As I disclosed tonight via Facebook, I have made a rather sudden and abrupt career change, effective today.

I don't know what brought it on. I was just sitting on the couch last Sunday, surfing the net via the iPad, when I had this uncontrollable urge to visit a certain store's website (henceforth known as "The Store." No, I will not be disclosing my new employer. And if you know me in person, I ask you to please respect this request). I was actually looking for closed-toed black heels for the upcoming Firm Holiday party when I thought, randomly, to click on "Careers."

What a wonderful world that must be, I thought to myself, as I envisioned The Store's employees. You are surrounded by shiny, pretty objects. Makeup galore. Supple hand lotion that is always available, just when your hands are their driest. Neatly organized clothing with glamorous designer labels. And most importantly, a clientele that doesn't hear voices, hate their spouse, hate their life, or hate their therapist. I began to fantasize that The Store was the answer to my stay-at-home dilemma: a fun, exciting part-time that has no overhead costs, no after-hour phone calls, and no one on suicide watch.

(obviously, there are many jobs that hold that job description. But when you are a therapist by trade and by nature, something shiny looks pretty damn good when you are constantly surrounded by despair, depression, and hopelessness. And this particular website had my attention.)

And so I clicked on "Current Job Openings."

There, on the top of the list, was a Las Vegas job opening.

And in about 35 minutes, my application was complete. I completed the personality assessment (and kind of giggled when I realized the internal validity scale was fairly basic.) Did I have any experience in commissioned sales? No. How about how I would treat an irate customer? Um...no clue. And what is this about toting the company line? I've been non-profit or government my whole life. I don't know what it's like to be a company gal. I've rebelled against anything that was even remotely unethical or immoral, and always held my clients' best interest at heart, regardless of the consequences. After all, "Braveheart" is my favorite movie for a reason.

(Freeeeee-dooooooom!)

Despite my inclinations, I clicked "submit." Maybe it was the wine.

Whatever. 

The next day I received an email telling me I had passed the first round and would I be interested in a phone interview? Why yes, that sounded like fun. Why not?

That took 4 minutes, 23 seconds (I timed it). She asked me to come in for a one on one, and today, I did that. (I also did a recon mission last Wednesday to 1.) buy a new outfit, 2.) see how they treated me when I was wearing only yoga pants, a stained fleece pull-over and no make-up, and 3.) to see how they handle a sale when two salespeople are involved. In this order, I discovered: 1.) great! Found a gorgeous tweed suit on sale, paired it with tights and some shabooties, and felt moderately trendy, 2.) they were insanely nice regardless of my appearance and 3.) there was no overt competitiveness or agressiveness. A solid pass on all three counts.)

I also made some phone calls/texts to a friend who work in HR and one who is a buyer for a major department store and grilled them on what I should do/respond/act. I really tried to stack the cards in my favor. I wasn't leaving anything to chance.

Today, I met with the HR director and then a department manager and...was offered a position!

::SQUEAL!!!::

I tried not to touch (let alone lick) the gorgeous racks of clothing that surrounded me, although I did accidentally let out a very high-pitched, "This is my dream job, OMG!" to the manager. She just smiled at me benevolently. I'm guessing she heard this with each new hire.

And the best news is that they have been beyond flexible with my schedule requests. About 20 hours a week, two days during the week,and not until 3pm. Which means Scotty will be with a sitter for all of 8 hours a week. I can handle that.

So, wish me luck on this new endeavor. Brian believes it to be a losing proposition, since any money I make will likely end up back at The Store (in the form of beautiful boots or perhaps a lovely piece of jewelry. Sweater, anyone?) But my thinking is, if I happen to get a new wardrobe out of this, it was worth it, right??

I think Doughnut Day is best described in pictures. Here goes...

On the day we decided to fry doughnuts in the backyard, it was a cold, cold day in Las Vegas. We had to cover the lemon and lime trees to prevent freeze. It is the equivalent of tucking your container trees in at night. Very weird. I had the urge to sing them a lullabye.

 But the weather did not deter us. We pressed on, determined to fry our biscuit dough. I made sure we were well-prepared.

Thankfully, I had a very helpful little friend who helped me stay on course as I made the doughnuts.


(FYI: the famed Indiana Biscuit Cutter has been returned to her homeland.)

Once the oil was hot enough, it was showtime.

Man, did these puppies cook fast.

It's always fun to test your marriage vows around hot oil and rapidly cooking dough.

"Get the plate!"

"No, the plate with the paper towels on it!"

"Hurry! The doughnuts are burning!"

(Brian was not allowed to make a comment during this period as he was too busy running back and forth between the house and the fryer. He's a good man, I tell you.)

And if you are lucky (as we were), you will be rewarded with a piping hot plate of delicious, fresh, sugar-coated yumminess.

Which is quickly followed by...

It has arrived.

It even boasts an internal biscuit-cutter, necessary for those oh-so-yummy doughnut holes.

And who is most excited on Doughnut Day Eve?

This kid.

Yes, Scotty. We are really frying doughnuts in the backyard tomorrow.

Sorry for the lack of posts lately; there really is nothing to report on around here.

I'm feeling better, day after day, but I have to say, this has been a tough recovery. C-sections are no joke. At first, I was like, "This is great!" I thought it was so much better than a natural delivery. I mean, after a natural, it literally feels like you've been beaten with a bat and then your whole body swells to epic proportions. (at least, that was my experience). But that was the worst of it - and every day progressively got better  post-delivery.

Not with a c-section. It was tough the first few days in the hospital, but by the time I got home, I was amazed at my mobility. I didn't go up the stairs, but I was able sit on the ground with Scotty, get up from chairs, practically do a sit-up. I was convinced c-sections are the way to go.

But not so fast. My recovery progress has stalled. Or at least, it feels like it. While with a natural birth, it was bad and then consistently got better, the c-section delivery is just slow going.  Each day I feel a teeny-bit better, but I'm still struggling, energy and pain-wise.

(and FYI, I don't know if I'm using the correct term here - I know all births are "natural," I just really don't want to have to keep writing "vaginal" over and over again in my blog. So my apologies to anyone who I may offend by insinuating their child didn't come into this world naturally. That's not my intent. It's just my simple avoidance of the v-word.)

All of this makes my life very, very dull. My mom is hitting this grandmother thing out of the park - I really think Scotty now prefers her to me - and they are having so much fun. Just the other day I poked my head out of the bedroom to see what they were both giggling so much about. My mom was (gently) tossing him onto a bunch of couch pillows, and he thought it was hilarious. Up, down, up, down, up, down. I would have never thought of the game, making me happy new ideas are being infused into the home!

And finally, I would like to announce we are creating a new Thanksgiving tradition. Since we are big fans of the deep-fried turkey, we seem to have the same conversation year after year: what else can we fry? (or at least, this is my most pressing question. Man, do I want some cheese sticks. Or maybe a fritter. A girl can dream, right?)

Finally, after some lengthy discussions, I was able to convince His Royal Highness of the Deep Fryer (aka Brian) to actually permit me to fry something aside from turkey. So, on what looks to be a very cold, brisk morning here in Las Vegas, this Thursday will host the very first ever, handmade DOUGHNUT BREAKFAST in our backyard. I have the biscuit dough all ready to go in the fridge. I'm defrosting the apple cider and putting on a pot of hot chocolate. I'm planning on a variety of toppings (cinnamon sugar, powered sugar, and perhaps a chocolate glaze) AND, the best part: my dad is bringing my mom's biscuit maker out from the wilds of Indiana, so not only will we have doughnuts, we will also have doughnut holes. Scotty-sized doughnuts! Ah! Does life get better?

Stay tuned for LOTS of pictures. A doughnut-cam, perhaps?

(oh, and I'm down 4 solid pounds from my pre-surgery weight. Sweet! Thank you morphine, vomiting, and a very large fibroid for my weight loss.)

So I haven't left the house since I got home last Thursday.

I feel like a big lump. A big lump in yoga pants. Mentally, I am ready to bust out of this place, but physical...man, physically, this recovery is kicking my rapidly-growing-from-sitting-all-the-time bum. And it's one of those things were the less you do, the less you feel like doing. I feel like a big leach that just limps through the house slowly, grousing and mumbling and sipping coffee. I'm sure my mother is loving this.

And I'm a big grump, I'll admit it. There is nothing worse than feeling off physically, and due to my maturity, I like to take it out on everyone around me. (again, cue my mother sighing heavily). Poor Scotty decided to refuse his almond butter and jelly sandwich yesterday, and I was practically shooting him daggers from across the kitchen. I don't think fifteen month-olds are used to moms recovering, and he just looked at me with a mixture of confusion and fear. Nice, Kim, nice.

I also thought about detailing the story of CatheterGate, Part Deux, as well as a whole blog entry about poop, and then it hit me: do I really want to overshare? I mean, really? The thing is, I'm not exactly sure who is reading this. You could work with my husband (which will make for a very uncomfortable exchange at the upcoming holiday party) or maybe you went to high school with me. Do you really care to read about bodily functions? No. So, maybe one day I'll discuss the aforementioned topics, but for now, I'm going to cling to my last few shreds of dignity.

I do want to acknowledge and thank everyone who has called, sent flowers, cards, and gifts. Wow, I didn't know fibroid surgery warranted such a lovely reception, but our house has never smelled better from all of the lovely bouquets (or the LOU MALNATI'S PIZZA...YUM!) Everyone has been so kind and I apologize if I haven't returned your call...like I said, I'm just a big grump right now with unwashed hair, that steno-surgery tape stuck all over my belly, and morning breath. I really have nothing to report so I'm just going continue my self-imposed hibernation.

Really, the only thing that has made me smile in recent days (aside from LOU MALNATI'S PIZZA...did I mention that?) is the announcement of Prince William and Kate Middleton's engagement. EEEEEE! I have no idea why, but this just make me deliriously excited. Royal wedding? Hell yes! They are both such well-scrubbed, shiny, pretty people and I adore her fashion sense, so I can't wait to see what the next few months yield. I even forced Brian to watch Dateline's "A Royal Love Story" last night, and my mom and I were ooh-ing and aww-ing throughout the piece. I even read up on the royal family yesterday during my nap time (Scotty and I are on the same schedule) and learned quite a bit about them. They adopted the title of 'House of Windsor' in the early nineteen hundreds, as a result of WWI and the anti-German feeling. When the Queen took the throne in 1952, she confirmed the name Windsor but also wanted her direct descendants to be distinguished from the rest of the royal family, so they added the surname of Mountbatten-Windsor. So anyone who is a descendant of George V (the Queen's dad) is from the House of Windsor, but if you are a descendant from the Queen herself (Charles, Andrew, Ann or Edward), you also get the Mountbatten-Windsor title. (Mountbatten is Prince Philip's, the Duke of Edinburgh, HRH's husband, surname before he married Elizabeth). Cool, huh?

See? I'm probably boring you right now. I don't think I would ever want the princess lifestyle -- too many flashbulbs and critical press -- but Kate looks the part and so far is acting the part. I will admit, throughout the entire special, I kept yelling at the TV, "Tell us what hair products she uses!" since that uber-shiny, super straight hair is seriously a work of art (in rainy England, no less!). But then it hit me - she probably has a team of hair stylists with the sole purpose of making her hair unbelievably shiny and perfect. Lucky duck. But again, is shiny hair worth the downside of palace life? Hmm...need to think about that one for a w

Well, I'm off to lay on the couch for awhile. Peace out.

I gotta hand it to my hospital, Southern Hills: they really came through this time.

Last time, during Scotty's birth, things on the second floor were a little chaotic. Nurse scheduling issues, nurses that just didn't know what they were doing, forgetting about me for 12+ hours...it was kind of a disaster. But I was ready to give the place a second chance (since it is also 2.3 seconds from our house), it seemed like the best place to do my surgery.

So on Monday morning, Brian and I arrived bright and early at 5:30am.  I clutched my little suitcase and barked at Brian as I feverishly tried to contain my anxiety. The first thing they asked me to do: pee in a cup. Um, not happening. Anxiety through the roof. After spending the entire day before um, eliminating everything in my body, there was scarcely a drop of water left. So I had to hand the empty cup back to the woman behind the desk and took my place in the waiting room with my head down, ashamed. I started fretting that if this was a precursor of how things were going to go, I was screwed.

But when the nice male nurse called me back, he waved off my performance anxiety. "Not a problem," he said, handing me a warm blanket and fuzzy socks, "we'll just do a blood test." (they had to make sure I had not gotten pregnant between my intake interview on Friday and Monday morning. Um, just take my word for it?)

Score! I felt better immediately. I looked at the nice nurse's name tag, clipped to the front of his scrubs, to thank him properly. "Thanks, Tom..." I started and then burst out laughing. "Riddle? Your name is Tom Riddle? Seriously?"

You could tell he got this a lot. He kind of forced a smile and said, "Yeah. It's actually pronounced "ry-dell" but everyone calls me Riddle. Ha, ha, I know, I'm the bad guy."

OMG. My nurse is Lord Voldemort?

(for the six of you who are not familiar with the Harry Potter books, Tom Riddle is an orphan who later becomes the most feared and diabolical wizard in the entire wizard world, Lord Voldemort. Among other things, he killed Harry Potter's parents and tries to kill Harry during the entire series.) 

I did the only thing I could think to do: I grabbed my cell phone and texted several friends who I thought would get a kick of out this new turn of events. Mature, I know.

So He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and another nurse kept coming in to check on me pre-surgery, though I got the distinct impression Lord V, er, Tom, was a little irritated at me. Well, whatever. Don't be mad at me. Be mad at J.K. Rowlings and her incredibly inventive series about a clever boy wizard.

It probably didn't help that Brian kept calling him 'the nurse who shall not be named.'

And then...it was surgery time. My IV was in place, all metal had been removed from my body, and my stomach and bowel were sufficiently empty (and it was confirmed: I was not with child.) The next thing I know, I was wheeled to a freezing cold room and asked to hop from my nice comfy bed to a teeny-tiny, narrow cot. I had to spread my arms out, Jesus-style, and they put an oxygen mask over my face. That's really when it hit me - I was going to die. (Okay, yes, I was a little melodramatic, but the situation was very scary.) I started shaking uncontrollably and seriously considered calling the whole thing off when the anesthesiologist noted my near-hysteria slipped something extra into my IV and asked, "Better now?"

Hmmm....yes. Quite good, in fact.

I just kind of melted into the hard cot. Then I asked when they were going to give me the gas mask, and he replied, "We already did. Bye-bye!"

And that was it. I was out. Dunzo.

Next thing I remember, I was being wheeled through recovery by a nurse named Teresa (I'm a stickler for making sure name tags and photos match up. I do not want to be kidnapped from a hospital) screaming my head off. The only way I could describe the pain is by saying it felt like someone was hitting me in the stomach with a baseball bat while I was doing crunches. Teresa, not enjoying my wails, promptly gave me 20mg of morphine and I was out again.

That's pretty much how Monday went.

I woke up in pain, clicked my morphine clicker thing, and passed out. I attempted to eat some Jell-o and then puked it up. I tried sitting up in bed and puked. I tried to eat broth for dinner and puked. Click, click, click. All of this transpired while Brian was sitting next to my bed, holding my hand, and yes, our marriage vows were really going to be tested. I mean, in the last year or so, he's seen me puke, give birth, breastfeed, cry, have a catheter inserted, have a catheter removed, yell at doctors, yell at nurses...I've barely seen him take a cough drop. Why is this so one-sided? He's totally going to trade me in in about ten years for a newer, cleaner model.

Anyways...

It finally occurred to me by Tuesday morning that my pain wasn't too bad, but it was the damn morphine that was killing me and making me so sick. I requested the clicky thing be taken away and be given oral pain meds and just like that, I recovered! I was able to eat an entire breakfast Tuesday morning without it coming back up, and same with lunch. After literally starving for 48 hours, food - even hospital food - was a glorious thing.

Okay, I'm winded from typing all of this, so Part II will be tomorrow. I'll leave you with this cliff-hanger...they removed the catether at noon on Tuesday. Oh no! How did Kim's bladder respond?  What will happen next? To be continued...

But tired...really, really tired.

And really hopped up on pain meds, which is no condition in which to write.

So I will try to type out the story of my hospital stay in the next few days, before I forget, because it's a good one. There was drama, intrigue, mystery, romance (not really), Lord Voldemort, wine, whine, morphine...lots and lots of morphine, a nurse named Penny, a very timid bladder, and oh yeah, a fibroid! Truly the fascinating four or so days of my life, since Scotty's birth.

And...I have a picture of the fibroid. No joke. I'm going to try to scan it and then  post it. And then all of you can see our new "addition." We're calling her Peachy.

Stay tuned!

I have learned two more dreaded words...

"Bowel prep."

Today was spent close to home. Er, very close to home. Per my surgery instructions, I was required to live on clear liquids and drink two bottles of the grossest, most disgusting tasting liquids. One at 12pm and one at 4pm. And my only thought (aside from "When did I eat corn?") was, "This is totally going to catch on in Hollywood." I mean, I probably have lost at least five pounds of solid...matter. Magnesium citrate, it doens't mess around. I mean, it caused horrific stomach cramps, nausea, and untimely movements, but wow, it works. Well. Expect actresses to be raving about this product around award season. It's like this season's Adderall.

Anyways, unexpected weight loss aside, I am packed and ready for the big day tomorrow. I think everyone has asked me how I'm feeling (which is so very nice, thank you), but I have to say: I have no idea. I mean, it can't be that bad, right? People do this and go home with newborns that they have to breastfeed around the clock. I just have to make sure I don't tear my stitches while I flip pages on the iPad and snack on Fritos. So...who knows? I'm just praying my brain doesn't disconnect from my bladder again. (pleasepleasepleaseplease).

I saddest about leaving Scotty for a few days. It'll be weird to not see him at every meal. Or in the morning. Or at night. I'm glad we're past some serious milestones like first steps and first words since it would just kill me to know he did it while I was unconscious or something. I just hope he doesn't put Grandma through the paces.

Since my 4:30am wake-up time is looming large, I'm going to end here. Also, due to the lack of food today, I am typing slowly and my stomach is rumbling in a rather disturbing fashion. I'll be sure to update the blog as soon as I'm home again, so this is good-bye. Just for now, though.

Since becoming a parent, I've learned there is a whole 'nother side to common words and phrases. For example, "Some assembly required" will cause most grown men to curse, drink excessively, and display violent acts of frustration on unsuspecting walls, counter tops, and whatever object has the misfortune of being in reach (oh, happy Christmas...). Likewise, for me, "carseat installation" almost instantaneously brings about a migraine and slight nausea. I've learned to work through the feeling of dread that pervades my body when I know I'm going to have to fight with the damn thing, even if it takes me all afternoon, but man, that carseat is going to one day meet the same untimely end as the baby monitor. 

However, the phrase that is feared by not only me, but most parents I know, is...

DAYLIGHT SAVINGS.

If you are not a parent, you are probably like, "Huh? She's lost me again." And if you are a parent...well, this has been on your mind since the last time we switched our clocks around. And if you didn't have a baby when we changed time (back in March), well, welcome to hell.

Remember when gaining an hour was like a gift? Like on Sunday morning, you realized that it wasn't 10:15am, it was actually 9:15am and...score! You pulled the comforter up around your chin, snuggled in, and smiled with pure bliss that you just gained an extra hour on Sunday Funday. Waffles for breakfast, or should we go out?

But...it's not the case for parents. Sadly, it's something most parents have been thinking and stressing for about six weeks now. This has been the main topic of conversations with my girlfriends. I've received emails about it from other friends, asking how we handled it in the past. Because...your little cute baby, the one you worked so hard with to put on a schedule? Guess what? Daylight savings is now going to make your child's wake-up time shift from an okay-but-blah 6am to a dreaded-this-is-unimaginable-5am. Everyday. For the next several days.

Naps, wake-up times, bedtimes...they are all affected by Daylight Savings. It's like the tsunami of parental sleep problems.

The worst, obviously, will be Sunday morning. Because kids don't know the time switched; they just continue to do what they do. But Mom and Dad know, and getting up (and consequently losing) that hour of sleep (after how many months of other forms of sleep loss) is simply unacceptable. And please know, parents are so sleep-deprived to begin with, taking away a full 60 minutes is equivalent to torture. Like, ripping-out-your-fingernails-torture.

I know there are places in the US where they do not change their clocks. I lived in one such place: Bloomington, Indiana. While I found it odd and creepy at the time, now I believe it's brilliant. It also explains why there were so many people with babies and toddlers living within the city; I'm sure they flocked there for the simple reason that they never have to adjust their child's sleep schedule. It could really be Bloomington's tagline; it would be the most desirably place to live in America!  Think about it: "Never Change your Clocks: Bloomington, Indiana." Is someone calling the Chamber of Commerce?

Back to the issue at hand.  How to handle it? I have no idea. I can tell you what we're doing: we flew my early-rising mother out who is still on Chicago time, meaning our 6am is her 8am, to take care of this for us. Combine this with missing her grandchild and wanting to spend more time with him, and bam! You have a recipe for the perfect way to cope with Daylight Savings. In fact, Brian and I are planning to get EXTRA sleep on Sunday morning while Grandma plays with Scotty. Really, it's win-win.

I've heard from others on how they are planning to deal with the time change. One friend, who will remain nameless, is actually going out of town (and leaving the kids with her husband.) He doesn't it know it yet, but Sunday is going to REALLY suck for him. Another friend mentioned she is pushing her daughter's bedtime back 15 minutes each day in anticipation for Sunday; noble, well-planned, but not a guarantee.

So, good luck to all your parents on Sunday. Unless you are fortunate to live in one of those blessed cities that doesn't have to deal with this craziness, hang in there, preset the coffee maker on Saturday night, and be ready to be up with the tweety birds. I'll be thinking of you as I snuggle deeper into my cozy bed. :-)

3.5 pounds.

That's how much pumpkin bread I baked today.

(What? Did you really think I remembered to weigh myself after staying up waaaay too late watching election results, eating wasabi peas and drinking red wine? When your child is up at 6:01am, you barely remember who you are, let alone what you are supposed to do at that time of day.)

Seriously though, I think it's time for Weigh-In Wednesdays to be put on hold. And I'm counting on some major pounds coming off as a result of the surgery - not only do I have to fast for two days before, but I'm guessing the fibroid is a good 2 lbs. I mean, it has to be huge, right? And the doctor is removing it, so it's like instant weight loss. Excellent. And I'm guessing (hoping) some abdominal fat will break free during the operation and fall on the floor of the surgical room, giving me more instant weight loss. So once all of the fluids they pump me with ebb away, I've got my money on at least a solid five pound loss. Obviously, this will be countered by the fact that I am going to sit on my dead, lazy arse for the next several weeks, likely indulging in cookies and other delicious snacks, but just let me have my moment, okay?

Anyways...

We will resume Weigh-in Wednesdays probably around the first of the year. I see no point in starting 6 weeks after my surgery, since that puts us directly in the middle of the holiday season, and I don't really want to think about counting calories when surrounded by Christmas cookies, fancy cheeses, and turkey with all the trimmings. So I hate to be all cliched, but it will be a 'New Year' thing. Sorry. I'll probably burn calories just trying to battle my way on to the next available treadmill at the gym, the place is so bloody crowded that time of year. ::sigh::

Back to the pumpkin bread. It is amazing. Let me say that again: aMAZing. Totally delish. And I've baked a fair number of pumpkin breads in my life, and this one, by far, tops it. So without further adieu, here is the recipe, courtesy of allrecipes.com:

PUMPKIN SPICE BREAD

3 cups of sugar
1 cup of vegetable oil
4 eggs, lightly beaten
1 (16oz) can of solid pack pumpkin
3 1/2 cups of all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp ground nutmeg
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/2 tsp ground allspice
1/2 cup water

In a large bowl, combine sugar, oil, and eggs. Add pumpkin, mix well. In a separate bowl, combine the dry ingredients; add to the pumpkin mixture, alternating with water. Pour into 2 9x5x3 (or 3 8x3x3) greased pans and bake at 350 for 60-65 minutes (55 minutes if you use smaller pans.) Wait for your entire house to be filled with a wonderful aroma. Cool in pans for 10 minutes before removing; cool on wire racks until completely cool. Slather fancy European butter on a slice and watch Oprah. Love life.

Pretty good, huh?

Scotty loved it, too. (I'm sure the 3 cups of sugar helped.) I gave him part of mine and he mowed through it like a hungry bear. He is the best little snacker; he hangs out shoulder-level with me (while I sit on the floor) and he takes one delicate bite at a time. He is very serious when he snacks. It's hard for me to not snack on his cheeks when he is so close and cuddly.

Speaking of snacks, my friend Deana came up with a Nobel Peace Prize-winning idea, since it promotes good feeling between moms and their toddlers, and between toddlers and other toddlers. She calls it "Baby Chex Mix" and it's nothing short of ingenious. When your child has a good pincer grasp and can chew solids, this is the perfect snack food. And it takes them a solid 10 minutes to eat it (meaning more time for moms to talk to one another.) Just a tip though: serve it in spill-proof containers. Deana's little boy Jackson literally had Baby Chex Mix strewn on my floors from one end of the kitchen to another yesterday. Aside from Deana crawling around on her hands and knees, apologizing profusely while picking up teeny-tin, it was a huge hit with the kids. (This is why God made brooms.) 

BABY CHEX MIX

Cheerios
Puffs
Craisins
Raisins
Dried fruit for babies (like the Gerber or Earth's Best line), such as dried apples, mango, pineapple, and apricot.

Mix all together. Watch as your child eats and eats and eats and eats...(and watch carefully, since raisins can be a choking hazard.)

At our preschool Halloween party, I have never seen so many quiet, well-behaved children all snacking from their bowls in the same room. It was downright magical. Way to go, Deana!!