On this, our second foray into the world of Child-free Culinary Cuisine, Stan and I took the food truck plunge and sought out the famous Grilled Cheese Truck! I have been Twitter-following this elusive truck for many months now, hoping to hear it was in the vicinity; well, the Gods must have been with us, for today- our second official Freedom Friday- they were in Sherman Oaks. We got there right when it opened at noon (which I heartily recommend; a half-hour later, the line was thirty deep!), and since each sandwich is made to order, we cheerfully stood aside to wait for our creations.
They were worth the wait.
Stan got the Bayou Melt: Habanero Jack cheese, chicken Andouille sausage, sauteed onions and peppers on french bread. I went classic, with the Cheesy Mac Melt: sharp cheddar, carmelized onions and macaroni and cheese on french bread. Did I say mac and cheese inside the sandwich? Oh yes, I did. After all, why have plain old grilled cheese when you can have grilled cheese and mac and cheese all in the same bite?
In order to do it up right, we each ordered a "shot" of tomato soup for fifty cents. Once our sandwiches were up, we rounded the corner, where they had a nice little alcove all set up with paper tablecloths and fake autumn leaves sprinkled on each table. We think this might have been set up for the workplace that ordered the truck, but no matter. Nobody was sitting there, so we stretched out and removed our works of art from their aluminum sacks.
First of all, mine came wrong. There is a "fully loaded" version of the Cheesy Mac Melt, which comes with BBQ pulled pork. I am not a pork person, so I would never have chosen it... but they put it on anyway. At first I was disappointed, but then I figured the grilled cheese Gods must have wanted me to experience my first melt exactly as it came, so I took a leap of faith and dug in.
Oh. My. GOD.
The best thing about this sandwich was that all the things they pile in there- and they have many choices and add-ons to choose from- meld to create one delicious, perfect bite. Nothing slides out the side or drops out onto your sack. The onion, cheese, and noodles were so artfully fused, no texture overrode any other. It was, bite after bite, an absolutely perfect grilled cheese sandwich. I experienced the first half with the pork, then pulled some of the pork out of the second half for Stan to enjoy while I tried to experience what I actually ordered. Both ways were scrumptious.
Stan's sandwich was also excellent. An entirely different, equally delicious melt that was extremely spicy, and definitely needed the tomato soup shots we ordered! The shots of soup were piping hot and had just the right amount of kick. The truck always has a daily special (today it was a cumin chicken, gruyere and basil concoction), lots of different taste treats to choose from so you can create your own if you like. We'll definitely be going back for the dessert melts; they have a s'mores sandwich... marshmallow fluff, graham crackers and chocolate melted into sweet brioche bread. Come ON.
I'm liking this Freedom Fridays thing so far. A LOT.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
Tricky
I remember, before I was a mom, thinking that I would be awfully good at answering kid questions. After all, besides being pretty smart, I am also a very reasonable person- meaning that I am quite good at using common sense (something I feel our society is sorely lacking these days). I also knew I'd never talk down to my children or cause them to feel they were less than a whole person, even though they may be half my size.
But boy, it's a whole lot trickier than I once thought.
Case in point: Saturday night, a neighborhood baby shower was thrown for one of my dear friends, who happens to live next door. The party was thrown right across the street, and a bunch of us hired two babysitters to watch the gaggle of kids while we celebrated. Addie has always been very dramatic about goodbyes; he makes sure to hug me at least fourteen times, and then there's the kiss-blowing, followed immediately by the "I Love You" sign with his fingers. This ritual, when done exactly to his liking, can take about 15 minutes. Lately, he's been extra-sensitive about my departures, and thus my exit Saturday night was a three-act Shakespeare play. I had to explain to him that the party was strictly for adults, and that all his friends would be playing with him at our house and won't that be much more fun?
Once I was at the party, however, I noticed that many of the neighborhood kids that were supposed to be over at my house with the babysitter were running around enjoying the festivities. Only the babies were left at our house... and Addie. After about an hour, I decided to make his day and go back home, offering to let him come over and visit the party for a few minutes, since the other older kids seemed to have permission. Addie was over the moon.
Unfortunately, I walked him into the party right when all the men had just been handed their celebratory cigars, and had retreated to the backyard to enjoy them. Addie, scampering about the party with the other kids, saw his father smoking a cigar and came to me instantly, tears welled in his eyes, talking a mile a minute. He gets very philosophical when he's falling apart on the inside.
"Mama." (He says this in his best authoritative tone, hands on his hips.) "Daddy is over there SMOKING A CIGAR. He's going to DIE. He's going to get cancer and DIE. Are you going to let this happen? Wow, Mom. Wow."
His lip is trembling. He's very shaken up. And why? Because ever since he was old enough to ask about smoking, I have told him that it's VERY, VERY BAD and CAN KILL YOU.
Oops.
Well no, not oops, right?
I realize I am a rather dorky cigarette-drug-and-alcohol-free anomaly in the world. I never liked the way being under the influence of anything even slightly addictive made me feel, and always felt quite giddy and ready to have fun without the extra help. But I also am fully aware that part (not all) of the reason I always stayed away from the stuff is that my mother SCARED THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF ME. She regaled me with stories of a party she went to, where a high school friend of hers smoked a joint that she didn't know was laced with PCP, fell into a coma and never woke up. That was enough for me. Got it. When I was a teenager, theatre was my high. I didn't need to combine that drug with anything that would put me at risk for indefinite unconsciousness.
When it was clear to my mother that I probably was going to stay away from drugs (sometime in my mid-thirties), she casually informed me that she may have exaggerated the events of the PCP-laced joint. Her friend never slipped into a coma. I think she felt sick and her mom picked her up.
Now, it remains to be seen whether I will fabricate stories of comas with my boys as they get older, but I would be lying if I said it hasn't crossed my mind. I will do anything to keep them safe. And when Addie's questions started about the people he saw smoking cigarettes, I did not waver when I told him cigarettes were BAD BAD BAD for you. They give you LUNG CANCER and lung cancer can KILL YOU. There was no gray area in my admonition. I can't afford gray areas, especially in the formative years.
Which brings us back to the baby shower. I looked down at Addie's stricken face, and started to try to explain.
"Addie, yes. Daddy is smoking a cigar. Tonight is a special occasion, and this is the only time Daddy is doing this."
"But he's inhaling all that smoke!" Addie pleased. "He's filling his lungs with cancer! You can't even breathe over there, the air is so smoky!"
"I know, buddy. But listen to me. Daddy is not going to get cancer if he smokes one cigar."
As I'm speaking, I'm hearing myself and realizing I am hedging... going back on what I said before, if only a little bit. And perhaps I'm sending Addie the wrong message. It's only okay on special occasions? If you do it once it's okay? But I don't want him to do it, not even once. Once leads to twice leads to Addie dressed up in a leather jacket leaning against a motorcycle without a helmet, cigarette dangling from his lips, flask in his free hand, telling his mom to go fuck herself.
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!
How to explain the subtleties of cigar-smoking to a six-year-old, who isn't going to be able to grasp them? I try again.
"You know what, Addie? You're right. What Daddy is doing is bad for his lungs, and you're right to be concerned. But I want you to trust me when I say that when babies are born, it is a tradition for the dad to pass out cigars and for all his friends to smoke just one. It's like a ritual. And one cigar, in Daddy's WHOLE LIFETIME, is not going to give him cancer. Does that make sense?"
Why oh why did I pull him away from the babysitter?!
Addie would not let it go. I didn't think he would. No amount of convincing would deter him. He kept going to check on Stan, coming back and giving me the minute-by-minute update, hands on hips: "Still smoking. He puts it up to his mouth, like, every FIVE SECONDS."
I suppose I feel slightly more comfortable erring on the side of "Well, Daddy might just get cancer from this" than "Don't sweat it, Addie, it's fine"... but I don't want Addie worrying about his father's lungs either. These are the moments when you realize that there is no perfectly right answer. There is only "doing the best you can". Because some of the neighbors saw Addie's upset, they started offering their comfort... but everything that came out of their mouths was only complicating things. One of Addie's friends said, "Don't worry, Addie. It's only for special occasions. You can smoke once, or even twice, or however many times you have a baby. And it's okay."
Shut up kid.
I approach this dilemma, as I do most parenting snafus, with a sense of humor. But it's hard when you can see your kid in turmoil. He eventually calmed down and enjoyed the present-opening. And I know this too shall pass, like yesterday's cigar through the lungs, with hopefully very little damage.
It's just a reminder to me, to take ultimate care with the things that come out of my mouth. As Stephen Sondheim so beautifully wrote:
Careful the things you say
Children will listen.
Careful the things you do
Children will see... and learn
Children may not obey
But children will listen
Children will look to you
For which way to turn
To learn what to be
Careful before you say, "Listen to me..."
Children will listen...
But boy, it's a whole lot trickier than I once thought.
Case in point: Saturday night, a neighborhood baby shower was thrown for one of my dear friends, who happens to live next door. The party was thrown right across the street, and a bunch of us hired two babysitters to watch the gaggle of kids while we celebrated. Addie has always been very dramatic about goodbyes; he makes sure to hug me at least fourteen times, and then there's the kiss-blowing, followed immediately by the "I Love You" sign with his fingers. This ritual, when done exactly to his liking, can take about 15 minutes. Lately, he's been extra-sensitive about my departures, and thus my exit Saturday night was a three-act Shakespeare play. I had to explain to him that the party was strictly for adults, and that all his friends would be playing with him at our house and won't that be much more fun?
Once I was at the party, however, I noticed that many of the neighborhood kids that were supposed to be over at my house with the babysitter were running around enjoying the festivities. Only the babies were left at our house... and Addie. After about an hour, I decided to make his day and go back home, offering to let him come over and visit the party for a few minutes, since the other older kids seemed to have permission. Addie was over the moon.
Unfortunately, I walked him into the party right when all the men had just been handed their celebratory cigars, and had retreated to the backyard to enjoy them. Addie, scampering about the party with the other kids, saw his father smoking a cigar and came to me instantly, tears welled in his eyes, talking a mile a minute. He gets very philosophical when he's falling apart on the inside.
"Mama." (He says this in his best authoritative tone, hands on his hips.) "Daddy is over there SMOKING A CIGAR. He's going to DIE. He's going to get cancer and DIE. Are you going to let this happen? Wow, Mom. Wow."
His lip is trembling. He's very shaken up. And why? Because ever since he was old enough to ask about smoking, I have told him that it's VERY, VERY BAD and CAN KILL YOU.
Oops.
Well no, not oops, right?
I realize I am a rather dorky cigarette-drug-and-alcohol-free anomaly in the world. I never liked the way being under the influence of anything even slightly addictive made me feel, and always felt quite giddy and ready to have fun without the extra help. But I also am fully aware that part (not all) of the reason I always stayed away from the stuff is that my mother SCARED THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF ME. She regaled me with stories of a party she went to, where a high school friend of hers smoked a joint that she didn't know was laced with PCP, fell into a coma and never woke up. That was enough for me. Got it. When I was a teenager, theatre was my high. I didn't need to combine that drug with anything that would put me at risk for indefinite unconsciousness.
When it was clear to my mother that I probably was going to stay away from drugs (sometime in my mid-thirties), she casually informed me that she may have exaggerated the events of the PCP-laced joint. Her friend never slipped into a coma. I think she felt sick and her mom picked her up.
Now, it remains to be seen whether I will fabricate stories of comas with my boys as they get older, but I would be lying if I said it hasn't crossed my mind. I will do anything to keep them safe. And when Addie's questions started about the people he saw smoking cigarettes, I did not waver when I told him cigarettes were BAD BAD BAD for you. They give you LUNG CANCER and lung cancer can KILL YOU. There was no gray area in my admonition. I can't afford gray areas, especially in the formative years.
Which brings us back to the baby shower. I looked down at Addie's stricken face, and started to try to explain.
"Addie, yes. Daddy is smoking a cigar. Tonight is a special occasion, and this is the only time Daddy is doing this."
"But he's inhaling all that smoke!" Addie pleased. "He's filling his lungs with cancer! You can't even breathe over there, the air is so smoky!"
"I know, buddy. But listen to me. Daddy is not going to get cancer if he smokes one cigar."
As I'm speaking, I'm hearing myself and realizing I am hedging... going back on what I said before, if only a little bit. And perhaps I'm sending Addie the wrong message. It's only okay on special occasions? If you do it once it's okay? But I don't want him to do it, not even once. Once leads to twice leads to Addie dressed up in a leather jacket leaning against a motorcycle without a helmet, cigarette dangling from his lips, flask in his free hand, telling his mom to go fuck herself.
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!
How to explain the subtleties of cigar-smoking to a six-year-old, who isn't going to be able to grasp them? I try again.
"You know what, Addie? You're right. What Daddy is doing is bad for his lungs, and you're right to be concerned. But I want you to trust me when I say that when babies are born, it is a tradition for the dad to pass out cigars and for all his friends to smoke just one. It's like a ritual. And one cigar, in Daddy's WHOLE LIFETIME, is not going to give him cancer. Does that make sense?"
Why oh why did I pull him away from the babysitter?!
Addie would not let it go. I didn't think he would. No amount of convincing would deter him. He kept going to check on Stan, coming back and giving me the minute-by-minute update, hands on hips: "Still smoking. He puts it up to his mouth, like, every FIVE SECONDS."
I suppose I feel slightly more comfortable erring on the side of "Well, Daddy might just get cancer from this" than "Don't sweat it, Addie, it's fine"... but I don't want Addie worrying about his father's lungs either. These are the moments when you realize that there is no perfectly right answer. There is only "doing the best you can". Because some of the neighbors saw Addie's upset, they started offering their comfort... but everything that came out of their mouths was only complicating things. One of Addie's friends said, "Don't worry, Addie. It's only for special occasions. You can smoke once, or even twice, or however many times you have a baby. And it's okay."
Shut up kid.
I approach this dilemma, as I do most parenting snafus, with a sense of humor. But it's hard when you can see your kid in turmoil. He eventually calmed down and enjoyed the present-opening. And I know this too shall pass, like yesterday's cigar through the lungs, with hopefully very little damage.
It's just a reminder to me, to take ultimate care with the things that come out of my mouth. As Stephen Sondheim so beautifully wrote:
Careful the things you say
Children will listen.
Careful the things you do
Children will see... and learn
Children may not obey
But children will listen
Children will look to you
For which way to turn
To learn what to be
Careful before you say, "Listen to me..."
Children will listen...
Friday, September 30, 2011
Freedom Fridays
In honor of the fact that my hubby and I both have Fridays off, and because Tucker has now started pre-school three days a week, both our kids are in school between the hours of 8am and 2:30pm, we have decided to officially instate "Freedom Fridays". Sound the trumpets! What are "Freedom Fridays"? Glad you asked. They are: a weekly grand culinary celebration sans booster seats, one meal per week dedicated to the celebration and enjoyment of kid-free food-fests.
It is doubly-exciting to be embarking on this adventure because these days, almost every single meal we ingest is cooked in our kitchen and eaten at home (or toted to school or work in a lunchbox). As many of you know, I used to be the queen of the restaurant. Not that I frequented anyplace inordinately expensive (Sharky's, Daphne's and Poquito Mas were about my speed), it's just that I considered dining out a treat, something to share with another human and therefore a bit of an event. However, times being what they are, I adjusted my ways. And I was spectacularly pleased to find that I actually started to look forward to our home-cooked meals in as a family. It's really fun to peruse recipes, shop the farmer's market and Trader Joe's for new things to try, plan the weekly menus.
Besides, let's face it: we are also willing to admit that it's easier to eat at home these days, for a variety of reasons. Tucker is not exactly fun to have at restaurants. He's a pretty well-behaved two-year-old, but he's done eating in about thirty seconds and then either he wants to run around, or we have to hand him one of our cellphones to play on so he'll stay put while we all finish eating. I strongly object to this on principle, but all my principles go right out the window when my stomach is growling... and before I know it Tucker's playing Scooter Heroes. Right on cue, Addie, our "old soul" six-year-old (who always sat perfectly still at mealtime when he was two and usually participated in all the adult discussions; in fact, I distinctly remember him weighing in on the whole weapons-of-mass-destruction debate), wants to know why he can't play with a phone too. We say, "Because, Addie, it's rude to sit with people in a restaurant and have your head buried in cellphone games", but our admonition loses its punch when his brother is sitting right next to him toggling away at Bejeweled. Then their food comes, $6.99 for two chicken fingers and fries. Which they each take two bites of and they're done.
We're better off eating (or, in Tucker's case, NOT eating) at home.
But at the end of a long week, Stan and I wholeheartedly feel we've earned one coveted meal cooked by someone other than us. For years I've made lists of places I've read about, reviews in the LA Times or Westways, little out-of-the-way cafes and bakeries, fun new twists on old classics, even gourmet food trucks. But up until now they've all stayed tucked away on a list in my computer, waiting for their moment. Well, ladies and gentlemen, their time has come. Freedom Fridays began in earnest last week, when we chose our first restaurant. The only rule is that we must choose a place we've never been to. Last week began modestly, with a trip up the street to King's Road Cafe. Stan was very pleased with his steak quesadilla... and truth be told, I was also very pleased with his steak quesadilla because my salad was just OK. But we were off and running...
This week, we hopped in the car after dropping off both kids and headed to Eagle Rock to go to Auntie Em's Kitchen. This place really is an odd little hole-in-the-wall if there ever was one. Limited seating, jams, jellies and aprons for sale in their tiny marketplace area, and motorcycle rock playing over the loudspeakers.
But oh, what good food.
We went because we had read that their pancakes were out of this world... but unfortunately, they only serve them on weekends. Now, it seems to me that if your speciality is pancakes and pancakes cost about a penny to make, you should probably serve them all the time... but we didn't argue. We went ahead and ordered their open-faced breakfast sandwiches. Stan got the applewood smoked bacon sandwich and I got the cajun turkey sausage one. His was better. They cook a fluffy mound of scrambled eggs and pile it on top of the bacon, which all goes on top of a gruyere-smothered thick slice of french bread. Yu-um. The cajun sandwich was good too, but the sausage had a thick casing on it that was pretty hard to chew through.
No matter. We feasted to our heart's content, unabashedly people-watching as we noshed. There is an outdoor seating area, and perched at one of the frilly flowered tables was a young guy with a bright red ZZ Top beard that extended to his belly button. I noticed that he ordered the french toast, which almost had been my choice. I decided on the savory sandwich last-minute, and was glad I did because I eyed ZZ's plate, and they make their french toast with the same crusty french bread the sandwich came on, and I'm adamant that french toast should be made with soft challah or thick cut white bread. I returned to my sandwich with renewed vigor.
Our bellies full and happy, we paid the bill, then got a homemade peanut butter cookie on the way out, which was kind of perfect. Big and crispy and crumbly. We are definitely going back for the weekend pancakes, but that won't be on a Freedom Friday, so you might just have to see us in person to hear about them.
What will next week bring? Stay tuned! Long live Freedom Fridays!
It is doubly-exciting to be embarking on this adventure because these days, almost every single meal we ingest is cooked in our kitchen and eaten at home (or toted to school or work in a lunchbox). As many of you know, I used to be the queen of the restaurant. Not that I frequented anyplace inordinately expensive (Sharky's, Daphne's and Poquito Mas were about my speed), it's just that I considered dining out a treat, something to share with another human and therefore a bit of an event. However, times being what they are, I adjusted my ways. And I was spectacularly pleased to find that I actually started to look forward to our home-cooked meals in as a family. It's really fun to peruse recipes, shop the farmer's market and Trader Joe's for new things to try, plan the weekly menus.
Besides, let's face it: we are also willing to admit that it's easier to eat at home these days, for a variety of reasons. Tucker is not exactly fun to have at restaurants. He's a pretty well-behaved two-year-old, but he's done eating in about thirty seconds and then either he wants to run around, or we have to hand him one of our cellphones to play on so he'll stay put while we all finish eating. I strongly object to this on principle, but all my principles go right out the window when my stomach is growling... and before I know it Tucker's playing Scooter Heroes. Right on cue, Addie, our "old soul" six-year-old (who always sat perfectly still at mealtime when he was two and usually participated in all the adult discussions; in fact, I distinctly remember him weighing in on the whole weapons-of-mass-destruction debate), wants to know why he can't play with a phone too. We say, "Because, Addie, it's rude to sit with people in a restaurant and have your head buried in cellphone games", but our admonition loses its punch when his brother is sitting right next to him toggling away at Bejeweled. Then their food comes, $6.99 for two chicken fingers and fries. Which they each take two bites of and they're done.
We're better off eating (or, in Tucker's case, NOT eating) at home.
But at the end of a long week, Stan and I wholeheartedly feel we've earned one coveted meal cooked by someone other than us. For years I've made lists of places I've read about, reviews in the LA Times or Westways, little out-of-the-way cafes and bakeries, fun new twists on old classics, even gourmet food trucks. But up until now they've all stayed tucked away on a list in my computer, waiting for their moment. Well, ladies and gentlemen, their time has come. Freedom Fridays began in earnest last week, when we chose our first restaurant. The only rule is that we must choose a place we've never been to. Last week began modestly, with a trip up the street to King's Road Cafe. Stan was very pleased with his steak quesadilla... and truth be told, I was also very pleased with his steak quesadilla because my salad was just OK. But we were off and running...
This week, we hopped in the car after dropping off both kids and headed to Eagle Rock to go to Auntie Em's Kitchen. This place really is an odd little hole-in-the-wall if there ever was one. Limited seating, jams, jellies and aprons for sale in their tiny marketplace area, and motorcycle rock playing over the loudspeakers.
But oh, what good food.
We went because we had read that their pancakes were out of this world... but unfortunately, they only serve them on weekends. Now, it seems to me that if your speciality is pancakes and pancakes cost about a penny to make, you should probably serve them all the time... but we didn't argue. We went ahead and ordered their open-faced breakfast sandwiches. Stan got the applewood smoked bacon sandwich and I got the cajun turkey sausage one. His was better. They cook a fluffy mound of scrambled eggs and pile it on top of the bacon, which all goes on top of a gruyere-smothered thick slice of french bread. Yu-um. The cajun sandwich was good too, but the sausage had a thick casing on it that was pretty hard to chew through.
No matter. We feasted to our heart's content, unabashedly people-watching as we noshed. There is an outdoor seating area, and perched at one of the frilly flowered tables was a young guy with a bright red ZZ Top beard that extended to his belly button. I noticed that he ordered the french toast, which almost had been my choice. I decided on the savory sandwich last-minute, and was glad I did because I eyed ZZ's plate, and they make their french toast with the same crusty french bread the sandwich came on, and I'm adamant that french toast should be made with soft challah or thick cut white bread. I returned to my sandwich with renewed vigor.
Our bellies full and happy, we paid the bill, then got a homemade peanut butter cookie on the way out, which was kind of perfect. Big and crispy and crumbly. We are definitely going back for the weekend pancakes, but that won't be on a Freedom Friday, so you might just have to see us in person to hear about them.
What will next week bring? Stay tuned! Long live Freedom Fridays!
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Errand Girl
It's been quite a while since my last post! I'm not sure exactly what happened; there was plenty to write about... but not enough time to create grand philosophical essays each time. And let's face it; not everything that happens in my life is essay-worthy. Some events don't even warrant a Facebook status update. But I started this blog to chronicle daily life- the good, the bad, and the ugly. So from now on, I vow to write less, more often. If that makes sense.
Addie started first grade yesterday; Tucker began his pre-school experience at Briarwood a week ago. Yesterday for the very first time, I looked around my house at 10:00 am and realized there was no one in it. I wasn't exactly sure what to do with myself. I took off all my clothes and ran around in a circle a few times. When the excitement of that had subsided, I put my clothes back on and ran some errands.
Sounds less-than-thrilling, but any mom can attest that running errands by yourself can be an uplifting, even slightly orgasmic experience. Oh, the illicit thrill of walking into Target without having to visit the toy aisle for twenty minutes. The elation of spending quality time thumping cantaloupes and not just grabbing the first one that falls off the display in a mad dash for the check-out line before your two-year-old turns into Houdini and twists himself out of the cart seat belt.
Yesterday I began my revelry with a trip to Actor's Equity to get a flu shot. I then drove to the pediatrician to get some medical forms filled out for school, then tooled on over to the thrift store to sell my used clothes. While they looked over my stuff (they almost always pick only one or two things out of twenty, causing me to ponder just how ugly and unstylish my wardrobe must be), I actually got to peruse the racks of second-hand clothes and try a few dresses on, something I haven't done since 2003. I found a cute little sundress and traded it on the spot. I ended my ecstacy with jaunts to the bank, dry cleaner and grocery store. All the while, I blasted my favorite music in the car, and never once did I hear a request from the backseat for "Kung Fu Fighting".
I haven't had such a beautiful day in ages.
The irony is that the entire time I drove around, I was thinking of my boys. Addie, so confident on his first day. He wore the most handsome blue shirt, and looked so grown up. Even though he has a few good friends in his new class, he entered his new classroom in Serious Mode, and sat by himself on the carpet, away from his friends. I think he was intent on making a good first impression. Tucker still seems like a baby to me, so it's quite amazing to drop him off at school with his little lunchbox. It's a brave new world for both of them, and my heart was full of pride watching them navigating it. Everything I picked up at Vons was for them... mayo for their sandwiches and ketchup for their hot dogs, fruit and cereal for breakfast, celery and cream cheese (Addie's favorite after-school snack), ice cream (Tucker has inherited his mom's sweet tooth). It sounds silly, but as I stocked our kitchen with these foods, I found myself experiencing a "mom high", my heart as full as my cupboards. I never felt this much pleasure shopping for myself. But now, I feel a rush as I put away a brand new EZ squeeze bottle of Heinz. Taking care of these three men makes me truly happy.
Running errands for them... by myself... is sheer heaven.
Addie started first grade yesterday; Tucker began his pre-school experience at Briarwood a week ago. Yesterday for the very first time, I looked around my house at 10:00 am and realized there was no one in it. I wasn't exactly sure what to do with myself. I took off all my clothes and ran around in a circle a few times. When the excitement of that had subsided, I put my clothes back on and ran some errands.
Sounds less-than-thrilling, but any mom can attest that running errands by yourself can be an uplifting, even slightly orgasmic experience. Oh, the illicit thrill of walking into Target without having to visit the toy aisle for twenty minutes. The elation of spending quality time thumping cantaloupes and not just grabbing the first one that falls off the display in a mad dash for the check-out line before your two-year-old turns into Houdini and twists himself out of the cart seat belt.
Yesterday I began my revelry with a trip to Actor's Equity to get a flu shot. I then drove to the pediatrician to get some medical forms filled out for school, then tooled on over to the thrift store to sell my used clothes. While they looked over my stuff (they almost always pick only one or two things out of twenty, causing me to ponder just how ugly and unstylish my wardrobe must be), I actually got to peruse the racks of second-hand clothes and try a few dresses on, something I haven't done since 2003. I found a cute little sundress and traded it on the spot. I ended my ecstacy with jaunts to the bank, dry cleaner and grocery store. All the while, I blasted my favorite music in the car, and never once did I hear a request from the backseat for "Kung Fu Fighting".
I haven't had such a beautiful day in ages.
The irony is that the entire time I drove around, I was thinking of my boys. Addie, so confident on his first day. He wore the most handsome blue shirt, and looked so grown up. Even though he has a few good friends in his new class, he entered his new classroom in Serious Mode, and sat by himself on the carpet, away from his friends. I think he was intent on making a good first impression. Tucker still seems like a baby to me, so it's quite amazing to drop him off at school with his little lunchbox. It's a brave new world for both of them, and my heart was full of pride watching them navigating it. Everything I picked up at Vons was for them... mayo for their sandwiches and ketchup for their hot dogs, fruit and cereal for breakfast, celery and cream cheese (Addie's favorite after-school snack), ice cream (Tucker has inherited his mom's sweet tooth). It sounds silly, but as I stocked our kitchen with these foods, I found myself experiencing a "mom high", my heart as full as my cupboards. I never felt this much pleasure shopping for myself. But now, I feel a rush as I put away a brand new EZ squeeze bottle of Heinz. Taking care of these three men makes me truly happy.
Running errands for them... by myself... is sheer heaven.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Velcro
My son Tucker won't let me go.
I mean, anywhere.
If I go to the computer, he wedges himself between my chair and the desk, reaching his hands up to block my ability to type.
If I try to go to the store, he waits until I open the front door and then runs out to the car to block my ability to get in. When I open the car door, he climbs up into the car with me. When I carry him inside and hand him to Stan, he screams in protest.
If I'm cooking, he grabs onto my legs so that I have to shuffle slowly one foot at a time so he doesn't fall over while I'm getting plates and utensils.
If I get up to go to the fridge for a snack, he follows me and gets inside the refrigerator the second I open it. If I pour a drink, he has to have it. He is undiscerning; he wants my lemonade, my Diet Coke, and my coffee. I think he only wants it because he knows it's MINE. And he is making it known that NOTHING belongs to me anymore.
If I get up to go to the toilet, I have to wait until he's momentarily distracted so I can make a beeline for it. I always hear him coming after me, his little feet pat-patting on the hardwood floor. It's a race to see if I can slide the door shut before he gets to me. And if I am victorious, he will plant himself directly outside the door and bawl inconsolably until I am finished. Same thing happens when I try to take a shower. Not exactly a relaxing atmosphere.
Moms of teenagers remind me to enjoy this time, because before I know it, this same boy will be pushing me away, telling me not to touch him and never to come in his room. I take this advice to heart, and relish the fact that I am so valued, so inexpendable, so needed. I love it. No really, I do.
85% of the time. The other 15% is going to drive me straight into the loony bin.
I've been known to hide in my house. If I don't open any doors (the noise alerts Tucker to my possible departure from his immediate vicinity) and slip out of the den unnoticed (while he is watching Pooh's Heffalump Movie, perhaps, I might have a sporting chance), I can possibly get into my bedroom without his knowledge. I might be able to buy five minutes in the bathroom or the closet, reading my Oprah Magazine. Oh, the sheer heaven of it. But it isn't long before I hear the familiar, "Mama! MaaaaMA!" and my time is up.
I do wait until he finds me, however. I won't come out until then. If I can find a really good hiding place- say, the laundry hamper- I might get another full ten minutes.
I mean, anywhere.
If I go to the computer, he wedges himself between my chair and the desk, reaching his hands up to block my ability to type.
If I try to go to the store, he waits until I open the front door and then runs out to the car to block my ability to get in. When I open the car door, he climbs up into the car with me. When I carry him inside and hand him to Stan, he screams in protest.
If I'm cooking, he grabs onto my legs so that I have to shuffle slowly one foot at a time so he doesn't fall over while I'm getting plates and utensils.
If I get up to go to the fridge for a snack, he follows me and gets inside the refrigerator the second I open it. If I pour a drink, he has to have it. He is undiscerning; he wants my lemonade, my Diet Coke, and my coffee. I think he only wants it because he knows it's MINE. And he is making it known that NOTHING belongs to me anymore.
If I get up to go to the toilet, I have to wait until he's momentarily distracted so I can make a beeline for it. I always hear him coming after me, his little feet pat-patting on the hardwood floor. It's a race to see if I can slide the door shut before he gets to me. And if I am victorious, he will plant himself directly outside the door and bawl inconsolably until I am finished. Same thing happens when I try to take a shower. Not exactly a relaxing atmosphere.
Moms of teenagers remind me to enjoy this time, because before I know it, this same boy will be pushing me away, telling me not to touch him and never to come in his room. I take this advice to heart, and relish the fact that I am so valued, so inexpendable, so needed. I love it. No really, I do.
85% of the time. The other 15% is going to drive me straight into the loony bin.
I've been known to hide in my house. If I don't open any doors (the noise alerts Tucker to my possible departure from his immediate vicinity) and slip out of the den unnoticed (while he is watching Pooh's Heffalump Movie, perhaps, I might have a sporting chance), I can possibly get into my bedroom without his knowledge. I might be able to buy five minutes in the bathroom or the closet, reading my Oprah Magazine. Oh, the sheer heaven of it. But it isn't long before I hear the familiar, "Mama! MaaaaMA!" and my time is up.
I do wait until he finds me, however. I won't come out until then. If I can find a really good hiding place- say, the laundry hamper- I might get another full ten minutes.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Graduation Day
Well, it's official: Addie has graduated from pre-school. Oh, the pomp, the circumstance! Briarwood pulled out all the stops for the graduation ceremony... right down to caps, gowns, music, entrances, songs, poems, announcements. Kleenex boxes were passed around. There wasn't a dry eye in the house.
There Addie stood, hair freshly cut the night before at Chandler Salon (translation: our bathroom... I've become quite the home hairstylist), looking impossibly handsome and confident as he marched in to the swelling music. He filed in to his seat, a proud and self-conscious smile playing on his lips as he surrepticiously glanced at me. Me, with my video camera and my tear-stained cheeks. I've never seen him so proud. He was placed front and center, and we soon discovered why; every song they sang, every announcement they made, he spoke clearly and without hesitation. He knew every word of the Pledge of Allegiance. He sang "God Bless America" and "United We Stand" with flair. My favorite selection was a rewritten version of "New York, New York", aptly re-titled "Kindergarten" ("If we can make it there, we'll make it anywhere, so here we come, Kin-der-gar-tennnnnnn!") complete with the required kick-line and big arm finish. Addie didn't miss a beat. The choreographer in me was not disappointed.
I watched my boy, this kid named Addie who has grown before my eyes... from the beginning, so very much his own person. Verbal and expressive at eight months; by eighteen months, speaking full sentences with the maturity of some five-year-olds. Addie, whose huge pools of blue eyes were keenly observant from the moment he was born, and whose eyes continue to see the world in all its miracles. I am honored to get a glimpse of the world through those eyes. They never fail to notice a full moon or the first twinkling star, a homeless man, a pretty girl, a scary billboard, a perfect grey morning. They fiercely protect his baby brother, they notice anytime something too small or dangerous gets in his hands. They burst with excitement. They flash with anger. They fill with tears that he tries so hard to hold back. They break my heart. I fall into them when they look at me with love and devotion; I never want to leave them. Too often, I let him stay up late, just so we have our famous "snuggle time", and those beautiful, deep eyes are all mine... just for a little while.
It does seem as if five and a half years has passed; I can't exactly say it has gone by in a flash, because I cannot imagine a moment when Addie wasn't a part of my life. But I also recognize that I will blink and he will be ten, blink again, fifteen, blink again... I cannot even bear to think how empty I will feel when he is not stumbling into the family room to greet me each morning. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of Addie at the breakfast table, his long, spindly legs dangling from the chair as he slurps his Cheerios, and I wonder when it was that my child got so impossibly LONG. When did his feet get so big? Perhaps all this is made more pronounced by the fact that he's so skinny... now more so than ever because of all his recent illnesses. But the lack of meat on his bones makes him seem even more lanky, like a piece of taffy stretched before my eyes. I hold him, and he is all arms and legs. He still weighs so little (35 pounds!) that I can easily hoist him up and cradle him, and I simply rejoice in the feeling of this amazing child. It will not be long before he will stop asking me to hold him. A few years after that, he'll even request that I don't. So I drink it all in now. I kiss and hug and try to bottle the feeling of these young cheeks, so soft and sweet, before they give way to pimples and roughness and resistance.
I see how eager Addie always is to share his accomplishments, his emotions, his everything... with me and with his father, with all those he loves. There are times when the last thing I want to do is hear how many Droids he has won in his Wii Star Wars game. I do not care in the least about Droids. But God, he wants me to know, and that is reason enough for me to drop whatever I'm doing to become his rapt audience.
I relish his profound communication skills, and watch his effect on others. He has an uncanny ability to draw people in and captivate them. He considers many of my friends his own best friends, insisting that they are invited to his birthday parties and special events. He cares deeply about his relationships. He strikes up conversations at Target with people in line ahead of us. He shows genuine interest in their lives and shares his own life with abandon. Every once in a while, he will run into someone with no interest in connecting. It throws him for a loop every time. I can feel his heart sink, as surely as if it was my own.
Now, Addie moves onto the next milestone... forging his way through the trials and trevails of elementary school. I know I have to let him find his own way. He did it with aplomb in pre-school. He'll do it again. I wish I could shield him from any hurt. I know I cannot.
But I will tell you now that if any kid ever bullies him, that bully is TOAST.
In a couple of months, my firstborn son will start Kindergarten. He's ready. I may not be, but he is. The passing of time is never experienced more acutely than through the world of your children; these hallmarks, these landmarks, these moments, captured- and gone. My heart tries to hold on, but I cannot stop the growing up. So off he'll go, unleashing his spirit on a new set of humans. I hope they take care of him. I hope he takes care of himself. I have a feeling he will.
As the song said... if he can make it there, he'll make it anywhere.
Friday, March 12, 2010
A Matter of Death... and Life
I don't really know how to make sense of all that has happened this week. It feels like sadness is everywhere. A member of Stan's family committed suicide... and nothing anyone can say or do will bring him back. I saw so many Facebook postings this week from dear friends who have lost someone close to them, or are having "the worst week of their lives". A colleague was called away from work because one of his family members is dying. It seems that every once in a while, bad news comes in tumbles. Giant heaps of things too overwhelming to process. All at once. Why does life do that?
I'm not one to immediately leap to the "lesson"... in fact, sometimes I think our world has gotten so New Age-y that we are overly anxious to skip about ten steps to get right to the relief. For those left behind, there isn't relief. There just isn't. Maybe grief will de-intensify over time, but maybe it won't. Maybe they learn to live within the grief. They'll carve their lives around it, build their ships around the anchor of it.
I've always been someone who treasured life, clung to it even in my unhappiest of moments. A part of me has always inherently understood that even heartache has its place in the grand experience. I can't imagine choosing to leave this wondrous place. I know its troubles, I know its tragedies, I know its cruelty and I fear its evil. But I have lived its incredible beauty in so many ways, and those far outweigh the bad things.
How could anyone want to leave the smell of snow in winter, the sound of a bat connecting with a baseball, The Beatles, fresh-squeezed lemonade, the twinkle of Christmas lights, bowling, rollercoasters, the sound trees make in a breeze, the memory of a first kiss, pumpkin pancakes, cinnamon rolls, a really good slice of pizza? Wherever they think they're going when they choose to leave this world, I would venture a guess there is not a good slice of pizza to be found.
Where DO they think they're going?
If it has proved too painful to be here, what relief do they suppose is waiting on the other side? If there is a God, do they think He or She is waiting for them on the other side of that suicide, congratulating them for giving it all up? No, I suppose if it all has gotten too bad for them here on Earth, they don't much care what anyone thinks anymore. Certainly they have proven they don't much care about devasted mothers, heartbroken sisters and brothers left to pick up the pieces...
What if reincarnation awaits them? Oh goodie, guess what? You tried to take yourself out, sir, but get back in line, because now you're starting over! And just for a little karmic comedy we're gonna throw you into a third world country! Then maybe you'll appreciate how nice you had it last lifetime. Have fun! Back to the same lesson, until you get it. You escaped NOTHING.
And what if all they're after is the nothingness? Just silence from their unbearable pain? Are they counting on the nothingness, praying to GOD there IS no God to receive them and hold them accountable? Praying reincarnation is just a figment of Shirley MacLaine's imagination? And if they are right that there is nothing beyond death, HOW could the nothingness be better than the living? I'll take the heartbreak, every time. The glorious heartbreak is proof that I'm alive. And oh, to be alive...
There are a few instances where I understand a choice to leave this world. Disease, unbearable physical pain... the loss of a child. I don't even like to entertain these horrific thoughts, but perhaps the closest I can come to understanding suicide is to realize that for some people, their emotional pain might be akin to those extremes...? I don't know.
This incident has catapulted many of us right back to the darkest hours of our pasts. We've all had them; moments of being a quivering fetal mess, bathed in worthlessness. Moments where the pain seemed insurmountable. But as Stan so eloquently said to me, "If I had thrown it all away back in my darkest hour, I wouldn't have you. I wouldn't have these two beautiful children. I wouldn't have this life. I wish I could have told him to just hang on. Tough it out. Look what can change. Look what can happen."
I think about a friend of mine who is currently battling breast cancer. She's fighting to stay on this planet for all she's worth, enduring chemo, radiation, overwhelming nausea, fatigue, baldness. There are days where she can't leave her bed or hug her kids. She's forced to cut off both her breasts. This is what she must do if she is going to stay alive. But she is willing to pay that price, ANY price, for the gift of seeing her children graduate high school, college, to someday hold their children. What a stark contrast to the example before me of a perfectly healthy person who took himself out of this world by choice! What would my friend make of this? Would she consider it a personal affront to her?
I am filled with questions, and not many answers. In this time of desperation and uncertainty, I can only cling to the things I do know: that I cherish my own life in all its messiness, its joy, its anger, its boredom, even. Oh, for the luxury of being bored! I am grateful. I hug my children extra hard and send a prayer to God, to Karma, to Darkness: please keep them safe and happy and healthy... and PLEASE let me help them understand what a gift life is.
I'm not one to immediately leap to the "lesson"... in fact, sometimes I think our world has gotten so New Age-y that we are overly anxious to skip about ten steps to get right to the relief. For those left behind, there isn't relief. There just isn't. Maybe grief will de-intensify over time, but maybe it won't. Maybe they learn to live within the grief. They'll carve their lives around it, build their ships around the anchor of it.
I've always been someone who treasured life, clung to it even in my unhappiest of moments. A part of me has always inherently understood that even heartache has its place in the grand experience. I can't imagine choosing to leave this wondrous place. I know its troubles, I know its tragedies, I know its cruelty and I fear its evil. But I have lived its incredible beauty in so many ways, and those far outweigh the bad things.
How could anyone want to leave the smell of snow in winter, the sound of a bat connecting with a baseball, The Beatles, fresh-squeezed lemonade, the twinkle of Christmas lights, bowling, rollercoasters, the sound trees make in a breeze, the memory of a first kiss, pumpkin pancakes, cinnamon rolls, a really good slice of pizza? Wherever they think they're going when they choose to leave this world, I would venture a guess there is not a good slice of pizza to be found.
Where DO they think they're going?
If it has proved too painful to be here, what relief do they suppose is waiting on the other side? If there is a God, do they think He or She is waiting for them on the other side of that suicide, congratulating them for giving it all up? No, I suppose if it all has gotten too bad for them here on Earth, they don't much care what anyone thinks anymore. Certainly they have proven they don't much care about devasted mothers, heartbroken sisters and brothers left to pick up the pieces...
What if reincarnation awaits them? Oh goodie, guess what? You tried to take yourself out, sir, but get back in line, because now you're starting over! And just for a little karmic comedy we're gonna throw you into a third world country! Then maybe you'll appreciate how nice you had it last lifetime. Have fun! Back to the same lesson, until you get it. You escaped NOTHING.
And what if all they're after is the nothingness? Just silence from their unbearable pain? Are they counting on the nothingness, praying to GOD there IS no God to receive them and hold them accountable? Praying reincarnation is just a figment of Shirley MacLaine's imagination? And if they are right that there is nothing beyond death, HOW could the nothingness be better than the living? I'll take the heartbreak, every time. The glorious heartbreak is proof that I'm alive. And oh, to be alive...
There are a few instances where I understand a choice to leave this world. Disease, unbearable physical pain... the loss of a child. I don't even like to entertain these horrific thoughts, but perhaps the closest I can come to understanding suicide is to realize that for some people, their emotional pain might be akin to those extremes...? I don't know.
This incident has catapulted many of us right back to the darkest hours of our pasts. We've all had them; moments of being a quivering fetal mess, bathed in worthlessness. Moments where the pain seemed insurmountable. But as Stan so eloquently said to me, "If I had thrown it all away back in my darkest hour, I wouldn't have you. I wouldn't have these two beautiful children. I wouldn't have this life. I wish I could have told him to just hang on. Tough it out. Look what can change. Look what can happen."
I think about a friend of mine who is currently battling breast cancer. She's fighting to stay on this planet for all she's worth, enduring chemo, radiation, overwhelming nausea, fatigue, baldness. There are days where she can't leave her bed or hug her kids. She's forced to cut off both her breasts. This is what she must do if she is going to stay alive. But she is willing to pay that price, ANY price, for the gift of seeing her children graduate high school, college, to someday hold their children. What a stark contrast to the example before me of a perfectly healthy person who took himself out of this world by choice! What would my friend make of this? Would she consider it a personal affront to her?
I am filled with questions, and not many answers. In this time of desperation and uncertainty, I can only cling to the things I do know: that I cherish my own life in all its messiness, its joy, its anger, its boredom, even. Oh, for the luxury of being bored! I am grateful. I hug my children extra hard and send a prayer to God, to Karma, to Darkness: please keep them safe and happy and healthy... and PLEASE let me help them understand what a gift life is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
