Education is Everywhere

Do you remember sleep-overs? I used to love spending the night at a friend's house. For all of my middle-school years, I was at Christy's house at least one weekend night every single week (well, except for the weekends I went to see my father, and that in itself was a whole different kind of adventure). But I loved staying at Christy's house because 1) she had cable - including HBO, 2) she knew how to make macaroni and cheese all by herself and it was so much better than the crap at my house, and 3) we were allowed to stay up as late as we wanted, and then, we could sleep in as late as we wanted too. I believed all the way to my core that Christy had the coolest parents ever.

So Dalton (8) was invited to spend the night at a friend's house this past Friday. This was a big deal because it would be his first sleep-over since moving to Massachusetts. AND the first time I let him sleep over with a family that I just barely know. I packed his bag with pjs, snow clothes, and toiletries. I was under strict instructions by my husband to not pack Deeogee, the little stuffed dog Dalton has slept with every night since he was 9 months.

We picked Dalton up after lunch on Saturday and I could tell by the serious dark circles under his eyes that either he was up half the night or that he had eaten way too much dairy. I could not wait to get home to get the scoop on his night. But my husband said not to pry - boys need their secrets - but as soon as we got in the door, he started telling Sabrina (6) about the night. The conversation went something like this (very slightly edited so that I don't get nasty emails about using profanity in a family bog):

Dalton: And then he told his mom that his f**king game wouldn't charge up and then she told him to shut his f**king mouth.

Sabrina: (GASP!!)

Dalton: THEN, then he called his mom a, well, you know that word for a girl dog? That rhymes with itch? Well, he called his mom that word.

Sabrina: A witch? He called his mom a witch? Ooh - that's bad.

Dalton: No! You know that word I showed you in Old Yeller? (whispers) B**ch!

Sabrina: (DOUBLE-GASP!!) What did the mom say after that?

Dalton: Oh, well, she said that she was going to kick his f**king a** as soon as I went home.

At this point I could just no longer pretend to be busy in the kitchen and I had to join the conversation.

Me: Dalton, is all that stuff true or are you just trying out new words?

Dalton: I swear. It really happened. Just like I told Sabrina.

So then we had a brief conversation about how words are just words, it is the meaning behind the words that make them hurtful or taboo. I even said the words damn and Hell several times to show how the words themselves did not have power - but what you mean when you say them counts for a whole lot. I think about a million years ago I read about this approach to kids using bad words in some parenting book (or maybe it was Oprah - I just can't remember). I liked the idea of demystifying bad words, and I was sooo proud of myself for being able to recall this morsel of wisdom at just the right time. Oh - and then for good measure I threw in the lecture about how different houses have different rules. Who says this parenting thing is hard?

Of course, Sabrina had to have the last word on the whole business.

Sabrina: And at school and at home we can not point with our middle fingers.

Guilty Pleasure

"Hi honey. I'm home for a quick lunch."

"Cool - let he heat ya up some corn dogs."

"Um, sweetie? Why is there three coffee cups here in the sink? Did the neighbor lady come over for coffee?"

"Oh, uh, no - no one came over."

"So why is there three coffee cups? I see the ones we used this morning and then the chipped one with the silly ghost is in here too. No big deal, just wondering why there is an extra."

"Ok! Ok! You got me! As soon as the kids got on the bus this morning I came back and put two scoops of Friendly's French Vanilla ice cream in that cup. And then I poured chocolate syrup all over it and I even put some crunched up pecans on it and I almost put one of those sweet maraschino cherries on it too, but I resisted the urge. And then I sat on the couch and watched Ellen and ate my ice cream at nine in the freakin' morning. Are you happy now?"

"You ate ice cream at nine in the morning? And since when do you watch Ellen?"

"Yes and I'm sorry but we are all out of Grape-Nuts and I needed breakfast."

"But ice cream?"

"Yes. Please don't tell the kids."

"Oh, I'm gonna tell them and just so you know, you have officially lost your Good Mommy status and all related privileges. For the whole weekend."

Well, the above conversation didn't actually happen, but I did eat ice cream for breakfast, and then I imagined the above and I felt so guilty that I washed and dried and put away all the evidence . Don't tell!!

To my husband

Dear husband,

I wanted to take a moment to thank you for the last mostly blissful 10 years of marriage. You have patiently tolerated my various obsessions (last count - 112 teapots) and my sometimes neurotic behavior (I don't know why our clothes need to be hung in the order of Newton's color circle, they just do. It makes sense to me, and admit it, so much easier to find a purple shirt when you need one.). Thank you for telling me I am beautiful when I wear my favorite sweats for the third time in a week. Thank you for making the coffee in the mornings and taking the dog out for her morning pee. You know I am not a morning person, and these small acts of kindness really make a difference for me.

Also, I would like to thank you for your willingness to "play along" as I have gone from being a staunch feminist to a (almost) traditional housewife. When we met I was determined to work as hard and earn as much as any man could. I was insistent that we split the housework down the middle and even kept a log of which of us of did what and how long it took to do it (and you don't know this, but I also kept a mental log of how often I had to re-do your chores in order to get it right - but I love you!). Somehow, with the birth of each of our children, it made more sense for me to take on more of the domestic responsibilities and for you to be the breadwinner (even though up until, like, four months ago I made more than you, but hey, that is OK. Really. It is. I am fine with it. No problems here at all.). And so now, I cook. I clean. I do the parent volunteer crap. I shop (with a vengeance I might add - I LOVE the mall here). And I do the laundry.

The laundry. See, this is what I would really like to talk to you about. I don't mind doing all the washing, drying, folding, etc.... In fact, as I mentioned before, I really prefer to be the one to put the clean clothes away so that each piece can be placed in the right spot. But here is the thing. When we discussed all the changes moving to New England would bring, Eric, a former Main-er (is that what you call people from Maine?) suggested that layering our clothes would be key to staying warm. And he was right - that is a helpful trick. But do you really, I mean, really have to wear four shirts a day?? Every day??? That is a lot of laundry. Not to mention, when you take off the four shirts at the end of your day, you have a habit of taking them off all in one piece. And since you don't wear, like four blue shirts on one day, but more like a white t-shirt, an orange long sleeve t-shirt, a blue sweatshirt, all under a brown sweater, separating all these colors for washing is, you know, a big deal for me.

Don't get me wrong. I know it is cold here. And I know that you are outside for like five minutes at a time because of your job. And I want you to stay warm. But maybe since two of the shirts that you wear each day don't actually come in contact with your skin or the outside elements, they can be recycled/reused the following day. Don't make that "eww-gross!" face. Think about it. Those two middle shirts are not dirty. They can be your middle shirts for at least one more day, maybe even two. Now I know this is going to require some extra work on your part - you will need to undress one shirt at a time at the end of the day and set your middle shirts to the side. But this will be good for you and the environment - not to mention our marriage.

I am willing to show my appreciation for your extra effort. If we can just try this out for say, three months, I will let you hang your clothes any way you want - color spectrum be damned! Oh, and also, I will make you your cookie of choice every single weekend. Even oatmeal cookies with no raisins.

All my love,
your wife

We Don't Drink Much...

So I am in the kitchen putting away the breakfast dishes with my daughter, Sabrina (age 6), and I hear her say, "Merry Christmas on the rocks!".

Huh? Can you repeat that please?

Yep, turns out I heard right. I asked her where she heard such a crazy thing (as I move the Coors Light bottles to the back of the fridge to make room for the jug of orange juice).

"I didn't hear it, I saw it!" and then she points to the kitchen windowsill...

I Say Disaster, He Says Delicious

Well. For those of you who don’t know, I am considered a pretty good cook. Not in a Julia Child or Martha Stewart kind of way, but you know, my meats are always tender and flavorful, my pancakes are light and fluffy, and my veggies are always steamed just right. For the last ten years or so, in my family and friends realm, any holiday or special event that involves food has been given to me to plan and prepare. I am the one that bakes like 20 pies for the church fundraiser and teacher appreciation day. I am the one that sends baskets full of fudge and muffins at Christmas time. I have special platters for Deviled Eggs, special tins for tiny little muffins, and more pots and pans than I have shoes (gasp!). I really like this about me and always look forward to a party where I can feed people.

But this Thanksgiving was going to be different. This Thanksgiving I had no family in hollering distance, except for our small little nuclear unit of four, to prepare a Thanksgiving feast for. I thought that maybe we would completely buck the system and order Chinese food or pizza and use the day to get a head start on Christmas decorating. But then our next door neighbors came up with this great idea. See, they have a large family and each year there has been this dilemma on where to entertain guests before the meal, since an additional table needed to be set up in their living room to accommodate the crowd. So, they asked if we could host a “social hour” (in Texas this is called “drinks and dip”) at our house for everyone, then we would be welcome to come to their house for the main meal. I was thrilled (no really, I was) because even though I had never met 13 of these people that were going to descend on our house at noon, but they had never met me either! So I was really looking forward to preparing some pre-meal goodies for a fresh audience.

Since I didn’t want the appetizers to fill everyone up before we sat down for turkey, I decided to go with a very simple and fool-proof menu. Veggie trays with carrot sticks, celery, and broccoli with ranch dip. A platter with a few different cheeses and summer sausage (you would not believe how hard that was to find up here – it involved the assistance of the grocery manager and a scavenger hunt through the wine and fine cheese section. For real!!). Deviled eggs, of course. Fudge with and without walnuts. Mini Banana Nut muffins. And then a few little dishes here and there that involved various nuts and chocolate (my favorite combination). Simple – right? But see, I also agreed to make a pecan pie (or as they say up here, pee-can pie) so that I could offer a taste of the South. And this is where my Thanksgiving preparations went to Hell in the proverbial hand basket.

I had my mom ship me pecans from Texas and I scouted out the best vanilla and eggs I could find. On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, just after I got the kids on the school bus, I began baking. On my list for the day was to do a few batches of fudge, the pecan pie, and a pumpkin pie for my son. See, my son Dalton absolutely loves pumpkin pie. Well, I really don’t think it is the pie, but more like he adores my Aunt Dawn who always makes him his very own pumpkin pie. From the essay he wrote earlier in the week for school, I knew that my sweet little third grader was also missing our family and I wanted to make sure he had his pie (He was asked to write about his best Thanksgiving memory, and he wrote about Auntie Dawn always making him his own pie).

So. I set out all of my ingredients, turned on the ipod and got to work. But see, while I was stirring the fudge, my Dad’s favorite song came on (Wasted Time – Eagles) and I started to cry. So then I had to stop stirring and go blow my nose and wash my hands and by the time I got back to the fudge, well, it was ruined. It looked a lot like this:

That my friends, is tree bark. Not what silky smooth fudge that you’ve made at least 954 times is supposed to look like. But I added in some nuts and said the hell with it.

I put on some happier music and started on the pecan pie. But you know what happened? Ten minutes after I put it in the oven, the pie swelled up like something I have never seen before! I swear, it was like a score of blackbirds were going to come bursting out the top at any minute! The poofiness went down by the time it finished the 50 minutes of cooking time, but it still looked like baked dog vomit! At this point I really lost it. I had used all of my Texas pecans sent from mom and the last of the good eggs on this pie! It was supposed to be my masterpiece! I called my mom. I called my aunt. I called my husband. And you know what I said to each of them? Can you guess? I said, “I WANT TO GO HOME!! THIS NEVER HAPPENED TO ME BACK HOME!” But nobody gave me ruby slippers to click three times, so instead I went to the store and bought pecans that originated from God only knows where and more brown sugar and more eggs and went home to try again.

Since I needed the pie dish the barf-o-rama pie was sitting in for my next attempt, I dumped the pie on a plate. Just then the kids walked in from school and said “Ewww! What’s that?” A really ugly pecan pie I told them. “Can we eat it?” they asked in unison. Umm sure why not? Here is what it looked like:

And here is what it looked like after the kids ate their fill:



My sweet son says to me, “Mom. You should so totally open a restaurant. Yeah. You could call it ‘Ugly Food’ because some of the stuff you make looks like really really gross, but tastes really good.”
Gee. Thanks.

But after that? You know what? Everything turned out perfectly.

Turkey Day was terrific. I guess maybe I needed a small moment to truly and deeply miss my family so that I could appreciate the kindness and generosity of another family including us in their holiday. We met some really great and wonderful people. And, you know what?? They LOVED my pecan pie!!