I have always quipped: we carry our first down the stairs, the second one falls down the steps, the first two push that third one down when no one is looking.
It is too true.
My first, Andrew, loves information. He loves information so much, he expects to have fully detailed conversations about the pre-Cambrian explosion before breakfast. If you don’t happen to know the age of the earth, he will suggest you look it up.
“Go look on the internet, Mom! Uh, I mean, please could we look that up, Mom?” (4.5 B yrs)
My second one, Gladys, lives somewhat in the shadow of her brother. She wrestles better than most three-year-old girls. She comes to life on the soccer field. She used to sit on her younger brother, which caused him to be great at push-ups before he could walk. And, she has figured out that the best way to get Andrew to read you a book is to threaten to read one to him.
“Don’t worry, Andrew, I’ll just read one to YOU.”
She is solidly pre-reading, which in our case means she reads a few words and then tells the story however she likes it. But, she doesn’t get much of a chance, because Andrew will read it to her first, if she gets competitive.
George, my dear third child, is learning right along with them. He copies everything they do. When they read, he sits right next to them and pages through a book talking. His favorite game involves pulling letters off the refrigerator and banging them on anyone he can find until they tell him what letter it is. He will then repeat the letter and go get another one. Repeat. If you aren’t paying attention, expect a few bruises on your thighs from plastic letters. (Of course, I always pay complete attention to all my children, you believe that, don't you?)
He is such a persistent student. I take pride in my bruises.
But, just in case you forget that he is solidly the third child, please ask him to point to body parts.
He will point to his nose and say “nose.”
He will point to his eyes and say “eyes.”
He will point to his ears and say “eyes.”
He will touch his head and say “ow!”
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Competitive Genes
Recently, a friend of mine asked if I am competitive. It was a friendly question. I laughed,
“Who me, competitive?”
I was being sarcastic. We were at a party, it was one of those exchanges where I wasn’t sure how she meant the question or how she would take the answer. What I wanted to say was that there are only three types of people who go to MIT: the naturally brilliant type, the extremely tenacious and competitive type, and those who are both. Since I have met plenty of brilliant people, I know that I have to fall into that tenacious category. I did not say that. I laughed and filled her wine glass. I took it as a compliment. I try not to be competitive with my mommy friends.
On Saturday, I was at my daughter’s soccer game. She is three years old. At three years old, soccer is more of a photo opportunity than a serious game, but the kids have fun and gain the confidence of having played before. I have never been a super-athlete, but team play is important. I am extremely competitive with myself. I try to spare my children.
Gladys became one with soccer on Saturday. She was raging down the field in purple striped pants, sparkly sneakers, arms flailing, tongue lolling out, unkempt curls waving in the wind, and complete control of the ball. She would stop it heading in the wrong direction, turn it around, dribble it down the field and score. She did it again and again: eleven goals. E-LE-VEN.
I started thinking about my field hockey coach in high school. He was a 6-foot 4-inch Vietnam Veteran, a marine. When he wasn’t teaching remedial math, he was pumping iron. He ran us hard; the good kind of hard that makes your eyeballs sweat, but leaves you looking forward to practice tomorrow. He ran up and down the sidelines during our scrimmages, shouting out encouragement, pointing out errors.
“Jennifer, you should have had that one, stick down, head in the game.”
“Pass it, pass it. Kristin, you weren’t ready, keep your feet moving, anticipate the play.”
During the games, he would give us a little encouragement, here and there, but mostly he was quiet. The ref would make a call and you would see him walk towards the bleachers, turning his back to the team.
Towards the end of practice one day, one of my teammates asked him about it.
“Coach, I thought that was really a bad call in the game Saturday. You didn’t say anything to the ref. Did you think it was a bad call? Wasn’t it a bad call?”
“I’ll help you ladies in practice, but the game is up to you. The ref doesn’t make you lose a game.”
Silence.
“You ladies can win the game. You play to the call. Play your best. That’s it.”
The silence remained.
“Now, what do you think it looks like when someone my size gets upset about something he cares about?”
We were all looking at our cleats.
“Go! Five laps, give me all you got, then take it in.”
We did. We all gave it all we had. He did care. He cared a lot, maybe too much. We didn’t win very many games, but we all tried really hard. I ran sprints with my hockey stick on weekends. I charged the ball so hard once, the other girl was taken off the field due to a concussion. I bet it was hard for him to watch sometimes.
“Hey coach! Look! Maybe there WAS an athletic gene in my body. Maybe she’ll be as athletic as she is tenacious. Now, wouldn’t you have just loved that!”
“Who me, competitive?”
I was being sarcastic. We were at a party, it was one of those exchanges where I wasn’t sure how she meant the question or how she would take the answer. What I wanted to say was that there are only three types of people who go to MIT: the naturally brilliant type, the extremely tenacious and competitive type, and those who are both. Since I have met plenty of brilliant people, I know that I have to fall into that tenacious category. I did not say that. I laughed and filled her wine glass. I took it as a compliment. I try not to be competitive with my mommy friends.
On Saturday, I was at my daughter’s soccer game. She is three years old. At three years old, soccer is more of a photo opportunity than a serious game, but the kids have fun and gain the confidence of having played before. I have never been a super-athlete, but team play is important. I am extremely competitive with myself. I try to spare my children.
Gladys became one with soccer on Saturday. She was raging down the field in purple striped pants, sparkly sneakers, arms flailing, tongue lolling out, unkempt curls waving in the wind, and complete control of the ball. She would stop it heading in the wrong direction, turn it around, dribble it down the field and score. She did it again and again: eleven goals. E-LE-VEN.
I started thinking about my field hockey coach in high school. He was a 6-foot 4-inch Vietnam Veteran, a marine. When he wasn’t teaching remedial math, he was pumping iron. He ran us hard; the good kind of hard that makes your eyeballs sweat, but leaves you looking forward to practice tomorrow. He ran up and down the sidelines during our scrimmages, shouting out encouragement, pointing out errors.
“Jennifer, you should have had that one, stick down, head in the game.”
“Pass it, pass it. Kristin, you weren’t ready, keep your feet moving, anticipate the play.”
During the games, he would give us a little encouragement, here and there, but mostly he was quiet. The ref would make a call and you would see him walk towards the bleachers, turning his back to the team.
Towards the end of practice one day, one of my teammates asked him about it.
“Coach, I thought that was really a bad call in the game Saturday. You didn’t say anything to the ref. Did you think it was a bad call? Wasn’t it a bad call?”
“I’ll help you ladies in practice, but the game is up to you. The ref doesn’t make you lose a game.”
Silence.
“You ladies can win the game. You play to the call. Play your best. That’s it.”
The silence remained.
“Now, what do you think it looks like when someone my size gets upset about something he cares about?”
We were all looking at our cleats.
“Go! Five laps, give me all you got, then take it in.”
We did. We all gave it all we had. He did care. He cared a lot, maybe too much. We didn’t win very many games, but we all tried really hard. I ran sprints with my hockey stick on weekends. I charged the ball so hard once, the other girl was taken off the field due to a concussion. I bet it was hard for him to watch sometimes.
“Hey coach! Look! Maybe there WAS an athletic gene in my body. Maybe she’ll be as athletic as she is tenacious. Now, wouldn’t you have just loved that!”
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Petticoats in the Middle of the Road
My great-grandmother had seven children. Just before her seventh was born, her husband died in an accident. That was in 1898. I have never been a single mother, but I imagine such a situation was not better in 1898 than it is now. She refused charity. She refused to “sell out.” She raised six of them to adulthood, losing one to a childhood disease. (My daughter shares a name with that child, completely by accident). She was strong.
At the age of 18, my grandmother was sent off on her own by her stepfather. She put herself through nursing school, working odd jobs. My grandmother married that seventh child described above. It was a mixed marriage (she was English, my grandfather an Irish Catholic). That was a big deal. She followed my grandfather onto a gold mine in Alaska, where she was the town nurse, postmaster, and ran the grocery store. She mothered six children.
On December 7th, 1941, when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, my grandmother was on a ship between the port in Alaska and the Pacific Northwest. They floated for 3 weeks in complete darkness in fear of a Japanese attack. She had three children with her, the youngest was only 7 months old.
I think about that when I am in the grocery store about to lose my cool.
That seven month old was my mother. She does not sit in the corner, a wilting flower. She is as strong as the women who came before her.
When I think of myself as another link in this chain of women, it is natural to ponder the circumstances of their struggles. I wonder if they were ever at liberty to ponder their own role as a link in the chain, if they even had the time to consider how their struggles differed and how their granddaughters might be faced with challenges vastly different than their own.
There is a story that says my great-grandmother was rocking my grandfather in a chair on New Years’ Eve 1900. She told his older siblings that this brother in her lap was the only one with a chance to see the year 2000.
Maybe she did ponder these things.
Maybe that is indeed what my grandmother thought in the darkness, cradling my mother, wondering if any of her children would see the year 2000.
In 2008, what is our struggle? I am sure we could list many this election year.
I will list one: understanding.
Our access to information is phenomenal, our ability to choose daunting, our expectations run higher than ever before. And yet, we wish the same for our children as we did one hundred years ago: a long and happy life.
It is easy for us to imagine that life is more difficult now. The enemy is not clear. The entrance to our best path clouded in fog. I once heard a story about soldiers from the North and the South stopping on the battlefield in our Civil War to celebrate a Thanksgiving meal together. There is a similar story of French and German soldiers in WWII. Were the answers really clear then, or do we just superimpose clarity over time? They were able to fight for their principles, while continuing to appreciate each other as people. Those are the stories in history I wish to repeat.
I am a Republican, and I do hope my party wins this election. However, I also hope that both sides are able to think, to understand, to recognize that every decision is clouded in darkness until our children can judge us with the clarity we judge our predecessors. (You understand that we don’t judge with clarity, right?)
So, in October, I am making a statement. Every day in October (okay, as often as possible), I am going to wear a skirt or a dress. I am celebrating my past. I am celebrating our future.
I want to let everyone who is fanatically blue or fanatically red remember to look for answers in a darker, cloudier, shade of purple.
Anyone in?
Authors note: It is not necessary (especially for the boys, well, unless you choose to, of course) to wear a skirt every day to be in with me. Invite a friend you disagree with to lunch. Read the other parties’ website. Ask me a question. And, for fun, send me a picture or a link of yourself in a skirt (every day if you want) and I will post them along with my own pictures in October.
At the age of 18, my grandmother was sent off on her own by her stepfather. She put herself through nursing school, working odd jobs. My grandmother married that seventh child described above. It was a mixed marriage (she was English, my grandfather an Irish Catholic). That was a big deal. She followed my grandfather onto a gold mine in Alaska, where she was the town nurse, postmaster, and ran the grocery store. She mothered six children.
On December 7th, 1941, when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, my grandmother was on a ship between the port in Alaska and the Pacific Northwest. They floated for 3 weeks in complete darkness in fear of a Japanese attack. She had three children with her, the youngest was only 7 months old.
I think about that when I am in the grocery store about to lose my cool.
That seven month old was my mother. She does not sit in the corner, a wilting flower. She is as strong as the women who came before her.
When I think of myself as another link in this chain of women, it is natural to ponder the circumstances of their struggles. I wonder if they were ever at liberty to ponder their own role as a link in the chain, if they even had the time to consider how their struggles differed and how their granddaughters might be faced with challenges vastly different than their own.
There is a story that says my great-grandmother was rocking my grandfather in a chair on New Years’ Eve 1900. She told his older siblings that this brother in her lap was the only one with a chance to see the year 2000.
Maybe she did ponder these things.
Maybe that is indeed what my grandmother thought in the darkness, cradling my mother, wondering if any of her children would see the year 2000.
In 2008, what is our struggle? I am sure we could list many this election year.
I will list one: understanding.
Our access to information is phenomenal, our ability to choose daunting, our expectations run higher than ever before. And yet, we wish the same for our children as we did one hundred years ago: a long and happy life.
It is easy for us to imagine that life is more difficult now. The enemy is not clear. The entrance to our best path clouded in fog. I once heard a story about soldiers from the North and the South stopping on the battlefield in our Civil War to celebrate a Thanksgiving meal together. There is a similar story of French and German soldiers in WWII. Were the answers really clear then, or do we just superimpose clarity over time? They were able to fight for their principles, while continuing to appreciate each other as people. Those are the stories in history I wish to repeat.
I am a Republican, and I do hope my party wins this election. However, I also hope that both sides are able to think, to understand, to recognize that every decision is clouded in darkness until our children can judge us with the clarity we judge our predecessors. (You understand that we don’t judge with clarity, right?)
So, in October, I am making a statement. Every day in October (okay, as often as possible), I am going to wear a skirt or a dress. I am celebrating my past. I am celebrating our future.
I want to let everyone who is fanatically blue or fanatically red remember to look for answers in a darker, cloudier, shade of purple.
Anyone in?
Authors note: It is not necessary (especially for the boys, well, unless you choose to, of course) to wear a skirt every day to be in with me. Invite a friend you disagree with to lunch. Read the other parties’ website. Ask me a question. And, for fun, send me a picture or a link of yourself in a skirt (every day if you want) and I will post them along with my own pictures in October.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Parenting rules (get over it)
In the past 24 hours, one week after San Francisco, I have broken many of my "rules." Not to say these are hard-and-fast rules, but rather the way things have come to be expected in my household. We all try to maintain a certain standard, until our tough love melts into the squishy variety. And, sometimes, until the car breaks down.
Rule 1 - My children eat healthy, homemade meals, especially for dinner. They do. I cook from scratch, I cook ahead and freeze meals. I buy far more flour and raw vegetables than I do processed food.
Last night, my children had fast food for dinner in the car. Andrew commented on it.
“Gladys, doesn’t it feel like we are on a special trip? Like we are on a vacation or something?”
We were going into Cleveland after a long day of school and activities to pick up my husband from work. His car broke down. I drove down to Cleveland savoring my double cheeseburger. No, really, it tasted really, really good (comfort food). I didn’t even know I was missing it. When I got home, my kitchen was clean. I turned off the lights in their rooms and ran off to play tennis; that was devilishly nice.
Rule 2 - I allow time for my children to do their homework. They read every day.
Andrew did part of his homework in the car, on a clipboard. He didn’t read. I’m not even sure his teeth got brushed. Ooops.
Rule 3 – My children take personal responsibility for their own things. If they forget it at home, then they don’t have it at school. They need to learn these things.
I saw my son’s snack sitting on the counter this morning, right next to the homework he had done in the car. I did it. I took his snack and his homework to school. How can you expect a kid to remember these things when he didn’t have a proper dinner and his backpack was still in the car from the night before? (I am sure every kid gets a proper dinner and has his backpack neatly on a hook every night – wouldn’t that be a world?). I was torn between feeling like an idiot and feeling some sympathy for a sweet six year old: not so tough love.
Rule 4 – My children do not watch TV, unless someone is sick or there is some other compelling reason. Needing to get a few things done does not normally constitute a compelling reason.
My sister called me this morning. Conversations with my sister are always amusing. If you could put a theme on our conversation today, it would have to be “get over it, already.” We were laughing, shaking our heads. I told her how I’ve been so behind since my trip. She laughed at me.
“Did you consider that you might actually be tired because of your trip? Lay down for 40 minutes.”
“Oh, right, what about these kids in my house?”
“Oh, that’s right, you don’t plop them down in front of the TV like normal people do.”
That is what she said. But, I heard what she didn’t say too.
“Get over it. Get off your high horse. There is no help for the hopeless.”
Everyone needs a sister.
Mine is not for the faint of heart, but I’ll get over it.
Did I mention that my kids were watching Sesame Street when I wrote this post?
Rule 1 - My children eat healthy, homemade meals, especially for dinner. They do. I cook from scratch, I cook ahead and freeze meals. I buy far more flour and raw vegetables than I do processed food.
Last night, my children had fast food for dinner in the car. Andrew commented on it.
“Gladys, doesn’t it feel like we are on a special trip? Like we are on a vacation or something?”
We were going into Cleveland after a long day of school and activities to pick up my husband from work. His car broke down. I drove down to Cleveland savoring my double cheeseburger. No, really, it tasted really, really good (comfort food). I didn’t even know I was missing it. When I got home, my kitchen was clean. I turned off the lights in their rooms and ran off to play tennis; that was devilishly nice.
Rule 2 - I allow time for my children to do their homework. They read every day.
Andrew did part of his homework in the car, on a clipboard. He didn’t read. I’m not even sure his teeth got brushed. Ooops.
Rule 3 – My children take personal responsibility for their own things. If they forget it at home, then they don’t have it at school. They need to learn these things.
I saw my son’s snack sitting on the counter this morning, right next to the homework he had done in the car. I did it. I took his snack and his homework to school. How can you expect a kid to remember these things when he didn’t have a proper dinner and his backpack was still in the car from the night before? (I am sure every kid gets a proper dinner and has his backpack neatly on a hook every night – wouldn’t that be a world?). I was torn between feeling like an idiot and feeling some sympathy for a sweet six year old: not so tough love.
Rule 4 – My children do not watch TV, unless someone is sick or there is some other compelling reason. Needing to get a few things done does not normally constitute a compelling reason.
My sister called me this morning. Conversations with my sister are always amusing. If you could put a theme on our conversation today, it would have to be “get over it, already.” We were laughing, shaking our heads. I told her how I’ve been so behind since my trip. She laughed at me.
“Did you consider that you might actually be tired because of your trip? Lay down for 40 minutes.”
“Oh, right, what about these kids in my house?”
“Oh, that’s right, you don’t plop them down in front of the TV like normal people do.”
That is what she said. But, I heard what she didn’t say too.
“Get over it. Get off your high horse. There is no help for the hopeless.”
Everyone needs a sister.
Mine is not for the faint of heart, but I’ll get over it.
Did I mention that my kids were watching Sesame Street when I wrote this post?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Gourmet Club
Several years ago, my aunt described in great detail how she enjoyed the gourmet club she had recently joined. I listened, nodding my head, wondering how I could assemble such a group of friends.
A week later, Ohmommy and I were strolling our children through the park on an unusually warm December morning.
“Are you and Jay having a Christmas party again this year? We had such a nice time last year, I was hoping it would be a tradition.”
We had been over each other’s homes countless times in the summer. They had just hosted a party a few weeks prior. Jay and I love to entertain.
“Ohmommy, I have an idea . . . “
A little cajoling of our playgroup friends and Gourmet Club was born. Our latest event was this past Saturday.
Jay and I wandered in the front door. Friends were assembling on the beautiful back screened in porch. Jay slipped his homemade ice cream in the freezer. I left the roasted rum pineapple on the table, thrilled to arrive without a sticky mess on my funky silk dress.
Our hosts were on the porch, offering cocktails.
Let me introduce you to Mrs. Iowa farmer, debutante. She is the only woman I know equally comfortable at a campsite or a 5-star restaurant. She can make a full dinner, multiple home made pies, homemade ice cream, fresh bread, and still appear in a little black dress, as if the caterer had just departed.
“Oh, honey, its really not that big of a deal,” she would say.
Her husband, we’ll call him “Mr. Iowa farmer” (tee hee). A successful business man and devoted father, I drunkenly admitted to him that I love his kids so much I hope they date mine in high school. These are my friends.
A few minutes later, Ohmommy and the Dentist arrived. Somewhere between the fresh cut bangs and stilletto heels, the boot camp trophy sashayed through the back screen door. She speaks for herself.
Indy and Mike were already there, relaxed on the couch. If you haven’t found her blog yet, you should. If you don’t know what to say, say what we all say,
“Weren’t you in Vegas recently?”
Meet Sir Townie and Lady Hospitality. When I was a kid, the so-called townies wore mullets and had rings worn into their back pockets from chew. This “townie” nickname has stuck because he is the diametric opposite. Yet another successful businessman, you will find him in a collared shirt and slacks on the golf course. He is a townie only because he grew up here. And, in case I forget, I don’t think I have ever had a conversation with him that didn’t include,
“Oh, yes, I know her, she’s my cousin’s wife.”
He knows everyone in town. Well, if he doesn’t know them, his wife does. And, they have invited them over, brought dinner to them once, or see them at the club frequently. These are my friends.
Meet the Goddess and Holy Husband. Now, you might readily assume when I say “Goddess,” I mean domestic goddess. No. This woman prides herself on NOT cooking. She is also a former model, but that isn’t it either. No, she is a Goddess because Mission Impossible to her is all in a days work. She knows everything, is everywhere, and gets everything done all at the same time. I frequently see her children at events she does not attend. She could tell you all about it though, because I am sure she was in three places at once. She called me one day after George was born.
“Do you need anything, Dear?”
“A gallon of milk would be great,” I replied, “but only if its easy.” I was desperate.
She called a friend who was at the grocery store. That friend passed the milk to her when they traded kids for carpool. She handed it to another friend, who was heading in my direction. A few minutes later, I had a gallon of fresh milk. No problem. I am not sure I could write a computer program to figure out how she transports people and goods throughout the community.
And, what about Holy Husband? This translates into “Holy Cow, what a husband.” I have heard stories of him bringing coffee to the Goddess before she gets out of bed. When Andrew’s eye was bleeding and I drove to the ER, panicked, (my husband already on the way from downtown) the Goddess was not available to calm me down. Holy Husband rushed to the ER to help me. I saw him in church today with two out of three kids without the Goddess. She had a good excuse, but it confirmed the name.
This brings us to our last couple, Mary Kay and MacGyver. Mary Kay is an understated, detail-oriented, principled, self-made woman. What she may appear to lack in world-travel, she makes up for in personal journeys. Stillettos would simply get in the way of keeping both of her feet firmly on the floor. (She looks awesome in them, its just soo not a priority for her). Wise beyond her years, I always expect she leaves the evening giggling at the folly of her girlfriends. I caught her this morning in church too. Her boys sat sweetly in the front row. She was perfectly groomed, perfectly calm, but I caught that polite little yawn that betrayed the time she had carved out for friends.
I end with MacGyver. Faced with making mojitos for our party, he found he did not have the proper tool to crush the mint. He whittled his own pestle from cherry wood. Yes, MacGyver is the right name for him.
This is our Gourmet Club.
Right after George was born, they each made dinner for us. They each made chicken: chicken soup, chicken paprikash, chicken Kiev, chicken Cordon Bleu.
“Why didn’t you tell us? We didn’t intend to make you eat chicken every day for two weeks!” they scolded me.
Are you kidding? Each dish was just as unique as the friend who prepared it: all different, all delicious. The best meals surprise us with their mélange of flavors.
Friends do the same.
A week later, Ohmommy and I were strolling our children through the park on an unusually warm December morning.
“Are you and Jay having a Christmas party again this year? We had such a nice time last year, I was hoping it would be a tradition.”
We had been over each other’s homes countless times in the summer. They had just hosted a party a few weeks prior. Jay and I love to entertain.
“Ohmommy, I have an idea . . . “
A little cajoling of our playgroup friends and Gourmet Club was born. Our latest event was this past Saturday.
Jay and I wandered in the front door. Friends were assembling on the beautiful back screened in porch. Jay slipped his homemade ice cream in the freezer. I left the roasted rum pineapple on the table, thrilled to arrive without a sticky mess on my funky silk dress.
Our hosts were on the porch, offering cocktails.
Let me introduce you to Mrs. Iowa farmer, debutante. She is the only woman I know equally comfortable at a campsite or a 5-star restaurant. She can make a full dinner, multiple home made pies, homemade ice cream, fresh bread, and still appear in a little black dress, as if the caterer had just departed.
“Oh, honey, its really not that big of a deal,” she would say.
Her husband, we’ll call him “Mr. Iowa farmer” (tee hee). A successful business man and devoted father, I drunkenly admitted to him that I love his kids so much I hope they date mine in high school. These are my friends.
A few minutes later, Ohmommy and the Dentist arrived. Somewhere between the fresh cut bangs and stilletto heels, the boot camp trophy sashayed through the back screen door. She speaks for herself.
Indy and Mike were already there, relaxed on the couch. If you haven’t found her blog yet, you should. If you don’t know what to say, say what we all say,
“Weren’t you in Vegas recently?”
Meet Sir Townie and Lady Hospitality. When I was a kid, the so-called townies wore mullets and had rings worn into their back pockets from chew. This “townie” nickname has stuck because he is the diametric opposite. Yet another successful businessman, you will find him in a collared shirt and slacks on the golf course. He is a townie only because he grew up here. And, in case I forget, I don’t think I have ever had a conversation with him that didn’t include,
“Oh, yes, I know her, she’s my cousin’s wife.”
He knows everyone in town. Well, if he doesn’t know them, his wife does. And, they have invited them over, brought dinner to them once, or see them at the club frequently. These are my friends.
Meet the Goddess and Holy Husband. Now, you might readily assume when I say “Goddess,” I mean domestic goddess. No. This woman prides herself on NOT cooking. She is also a former model, but that isn’t it either. No, she is a Goddess because Mission Impossible to her is all in a days work. She knows everything, is everywhere, and gets everything done all at the same time. I frequently see her children at events she does not attend. She could tell you all about it though, because I am sure she was in three places at once. She called me one day after George was born.
“Do you need anything, Dear?”
“A gallon of milk would be great,” I replied, “but only if its easy.” I was desperate.
She called a friend who was at the grocery store. That friend passed the milk to her when they traded kids for carpool. She handed it to another friend, who was heading in my direction. A few minutes later, I had a gallon of fresh milk. No problem. I am not sure I could write a computer program to figure out how she transports people and goods throughout the community.
And, what about Holy Husband? This translates into “Holy Cow, what a husband.” I have heard stories of him bringing coffee to the Goddess before she gets out of bed. When Andrew’s eye was bleeding and I drove to the ER, panicked, (my husband already on the way from downtown) the Goddess was not available to calm me down. Holy Husband rushed to the ER to help me. I saw him in church today with two out of three kids without the Goddess. She had a good excuse, but it confirmed the name.
This brings us to our last couple, Mary Kay and MacGyver. Mary Kay is an understated, detail-oriented, principled, self-made woman. What she may appear to lack in world-travel, she makes up for in personal journeys. Stillettos would simply get in the way of keeping both of her feet firmly on the floor. (She looks awesome in them, its just soo not a priority for her). Wise beyond her years, I always expect she leaves the evening giggling at the folly of her girlfriends. I caught her this morning in church too. Her boys sat sweetly in the front row. She was perfectly groomed, perfectly calm, but I caught that polite little yawn that betrayed the time she had carved out for friends.
I end with MacGyver. Faced with making mojitos for our party, he found he did not have the proper tool to crush the mint. He whittled his own pestle from cherry wood. Yes, MacGyver is the right name for him.
This is our Gourmet Club.
Right after George was born, they each made dinner for us. They each made chicken: chicken soup, chicken paprikash, chicken Kiev, chicken Cordon Bleu.
“Why didn’t you tell us? We didn’t intend to make you eat chicken every day for two weeks!” they scolded me.
Are you kidding? Each dish was just as unique as the friend who prepared it: all different, all delicious. The best meals surprise us with their mélange of flavors.
Friends do the same.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Jay, this is Emama. Emama, meet Jay.
My 50th Post is an auspicious occasion for me. One might readily think that my excitement would be bubbling over into my conversations with my husband Jay.
“Honey, this is my 50th post, can you believe it?!” I would say.
He would be pleased right along with me. He would be proud with me. He would think about my dedication to writing. He would think about the excitement I feel when describing those small moments in a welcoming forum. He would know how writing helps me focus on the moments of joy, rather than those moments of frustration. He would know all of this.
He should know all of that, shouldn’t he?
He doesn’t. He should. I haven’t told him. He didn’t ask.
It is shameful and I feel it.
He knows I write. I have allowed him to continue thinking that I write completely privately. He may suspect otherwise. He may simply trust me.
Don’t accidentally think that I am feeling remorseful, apologetic. I would not call it that. I am neither willing to accept blame nor willing to attach such a label to another. This is not about blame.
This is more about being married.
Although Emama’s life is not exactly my life, my little secret has turned into something that I truly enjoy. All these years of never even starting a baby book, and now I have great stories I can share with my children. Could I keep this all in a private journal and give up the blog? The answer is simply no. My journal doesn’t give me a little “thumbs up.” It doesn’t give me that little “yes, I was there too” that keeps me going. My journal didn’t miss me when I was away.
I promised myself I would think about this very seriously in San Francisco. I thought it was possible, a few weeks ago anyway, that I would come back and say ‘goodbye’ to my virtual community. I would go private again, just like my husband suggested.
“Why can’t you just write these stories for yourself and our children?” He asked that, lovingly, not angrily, lovingly.
“I don’t know if you are a good writer, honey, but it is a sweet story.”
That’s what he said when I let him read one. Sweet. He meant it as a compliment. I took it like the pat on the head you give to a little girl. He has probably only read two of my posts. Not on-line mind you, I printed them out. He doesn’t know about Enthalpymama.
I need to let him read this: not because he “deserves” to read them, not because I feel terribly remorseful. I want him to be a part of ALL of my life.
I just love him.
“Honey, this is my 50th post, can you believe it?!” I would say.
He would be pleased right along with me. He would be proud with me. He would think about my dedication to writing. He would think about the excitement I feel when describing those small moments in a welcoming forum. He would know how writing helps me focus on the moments of joy, rather than those moments of frustration. He would know all of this.
He should know all of that, shouldn’t he?
He doesn’t. He should. I haven’t told him. He didn’t ask.
It is shameful and I feel it.
He knows I write. I have allowed him to continue thinking that I write completely privately. He may suspect otherwise. He may simply trust me.
Don’t accidentally think that I am feeling remorseful, apologetic. I would not call it that. I am neither willing to accept blame nor willing to attach such a label to another. This is not about blame.
This is more about being married.
Although Emama’s life is not exactly my life, my little secret has turned into something that I truly enjoy. All these years of never even starting a baby book, and now I have great stories I can share with my children. Could I keep this all in a private journal and give up the blog? The answer is simply no. My journal doesn’t give me a little “thumbs up.” It doesn’t give me that little “yes, I was there too” that keeps me going. My journal didn’t miss me when I was away.
I promised myself I would think about this very seriously in San Francisco. I thought it was possible, a few weeks ago anyway, that I would come back and say ‘goodbye’ to my virtual community. I would go private again, just like my husband suggested.
“Why can’t you just write these stories for yourself and our children?” He asked that, lovingly, not angrily, lovingly.
“I don’t know if you are a good writer, honey, but it is a sweet story.”
That’s what he said when I let him read one. Sweet. He meant it as a compliment. I took it like the pat on the head you give to a little girl. He has probably only read two of my posts. Not on-line mind you, I printed them out. He doesn’t know about Enthalpymama.
I need to let him read this: not because he “deserves” to read them, not because I feel terribly remorseful. I want him to be a part of ALL of my life.
I just love him.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Exacting Specifications
If you have ever made anything for one of your kids, then you know exactly what I mean. Whenever I start a sewing project for a family member, I start by looking internally for the strength to have it rejected. It has to be about the process. You have to enjoy it. At some point, my kids are going to give me that sideways look that says “Mom, you’ve just really missed the boat this time.”
It hasn’t happened yet. Someday, it will.
In the meantime, I take great pleasure in performing minor miracles with textiles. I can take my children into the fabric store and talk to them about color, texture, washing instructions. We talk about how the piece will be used. They mostly enjoy looking at all the buttons, but my son can tell you the difference between tulle and satin, and discriminate between different types of corduroy. I never mentioned that most men cannot describe fabric in much detail.
For most special occasions, I make something for my kids. I posted about the dress I made for Gladys for the pig roast. I notice I never posted about the collared shirt I made for Andrew for the same event – the one with the pigs on motorcycles. He wore it to school on black & pink day. Yes, my husband already has a couple crazy collared shirts, only after he begged me for over a year. (He wears them. Gasp!).
It made perfect sense that I would make a jumper for Gladys’ first day of school, so I did. I took her to the fabric store on Andrew’s first day of school (I posted about that day, you would have never guessed I made it to the fabric store too, but you wouldn’t have believed me). She picked out bright pink baby cord for a jumper. She wanted hearts. She wanted lots of colors.
“Mom, I want green, and red, and orange, and brown too. I want all the colors.”
Hmm.
“Hearts. I like hearts.”
Her favorite little stretch pants are covered in brightly colored hearts. They became the perfect inspiration. Of course, it is my job to take all of her specifications and come up with something that is actually really nice. I want her to like it, but I also want me to like it. Sometimes, that is a bit of a challenge. I page through catalogues and go on-line to check out new designs. Then, I try to find a pattern that is anywhere close to what I want. This time, I had to alter the pattern quite a bit. Pattern companies don’t seem to move quite as quickly as styles. I always change something. On the other hand, I am just a little nutty, so perhaps there is more challenge in changing things just a bit. Read it how you will.
So, this is the jumper I made for Gladys’ first day of school. She loves it. She named her hearts after each member of the family.
It hasn’t happened yet. Someday, it will.
In the meantime, I take great pleasure in performing minor miracles with textiles. I can take my children into the fabric store and talk to them about color, texture, washing instructions. We talk about how the piece will be used. They mostly enjoy looking at all the buttons, but my son can tell you the difference between tulle and satin, and discriminate between different types of corduroy. I never mentioned that most men cannot describe fabric in much detail.
For most special occasions, I make something for my kids. I posted about the dress I made for Gladys for the pig roast. I notice I never posted about the collared shirt I made for Andrew for the same event – the one with the pigs on motorcycles. He wore it to school on black & pink day. Yes, my husband already has a couple crazy collared shirts, only after he begged me for over a year. (He wears them. Gasp!).
It made perfect sense that I would make a jumper for Gladys’ first day of school, so I did. I took her to the fabric store on Andrew’s first day of school (I posted about that day, you would have never guessed I made it to the fabric store too, but you wouldn’t have believed me). She picked out bright pink baby cord for a jumper. She wanted hearts. She wanted lots of colors.
“Mom, I want green, and red, and orange, and brown too. I want all the colors.”
Hmm.
“Hearts. I like hearts.”
Her favorite little stretch pants are covered in brightly colored hearts. They became the perfect inspiration. Of course, it is my job to take all of her specifications and come up with something that is actually really nice. I want her to like it, but I also want me to like it. Sometimes, that is a bit of a challenge. I page through catalogues and go on-line to check out new designs. Then, I try to find a pattern that is anywhere close to what I want. This time, I had to alter the pattern quite a bit. Pattern companies don’t seem to move quite as quickly as styles. I always change something. On the other hand, I am just a little nutty, so perhaps there is more challenge in changing things just a bit. Read it how you will.
So, this is the jumper I made for Gladys’ first day of school. She loves it. She named her hearts after each member of the family.
While in San Francisco, I had the pleasure of wandering through Britex, on my list of favorite fabric stores. I bought a few little things in the remnant section, as if I don’t have enough to do. Today, my very good friend here asked me to help her with her daughter’s costume. Tomorrow, we will go shopping together for her daughter and also for my son’s Halloween costume, a scary green monster. One that will “scare everyone in our neighborhood.”
I feel certain that my kids instinctively know what I like and pick something outside of my expertise. I used green fur once in the mid-80’s. I recall that it was a hassle. If it is going to be a green monster, I had better start tomorrow. I am working on Gladys to pick something easy (like maybe her costume from last year, which is fabulous). George will not be given a choice. You do have to talk first.
We have a tradition in our house that I “unveil” the costumes just before our first Halloween party. My husband and I pull out a big mirror and dress the children with their eyes closed. They open their eyes at the same time, to see themselves and each other magically transformed. It is a minor miracle of textiles, with a bit of psychological advantage thrown in.
So, I will tell you exactly what my sister will tell me when I talk to her on the phone. She is by far a more accomplished seamstress. I can hear her teasingly sarcastic voice now.
“Right. Good luck with that.”
Yeah, I know. Next year I’ll just buy them . . . no, I won’t. I won’t until I finally get that sideways glance from my kids.
It will come. Someday, it will.
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