Foodie Mom

This means that while on one side of the kitchen, you are making this: 

On the other side of the kitchen, you are using this:

That, my friends, is one reason I need a bigger kitchen.

Trust me

Last night, my son and I were locked in battle.

He wanted to bail on the softball photography session that his sister was in and head around to the other side of the complex to play on the playground.

I would not let him go.

"Why not?" he said. "Don't you trust me?"

Good question.

It got me thinking: Why didn't I let him go?

I told him it is because he's had multiple broken bones this past year, including a broken wrist obtained on those very same monkey bars. I did not want to be so far away, just in case. There were two buildings between us and the playground. I had no line of sight.

But that wasn't the only reason.

I trust him, to a point. However, he is a boy, a pre-teen boy, and that age group isn't known for its stellar decision-making skills. Yes, I might have let his older sister go at the same age, but she was (and is) a mature kid for her age. Is he? Sometimes, but not always. Am I being reverse-sexist? Maybe.

There is a bigger issue: I don't trust society at large. Not alone with my kids.

I know there are other parents over there, many of whom I know and who would bring him to me if he were hurt. I still can't let him out of my sight.

I'm too scared to let him go.

Several years ago, the son of a person whom I know was abducted in broad daylight while walking home from his bus stop. It was my hometown. The stop is on my old bus route home. I could picture the exact area when the story hit the news.

It is an incredibly rural area. Everyone knows everyone.

If kidnapping can happen there, it can happen anywhere.

That story ended as well as it could have, thanks to a sharp-eyed teen and excellent police work.

But....

It has made me forever over-cautious with my children. I need to see them if I am with them. It is a completely irrational thing. The chances of stranger abduction are slim. My kids know the rules of what to do.

And yet.

I don't trust. I can't. Not yet.

I'm going to have to learn to let go, because I can't watch them forever. So maybe next time I'll let him go to the playground. And I'll try to trust. A bit.

My warped kids

We just went from this:

To this:

God bless Netflix and my strange children.

The Clothes Fairy

We refer to my mother-in-law as The Clothes Fairy. She likes to shop, has an uncanny ability to find insane deals, and has impeccable taste.

Every time my in-laws visit, The Clothes Fairy appears with bags in tow for the kids. I am grateful. I like shopping for myself. The kids, not so much.

My in-laws visited this weekend.

Tonight, the youngest appeared with scissors, asking for help to clip a tag from a new pair of shorts.

My spouse: "Oh, look, The Clothes Fairy must have visited."

The youngest: "Yes, she's the one that brought all of the clothes!"

My spouse and I, in unison: "Who." (Can you tell we are both editors?)

The youngest, with exasperated sigh: "Your MOM, that's who!"

I win

I used to be a distance runner.

It was a deal I cut with my parents, actually, that made me a distance runner. I was so very done with piano lessons. I wanted to play jazz, and my fingers couldn't do it. So the bargain was that I could quit piano if I joined a high school sport.

So, it was January. I'm short, which rules out basketball and volleyball anyway. Track it was.

As tiny and thin as I was, they thought I'd make a good sprinter/hurdler.

They learned quickly that I really suck at sports. I became a distance runner. By the end of my junior year in high school, I was a journeyman distance runner. I could make decent time, but I wasn't going to win any races unless the top five runners in my district all caught the flu at the same time.

I quit my senior year because I was tired of sweating and because my coach stupidly put in an ultimatum that I had to choose between speech competition and track. I was good at speech. It was pretty much a no-brainer on my part.

I ran off and on all through college, through the years in New York, and even after child one was born, in a futile attempt to get my tiny body back. I switched to cycling because my knees hurt. Then I was an in-line skater. Then I just stopped exercising altogether after child three was born.

Last year, I was fat (for me). I was tired of things not fitting. Work, while not awful, was stressful. I needed to burn the stress. I needed time for me. Everyone else in my house hates running. Lots of my mommy and college friends on Facebook were running. Heck, I have cousins who run marathons.

So I grabbed a Couch to 5k plan.

That first run, if you can call it that, was humbling. I--who could run 2 miles in just over 13 minutes when I was 17--could not run two blocks without wheezing at 38.

I kept at it. I went even slower than the plan's pace. I didn't want to blow out a knee. I fought injuries, pollen, illness, and a broken toe.

It took me forever to get to a mile. Then two. Then I hit a wall, and trying to run three was torture.

I did a fun 5K obstacle run last December, mostly to see if I could. But my real goal was to run the timed city 5K race my institution holds each year. The entrance fees go to scholarships. People I knew would be seeing me run.

I was terrified I'd embarrass myself.

I was a bundle of nerves that morning. I could barely eat.

At the starting line, I was convinced I had lost my ever-loving mind.

The first mile was tough. The second was better. The third was sadistic: oh, my Alumni friends, backloading all of the hills was an idea straight out of Satan's playbook.

I ran uphill to the finish, pretending that the guy yelling at his girlfriend to finish hard was yelling at me. I rounded the corner and blinked in shock.

If I sprinted, I'd finish under 30 minutes. Ten-minute miles. Holy cr@p.

I sprinted.

29:40. One of the top 10 women in my age group.

So I may not have won the race, but I won. I won my health back. I won my competitive edge back (yes, 20-something girls and 40-something guys, I really was gunning for you in that last mile, picking you off one by one). I won me back.

Get off the couch. Exercise. If I can do it, you can too.

I am crazy

Where have I been all these many months?

I helped start a Girl Scout troop.
I signed on to be Cookie Manager. 
We're only halfway through the sales.

Copyright, Girl Scouts of America.

Pray for me.

Also: Buy more cookies. I have boxes in my house. I want them gone. If you are at our church on Sunday, or even somewhat close by (in the city limits counts as close by), buy a box.

I am not taking them back home.

Happy Mother's Day!

My plans involve nothing more than letting others cook for me and flopping on the couch watching old movies with my kids.

Yours?

A reflection on a decade

Ten years ago, I was working from home. I'd had on-and-off contractions all day, but they were a tease, getting my hopes up only to stall out the minute the ten minutes of resting was up.

I plopped on the couch and started editing the legal journal (shout outs to Cindy and Lona here!). At some point in the middle of a Supreme Court opinion on takings, I dozed off. I woke up at 5, decided I'd get up, start dinner in the kitchen, and finish editing.

My water broke as soon as I stood up.

Those pregnancy manuals (I'm looking at you, "What to Expect") that say your water rarely breaks haven't met me. Mine breaks every time, in a hellacious mess, and then the contractions *really* start.

I called my husband, who then was promptly pulled over on Caton Farm Road by a cop. Thus begins the story of our son's birth, with a frantic husband waving at the cop, a kindergartener in the car ready to tell the cop all about her new sibling to come, and my frantic walk through the neighborhood to find someone to watch her, because our people weren't answering their phone and we had no relatives nearby.

Ten years ago at 8 p.m., I caved and took pitocin when labor stalled AGAIN. Plus, the Cubs game on TV was awful and I wanted out of L&D before the game ended (joking, joking).

Our son was born soon after. He was chunky. He was a good eater, unlike his sister.

He was a charmer. Still is.

Ten years later, I'm looking at my witty little dude, who pops out with the strangest things. He listens intently to Nina Totenberg on NPR, to the point that my editing a legal journal was a help in parenting.

He is a hoot. He loves sports. Loves basketball, which has resulted in an injury that has sidelined him to playing the Wii versions for now. He enjoys tormenting his sisters, both younger and older. Often with puns. Bad ones. He is his father's son.

Ten years later, I'm slowly regaining my stamina and body. I managed to run two miles at a 12:30 pace in 80+ heat today. I brag, a bit, because I remember those first few days ten years ago, when I would have sworn I'd never maintain my sanity, much less get my body back in some semblance of shape.

Nothing is forever. Not the lack of sleep. Not the newborn smell. Not the ten-year-old wiseacre sitting across from me.

Enjoy the moments.

The Five-minute Fix

Quick:  How many little, annoying things around your house could be fixed in five minutes?

Life intrudes. It piles up. The disaster of piles of stuff abounds.

Sadly, this is so true around here, I would like to cry.
Creators Rick Kirkman and Jerry Scott have nailed it. 

In our house, too many to count. I have piles of toys that should be packed away. They are already sorted. Ready for storage (if we had decent storage).

Dishes that are in the drying rack that could be put away.

Ditto for the clean load of laundry in the dryer.

So often, I look at the piles of stuff to do and I can't bear it. I rant, I shout. I force the kids to do something.

Five minutes. Like three rounds of commercials. How hard can it be?

This weekend, I decided I was tackling the five-minute jobs. Oscillating fan that rattled and just needed to be tightened = fixed. Toilets beyond gross = clean. Dishes and laundry = dealt with.

I'm fixing the broken strap on my sundress next. Five-minute repair job, soon to be done.

This is going to become a regular weekend thing. I'm bringing the kids in next . . . two songs, upstairs, we clean up. If anything, at least when Grandma and Grandpa arrive, hopefully it won't be a disaster up there.

Brilliant or evil, you decide.

Step one: Discover teen's best friend wants to see The Lorax, but is too embarrassed to go.
Step two: Convince teen and friend to take younger two as "cover."
Step three: Convince younger two to do all chores in order to go to The Lorax. 
Step four: Profit!

Moments of grace

The unexpected note from a friend.

Every person to whom I gave ashes at Ash Wednesday services today.

The traffic cop who noticed that we were two people short as we walked to our car this afternoon, and inquired where they might be.

The teenagers who took and promptly served our pizza and salad with a cheerful smile.

The neighbors who waved.

Illness and Mommy stupidity

This has been one of the worst years in a long time for illness in our house. We've had colds. Stomach bugs. Sinus things. Now strep. It's like we live in a petri dish.

When the kids were babies and in daycare, they caught every dang virus known to man. It seemed like we were home more than we were at work in the winter months. The eldest was susceptible to ear infections; we practically lived at the pediatricians office for years.

We've been so healthy lately that we've barely seen our pediatrician. I was lectured about that fact when I had to have them write a script for the eldest, who needed permission to take Advil at school.

I hadn't brought her in for a physical in two years.

Bad me.

This go around, I let the youngest fight a weird, spiky fever for three days before I clued in that it might be more than a run-of-the-mill cold. We so rarely get strep that while I know the symptoms, I didn't have the penny drop until I was on the phone with the nurse.

Pass that worst mother of the year trophy over this way, would ya?

So we're medicated now. (Yay, bubblegum flavoring. Walgreens, I hate that you make us pay for it, but it was worth the $2. This time.)

We're all bleached and washed. Everything should be normal, knock wood, from here. Yours truly will be more observant about that whole fever, sore throat thing from here on out, too.

Momma hates days like this

It is now 7:45 p.m.

Dinner is not yet finished. (almost there)

Dad is not yet home.

Laundry yet to do.

No chance to run. Probably doesn't matter because sciatica and arch of foot hurt so badly that I really shouldn't.

Up at 5 a.m. for no reason.

Long day at work.

Traffic in major metro area sucks.

Needed cereal, so had to make extra stop.

Eldest didn't want to walk home, so add another trip.

Crack open the pinot, baby. I need a glass.

Scarily addicting

The new Facebook.

Milano cookies.

Trash romance novels.

Gardening.

Shaun the Sheep.

Phineas & Ferb

Yoga.

Running, which, sadly, I can't do as much of any more.

Sleep.

Starving.

I am so hungry. Somehow, I managed to gain an insane amount of weight over the last few months. To my friends who see me all the time -- it hides on the hips/thighs, sigh. So I've started tracking what I eat each day, trying to make better choices. I am starving. Starving to the point that listening to my 7-year-old count down the timer on the oven is enough to drive me loopy:

". . . 3-2-1. Two more minutes!! 59-58-57 . . . One more minute!!!! 59-58-57-56 . . . . . .3-2-1!!! Waiit Zero minutes!!! 59-58-57 . . . . . .48-47-46 . . . 23-22-21 ..... 3-2-1 BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"

YAY! Food. Gotta go.

Premise of Perfection

Our oldest is much older than her younger siblings. For as long as they can remember, she's been the grown-up one. The perfect one. The one who does no wrong. She's put on some pedestal by them.

Tonight, my husband told the younger two the story of Uh-You.

For those who do not recall, C1 had speech issues as a child.

(Still does. Three years of speech therapy. Sigh. Try and get her to say synonym sometime. It is hilarious, trust me.)

When she was 3, my loving spouse was trying to teach her how to say the 23rd letter of the alphabet, which she insisted was pronounced "uh-you."

Scene: Casa Matthews, 1999, West Des Moines, IA. Kitchen.

Spouse: Double.

C1: Double.


Spouse: Double.

C1: Double.


Spouse: Double.

C1: Double.


Spouse: U

C1: U


Spouse: U

C1: U



Spouse: Double-U.

C1, serious look on face, very sincerely: Uh-you.

This story cracked the younger two up.

It is funny. Truly. Even C1 sees the humor in it. But it also proved to them that at least once in their lives, C1 was fallible. She wasn't always perfect. She wasn't always the best. And for today, for C3, she needed that most of all.

It is fascinating

to watch your child re-read one of your favorite books.

C1 has delved into Farhenheit 451 for pre-AP 10th grade English. She lost my copy (grrr) while on vacation at Camp Grandma -- I know it will turn up, but still -- so I bought her a copy tonight.

She's been completely sucked in by the story.

I love this because

1) This is one of my favorite books. I read it on my own in the summer between 7th and 8th grades.

2) C1 is not a reader. She is not a fan of books like this. So when I do get her to read one, I feel vindicated as a parent. She loved George Orwell's 1984. I felt a victory when she admitted she liked that book. She references Napoleon and Snowball to this day. I have an awesome kid, and because of her C2 wants to read it, but I've told him to wait a bit.

Speaking of C2, he's my reader. He is my Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Harry Potter kid. We have had to hold him back on HP, because C2 has a seriously overactive imagination. He isn't capable of reading past 4. Not yet. I enjoy sleeping at night and SPOILER WARNING . . . . Cedric's dying gives me nightmares to the point that I won't watch the movie. C2 isn't there yet. He'll be up all night if we let him watch it.

C3 is a tougher nut to crack.

Of all our kids, she has taken the longest to learn how to read. She seems to want to deny her smarts, which we have tried to push against, but not to the point that she fights back.

We have, through Mrs. B, her awesome, amazing kindergarten teacher, to read the Bob books. If you have a starting reader who isn't a self-starter, these are AWESOME. She's gained confidence. As she gains confidence, I see her gaining interest in reading. I suspect we'll be trying to hold her back soon. She's not up to Harry Potter, but maybe Ramona and the Little House books.

After all, I have yet to win anyone over on those yet. :-)

I have to admit, though, it is awesome to see the books that you love gain new life through your children. It really is like the Fireman in Farenheit 451: Books live through people. You can burn the pages, but you can't contain the ideas within. Ever.

It is so hot . . .

How hot is it?

So hot that it is like an oven when I walk to my car. South Texas has not had rain in months, and it is desert dry here.

Our trees are dying. I try to water them every other day by hand, but it isn't enough. We are on strict water restrictions, so we are limited in when we can water.

It is time for Camp Grandma again. We just chatted with the kids on Skype, and they were thrilled that it was raining outside. In St. Louis. Sigh.

I would just love for a hurricane about now.

Marriage and Tori Amos

We've been married 16 years, people.

I know. I know. I don't look old enough to have been married that long. Much less have a kid going on 15.

Note: Kid 3 in photo not the one that is almost 15.

Blame my husband. He's the one who insisted that we get married immediately after we graduated from college in 1995. I wanted to wait. I wanted to take my time planning a wedding. I wanted to live on my own for a little longer.

He won. Only argument he's ever won, if you listen to him.

The thing is, if you look at Hollywood, or television, or most pop references, you think marriage is this totally easy thing. Find soulmate. Marry soulmate. All good, forever and ever Amen.

It is so not that.

Marriage is work. I know, I know. A lot of you know this. It is a trite thing to say. But it is true.

Which brings me to Tori Amos.

We -- contrary to popular opinion -- have actually had rocky moments in the last 16 years. It has not always been easy. I can recall some ugly, ugly moments where things could have gone horribly wrong had we not worked at this whole stuck-together-for-life thing.

Tori Amos's China resonates with me. Listen to the lyrics. Married couple. Walls built up. Living their lives. No talking. No talking with listening to each other, at least.

Listening is hard.

It is also crucial sometimes to make things work. Listen to the wistfulness in this song, and you can hear how very hard it can be to break through the walls that are erected. It doesn't have to be hateful. Day-to-day life, living parallel lives and trying to work, care for the kids, deal with the house, the neighbors, the volunteer crud.

It takes a toll. You build walls without even realizing it. That doesn't even get into the misunderstandings, the differing priorities, in-laws, backgrounds, perceptions, life stuff.

I'm a reporter, but there are times when I have not been a good listener.

Tori's song reminds me of the consequences of not listening. It reminds me of the consequences of letting things build up to the point that you are strangers living in the same house.

Sixteen years. It's been worth every minute, the good, the painful, and the hilarious.

So, this.

Working Mom, with just-graduated-kindergartener

And scene:


University office building. Early work morning. Mom has just taken chairs from around office and used blanket that she normally uses to fend off the a/c chill from vents above and created a "tent."

Child in tent.

Mom at computer.

Dad at office, miles away. If blocked, have father off stage, reading texts as disembodied voice.


Mom types through scene, working. Child talks from under tent. Also can pop out at will, interrupting with new drawings, requests for highlighters to use as markers, and Nintento DS assistance.

As told through texts from parent to parent. May be read aloud on stage.


DAD: Woohoo! Page views are spiking this morning. It is a
good day. It's looking really good for us meeting the monthly goal.

MOM: Yay!
Kid is camped out in a "tent" made of my chairs and a blanket I have here.
I'm plowing through email.
Groan.


DAD: Enough room to bring the actual princess tent? :-)


MOM: No.


Sent at 8:19 AM on Tuesday


MOM: First meltdown over DS. Also, no stylus. Grrr.


DAD: Oh wonderful.


MOM: Sigh.
Three and a half more hours.

DAD: I'm starting to think we should have kept that
portable DVD. This is the exact moment it would be helpful.

MOM: Yes, but, she'll manage.


Sent at 9:04 AM on Tuesday
MOM: "How much longer 'til lunch, Mom?"


Sent at 9:13 AM on Tuesday
MOM: Just sent you a link to a pool. Thoughts?


Sent at 9:19 AM on Tuesday
MOM: annnnnddddd now we are pouting because I won't go home. Sigh.
I wish I knew a college student in town willing to earn some extra cash.


Sent at 11:30 AM on Tuesday
DAD: Very sorry.


MOM: She's just being a brat, albeit a quiet brat.

Sent at 11:45 AM on Tuesday
MOM: Hear that? That's the sound of silence. It is beautiful.


Truly, it wasn't horrible. Wasn't great. Can't wait for eldest to be done with finals so she can earn her pay as a sitter.