortilla soup. The only difference we made was that I literally counted out 9 chips per bowl. 22 carbs.

Beans. Half a cup is only 15 carbs. Measure it out. By the time I add salsa and cottage cheese and heat it up, yummy.

Creamy chicken not served over rice. Instead, pulse a cooked cauliflower in the food processor and sautee it with a touch of olive oil and seasoning. Voila, rice.

Eggs and toast. The key: Only one piece of toast. 22 carbs.

Cottage cheese and fruit. Look up the fruit’s carb count on google. Measure it.

Greek yogurt. 10 carbs per cup. Sweetened with Stevia.

Protein shakes with a twist. A scoop of protein powder is only 3 carbs and I add ice, frozen spinach and a variety of extracts to pep them up like mint, coconut or almond.

For dessert we’ve been making mugs of “no sugar added” hot cocoa and spraying on the whipped cream. 11 carbs.

We’re still new at this and there is a ton of information out there. Basically, I’m trying to fill us up on veggies, measuring out/weighing our fruit, whole grains and legumes, and enjoying the cheese. I’m scrutinizing labels and trying to keep our choices “natural” and not too heavy on the meat.

I’ve read the key to sticking with it is not to make it feel like dieting. According to our doctor, there is no difference in weight-loss whether your low carb diet is low calorie or high calorie, so go ahead and enjoy the full-fat ranch, coconut milk, sour cream and bacon.

Having grown up in the “low-fat” era, I can barely bring myself to indulge in these areas. My hand is practically shaking as I raise the bottle of Ranch over my lovely spinach salad with a, “I don’t why I’m doing this!!!”

But it does make the meals more satisfying. No one feels deprived. And it doesn’t really feel like a “diet.” Just more like a shift.

Okay, I just watched a youtube video on how to make low carb ice cream in a zip lock bag. I think that may be our new birthday treat tradition instead of baking a cake. I’ll have to try it out first, of course, to be sure it will be a success. Maybe even a few times to experiment with different flavors and add-ins…Here’s the link.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner. My oldest daughter has always struggled with weight despite being physically active, her mother’s health-nutty kitchen, and our family’s self-righteous stance on video games. Half of my husband’s family are endocrinologists! With their own practice! Why didn’t I get down to the lab and have her blood work done ages ago?

Few things are more crushing to a parent than having to watch their lovely, compassionate child deal with less tactful children teasing them about their weight. (I can only hope these rough instances will play a part in sculpting her into a very caring, thoughtful adult.) Bear in mind, Kate is only about 12 pounds overweight, not morbidly obese, but on a small frame that’s a big difference, especially when all her little girl friends have the metabolisms of whippets. No one wants to be the biggest one in a tutu. It was starting to bother her.

So off to the family’s practice we went. After a quick stab with a needle and an afternoon of waiting, her blood work revealed her blood sugars to be dangerously high, her cholesterol high, and she was insulin resistant, well on her way to type 2 diabetes if she did not course correct.

What?? How can that possibly be true? All my cooking with whole grains and the copious amounts of spinach I jam into our fruit smoothies in the morning and we’re walking dangerous close to type 2 diabetes?? But I don’t buy juice! I hate fast food! How can that be?

First off, said her uncle doctor, life ain’t fair. Genetics. Her body does not slowly release the sugar it gets over the course of several hours like most people’s. Instead, it releases it all at once, causing the blood sugar to spike, her pancreas to overreact, and whatever sugar is not used up that exact minute is stored up as fat. And what’s worse is, her pancreas is wearing out.

Okay, so she’s getting too much sugar? But I abhor white sugar. I only use it to make my own jam! Wh…how…wh…?

Carbs. All carbs are essentially sugar as far as your pancreas is concerned.

Well, now that I think about it, all that homemade whole wheat bread I was baking weekly (slathered in the homemade jam, no less) was wreaking havoc on her cute little pancreas. All those cookies I was making (using my special blend of ground-up organic brown rice and whole wheat flour–all from my own grinder) were doing her no favors. The baked potatoes we had last night, the extra grande honey crisp apples we bought…all very high in carbohydrates.

I’m a terrible mother.

The good news, he told us as I picked my jaw up off the floor, was there is something we can do about it. This is all very, very reversible. Her pancreas will self-heal, no meds or anything. All it takes is knowing how to eat properly for her particular body type.

So here’s the low down: 30-45 carbs per meal, three meals a day, 15 carbs per snack, three snacks a day. (Adults can go lower, but since she is a growing child, she gets a bit more.)

The whole family is eating this way now. (Well, except for Jane.) According to the doc, this exact same pancreatic scenario will likely play out with all of our children when they reach adulthood, (the classic tale of the skinny kid who balloons after age 25) so we might as well all get used to low carbs. This is a lifetime diet plan.

It’s been 6 days now and as of this morning, Kate has already lost 4 pounds. For the first time in my adult life I bought full fat Ranch dressing (1 carb.) We measure out portions, use our digital kitchen scale and count out every single carb we put in our mouths, scared straight at the thought of dealing with type 2 diabetes. (All you need to know, Kate, is it means a shot at every meal. Shot? Noooooooo!!!!!)

We like those circular whole wheat sandwich thins (22 carbs,) thin crust pizza (26 carbs,) pistachio nuts (8 carbs, and you have to crack them open so they last a long time) and my children have been absolutely thrilled to be reunited with their long lost true love: cheese. (1 carb.)

Lots of veggies, lots of water, a little Ranch, and we physically measure out the fruit and whole grains. I’m sending Kate to school with a bag-o-tricks for her teacher to stash away for when “Billy” has a birthday and his mom brings in a box of donuts.

The best part is, Kate is totally on board and if anything, she feels empowered. Before she felt like she was swimming against a current. Now she is finally catching a wave.

We stocked up on lots of board games for Christmas this year. My husband and I decided it would be an investment in family time. It is. We are having lots of family time. Most of that time is spent in lectures entitled, “Hey, Easy Come, Easy Go, Sport,” or “You Win Some, You Loose Some, Get Over It,” or “Life Turns on a Dime, Just Wait a Few More Turns and You’ll be Surprised What Happens Next.”

There are so many life lessons you can learn from the comfort of your own kitchen table. One of my favorite memories from this past week was teaching my five year old how to play Connect Four after getting pummeled round after round by his eight year, more experienced older sister.

“Rule Number One: You’ve got to have multiple ways of connecting four, son. As soon as she blocks one way, don’t sweat it, ’cause you’ve got one or two more.”

“Rule Number Two: Don’t just think about how you’re going to connect four, think about how you’re going to stop her from connecting four.”

“Rule Number Three: Don’t just react out of anger and frustration. Think before you make your next move! Patience…patience…”

My daughter was not happy to have her little brother under my tutelage, as he quickly battled back to tie up the score. If only she had taken the sage advice I was dispensing loudly enough for all parties to hear instead being miffed by it. Lesson number four: Keep your friends close…your opponents closer. Never know what you might learn.

This week we’ve enjoyed playing the board game classics like Life, Scrabble and Trouble. But that Sorry game….”The Game of Sweet Revenge.” Boy, they weren’t kidding. Sorry doesn’t cut it. I call it “The Emotion Bowl.”

The whole time we’re playing the game I feel like I’m in some sort of melodrama. I turn to my left and find one of my offspring rubbing their hands together with a maniacal glint in their eye and hissing, “He he he…” I turn to my right and someone is bellowing, “Nooooooooo!!!!!” with their fists raised high in the air as if there were a camera dangling from a crane above them ready to zoom out.

Then there’s the poker faced yankee unmoved by the helpless southern belle shedding crocodile tears into her hankie, “Please sir, if you move my piece, whatever shall I do?” And then there’s the baby: The comic relief.

But it’s that singsongy, minor chord “Sorry!!” that sends my little ones into hysterics, just inches aways from pulling a Bobby Brady and sending the whole board flying. Suddenly the game is stupid. Unfair! Why do we even play this dumb game?!

Then I realized, the game of sweet revenge only evokes this level of theatrics when we play it with each other. The kids played this game the other day with some neighborhood friends and all was well. No tears, no arguing, just good, clean, friendly fun..

Why is it when big brother taunts, “Sorry!” it’s soul-crushing? But when the kid down the street says it, no biggie. Huh. Go Figure.

Oh ya. It must be Rule Number Five. They keep their friends close…their siblings closer.

It’s a 30 day holiday, you know. A full 30 days of eating too much, buying too much, and sleeping too little. (Did anybody else’s kids wake up at 4am on Christmas morning, unable to sleep a minute longer, as if they knew their parents had gone to bed only two hours earlier?)

For 30 days we caroled and baked and wrapped. We spread Christmas cheer, pored over our itemized lists to the North Pole and then agonized whether they’d make it in time. (Good thing I found Santa’s email address.) We left goodies on doorsteps, subbed for Santa and even managed to get a family picture taken in coordinating outfits! We baked gingerbread houses, decorated gingerbread houses and then watched them slowly disappear, nibble by covert nibble…

Then there’s all the “magic” my husband and I created whilst the little ones dreamed of sugar plums. For 30 mornings they woke up to our resident Elf on the Shelf, Ernie, in one predicament or another. One morning Ernie found himself on the back of a wooly mammoth, backed into a corner fighting off carnivorous dinosaurs with nothing but a Lego sword and his cunning for protection. Another morning they found Ernie hiding from his Naughty List adversaries stashed in the poinsettias while Darth Vader and his gang of toy cronies stood around the pot, weapons cocked, searching for the tattling elf in vain like the Gestapo. Thirty mornings of this high adrenaline lifestyle was about all Ernie could take. Whew!

I’ll admit, there was a point when I found myself tapping my toe, wondering if the 30 days would ever be up. How long can one holiday possibly last?  I was so wrapped up in my to-do lists, turning my home into a cottage industry of magic-making, I found it difficult to ponder that silent night for more than the duration of a very brief nativity play.

This is why I was so glad Christmas fell on a Sunday this year. Putting on our Sunday best and singing along to sacred Christmas hymns was just what I needed to wash down the cookies the kids had put out for Santa. For a whole glorious hour, I felt as though I were one of the angels singing in that heavenly host over 2,000 years ago. We were like happy little Whos down in Whoville, with Christmas bells ringing, standing hand in hand and sing, sing, sing, singing!

And like the Grinch, I couldn’t help but think, “It came! It came just the same. It came despite all the ribbons, despite all the tags. It came despite all the packages, boxes and bags!” And even though emotion choked out my attempts to harmonize, the voices in that chapel sounded divine. O holy night.

Even though the trimmings, trappings and wrappings are wrapped up till next year (thank goodness), I hope this feeling will last for another 30 days. At least. Hopefully longer.