We're on the rebound from the Mother State and tonight, I find myself halfway home in my familiar, door laden suite.
The day before we left, the big kids and my mom browsed Goodwill while I hurriedly dashed to find the cheapest entertainment for the long drive ahead in the form of .29 picture books. That's right, I said 29 CENTS, less my mom's senior discount. Mama Dearheart is the bargain queen. She's honed this skill for about sixty five years and there ain't no way, no how, you're going to get it cheaper than from her sewing machine, or from, as my kids' have come to call it, "Granny's Goodwill."
While waiting for me, just-three T, all boy in the stereotypical sense of the word, hunted the Halloween table at the store for the perfect item to grip while strapped in the cozy confines of his car seat. He landed on a novelty plastic dagger adorned with skulls and featuring a retractable blade that makes a low and lingering scream-like sound when pressed against something.
Dee, all girl in the stereotypical sense of the word, gravitated to a cheap fabric bat affixed to a glittered dowel, identified by Dee as a Halloween wand. She fancied herself the inspired, "Halloween Fairy," while waving it. Granny thought the name, "Bat Wanda" was a better fit. We moved on from Goodwill to picking up real nail polish for Dee, as promised, in a pale princess pink. The look was complete.
The afternoon wound down with a viewing of the scarier-than-I-ever-remembered, Pinocchio, including dagger waving by T and spell casting by Dee at that nasty whale, and the men who brought little boys to "Pleasure Island." Yikes.
After a little more T.V. and an elaborate sequence of post dinner candy treats, we were fat with the spoils of an old school week with the G'rents. From there, we packed up our troubles in my (twelve or so) kit bags and armed ourselves for the road ahead.
I'm feeling pretty confident. I've got fairy magic and knightly valor recharging on the other side of that door. Very confident indeed.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Now
We linger over the dinner clean-up. She's wiping the counters down with a hot soapy dishcloth, freeing the area of streaks, as she's done after every meal I've known in her home. I follow her like a puppy, not necessarily doing anything to help, beyond putting the easy stuff away. After I've placed the salt and pepper shakers in their place in the cabinet, we go back to a hard conversation we had a few months ago and I reassure her that, after some reflection, I think I understand.
She tells me that there were countless times she dreamed of a cruise vacation, or a week in Hawaii. And not so long ago, she would have jumped at the opportunity and the fun anticipation that such a trip entails. But not today, she says. They are so grateful for the offer, she tells me, so very grateful, but not now.
Now, while the white blood cells in my father's body multiply erratically, and doggedly fill the remaining space in his lymph nodes, before moving on to new vessels, she needs to embrace the simple, quiet life that they find at home.
Now, she wants only to be with him. Admittedly, to have him all to herself, shuffling about their three bedroom single level track home, attending furniture refinishing projects and grass cutting. He's still as funny to her as ever, and as kind. Gently agreeing to rebuild the back of a desk she found at Goodwill, and meticulously chopping the veggies and other necessities of the recipe he's chosen for dinner. She's aching already, and us along with her, while the time bomb of his cancer ticks away. Who knows how long life will still be good. All she knows for sure is that home is generally free of the distractions and worry that catching planes and small talk with strangers bring about.
I left my three kids with them three days ago. Presumably for quality time and not to add to their stress. Chris and I are in Aspen, Colorado attending a medical conference and enjoying yet another gift from my parents in the form of a weekend without our offspring.
While alone yesterday, I ran, or walked mostly, along a narrow dirt path that followed a creek along the Rio Grande Trail. The warm autumn sun was warm on by back - too warm - and the warbled shade provided by the delicate flutter of aspen leaves allowed a respite from the task of running in the heat. It was then that I could appreciate some of the jewels of the Rockies.
I observed the dry grasses and wildflowers beyond their peak, arched over the edge of the path, creating a red carpet of sorts. The smell of fallen aspen leaves, earthy but somehow still bearing the sharp - and uplifting - smell of spring. Russet reds and oranges surrounded me in the rusty soil of the trail, the iron rails of the foot bridge, and in a good number of the rocks nested in the creek, smooth and rounded from the cover of rushing water. The creek was bordered by rustic, but meticulously maintained and upated, vacation homes. Complete with wooden pads built over the creek, upscale lawn furniture and canvas umbrellas still there, a reminder that true summer was not too long ago.
It was a lovely walk and one that I enjoyed, particularly because it involved some calorie burning. All the same, I still longed to be back at our room at the conference resort, with the surprise of my Hub out early from his morning meetings and ready to join me. There's something so sweet and comforting about having my man here with me, to walk among the aspen trees and to appreciate our now without distraction.
She tells me that there were countless times she dreamed of a cruise vacation, or a week in Hawaii. And not so long ago, she would have jumped at the opportunity and the fun anticipation that such a trip entails. But not today, she says. They are so grateful for the offer, she tells me, so very grateful, but not now.
Now, while the white blood cells in my father's body multiply erratically, and doggedly fill the remaining space in his lymph nodes, before moving on to new vessels, she needs to embrace the simple, quiet life that they find at home.
Now, she wants only to be with him. Admittedly, to have him all to herself, shuffling about their three bedroom single level track home, attending furniture refinishing projects and grass cutting. He's still as funny to her as ever, and as kind. Gently agreeing to rebuild the back of a desk she found at Goodwill, and meticulously chopping the veggies and other necessities of the recipe he's chosen for dinner. She's aching already, and us along with her, while the time bomb of his cancer ticks away. Who knows how long life will still be good. All she knows for sure is that home is generally free of the distractions and worry that catching planes and small talk with strangers bring about.
I left my three kids with them three days ago. Presumably for quality time and not to add to their stress. Chris and I are in Aspen, Colorado attending a medical conference and enjoying yet another gift from my parents in the form of a weekend without our offspring.
While alone yesterday, I ran, or walked mostly, along a narrow dirt path that followed a creek along the Rio Grande Trail. The warm autumn sun was warm on by back - too warm - and the warbled shade provided by the delicate flutter of aspen leaves allowed a respite from the task of running in the heat. It was then that I could appreciate some of the jewels of the Rockies.
I observed the dry grasses and wildflowers beyond their peak, arched over the edge of the path, creating a red carpet of sorts. The smell of fallen aspen leaves, earthy but somehow still bearing the sharp - and uplifting - smell of spring. Russet reds and oranges surrounded me in the rusty soil of the trail, the iron rails of the foot bridge, and in a good number of the rocks nested in the creek, smooth and rounded from the cover of rushing water. The creek was bordered by rustic, but meticulously maintained and upated, vacation homes. Complete with wooden pads built over the creek, upscale lawn furniture and canvas umbrellas still there, a reminder that true summer was not too long ago.
It was a lovely walk and one that I enjoyed, particularly because it involved some calorie burning. All the same, I still longed to be back at our room at the conference resort, with the surprise of my Hub out early from his morning meetings and ready to join me. There's something so sweet and comforting about having my man here with me, to walk among the aspen trees and to appreciate our now without distraction.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Sweet on the Suite
The kids and I are headed to Colorado by van. We saved cash by driving so I splurged on a suite that met my specifications at a mid-budget hotel for our one night on the road. This is what I've learned so far:
A half wall and a mini fridge does not a suite make. And the two-way fireplace you feature in your hotel pictures does not positively influence my reservation decision. I need a room without a view, one with definite boundaries between the place where the children are stashed and the place where I pretend I don't have any children, at least until the cruel light of morning creeps in like a sorceress to condemn me to another 10 hours in a non padded minivan with Dee, T and BabyNar (who turns out to be the worst of the bunch).
Nar Nar doesn't yet understand that crying is futile. I will not flinch. I WILL keep driving and simply move my ear closer to the car speaker to hear the remainder of the "This American Life" NPR episode that's playing. Not to worry, road trip police. Baby's got a dry diaper (at least since the last reasonably timed stop), a sippy cup with more handles than cup (that doubles as a toy), and a mountain of discarded (and usually forbidden) snacks that her siblings would kill for if they weren't prisoners to the five point harness system that makes sane travel with children possible for me. Never mind the safety benefits of such devices. They're like a door on a one bedroom suite, only more effective for the waking hours.
Anyhoo, we finally did make it to the hotel and the kids' patience and leg atrophy paid off. It was near normal bedtime when we arrived, but we still had a day of activity to jam into our sweet suite and the hotel attached to it. The condensed schedule involved complimentary cookies, fries and burgers in the "living room," swimming, bath, stories at 10 p.m. (!), and night-night in the yummy king size bed (behind door #1) that really should be mine.
Never mind that Dee and T piddled around for another hour. I'm confident all that car seat padding will make day dreaming easier, especially when the only sugar coming from Mom arrives in the form of a fruit gummy snack pack. Heads up!
A half wall and a mini fridge does not a suite make. And the two-way fireplace you feature in your hotel pictures does not positively influence my reservation decision. I need a room without a view, one with definite boundaries between the place where the children are stashed and the place where I pretend I don't have any children, at least until the cruel light of morning creeps in like a sorceress to condemn me to another 10 hours in a non padded minivan with Dee, T and BabyNar (who turns out to be the worst of the bunch).
Nar Nar doesn't yet understand that crying is futile. I will not flinch. I WILL keep driving and simply move my ear closer to the car speaker to hear the remainder of the "This American Life" NPR episode that's playing. Not to worry, road trip police. Baby's got a dry diaper (at least since the last reasonably timed stop), a sippy cup with more handles than cup (that doubles as a toy), and a mountain of discarded (and usually forbidden) snacks that her siblings would kill for if they weren't prisoners to the five point harness system that makes sane travel with children possible for me. Never mind the safety benefits of such devices. They're like a door on a one bedroom suite, only more effective for the waking hours.
Anyhoo, we finally did make it to the hotel and the kids' patience and leg atrophy paid off. It was near normal bedtime when we arrived, but we still had a day of activity to jam into our sweet suite and the hotel attached to it. The condensed schedule involved complimentary cookies, fries and burgers in the "living room," swimming, bath, stories at 10 p.m. (!), and night-night in the yummy king size bed (behind door #1) that really should be mine.
Never mind that Dee and T piddled around for another hour. I'm confident all that car seat padding will make day dreaming easier, especially when the only sugar coming from Mom arrives in the form of a fruit gummy snack pack. Heads up!
Monday, September 20, 2010
True Companions
I see them every once in a while at the same coffee shop. Often, they are already sitting at a two top directly facing the entrance to the shop. A bookcase is at their back and I've seen the baristas greet them with familiar hellos. I've not yet deciphered what they drink; whether it's steaming Earl Gray tea for one, or a short, powerful espresso for the other. They sit talking or reading newspapers, but still find enough interest in me and my brood to look up and smile.
They look strangely the same and might be sisters, except for one is much taller. Both wear skirts that fall below the calf. The skirt on the little one is high enough to reveal her short, shabby boots with holes and frayed edges at the toes. She doesn't wear socks. Instead, a long wool dress coat, dirty and thin, appears to keep her warm both winter and summer. The little one has stringy long hair that streams out from a wool stocking cap. Her companion wears the same uniform, except a light nylon scarf is wrapped around her head and her boots aren't nearly as worn. Everything about them is muted grays, olive green, plum and brown. It would seem as if they had emerged from the woods, if modern life for seniors really made way for good witches and fairy godmothers.
But I learned today while pulling out of the adjoining grocery store parking lot that their world also includes a royal blue in the form of a sensible Ford sedan, likely manufactured in the late eighties. The tall one is the driver. Today, she focused on starting the car while the little one waived and waited for me to back my hulk of a minivan out of the parking space next to theirs. I waived back in thank you, noticed their current plates and then continued to think about the pair the rest of the day. The Little One and the Driver.
Shortly after meeting my husband, a/k/a Chris, I settled into the cozy and joyous notion that he was my true companion. The muscles he'd developed on his upper thighs biking across town to attend the prerequisite classes for medical school helped A LOT. Also, his openness to people and why-not-today-adventuresome spirit perfectly counterbalances my judgmental character and perpetually practical personality.
Some people are hard to like. I keep my nose to the grindstone and seek reasonable fun within boundaries. I don't like to ask directions and I've got to plan for days (okay, weeks) for people to drop by for dinner. Chris organizes elaborate events on a whim. He skiis like the Asian Jonny Mosely that he is and has served as a National Park naturalist by day and and river raft guide on weekends. Hot stuff. Then he went to medical school and that tamed his adventures a bit. Protecting lives can do that to a guy.
I knew Chris was the man for me and my future kids when I watched him with his beloved dog, a yellow lab/shepard mix and lover of all throwable things, named Dakota. Chris guided Dakota with a firm but gentle, for-keeps touch. Dakota responded in kind. And I got to bask in it, like a preview before purchasing. I was hooked then and I still am.
Today, my true companions tend to be the three little souls Chris and I brought into this world. We bumble around like a little band of merry women and one man. Off to adventures like two grocery stores in one day where everyone focuses on holding the cart, I SAID, HOLD THE CART!!!, while Nar strains to gum the handle and break free of the belt that's holding her back. We talk of spills on the sidewalk, treats that might await us at the bakery, mylar balloons in the shapes of space heroes, crunches (sharks) and princesses with loads of hair and dark pink gowns. Dee discusses her plans of living with the real princesses when she grows up and letting T be a king. T is mesmerized by a cardboard display of a movie "bad guy" and tells us he is going to "bam it!"
Throughout the day, the kids make these kinds of suggestions and I respond. It is a comfortable, welcomed part of life. In those early, not quite focused moments of the day when I first realize where we are in the week and the plans ahead, I am happy to wake up. Mostly because it is our day and that I won't be alone. I have an important purpose here, surrounded by these kids, smothered by these kids - kissed and hugged and ignored sometimes - but always with them. At least until first grade beckons and these hours that are all mine dwindle because their interests and development require a different focus and, sadly, different companions.
And then of course, I'll turn to other seeds I've sown. Hub, older kid family stuff and professional goals. Grandchildren and the golden years of retirement. But beyond that, I have hope that someday, in a land far away and hard to imagine, there will be a Driver for me (short as I am, and shrinking, I'll likely be the Little One). A woman, friend and survivor, who has traveled a road with different turns and dips, but similar still to mine. A fairy godmother of sorts that can offer me all that I really yearn for - companionship - and the occasional ride to the coffee shop when the weather makes the walk difficult.
They look strangely the same and might be sisters, except for one is much taller. Both wear skirts that fall below the calf. The skirt on the little one is high enough to reveal her short, shabby boots with holes and frayed edges at the toes. She doesn't wear socks. Instead, a long wool dress coat, dirty and thin, appears to keep her warm both winter and summer. The little one has stringy long hair that streams out from a wool stocking cap. Her companion wears the same uniform, except a light nylon scarf is wrapped around her head and her boots aren't nearly as worn. Everything about them is muted grays, olive green, plum and brown. It would seem as if they had emerged from the woods, if modern life for seniors really made way for good witches and fairy godmothers.
But I learned today while pulling out of the adjoining grocery store parking lot that their world also includes a royal blue in the form of a sensible Ford sedan, likely manufactured in the late eighties. The tall one is the driver. Today, she focused on starting the car while the little one waived and waited for me to back my hulk of a minivan out of the parking space next to theirs. I waived back in thank you, noticed their current plates and then continued to think about the pair the rest of the day. The Little One and the Driver.
Shortly after meeting my husband, a/k/a Chris, I settled into the cozy and joyous notion that he was my true companion. The muscles he'd developed on his upper thighs biking across town to attend the prerequisite classes for medical school helped A LOT. Also, his openness to people and why-not-today-adventuresome spirit perfectly counterbalances my judgmental character and perpetually practical personality.
Some people are hard to like. I keep my nose to the grindstone and seek reasonable fun within boundaries. I don't like to ask directions and I've got to plan for days (okay, weeks) for people to drop by for dinner. Chris organizes elaborate events on a whim. He skiis like the Asian Jonny Mosely that he is and has served as a National Park naturalist by day and and river raft guide on weekends. Hot stuff. Then he went to medical school and that tamed his adventures a bit. Protecting lives can do that to a guy.
I knew Chris was the man for me and my future kids when I watched him with his beloved dog, a yellow lab/shepard mix and lover of all throwable things, named Dakota. Chris guided Dakota with a firm but gentle, for-keeps touch. Dakota responded in kind. And I got to bask in it, like a preview before purchasing. I was hooked then and I still am.
Today, my true companions tend to be the three little souls Chris and I brought into this world. We bumble around like a little band of merry women and one man. Off to adventures like two grocery stores in one day where everyone focuses on holding the cart, I SAID, HOLD THE CART!!!, while Nar strains to gum the handle and break free of the belt that's holding her back. We talk of spills on the sidewalk, treats that might await us at the bakery, mylar balloons in the shapes of space heroes, crunches (sharks) and princesses with loads of hair and dark pink gowns. Dee discusses her plans of living with the real princesses when she grows up and letting T be a king. T is mesmerized by a cardboard display of a movie "bad guy" and tells us he is going to "bam it!"
Throughout the day, the kids make these kinds of suggestions and I respond. It is a comfortable, welcomed part of life. In those early, not quite focused moments of the day when I first realize where we are in the week and the plans ahead, I am happy to wake up. Mostly because it is our day and that I won't be alone. I have an important purpose here, surrounded by these kids, smothered by these kids - kissed and hugged and ignored sometimes - but always with them. At least until first grade beckons and these hours that are all mine dwindle because their interests and development require a different focus and, sadly, different companions.
And then of course, I'll turn to other seeds I've sown. Hub, older kid family stuff and professional goals. Grandchildren and the golden years of retirement. But beyond that, I have hope that someday, in a land far away and hard to imagine, there will be a Driver for me (short as I am, and shrinking, I'll likely be the Little One). A woman, friend and survivor, who has traveled a road with different turns and dips, but similar still to mine. A fairy godmother of sorts that can offer me all that I really yearn for - companionship - and the occasional ride to the coffee shop when the weather makes the walk difficult.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Full Stop
I woke today wearing less elastic. Which seems quite ridiculous now that I'm a mother of three who is most definitely NOT pregnant, but was recently mistaken for being "two or three months along" at my high school reunion. So much for my belief that only television alum hold grudges. It's not even like I was popular, a poser really. Maybe that's why I didn't get the message that empire waste "BBQ casual" dresses are soooo early stage pregnancy.
So it's not the Spanks that I'm dumping, it's another sexy number known as the standard issue beige cheap nursing bra. The kind that you don't bother to lay flat for laundering or adjust to achieve even a modicum of fit. That's because during late (real) pregnancy, throughout birth, and my kid's first year of life, I wore the thing like a wedding ring. Like a symbol of my commitment to the not so subtle message to Hub that I was still NOT in the mood.
Today I broke free of the bonds of my nursing bra, and the cozy stretch of my life that its departure concludes. Today, BabyNar is now a 100% formula (and various table foods) fed baby. I'd like to believe this day stands only as a comma in the great run on sentence of my childbearing years, where the space beyond provides room for another conception and birth story and eventually another chair to add to my fantasy of a large dining room table twenty five years from now, crowded with people and partners munching on family favorites and gently needling me with memories and jokes; everyone buzzing around me and helping me get the dishes on the table and getting annoyed by me, but loving me and the life Hub and I created for them. Did I mention that this fantasy is about me?
Anyhoo, gosh, I can't even write it, and I wish I had the technical savvy to get the Blogger type to reduce down to like, four point font, so that I could tell you in my tiniest voice that I think today is not a comma but (whispering now) really a big, fat period that tells all the world, especially me, that we're done bringing kids into our family and that pregnancy and even adoption are not likely. Period. Did I say that? I think so and (talking louder now), I guess that means I can let the type get bigger and take a breath and maybe explain things (Hub's done) and then...move on and get a job or something. Yuck. I'm still mourning this, I know. And I'm still secretly hoping that the "accident fairy" will stop by my house, especially now that Hub's least favorite nasty beige undergarment has left the building.
There's one more thing here. I wish this post could be a memory marker instead where I describe the last loving days of nursing BabyNar. The kind of journal page that is my best hope for blogging so that I won't forget the kids' childhoods and how I felt during those days of 1-2-3's or else, please don't push on my bottom with your squirt gun (T), that huffing noise you make during dinner to interrupt me makes me angry (Dee), and the image of non mobile Nar being crawled over at the park by babies half her age while she sits munching wood bark. Mmmmm....
Per usual, however, I'm back to me. Which will likely be the case whether I have three or four or more children. The hope too, when the kid raising is done, is to still have that partner in crime around - Hub - to remind me of the gems I've forgotten or neglected to write down. And also to affirm for me that it's still about me.
So it's not the Spanks that I'm dumping, it's another sexy number known as the standard issue beige cheap nursing bra. The kind that you don't bother to lay flat for laundering or adjust to achieve even a modicum of fit. That's because during late (real) pregnancy, throughout birth, and my kid's first year of life, I wore the thing like a wedding ring. Like a symbol of my commitment to the not so subtle message to Hub that I was still NOT in the mood.
Today I broke free of the bonds of my nursing bra, and the cozy stretch of my life that its departure concludes. Today, BabyNar is now a 100% formula (and various table foods) fed baby. I'd like to believe this day stands only as a comma in the great run on sentence of my childbearing years, where the space beyond provides room for another conception and birth story and eventually another chair to add to my fantasy of a large dining room table twenty five years from now, crowded with people and partners munching on family favorites and gently needling me with memories and jokes; everyone buzzing around me and helping me get the dishes on the table and getting annoyed by me, but loving me and the life Hub and I created for them. Did I mention that this fantasy is about me?
Anyhoo, gosh, I can't even write it, and I wish I had the technical savvy to get the Blogger type to reduce down to like, four point font, so that I could tell you in my tiniest voice that I think today is not a comma but (whispering now) really a big, fat period that tells all the world, especially me, that we're done bringing kids into our family and that pregnancy and even adoption are not likely. Period. Did I say that? I think so and (talking louder now), I guess that means I can let the type get bigger and take a breath and maybe explain things (Hub's done) and then...move on and get a job or something. Yuck. I'm still mourning this, I know. And I'm still secretly hoping that the "accident fairy" will stop by my house, especially now that Hub's least favorite nasty beige undergarment has left the building.
There's one more thing here. I wish this post could be a memory marker instead where I describe the last loving days of nursing BabyNar. The kind of journal page that is my best hope for blogging so that I won't forget the kids' childhoods and how I felt during those days of 1-2-3's or else, please don't push on my bottom with your squirt gun (T), that huffing noise you make during dinner to interrupt me makes me angry (Dee), and the image of non mobile Nar being crawled over at the park by babies half her age while she sits munching wood bark. Mmmmm....
Per usual, however, I'm back to me. Which will likely be the case whether I have three or four or more children. The hope too, when the kid raising is done, is to still have that partner in crime around - Hub - to remind me of the gems I've forgotten or neglected to write down. And also to affirm for me that it's still about me.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Cake Lady
My disaster of a kitchen is waiting for me downstairs. Sticky sugary cooked egg whites, lovingly blended with vanilla and loads of unsalted butter - otherwise known as Swiss meringue frosting - adheres to bowls and spatulas and cook tops and cake stands. Chocolate chips spill from their bags and powdered sugar drifts to create a dusty sheen over my counter tops and floors. Butter beyond room temperature awaits a use while it melts into its package and the tile and grout counter below. When we came home late tonight with pre-pajama-ed kids from my cousin's son's ninth birthday party, Hub took one look at the clutterful kitchen and asked - with all seriousness - "Pleeeaaase. No more cake messes for at least a week."
He didn't need to ask. I'm done for awhile too. I often feel the urge to "go to town" in this way. My boxes of super refined cake flour call to me, I'm forever cracking eggs, and measuring out all the other necessary ingredients for my signature white cake. Over the past three years of stay-at-home-mom-hood, I've forced my way into becoming the unofficial "Cake Lady" for all occasions that remotely call for cake. Whether or not my friends or relatives want them, I bake cakes. Birthday. Easter. Baby Shower. My message is always the same: eat this or I'll cry. Usually, the loving people in my life oblige.
This month I was especially busy. It started with a baby shower for a pal (raspberry filled and chocolate chip cookie dough filled cupcakes), Easter (ditto), Dee's 4th birthday parties (princess crown cake and princess castle cake), girlfriend's birthday (blackberry and lemon curd filled cake), Hub's birthday (lemon curd filled cake), and most recently, 9th birthday (peanut butter cup replica cake). Whew! I'm so over it. I'm certain the butter sticks have adhered to my butt like magnets. The scale tells me it's true.
One problem, however - when I get into a manic cake baking phase - all other operations in the home suffer. I tend to tamp down on the clothes hampers like garbage bags, kidding myself that there's room for more and I'm not getting behind. Never mind that my son ran out of pants two days ago. Note to self: when Hub is spending his weekend helping me "catch up," we've really hit rock bottom.
Also, when I've got cake on the brain, I forget to shop for anything one might find outside of the spice aisle. Five bags of semi sweet chocolate chips. Check. Two jars of jumbo creamy peanut butter for the giant cake size Reese's peanut butter cup (the hope is to cut through the peanut butter cup and cake below in one swift, soft and delicious slice). Check. Eggs, eggs, eggs. Check. Lemons and blackberries and raspberries. Oh my. Check. So I venture beyond the baking aisle. It's certainly not to pick up pork chops or anything else my husband might recognize as dinner.
The whole obsession reminds me of my "theater days" as a young scribe of eleven (or so). I loved writing, editing, directing, creating sets and acting out most of the male roles in plays made from scratch by me. The actual performance time would vary, but I could occupy an entire evening or play date putting together what I believed was a top-notch production, in light of my limited resources. Costumes generally included my aunt's discarded nylon nightgowns and matching robes, and our best stage remained the basement before paint, when it was still okay for me to tack blankets to the dry wall.
I would usually bribe neighborhood kids into memorizing their lines with cupcakes. Most of the girls required promises of roles as princesses. That was no problem for me. I liked the "palace" genre anyways. My parents, however, tired of the genre, or at least the time away from alcohol with friends. So eventually I was told, as the family prepared for dinner at the Anderson's (or whomever), "No plays tonight, okay honey?"
So another dream died. Or didn't really spark. That's okay. I went to law school instead and then eventually got somewhat disillusioned. I still have the cupcakes, at least until after I get the powdered sugar scrubbed out of the grout.
He didn't need to ask. I'm done for awhile too. I often feel the urge to "go to town" in this way. My boxes of super refined cake flour call to me, I'm forever cracking eggs, and measuring out all the other necessary ingredients for my signature white cake. Over the past three years of stay-at-home-mom-hood, I've forced my way into becoming the unofficial "Cake Lady" for all occasions that remotely call for cake. Whether or not my friends or relatives want them, I bake cakes. Birthday. Easter. Baby Shower. My message is always the same: eat this or I'll cry. Usually, the loving people in my life oblige.
This month I was especially busy. It started with a baby shower for a pal (raspberry filled and chocolate chip cookie dough filled cupcakes), Easter (ditto), Dee's 4th birthday parties (princess crown cake and princess castle cake), girlfriend's birthday (blackberry and lemon curd filled cake), Hub's birthday (lemon curd filled cake), and most recently, 9th birthday (peanut butter cup replica cake). Whew! I'm so over it. I'm certain the butter sticks have adhered to my butt like magnets. The scale tells me it's true.
One problem, however - when I get into a manic cake baking phase - all other operations in the home suffer. I tend to tamp down on the clothes hampers like garbage bags, kidding myself that there's room for more and I'm not getting behind. Never mind that my son ran out of pants two days ago. Note to self: when Hub is spending his weekend helping me "catch up," we've really hit rock bottom.
Also, when I've got cake on the brain, I forget to shop for anything one might find outside of the spice aisle. Five bags of semi sweet chocolate chips. Check. Two jars of jumbo creamy peanut butter for the giant cake size Reese's peanut butter cup (the hope is to cut through the peanut butter cup and cake below in one swift, soft and delicious slice). Check. Eggs, eggs, eggs. Check. Lemons and blackberries and raspberries. Oh my. Check. So I venture beyond the baking aisle. It's certainly not to pick up pork chops or anything else my husband might recognize as dinner.
The whole obsession reminds me of my "theater days" as a young scribe of eleven (or so). I loved writing, editing, directing, creating sets and acting out most of the male roles in plays made from scratch by me. The actual performance time would vary, but I could occupy an entire evening or play date putting together what I believed was a top-notch production, in light of my limited resources. Costumes generally included my aunt's discarded nylon nightgowns and matching robes, and our best stage remained the basement before paint, when it was still okay for me to tack blankets to the dry wall.
I would usually bribe neighborhood kids into memorizing their lines with cupcakes. Most of the girls required promises of roles as princesses. That was no problem for me. I liked the "palace" genre anyways. My parents, however, tired of the genre, or at least the time away from alcohol with friends. So eventually I was told, as the family prepared for dinner at the Anderson's (or whomever), "No plays tonight, okay honey?"
So another dream died. Or didn't really spark. That's okay. I went to law school instead and then eventually got somewhat disillusioned. I still have the cupcakes, at least until after I get the powdered sugar scrubbed out of the grout.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Easy Breezy Beautiful
Gosh, it's been a few weeks. A few fabulous weeks, or at least one fab week. Hub and I and the little one, Nar, just returned from a one week vacation to Waikiki Beach, Hawaii. The last minute prep and general craziness stoked by my procrastinator tendencies made the departure day a hot mess, as they say. But we finally squeezed out of Dodge and left Dee and T to fend for themselves, aided in large part by their grandparents.
Memorable moments: A quick flight to our long layover in Seattle's airport brought on the leisurely mood of vacation like a direct line of something racy to the blood stream. With only one tiny child to tend, and our own personal baggage cart in the form of a stroller, we went hog wild and ordered dinner and drinks at the nearest fish monger establishment. We asked for a table with a view and pretended we weren't in, well, an airport. Dining at a regional chain. Really, we don't live in the suburbs and Hub doesn't wear white socks with Tevas (much).
Once in Hawaii, we used our masterful skills of negotiation to land an upgrade to a Toyota Corolla with a worm hole of a cigarette burn in the passenger seat. What power one wields with a 36% success rated internet coupon code!
From there, we found ourselves in a third floor room across from the elevator, sandwiched between the housekeeping supply closet and the ice machine. Score. We even had full view of the laundry lines tacked outside the apartments across the street, porches jammed to the gills with those huge plastic toddler toys whose utility on this earth will never come close to counterbalancing the storage space they suck up. I believe this view was a sign, just to remind us that we will never, ever, ever be able to afford real life in Honolulu.
It all ended well because after a couple nights, we were able to move up to a deluxe corner room in the sky. Complete with a blink-and-you'll-miss-it partial ocean view. It was more than I ordered. If I laid on the pull out couch just so, I could see the Pacific's vivid turquoise blue water, a pure reflection of the sky on a sunny day. Glimpses of that yummy blue, dabbed with red sea canoes, sailboats and wave riders, and an overlay of palm trees in the foreground, are my lasting memories of Waikiki.
Beyond my frequent pulls on the view, joy and sustenance for me came from a steady supply of chocolate covered macadamia nuts. Three days into the trip, I began hiding mostly eaten bags (we're talking family size), in an effort to disguise the volume of my only-in-Hawaii-nut-consumption. When we were newly established in our boss room, Hub stumbled upon a Mauna Loa bag in the closet and mistook it as trash leftover from previous guests. Mumbling something about what a wacky sweet tooth he married, I quickly gobbled up the evidence.
Also of note was our daily three point agenda (read, drink and eat). Hub and I had an insatiable need to simply. Sit. And read. Our books. It was more difficult to accomplish than imagined. This is because one kid is still a kid who needs to eat and poop and bounce up and down in a happy, friendly way. And as anyone not in vacation mode might suspect, the baby will communicate these needs by crying.
Hub and I weren't prepared for the crying. Somehow, we thought the demanding aspects of Nar's baby Dom would float away with the gentle waves on Waikiki beach, allowing seasoned parents to ease into a quiet vacation like the ten year old snowboarder turned surfer who is permitted to ride a brief - but thrilling - swell before pouring back among the tourists. In the end, the ten year old kid got farther than we did with his dreams. I couldn't completely ignore my baby, or allow her to loll in the sand, but I still finished most of my book. It just took until the end of the trip and a regular evening at home to get the job done.
Other daily activities varied, but we followed this general schedule: go to ocean, get free drinks at hotel's cocktail hour, eat sushi. Repeat. One other must do for me was to toast my ten years of marriage to Hub at a bar called "RumFire." RumFire is located on the Pacific's edge at the base of a posh hotel. It boasts huge iron bowls of fire that flicker in the night. Romance. Pure romance.
We stumbled upon the establishment early in the trip and I was bound and determined to own that place with my new three inch cork sandals and floral Target wrap dress. As the days passed, I got in the habit of referring to RumFire in an attempted sexy, but probably just phlegmmy, voice. The kind of voice that makes its appearance on vacation when the conversations are really just layers and layers of stupid jokes.
We didn't make it to RumFire until the last night of the trip. Despite some breeziness during the dinner hour at a sandwich shop (I needed cash for that fab cocktail); I led my little team to a primo table on an empty patio. Score! When the breeze morphed to wind and light rain, Hub suggested we move inside. I was undeterred and began to unwrap my wrap dress to nurse Nari. During the whole feeding process, the rain became an official downpour and the umbrella my Hub heaved over to cover us did little to protect the fam from Mother Nature's rage. After that, Hub rushed inside to grab a table for us while I sat like a bump on a log, waiting for Nari to finish. She was wet and I was undressed, naked before the sea turtles somewhere out there in the abyss. In the hasty transition from romance on the beach to sports fan's Mecca inside, I lost my nursing pads to the sea, and stumbled into the bar with a significantly watered down drink.
We shared a table with a grumpy German couple, competing with the flat screens to trade the last of our stupid jokes. But no worries. My mind and soul had already moved on to my last half bag of macadamia nuts waiting for me at the hotel. Mahalo!
Memorable moments: A quick flight to our long layover in Seattle's airport brought on the leisurely mood of vacation like a direct line of something racy to the blood stream. With only one tiny child to tend, and our own personal baggage cart in the form of a stroller, we went hog wild and ordered dinner and drinks at the nearest fish monger establishment. We asked for a table with a view and pretended we weren't in, well, an airport. Dining at a regional chain. Really, we don't live in the suburbs and Hub doesn't wear white socks with Tevas (much).
Once in Hawaii, we used our masterful skills of negotiation to land an upgrade to a Toyota Corolla with a worm hole of a cigarette burn in the passenger seat. What power one wields with a 36% success rated internet coupon code!
From there, we found ourselves in a third floor room across from the elevator, sandwiched between the housekeeping supply closet and the ice machine. Score. We even had full view of the laundry lines tacked outside the apartments across the street, porches jammed to the gills with those huge plastic toddler toys whose utility on this earth will never come close to counterbalancing the storage space they suck up. I believe this view was a sign, just to remind us that we will never, ever, ever be able to afford real life in Honolulu.
It all ended well because after a couple nights, we were able to move up to a deluxe corner room in the sky. Complete with a blink-and-you'll-miss-it partial ocean view. It was more than I ordered. If I laid on the pull out couch just so, I could see the Pacific's vivid turquoise blue water, a pure reflection of the sky on a sunny day. Glimpses of that yummy blue, dabbed with red sea canoes, sailboats and wave riders, and an overlay of palm trees in the foreground, are my lasting memories of Waikiki.
Beyond my frequent pulls on the view, joy and sustenance for me came from a steady supply of chocolate covered macadamia nuts. Three days into the trip, I began hiding mostly eaten bags (we're talking family size), in an effort to disguise the volume of my only-in-Hawaii-nut-consumption. When we were newly established in our boss room, Hub stumbled upon a Mauna Loa bag in the closet and mistook it as trash leftover from previous guests. Mumbling something about what a wacky sweet tooth he married, I quickly gobbled up the evidence.
Also of note was our daily three point agenda (read, drink and eat). Hub and I had an insatiable need to simply. Sit. And read. Our books. It was more difficult to accomplish than imagined. This is because one kid is still a kid who needs to eat and poop and bounce up and down in a happy, friendly way. And as anyone not in vacation mode might suspect, the baby will communicate these needs by crying.
Hub and I weren't prepared for the crying. Somehow, we thought the demanding aspects of Nar's baby Dom would float away with the gentle waves on Waikiki beach, allowing seasoned parents to ease into a quiet vacation like the ten year old snowboarder turned surfer who is permitted to ride a brief - but thrilling - swell before pouring back among the tourists. In the end, the ten year old kid got farther than we did with his dreams. I couldn't completely ignore my baby, or allow her to loll in the sand, but I still finished most of my book. It just took until the end of the trip and a regular evening at home to get the job done.
Other daily activities varied, but we followed this general schedule: go to ocean, get free drinks at hotel's cocktail hour, eat sushi. Repeat. One other must do for me was to toast my ten years of marriage to Hub at a bar called "RumFire." RumFire is located on the Pacific's edge at the base of a posh hotel. It boasts huge iron bowls of fire that flicker in the night. Romance. Pure romance.
We stumbled upon the establishment early in the trip and I was bound and determined to own that place with my new three inch cork sandals and floral Target wrap dress. As the days passed, I got in the habit of referring to RumFire in an attempted sexy, but probably just phlegmmy, voice. The kind of voice that makes its appearance on vacation when the conversations are really just layers and layers of stupid jokes.
We didn't make it to RumFire until the last night of the trip. Despite some breeziness during the dinner hour at a sandwich shop (I needed cash for that fab cocktail); I led my little team to a primo table on an empty patio. Score! When the breeze morphed to wind and light rain, Hub suggested we move inside. I was undeterred and began to unwrap my wrap dress to nurse Nari. During the whole feeding process, the rain became an official downpour and the umbrella my Hub heaved over to cover us did little to protect the fam from Mother Nature's rage. After that, Hub rushed inside to grab a table for us while I sat like a bump on a log, waiting for Nari to finish. She was wet and I was undressed, naked before the sea turtles somewhere out there in the abyss. In the hasty transition from romance on the beach to sports fan's Mecca inside, I lost my nursing pads to the sea, and stumbled into the bar with a significantly watered down drink.
We shared a table with a grumpy German couple, competing with the flat screens to trade the last of our stupid jokes. But no worries. My mind and soul had already moved on to my last half bag of macadamia nuts waiting for me at the hotel. Mahalo!
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