Category: Parenting and Partnering

Brussels Sprouts and Shenanigans

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Winter Panzanella
Winter Panzanella

It’s Sunday night, but contrary to our usual Sunday schedule, today went pretty well. Colby and I went to early mass, out to lunch, and then I dropped him off at his friend’s house for a bit. I sent myself directly to Starbucks to drink tea and grade like a fiend. In less then three hours I was able to grade approximately 120 assignments and make a comprehensive grocery list.

Matt has been a total BUTTHOLE. I get to say that because, well, I’m the one at the keyboard. But he really, really was and I was really, really pissed. We’re on the tail end of our first (horrific) home improvement project and while on most days we really are quite amicable, this has brought out the worst in both of us. I’ve made a point to be out of the house for the past couple of days so he could finish up his end without interference from me and also so he can’t be mad at me for sitting on my ass while I do work (that honestly, must be done while I am sitting on my ass). But I digress.

By the time Colby and I returned with groceries Matt was nice and apologetic which immediately translates into “everyone leave mama alone in the kitchen so she can drink a vigorous glass of wine while she cooks.”

DSC02212
Jam jar or wine glass? You be the judge.

So I turned on my own music and poured a glass a wine and got down to business with a bag full of brussels sprouts after I made as many ‘balls in a bag’ jokes as I could. What I ended up with was a loose approximation of Smitten Kitchen’s take on Michael Chiarello’s Winter Panzanella. Smitten’s adaptation is great, but I made a few tweaks myself. In lieu of spending an hour cutting squash, I bought a pre-cut bag and halved the pieces that needed to be smaller. I used a pound of brussels sprouts instead of a 1/2 pound and was quite glad that I did. The recipe called for them to be quickly cooked in salted water, but I chose to roast them in a 400 degree oven. Water in my salad grosses me out. I’m on my second glass of wine so I guess I’ll get that recipe up for you tomorrow. But really, try this. You all know how much and how frequently I love my chickpea panzanella and this is my new way to fill that void during the Maine winter (when I cannot stand to eat anything cold).

Look Dad! I finally ate my brussels sprouts!
Look Dad! I finally ate my brussels sprouts!
I thought this was my sexy apron, but no one agrees with me. Seriously.
I thought this was my sexy apron, but no one agrees with me. Seriously.
Colby says "next time - no vinegar based dressing"
Colby says “next time – no vinegar based dressing”
Matt says "next time - add beets and cook everything more." It's not my fault the man likes his vegetables overcooked, I'm just not going to do it for him.
Matt says “next time – add beets and cook everything more.” It’s not my fault the man likes his vegetables overcooked, I’m just not going to do it for him.

And the after-dinner shenanigans. Oy. That project I was talking about? The stairs and upstairs hallway are covered in polyurethane and  someone  left the radio on upstairs. We had to put Colby through the drop vent to turn it off . . .

He goes up-
He goes up-
-and drops down his Santa given potato chips for safe keeping -
-and drops down his Santa given potato chips for safe keeping –
-he comes down-
-he comes down-
-and he lands. And is hit on the head by a briefcase that followed him down.
-and he lands. And is hit on the head by a briefcase that followed him down.

Only here. Only on a Sunday. Eat your vegetables, friends. I’ve gotta go. Downton Abbey is on in 7 minutes!

Reality Strikes

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I can come up with a million over-used euphemisms about the nature of parenting, but we all know what is really going on here.

Sometimes, this shit is not fun or easy.

While I feel like I SHOULD preface this with the standard “I love my child and am so thankful that he is here and healthy and ALIVE”, maybe we shouldn’t have to do that. Maybe we should live in a world where we all assume that we love our kids and are doing the best jobs we can do. Even when we are really, really frustrated and not digging the whole parenting job in general.

Here’s the thing, C and I had a wonderful day today, and these days don’t come often. It was one of those days where I could see the kid he was (and the man he’s becoming) peeking out through layers of pre-teen, testosterone-fueled angst. Like sunshine streaking through clouds of the most violent August thunderstorm. One minute he’s telling me all the reasons why being an only child will ruin his life and the next? He’s holding the door open for thirty people and, smiling, telling them to have a nice day. One night he will kiss me on the cheek and give me a hug before bed – for reasons unknown to me. The next morning he will stomp through the house with the thick, tangible demeanor of a teenager with the entire world against him.

On those bad days, when I pick him up at school and on the way home hear the litany of things he hates and all that went wrong at school and oh, by the way, he has two detentions next week – it’s all I can do to keep my hands on the wheel. I try to breathe deeply and imperceptibly, but some days I sigh in audible frustration and disapproval. Some days I say words that I can never take back – words he will remember for his whole life. I drive home those days and wish that I could be one of those parents who always liked their kids – one of the parents whose kids always wanted to be home and willingly went on family vacations. I remember what it’s like to feel that dislike, that disapproval, as a middle-aged child. I have spent SO much time trying to figure out what I can do to help – but this week I realized something.

I spend all my time trying to figure out what I can do to make him act the way I want him to.

There’s a twinge of manipulation in this that, the more I think about it , doesn’t sit well with me. His life is not going to be irreparably damaged because he doesn’t want to be on math team or because he doesn’t obsessively practice his penalty kicks. Does he have incredible talent in both of those areas? Yes. Does he need to be 150% invested to gain any benefits from these activities? No. My boy, he loves music. He’s more perceptive than I wanted him to be, but because of this, he loves poetry.Because he questions everything, he will sometimes get into trouble. Also, because has a keen ability to turn a humorous phrase. He can make an instrument out of garbage and a symphony out of any chore.

That, my friends, is more than enough.

 

Grown-Up

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Bella

GROWN-UP

 

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Many things mark the arrival into adulthood: one’s first child, a marriage, the purchase of a home. Mine arrived in different forms yesterday: my first trip to the dry cleaners, opening the package of checks for the first joint-checking account. The joyful dread of minutia.

Rainy Days, Sick Days

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They always bring me down.

Colby so rarely gets sick that I tend to give him one preemptive day “off” per school year. Usually this comes when he is exhausted or overwhelmed. This year, though, the boy is sick.

He was out-of-sorts toward the end of last week and I made the executive decision to skip our annual extended family Christmas party. By Sunday night he was sporting cheeks redder than Rudolph’s nose. We parked him on the couch for the night with the ubiquitous puke bucket, a water bottle, and a towel. Monday morning brought a temperature of 101.

He’s sick enough to accept the 2 ibuprofen he would normally scoff at (because according to him, REAL men deal with their headaches, they don’t take medicine!) and allow me to put Vaporub on his chest.

We’re into day #2 and the fever is still going strong. His doctor (who is, may I add, the best pediatrician of all time) gave us a timeline of 8-10 days before he’s 100%. I secretly wished he had just had strep so I could give him some antibiotics and we could get back to business.

While at the doctor’s office, my little boy weighed in at a whopping 130 lbs and stood 5’6.  While I so badly want him to feel better, there is something about being allowed to mother him, even when he takes up the entire length of the couch, that is so, well, nice.

Stay healthy out there. If you or your family members do fall prey to what we’ve dubbed ‘the plague’ (lower case plague not uppercase Plague), I suggest you whip up a big pot of Jenny Rosenstrach’s Chicken Soup with Orzo. You can find the recipe in her book Dinner: A Love Story.

Pic compliments of DALS blog
Pic compliments of DALS blog

All members of your family, sick and healthy, will thank you. AND you will get a chicken soup facial while you cook. AND you have an excuse to have a glass of white wine while you are cooking since the recipe actually calls for it. But please, take my advice here. Do not, under any circumstances, omit the parmesan rind. This advice can go for nearly any brothy soup. If you don’t have a rind, just cut off the driest chunk of parm you have and chuck it in when you add the broth.

Have a great day all. Between the dog that peed on my bed last night and a sick kid — I feel the need to disinfect my entire house while my red-faced boy sleeps on the couch.

 

Da dum da dum

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Totally perfect.
Totally perfect.

 

A little shy of four years ago, I went on my first and only blind date. Even though we ate at a place we both do NOT like and took a detour to Home Depot, we somehow wanted to see each other again. In quick succession came a coffee date, more phone time than I logged in middle school, complicated commuting schedules, and a third shadow to accompany Colby and me on our walks.

Over those years we’ve learned and re-learned; each other and our surroundings. We’ve reconciled our dreams and our realities and we’ve been surprised with the funny places where those two intersect. I’ve been prepared to marry this man for some time.

The Proposal

It was perfect and beautiful, friends. I knew this day wasn’t too far away, but Matt managed to take me completely by surprise. We had a rare afternoon out together and celebrated later that night with my brother and his fiancee (thanks for the babysitting, you two!), Colby and our dogs. We sat by the fire and watched Lord of the Rings and I was feeling that was quite appropriate – since I would maybe slice anyone who came near my shiny, precious ring.

The Wedding

 

. . . planning is in progress. I’ll keep you all posted. All I know is that it will be small and simple and probably in June.

Meanwhile

Colby keeps looking at me and grinning. I keep watching as I walk past mirrors to see what my ring looks like in different light, against a different color jeans. Matt absentmindedly fingers the ring when he holds my hand. I have, wait for it, a Pinterest board. Help me Jesus.

 

Thank you all for your love and excitement. I’m so happy you will be on this journey with us.

 

Lost & Found

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I lost Colby today.

Before that, though, my day was frantic if normal. I even made time to go to the new makeup store with a friend. I’m having difficulty being productive in between schlepping Colby everywhere (school ->basketball->orchestra->home->bed), so filling up 30 in-between minutes looking at sweet smelling false promises was a welcome activity. I bought some body oil and detangler and new foundation. I left in time.

Colby was totally ready to roll when I picked him up at practice.

I dropped him off at orchestra practice, which just happens to be where I work. I let him know that I was going to the gym first and to meet me in my office when he was done.

At the gym, I ran for the first time in a few weeks. It was slow and visceral and I was so so happy to get sweaty. Then my phone rang, and I answered it even though I NEVER answer unfamiliar numbers. Never. Colby didn’t have practice. He had been waiting at the school for an hour. I turned off the treadmill and wrestled with my keys and earbuds while checking my email because he said “Mom. I sent you an email…”. It read something like: “mom, I’m hungry, come get me before the janitor kicks me out”.

I made it from the gym to my office in three minutes to find all the lights off and no sign of my kid.

Seven awful minutes and three bathroom checks later, I found him, but not before I had to tell a group of co-workers that I lost my kid and had they maybe seen him anywhere.

This must be my lucky week though, because not only did I find him in one physical and spiritual piece, he told me “mom – don’t sweat it”.

Forget Powerball. I won the freakin’ lottery.

Prolonging the Magic

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Colby did not want to trick-or-treat this year.

I didn’t push it, knowing that the more I pushed and cajoled, the more he would resist. And you know, trick-or-treating is kind of a pain in the ass, but I reallly wanted him to go. It wasn’t because of my overwhelming love of Halloween, but because in this new world of autonomy and music and girls and armpit hair (and an incredibly stressful election year) I wanted him to do something that allowed him to be a kid. Something silly and mindless and fun.
He finally decided, that tricky little monkey of mine, that he wanted to be Paul Bunyan. Then he told everyone that he was tricking me into buying him a new flannel shirt. One $12.99 LL Bean flannel later:

 

Paul and Babe

Then he and his cousin got the idea to go as Paul and Babe the Blue Ox. I was in heaven. Do you remember this book? 

Our copy has a lot of miles on it, and it was the replacement for the copy I had as a child. Steven Kellog (of The Day Jimmy’s Boa Ate the Wash fame) tells the Paul Bunyan tale with wit and pacing and verve. To boot, the illustrations are intricate and nuanced and are perfectly paired to the story. If you don’t own a copy, buy one now. Here are some of my favorite parts:

Paul Bunyan was the largest, smartest, and strongest baby ever born in the state of Maine.

He soon grew into a sturdy lad who was so quick on his feet he could blow out a candle and leap into bed before the room became dark.

And then there’s Babe the blue ox.

Both Paul and Babe began growing at an astonishing rate, but the ox never lost the color of the snow from which he’d been rescued.

He has seasonal affective disorder:

The blizzard continued for several years … the crew… hibernated. Babe became so depressed that Paul asked Ole to make a pair of sunglasses for his friend. When Babe saw the world colored green, he thought he’d stumbled into a field of clover.

So he ate all the snow.

At that point, all those pent-up springtimes simply exploded, dissolving the storm clouds and the remaining snow.

Sigh. And then the pancakes and the gumberoos and the canyon.

Sometimes his great bursts of laughter can be heard rumbling like distant thunder across the wild Alaskan mountain ranges where he and Babe still roam.

Anyway. I was happy to prolong the magic just one more year. We made pancakes and ate them standing up at the kitchen counter. My aunt and I tried to get the boys (one mine and one hers) ready, but it felt a lot like what I imagine herding wet cats would be like. The boys went out and maybe did more aimless walking around than trick-or-treating, I walked with another mother not necessarily trailing the kids, but you know, just being in the general area.

A quick note: I was the only teacher dressed up at work. I went as Medusa which no one thought was really a stretch, but it was awesome. Awesomer than being Medusa? Having post-Halloween dreads as a result.

I should have kept them in.

Rebels. Out on a school night.

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I’m feeling very patriotic tonight.

I have a love/hate relationship with major election years. My love of theory and policy and social justice has difficulty overcoming my keen dislike of conflict. This causes problems.

I’m loving where we are at this point in history, though. Let me keep my optimism, please.

After supper (and a discussion of medical marijuana?) and chores C and I packed up and drove to see the Marine Corps Band. A colleague couldn’t attend and I knew Colby would be quite happy to take his seats. It wasn’t until we were seated (in the perfect, percussion section watching spot) that I was able to recognize quite what a big deal this show was. A quick glance at the audience revealed many white-haired or no-haired heads, though there was a significant showing of students and young adults.

What a show! Colby and I used to regularly attend performances here, but he was a young man in his element tonight. Watching his face, I could see him feeling the music, smiling at certain spots and mimicking the movements of the percussionists hands. It makes my heart flutter to think that he loves something that much, to think that he has a great passion. Our favorite piece was called “Asphalt Cocktail”, this rowdy and discordant piece in which a band member played the trashcan. Who doesn’t love that? The performance included what you would expect, Stars and Stripes Forever and Armed Services Medley and such, with some wonderfully surprising pieces interspersed. The second encore included a crowd sing of America the Beautiful, and Colby and I both knew the words (Thank you Mrs. Tardiff!).

Every time I settle into one of the new Collins Center seats I remember the first time Colby was there – in 2001 for the Cohen lecture series. He was a newborn, I was there for extra credit, and as soon as he was finished nursing I hoisted him up over my shoulder, at which point he vomited into the collar of my shirt so that a river of partially digested milk flowed under my shirt, down my back and pooled in the waistband of my jeans.

Tonight though, no vomit. Just intermission cookies, legs and shoulders spread wide into my space, and a face to look up at instead of down at. Colby yawned toward the end of the show, and this is the point in which I usually throw my arm around his shoulders and snuggle him onto my shoulder to rest. Tonight, I realized that this will no longer work. Instead I, yawning, let my head rest on his shoulder.

Then into the car to listen to the debate. And home for the debate – and debate snacks.

 

Bravery: optimism + stupidity

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Don’t get confused. I haven’t undergone a radical change to become a paragon of preparedness and forethought. I have, however, managed to purchase a winter coat for Colby before snow is on the ground. This is something we usually get around to after he has spent a week going to school with his ever-broadening wrists exposed and wearing mismatched dollar store stretchy gloves.

Ta da!

Apparently it is so cold on the sun porch that he must wear his new coat and hat.

It’s been one of those weekends that I enjoy more because my winter-self is perched inside my left inner-ear reminding me that the clock is ticking.

a mountain, some snacks, and a few boys

The above picture may chronicle the most terrifying event of my life – in which I, one lone adult, take three, 12-year-old boys to hike a mountain. Believe me – I knew exactly how far we were from the nearest hospital. I certainly heard snippets of conversations I wish I hadn’t heard (“That’s what she said! hahahaha!”), but when I heard them pointing out trees and birds and aweing over the foliage, the terror and the education was totally worth it. On the way down a woman told me I was brave, and while I was thankful for the compliment, she and I both knew that what I was demonstrating was not bravery, but a combination of optimism and stupidity. I’m glad we’re down now.

“No mom, I’ll get it”
The perfect pumpkin IS hard to find. Nomar the dog is helping us.
I want some. I want some goats and some cows and some chickens . . .

My parents picked us up to celebrate Pumpkin Day. What?! You don’t celebrate PUMPKIN DAY?! Oh people. Pumpkin Day is an annual holiday that always occurs on the Sunday after my childhood friend Jenny’s birthday.

Me, in the back of a really old car. Yay and Brrr.
Maybe this is the bike I’ve been looking for!

We spent one day with our friends at Owls Head Transportation Museum. Colby spent the evening with Mimi and Papa, and we had a rare quiet car ride. Since Colby doesn’t really fit in the back of any of our vehicles and I get motion sick, our family car trips tend to be filled with lots of clearly articulated complaints or passive-aggressive sighing. We’re all guilty, and it tends to be enjoyable for none of us. I popped two Dramamine at breakfast and slept nearly the whole way down and back – a present for me, a present for Matt.

It’s the last week of soccer season here, and I’m just now doing the laundry from last Thursday’s monsoon game. This was not a smart move on my part. As much as I want to run out the door to make a 6 o’clock yoga class, the smells of last week’s laundry are beginning to mingle with the aroma of last week’s dishes. I’m not sure which one is worse, and this means I need to tackle it all.

I’ve decided that I am going to keep some of that bravery from the weekend tucked in my pocket, because I really need the optimism to balance out the stupidity of our daily routines, or lack of. So this week: real dinners! finished homework! umbrella and blankets packed!