Learning the Rules, Breaking the Rules

I love being married to an art major.  I’ve said this before.  I love going to museums with him and trailing behind him like an infatuated student following a master teacher. I love that he can explain a hidden meaning in a painting, or a subversive technique used by an artist on the canvas in front of us.  I find it fascinating. I love watching him look at our kids through his camera lens.  I love it when we’re heading out the door and he runs back and grabs his camera bag.  Whenever he does that it’s like a switch goes on in my head and I immediately start paying attention to my surroundings, playing little guessing games in my mind as to what kind of pictures I think he’s going to frame.  Most of the time what turns up in his viewfinder is never what I think I’m going to see. 

He has an expression that he teaches his students.  He didn’t make it up- in fact, I’m sure it’s something many art teachers say- but I love it nonetheless.  He tells his students “You have to know the rules before you try to break the rules.”  He tells them this because people like to think that in art, rules do not apply.  They would be partially right- sometimes rules don’t apply in art.  But the people who cause the biggest stir in the art world are usually the ones who are most familiar with the classical traditions and methods.  For instance, did you know that Picasso- possibly the most famous rule breaker the art world has known- was a classically trained painter by the age of 19?  I mean, he was considered the premiere Spanish master of his time.  So, he knew the rules of art.  He just decided to push them a little bit.  Then he became famous for it.  So then, (and I absolutely adore this about him), he went on to explore the rules of art in other mediums so that he could break them later: light painting, print making, drawing, photography, ceramics.  

Such a creative mind.  Too bad he was such an asshole in real life.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking of this expression lately.... knowing the rules before breaking them, and the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that this applies in so many areas of life.  

I know a couple of people who have become first time parents in these last few months.  I’m watching them on Facebook and they all are so concerned with getting it right.  Doing well.  Knowing the best way.  I think I’ve kind of forgotten that feeling, but I’m so grateful that I’ve been paying attention to them lately.  It’s made me reminensce.  It’s also made me think about something I said in my last post about Parenting magazines.  

To quote myself, I said: I've come to hate parenting magazines with all their ultra PC articles offering clean, formulated, logical solutions for any parenting conundrum imaginable.  Nine years of motherhood has taught me that there is no formula, parenting is mostly illogical, and it is most definitely not clean.

Look.  My stance has not changed in this short time. It probably never will.  I think parenting magazines, at this stage of my experience, are useless.  I believe they project a very shallow image of what constitues “good” parenting, and worse, too often they employ fear mongering tactics.  (My favorite example comes from a magazine in which there is a monthly series titled “It Can Happen To You!”.  The title itself irritates me, and the content is usually worse.  For example, one month featured a story titled “My Son Slammed His Penis in the Toilet Lid.” First of all, if your toddler’s-ahem- appendage was large enough to actually reach from his pants and lay all the way across the toilet rim in such a manner that the toilet ring could actually close on it, well...... congratualtions, I guess.  Second of all, I think I’ll forego your “experts” advice on purchasing a toilet ring lock and accompanying my kid to the bathroom every time and just live with the fact a) the chances of this happening to my kid are next to nothing and b)if it does, it’ll only take one time before he gets smarter about making sure the lid is all the way up before he goes.  Problem solved.)

(Forgive me for that above paragraph.  I’ve needed to vent about it for a while.)

Moving on. 

However, I remember now.  I remember, after having PG, feeling disbelief and dismay that the hospital staff was actually going to let me take her home and be in charge of keeping her alive by myself.  I’m not being sarcastic.  I sincerely questioned their intelligence.  Yes, I was in love and enamored and I loved her little baby smell, but I was also exhausted and incredibly hormonal and sore and weepy and full of self doubt and I just knew that I was going to screw this up somehow. 

 When I needed to feed her, I bombarded the nurse in the room with a million questions.  Was this right?  Was she latched on?  Why was she making that weird noise?  What do I do if she stops suddenly?  I was frustrated at the nurse’s seeminly ambivalent answers: Yeah, sure we looked fine.  If she wasn’t crying, then she was probably latched on.  Babies always make noise.  If she stops, maybe it’s because she’s not hungry.

When it was time to burp her, I called the nurse in.  When it was time to change her, I called the nurse in.  When she cried, I called the nurse in.  I had a million questions and no one answering seemed to pick up on the urgent tone in which they were delivered.  They were all as cool as cucumbers.  Cool, gentle, patronizing little cucumbers outfitted in light pink scrubs.

I tell you, it was a little frustrating.  And crazymaking, too.   

Looking back I know, as you know reading this, that the nurses didn’t respond to my urgency because there was no need for it.  They knew I had to just find my confidence.  But what I also see, in looking back, was that when I was asking all my millions of questions, there was really only one question that I was seeking an answer to: What are the rules?

I have to feed her.  What are the rules? 

I have to change her.  What are the rules? 

I have to burp her.  Bath her.  Trim her nails.  Pick her up.  Put her down.  

What are the rules?  What are the rules?  What are the rules? 

Now I see it.  

So also do I see it in my friends with their own new babies.   When you’re starting out, you need the rules.  So you read.  You read What To Expect When Your Expecting.  You read the parenting magazines.  You read whatever baby books are hot on the best seller list at the moment.  

And then you grow as a parent.  Your confidence grows.  Your experience grows.  You discover that you don’t need the rules as much anymore because you can make up your own.  You can leave the rules behind- but how wonderful that they were there for you because that feeling of overwhelmingness?  It’s terrible.  It’s paralyzing.  The rules are like a nice, little bridge with a safety net under it.  As long as you don’t stay there too long, you’ll be just fine. 

There’s one more thing that Matt teaches his students about art and rules.  It’s actually a quote from Del Close, and it says “The last rule is that there are no rules.”  

I guess if you even get there, it could be considered supreme parental enlightenment. 

Huh.  

Well, good luck with that.  I bid you all a good night!

Preachin' What You Don't Believe

Sometimes, as a parent, you have to preach a lesson to your kids that you don't fully believe in yourself. For example, I tell my kids that because we're a family, we share everything.  Do I believe that?  Heck no. There are items around this house that I am absolutely without question unwilling to share.... like the secret ice cream at the back of the freezer.  That is not to be shared.  Ever.

Ever, ever.

Yet I still tell my kids that families share everything.  There're two reasons I do this: one, it simplifies my life.  It's much easier to tell my bickering kids to "share it or lose it" than it is to investigate the conflict, play judge and jury and then deal with the unhappiness of whichever party doesn't get their way.  So there's that.  And then there's the fact that I also believe in the idea that families should share everything.   It's a fair concept, and perhaps if I were a more generous person who was able to find a healthier way to release my stress late at night, well.....then I probably wouldn't mind sharing my secret ice cream.  (But I'm not.  So the ice cream stays hidden, it stays secret, and it stays mine.)

This past week, I've realized that there's another lesson I've been teaching that I don't fully believe in (though I really wasn't aware of just how wishy washy I am on the subject).  I've been preaching "use your words, not your fists" since my kids were itty bitty.  And, like the above example, I preached it mostly to simplify my life.  I also believed in the idea of it- which I still do- just not as much as I did at the beginning of the week.

After school last week, I went to pick up the kids.  I could immediately from the way the kids were walking towards the car- J stomping along with a defiant look on his face and PG following behind looking slightly troubled- that something huge had just gone down.  So I decided to spook them with my swami mommy powers and asked as soon as the doors opened, "What'd I miss?".  They froze, exchanged uneasy glances, climbed in, and then PG, in her best "let's be reasonable" voice turned to J and said, "Jake.  I have to tell her, okay?"

Jake slammed himself back against the seat rest and scowled.

I confirmed that, yes indeed, she had to tell me, and this is what she said:

"A few minutes ago a second grader grabbed J's arm and twisted it up behind his back.  So J got mad and punched him in the stomach."

I narrowed my eyes and clarified.  "A kid just went up to him and twisted his arm?"

They both nodded, with J still scowling.

"And Jake PUNCHED him?" My eyebrows reversed direction and shot up to the middle of my forehead.

"Yes," said Grace.  "And then that kid got all red and he started crying."

"The kid started CRYING?" My eyebrow calisthenics continued.

Again, an affirmative nod from the back seat.

"Good!"  I said, and then mentally clapped a hand over my mouth.  There was no doubt that I was proud of Jake, but I started questioning not only whether it was okay to feel that way, but whether I should even let him know that I felt that way.  Fighting is very un-PC nowadays.  Most schools have a zero tolerance policy against it- it doesn't matter if it was self defense or not, all parties involved are held accountable.  Not to mention there's all the articles in the parenting magazines about how to teach your child to solve bully conflicts peacefully (someday I'll write about how much I've come to hate parenting magazines with all their ultra PC articles offering clean, formulated, logical solutions for any parenting conundrum imaginable.  Nine years of motherhood has taught me that there is no formula, parenting is mostly illogical, and it is most definitely not clean.)

I was suddenly very confused.  I thought about the few fight stories I've heard from guy friends over the years.  In all of them, it seemed that their parents' main concern after hearing that their child was in a fight was who got the best of who.  I realized that this generation is a whole different ball game and for a moment I was a little jealous that we no longer lived in that time.

I glanced in the back seat at Jake.  He was still angry, but I thought I saw a bit of smugness blooming at the corners of his mouth.  I thought about how, since he started school I've always been a bit worried.  He's small for his age.  His pants from preschool still fit him around his waist (although they're highwaters).  His little sister only weighs 2 pounds less than him.  I can wrap my thumb and forefinger around his bicep and have them touch.  How in the world did he hit a bigger kid hard enough to make him cry?

I made them both repeat the story.  This time I asked for more details.  J still wasn't sure if he was going to be in trouble or not, so it was PG that did most of the talking.  Turns out that the kid had been at the corner before.  He'd never been physical with the kids, but they said he taunted and teased a lot.   On this day, he was bragging about how strong he was and he decided to demonstrate by grabbing J and twisting his arm.   Then he let go, and it was then that Jake punched him.  So it wasn't so much self-defense that made J punch him in the gut as it was the fury at the violation of being manhandled.  To which I still say, good for him.  To every fight, there are two aspects: the psychological and the physical.  If you ask me, triumph on the psychological side is a bigger victory, and I believe in this case, J probably came out on top.  I have a hunch that the other little boy's tears were more from shock and humiliation than from any pain.  This hunch was confirmed when Grace later told me that as they were walking to the car, J angrily muttered to her "I didn't even hit him that hard.  That kid is a wimp."

The next part of the story is my favorite though.

I asked PG what happened after the kid started crying.

"Then, (and she gets very indignant here) the kid looked at me like I was supposed to do something about Jake!"

"What'd you do?"

She shrugs. "I said to Jake, 'Tell him you're sorry.'"

I couldn't help it.  I started smiling.

"You made your brother apologize?"

She is totally exasperated now and says "I don't know, mom!  The kid was crying!  Jake wasn't.  So I made him say sorry."

Whenever I play out this entire scenario in my head, that part of it just makes me so happy.  I think it might be because even though G doesn't realize it, she is totally Jake's mom when I'm not there.  (No one say anything though.  The realization would probably be the end of her.)

Once we pulled into our driveway, I turned off the engine and turned around to look at the kids.  J still didn't know if he was off the hook, and frankly, I still wasn't sure if he was either.  This is the kind of thing I like to handle with Matt, but since everyone present was waiting for me to make a call, I felt kind of backed into a corner.  So I said "Look.  When you guys are at school, or really, anywhere in public, I expect three things.  I want you to be kind, I want you be one of the helpers, and I want you to never start anything.  But if you've been all those things and someone else starts something, then I expect you to stand up for yourself.  I'll never be angry at you for sticking up for yourself." Then I looked at J, who was looking a bit too smug now that he realized he wasn't going to get in trouble, and I said "Jake. You probably could have handled that situation just as well if you had told that kid if he touched you again, you'd hurt him.  You didn't have to hit him."

He nodded while I thought silently to myself, "But I'm glad you did."

Then I went inside, grabbed the phone and took it into the bathroom where I locked the door and called Matt.  I related the whole story to him and he parroted back the surprising parts as I had done ("He PUNCHED him?" "The other kid cried?") and then he said, "Well.  GOOD!"

Apparently we were on the same page.

After all that, here's the lesson I learned this past week:  One, I'm proud of my kids.  I'm proud of Gracie for making her brother apologize.  I love that she did that.  Of course, I would have been equally proud of her if she had said "Yeah, kid.  There's more where that came from SO BACK OFF." (Obviously you can tell that I've been fantasizing about what I would have done.)

Also, I'm proud of Jake- not for punching the kid, but for standing up for himself.  I would have preferred it if he had used his words, but that's asking a lot from a six year old in this situation.  While  I've been teaching my kids that fighting is not an answer, I've also learned that sometimes such situations aren't that cut and dry.  I guess Jake figured that out ahead of me.  And he did what needed to be done for his own self respect.  He felt on his own, in those few moments, the psychological side of what was going down, and for Jake the physical pain in his arm was nothing compared to the emotional injustice of being manhandled.  The fact that someone treated him that way pissed him off and he felt the need to let that kid know that he wasn't going to tolerate it. And you know what?  I'm glad he did.  I feel relieved of a lot of my worries about him.  Thank you, God.  The boy has gumption.  He has guts.  He has some self respect.  He's small, but he's mighty (ish).  This mama's going to sleep a little better tonight.

Right after I finish off the secret ice cream hidden in the back of the freezer.

Lessons From The Guardians

Last Friday's shooting really got to me.  I know that is not a profound statement- it got to all of us.  But of all the sad news days from the last 15 years or so- Columbine, 9/11, Aurora, Portland, and all the others in between that are too numerous to remember and write down, this one last week hit me right in the center of my being.  I had to leave Roo playing in her room once or twice and escape to the bathroom to have a cry.  Couldn't hold it in.  Couldn't let her know why I was upset.

Most of that was a parents' reaction.  I think a lot of us are experiencing an overwhelming empathy for the parents of the families who dropped their kids off at school that day and drove off.  That's something we all do.  We all drive our kids to school where we bid them goodbye.  We trust that at three we'll see them again so we drive off.  We all drive off.

It's hard to wrap your brain around it.

There was also the fact that I used to be a teacher.  All day, as the news broke and we learned that most of the shooting was done inside a first grade classroom, my thoughts were affected by an unwanted filter of personal knowledge.  Were they in the middle of The Gingerbread Man unit?  Were the walls decorated with colorful paper chains counting down Christmas?  Was there a bucket somewhere in that classroom filled with jingle bell bracelets, waiting to be worn and shook at a holiday performance?  All these intrusive morbid thoughts (and worse) pervaded my thinking.

When it was time for me to pick up my own kids from school, I was practically climbing the walls.  I felt nuts.   The last thing I wanted to do was to return back to the house, where the darkened television would loom and where I would try my best to forget about the fact that if I turned it on I'd be bombarded with more news.  More facts I didn't want to know.  More sadness.

So instead I drove us to the movies.

Escapism.  That was my strategy.

The movie we chose to see was Rise of the Guardians.  I thought a holiday movie about Santa Claus would make the kids happy and cheer me up at the same time.  However, I realized fifteen minutes into the movie that the parallels from the movie to the days events would be too numerous to ignore. Turns our that Rise of the Guardians was about a magical group of legends whose job it was to keep the innocence of the world's children safe from darkness and fear.

So much for escapism.

I couldn't leave.  I couldn't sob in front of the kids- even though that's exactly what I felt like doing.  I guess I could've sat there and grieved and fought off more dark scary thoughts- but I was doing that at home anyway.  So I stayed.  I settled into it.  I quieted my mind.  I even thought that maybe, perhaps, I'd get some answers.

I kind of did.

Except that when I sat down to write about it, I couldn't express myself.  So I tried again on Sunday.  Again, the right words weren't coming.  Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, same story.  But today, Thursday, I think I've found the words.  I think I know what I want to say.  Bear with me.

Before last Friday, on Friday, and everyday since then, my kids' world has been this: they wake up, get dressed, they argue about some silly stuff, and then we go to school.  There, they learn.  They do art projects.  They go to music class.  They play at recess with their friends.  They laugh.  They play.  They get to be kids.

When they come home we do homework, we hang out, they play outside.  Usually once a day someone cries about something- a scraped knee, an onery sibling, a pile of laundry (that's usually me.)  Sometimes there's some family drama, but usually it's normal everyday stuff and when I tuck them into bed, they have a smile on their face.

That's their world.  The shooting hasn't changed that.  Yet.

This morning, one of the headlines on Good Morning America was this:  BULLETPROOF BACKPACKS FOR SCHOOLCHILDREN AND ARMED TEACHERS

And that's when I knew what to write.

So. America.  Yes. Let's get our kids some bullet proof backpacks.  But why stop there?  A deranged gunman can strike anywhere in public, as we've had the misfortune of learning.  So let's outfit our kids everyday in bulletproof vests.  Let's put the vests on them, let's put the backpacks on them, let's arm their teachers and then let's send them out into THAT world.  A world filled with fear and darkness. A world where we let decisions be made out of fear.   A world where, because faith is absent, we have to control, control, control as much as we can (MORE GUNS! BULLETPROOF EVERYTHING!) because it's too hard for us to accept that we're not really in charge.  Bad things happen.  I'm sorry.  I'm so, so sorry.  I wish they didn't, but they do.  We can't stop bad things from happening.  It's just part of being human, part of existing in this universe.  

What does all this have to do with the movie I saw?  Let me 'splain.

In Rise of the Guardians, Santa had this image of a globe with lights representing children around the world.  The children were the light. Do you get it?  Do you see it?  I don't think you have to have kids to know that innocence and goodness are most of what makes our children so special.  In fact, I would say this is true for any creature that loves so trustingly, so innocently, so unconditionally.  Pets can be this way too.  And I really think that the truth of this goodness can be measured by the intensity of our instinct to protect it.  Why else would that instinct be so strong?  Why else would those teachers and administrators lay down their lives to protect those kids?  It's precious.  It's sacred.  It's worth protecting, infinity times over.

When we raise our kids, we know that we eventually have to release them into the chaos of the adult world.  But because we know how precious their childhood is, we mete out the lessons of the adult world in small increments.  And we give them a space for magic.  We tell them about Santa Claus.  We let them believe in the tooth fairy.  Because, as The Rise of the Guardians taught me, a child's faith can make magical things real.  Santa may not be a true physical form, but just the mere act in believing in him creates a very tangible love and magic that spreads every holiday season.  As adults, we tend to forget about all that magic the minute the season is over-but kids don't.  They keep that magic happening all year long, and it brings us joy.  We love it.  We need it.

So I'm ready.  I'm ready to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, dandelion wishes, jumping over cracks, wishing on a star, crossing fingers, and anything else that simply requires  faith.  I also believe in Jesus.  After all, he says "Truly, I say unto you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 18:3.
See?  He gets what I'm saying.  We need children to remind us of the wonder and goodness in the world.  That's the world we need.

Those of you who've read me for a while know that these are ironic words.  From a girl who has spent the last three holiday seasons writing about how much she hates playing the Santa game and lamenting the fact that she's so bad at it, this is a 180.  But I'm ready now.  Because the world I want, the one I feel like my kids deserve, is one that is filled with happiness and magic and positivity.  One where people aren't making decisions out of fear.  A world that's focused on the light.

Glennon over at momastery has a saying that is especially wise right now: "When the world feels too loud, we must be quiet.  When the world feels too violent, we must be peaceful.  When the world seems evil, we must be good."  I don't know if those are her words or someone else's, but my wish is that people would take some time to consider them.  Stop the noise and be peaceful.  Be good, be kind. That's the best way to honor the victims of Sandy Hook.  There's only one thing that I can think of that would be worse than losing a child, and that would be losing a child and then having the world use that as an excuse to fall into darkness and despair.  Please, can we honor the victims the right way?  Can we be quiet and good for a while?  Then, maybe after our hearts are settled we can make decisions about the grown up stuff.  Until then, let's just be quiet.  Let's be still.  Let's take in the magic and the goodness and the joy of our kids today.  

Thanks for sticking with me and reading all this.  I'm so grateful to all of you 

Peace on earth, and good night. 



P.S- If you don't know where to start looking for the good stuff, I'd direct you to here.  And here.  And this quote here.  Those are all places I went this last week when I needed to load up on the world's goodness. 

Lost Shakers, Lost Sleep

I can't sleep.  What's that saying about moms and sleep?  Something like "Moms don't sleep.  They just worry with their eyes closed."

Yes.

Actually, no.  I'm not so much worrying as I am repeatedly running through a list of upcoming events for this weekend and trying to get a handle on what I need to do to get ready for it.  Soccer schedules, tutoring schedule, birthday parties, grocery lists.  Boring mundane stuff.  Stuff I can think about in my waking hours, but for some reason my brain wants these thoughts now on the front and center of my mind marquee.  The  mystery of my brain's inner workings and the joy of being it's slave- indescribable.

That was sarcasm. It's 4 a.m.  Forgive me.

My thoughts also keep returning to a new discovery that I had today.  I was listening to Jimmy Buffet radio in an attempt to make bearable the deep cleaning of my kitchen counters (FYI, attempt failed), and for the first time in all my years of hearing Margaritaville, I realized that Jimmy Buffet wasn't looking for his LARGE shaker of salt.  This stopped me in my tracks.  Lost shaker of salt?  Really?  All those concerts and singing along with the other Parrotheads, and I was singing the wrong lyrics that whole time?  Surely not!  I posed the question on Facebook (in another attempt to make cleaning day more bearable.).  There I learned that I, indeed, had been singing it incorrectly.  Jimmy was looking for a lost shaker, not a large shaker.  As one of my friends pointed out, "lost" does make more logical sense.

Well well well.  Logic.  We meet again.

Here's what I have to say about logic.  It may be logical that the shaker was lost, and not large, HOWEVER, which scenario paints a more interesting picture in your mind: that of a beach bum looking around for a regular old boring salt shaker OR a beach bum searching somewhat desperately for a gargantuan silver salt shaker that's 12 inches tall with a cap the size of a portabella mushroom?

It's the second one of course. Any normal boring person would look for a lost shaker of salt.  It's what you do if something's lost.  Duh.  But when you  picture an huge ass oversized salt shaker, don't you immediately want to know why such a large shaker would exist?  So then you ponder the question for a while and you realize, "Oh, well, of course.  He's in Margaritaville.  There are a lot of Margaritas there.   If there is anywhere in the world where a huge shaker of salt would be needed, it'd be there!"

Question answered.

You can see why I'm disappointed that Jimmy was only looking for a lost shaker.

No imagination, that Jimmy Buffet.  We all know what Einstein says about that (I've quoted it before): "Logic will get you from A to B.  Imagination will get you anywhere."  

I will never apologize for my imagination or my lack of logic.

Although I do think I'll be apologizing for this post come morning.

Good night!

You Can Take The Mom Out Of Baseball.... Or Can You?

Prior to marrying Matt, I never really cared about baseball.   Yes, I went to Dodger games on a semi-regular basis every summer, but that was because my dad loved baseball.  I was only there because I loved Dodger Dogs.  And frozen chocolate malts.  And, for a short shameful period in 1988, Orel Hershiser.

(By the way, I still love two out of three things on the above list.  I'll let you discern which ones.)

Anyway, Matt did grow up caring about baseball.  A lot.   He played Little League and drove out to Palm Springs every year to watch the Angels Spring Training.  Nolan Ryan was his hero, and when he got transferred to the Texas Rangers, a little teeny tiny cutie patootey Matt wrote a letter to Jim Fregosi, the manager of the Angels at the time, asking him to please please please pretty please with a cherry on top not trade Nolan Ryan.  Then he stuck it in an envelope addressed it simply to "Jim Fregosi, Angel Stadium" and sent it out in the mail.  Apparently, Mr. Fregosi never got the letter, or if he did, he has a shard of ice where his heart should be.  Why else would he crush the hopes and dreams of such a pint sized little fan? And one with such a cute little face?

Perhaps I'm a little biased.

So, all this is to explain to you that when I married Matthew, I married into baseball.  More specifically, I married into Angels baseball.  During the months of April through October, the kids know that Angel games take precedence over their Nick 'toons- a fact that they hate.  To them baseball is as exciting as watching grass grow.  And while I fully, completely, tooooooooootally can see their point of view, I will never in a million years say so to Matt because I don't mind keeping him company while he watches baseball. It's fun. If I have a question, he seems to enjoy taking time to explain it.  He's a good teacher.

Except.

There are a few questions that I have which he seems to ignore.  It's almost like he doesn't think they're worthy of an answer.  This bothers me because I do feel they're worthy.  In fact, every time I watch a game, these same questions pop up in my head, over and over.  I find it hard to believe that I'm the only one who wonders these things so I thought I'd put them out there to see if any of you all have ever questioned the following....

First, why do baseball players spit so much?  Are they not aware of the cameras on them?  Do their mama's watching at home feel as disgusted as I do at seeing the brown slugs of tobacco juice being spat from the sides of their mouths every few seconds?  Has no one told them how disgusting this looks?  Have they never caught sight of themselves on a screen?  Surely, if they had they would know how repulsive they look.

Also, does every stadium have a laundry service?  Who gets all those dirt stains out of the uniforms?

How do they memorize all those little hand signals?   Watching them communicate that way is fascinating and frustrating.  I want to know what they're saying.  Do you think they throw in a few signals for words that have nothing to do with baseball, like "Hot blonde, left bleachers, 2 rows up?"  Why is all so secretive?  I don't like it.

Finally, why do they just throw their gatorade cups on the ground in the dugout?  Isn't there a trash can somewhere?  For some reason, this one bothers me the most.  Matt says that it's somebody's job to sweep it all up after the game, but I just think "Why?"  Nobody would have to sweep it if they would just put it in the trash to start with!  And here's the thing, if somebody really does have the job of sweeping it all up, I'd much rather it be a guy than a girl. Letting the players just throw trash on the ground with the knowledge that a girl is going to come by later and pick it up for them gets me all feminist and uppity.

I guess the real question I should be asking is to myself:  When will I get to stop being a mom and just enjoy simple things like baseball for what they are- without relating them to laundry and messes?

Don't answer that.  You know it's a rhetorical question.  I'm never really going to be able to stop seeing things through my mom eyes.  BUT, just to be clear, I only worry about these things during an extra long inning with a ton of full counts and walks and hardly any action.

So, basically for only like, half the game.   The rest of the time I am in it.  In it to win it.

Go Halos!

Have a good night. 

Well Done, You

Oh mamas.  You all were on my mind all day yesterday.  I was running into so many of you all over the place- the school parking lot, in hallways, inside classrooms, and all over Facebook.   We made it through another first day of school.  That in itself deserves a congratulations, but I’ve been walking around all day with it on my heart to celebrate something else in a much bigger way.  It’s you all.  Well, it is me too, but it’s mostly you.  Okay, wait.  Actually, it’s us- this community of mothers.  All of us- the working ones, the stay at home ones, all of us. I was in awe yesterday. 

I know there are a lot of people out there who don’t understand what we do.  Just recently I was talking to someone who was complaining about a coworker who didn’t volunteer overtime.  She was upset because his excuse was that he had to get home to help his wife with their twins.  Then she said “And she’s a stay at home mom!  It’s not like she does anything!!” 

Nope.  We don’t do anything.

That mom, the one with the young twins, how selfish that she would want her husband home after his 9 hour workday to help her!  (And what a terrible dad, to want to spend time with his children before they’re put to bed.)  All moms know-the working ones too- that when you are home with your child, it is not a day off.  Even if you stay in your pajamas, even if you don’t leave the house, even when you are having a blast together, it is still work.  Sometimes it is fun work.  Other times it is mind numbing work.  However, unless your kids know how to make their own meals, entertain themselves, educate themselves, drive themselves places, and keep house, it is still work. 

Forget about those people.  Maybe someday they’ll be lucky enough to understand what parents do.  

So, can we take a moment and talk about what it is we actually do do?

 I feel like I’ve finished a season of my life.  I’ve got 3 kids in school now 8 hours and one that’s gone for half of a day.  The long, long days of being home and outnumbered with 3 little kids in various stages under the age of 5 are behind me.  No more diapers, no more sippy cups, no more high chairs, naps, playgroups, and no more 24 hour coverage of Nick Jr. cartoons (Thank God.  As I once saw someone write about Dora The Explorer: “Girl needs charm school.” Yes.  Yes she does.)

In fact, I should probably change the name of this blog.  It’s rare these days for me to have “mean mom moments.”  I mean, of course, I still get frustrated with the kids.  I still yell more than I’d like to.  Ain’t no shame.  A lot of us do.  But those moments that inspired this blog, this post… when things would spin out of control and utter chaos would ensue, and I would lose it for a sec? Rare.  Hardly ever happens anymore.  My kids mostly do for themselves now and I no longer have to juggle 3 different sets of needs or demands all at once.  I’ve switched out the physical exhaustion of taking care of babies for the mental tightrope of navigating “big kid” issues: friend relationships and hurt feelings, after school activities, homework, preparing 9 for college, etc.  I’m ready. I’m excited.  I’m also really proud of myself for getting through the first season- cuz that was hard yo!  Really, really hard.  But I don’t have to explain it to you, because you all know.  You’ve been there.

The common theme yesterday, all over Facebook and in the conversations  at school, was how did they (our children) get so big?  Did you notice it too?  Even if we weren’t saying it, it showed in our faces- the marvel of how did this happen?  How did we get here so fast?  Are they going to be okay? Am I?

The answer is yes.  You are going to be okay.  I am going to be okay, and they are going to be okay.  They’ve all gotten so big because we’ve done our jobs well.  Time goes fast because time always goes faster where love is present.  Isn’t that true?  And while it’s hard to watch your child walk off into a sea of a hundred other children without you by their side, it is what is supposed to happen.  It’s why we all work so hard at this parenting gig- so our kids can grow and be successfully independent. 

 So well done, you.  Well done, me.  

One more thing.   

Have your kids ever said anything to you that was so incredibly honest or true or sweet without really realizing that they’re shattering your heart to pieces?  Yesterday PG was getting ready for school.  She looked in the mirror at her reflection and saw herself with her new haircut, cute little Capri jeans, black ballet flats and said “I feel so mature!”

She meant it as a joke so I laughed with her, but I almost choked on the lump in my throat.  

Thanks for being in the ranks with me, moms.  Have a great day! 

iViva Los Chilaquiles!

 It's been a while since I've done a cooking post, but that's got to change now.  I've discovered a new food bandwagon and I want to tell you about it.  The first thing I should tell you is that I'm not sure it's a bandwagon.  In fact, I might be the only one on it right now.  But you see, that's why it's so important that I let you all know about it- so you guys can join me.  Obsessing all by one's lonesome is no fun.  It's why groupies travel in packs.

Earlier in the month when I was in Seattle, my brother in law picked us up from the airport and took us to this restaurant on Capitol Hill.  It's called Barrio.  It was very cool.  It was there on the menu that I  saw it said "Ask your server about today's Chilaquiles dish."  So I did.  I asked "What are Chila...chila... chila...?"

The server smiled and said "Chilaquiles?" (pronounced Chee la KEY lays, or, as the whitest version of me likes to say, "chile-kilees".)

I said, "Yes, that."

And she lit up and then launched into this enthusiastic dialogue that started out with "They're basically like nachos on steroids......." and continued into this impressive speech that was heavily peppered with all kinds of delicious adjectives.  The three of us, Matt, my brother in law, and myself, just sat there listening.  When she was done there was a moment of silence before my brother in law said "Wow.  You sold that well."

So I ordered Chilaquiles.  And oh. my. word.  My mind was blown.  Nachos on steroids doesn't begin to cover it.  I think nachos connote fluorescent orange cheese over stale chips.  There was none of that here.  I wish I could tell you more precisely what exactly was in this dish, but to be honest, after I took my first bite, my brain stopped thinking in logical terms and only operated on sensory input.  I remember crunchy warm tortilla strips, some spicy jalapeños, queso fresco, sautéed zucchini, onions, and garlic.  I think the meat was some kind of pork carnitas, but I'm not sure.  Whatever it was, it was good.  The best part was, the whole dish was topped off with a perfectly cooked over easy egg. (I know the egg part turns some people off, but not me.  I'm telling you, it was perfection.) People call it the perfect hangover food.  I can see why.

Since I've been home, I've been trying to replicate the dish.  I haven't been successful in getting it to taste as good as the ones at Barrio, but here's the great thing I've discovered about Chilaquiles: it's basically a dish that's traditionally used to use up leftovers, so as long as you've got the key 3 ingredients (chips, sauce, & leftover meat), you can't get it wrong.  There are so many different variations, you could eat Chilaquiles every day of the month and never have a repeat dish.
So in other words, it's food heaven.  Blissful and never ending.

The recipe that I'm sharing with you here is Emeril Lagasses.  You can find it on the Food Network site.  (Or I suppose I could just give you the direct link.  Here you go.) I made a few changes of my own, 'cause I'm a rebel that way.  This recipe is a little time consuming, but very flavorful.  And like I said, you don't necessarily need a recipe as long as you've got the 3 key ingredients.  You could throw together some Chilaquiles in 5 minutes if you wanted to by tossing chips into a bowl, mixing it with whatever leftover meat/veggies you have, sprinkling some cheese on top, and then broiling it all.  But if you've got some time and you're in the mood for some really intense flavors, this recipe will do the trick.

Shall we get started?

M'kay.  Just to keep things organized (how unlike me), I'm posting this recipes in three different sections.  Let's worry about the meat first, then we'll move on to the sauce and chips, all right?  Here's what you need to cook up some yummy shredded chicken:

First you're going to chop up your garlic.  I finely chopped a few cloves for the sauce, and just roughed up a few more to poach with the chicken.

Then the next part is easy.  Just throw the chicken breasts, roughly chopped garlic cloves, juice from half of a lime, a teaspoon of salt, a bay leaf, 1/2 teaspoon of dried Mexican Oregano (don't forget to crush it between your fingers to release the flavors), and 2 1/2 cups of chicken broth into a big fat huge skillet. 

Also, Emeril's recipe calls for 1/2 cup of dry white wine.  I think I used this too, but forgot to take a picture of it.  Oops.  

Go on, throw it in there.  Won't hurt anything.  

Now bring it to a boil, and then reduce to a simmer for about 10-12 minutes.  When it's done, let it cool in the broth before you take the breasts out.  Save a cup or two of the broth too, would you?

Then shred the chicken. It'll look like this:

Allrighty.  Good news!  You're done with the meat portion of the recipe.  Set it aside.  Now we can move on to the sauce- which happens to be my favorite part.  It's where all the flavor happens.

Here's what you're going to need for the sauce:

So that's an onion, 2 jalapeños, 2 poblano chiles roasted and blistered to perfection, another 1/4 teaspoon of the mexican oregano you used earlier, the reserved chicken stock, olive oil for sautéing, and a big ole fat can of crushed tomatoes (30 oz).  

First you're going to chop, mince, and slice the onions, jalapeños, and poblanos like a boss.

                                     

BAM! 

(Don't forget to seed out the jalapeños.  Crying because your tongue is on fire isn't bosslike.) 

Heat up a few tablespoons of olive oil, and sautee it all up in the pan.  

Add the tomatoes. 

And the reserved chicken broth.

And then crush up the last 1/4 teaspoon of the oregano into the sauce. 

Cover it and let it simmer for about 30 minutes.  Your house will start smelling like a mexican kitchen.  That's a good thing.  

When the sauce has thickened up a bit, you can add in the poblano chiles....  

                                              

and the cream.  Wait!  Back it up.  Did I forgot to mention the cream in the ingredients list?  Sorry!  You'll need 1/3 cup of cream.  

Pour it in there.

Keep going.  

Keep going.  Isn't it pretty? 

                                                   

Now you mix up all the vibrant colors and cook it ten minutes longer (or until it thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon)

Now, you just add the chicken in. 

Mix it up, put a lid on it, and.....

Congratulations!  You are done with the sauce and are now only mere minutes away from reaping the rewards of your labor.  Part three is easy and quick.  Here's the ingredients that you'll be using: 

                                     

Corn tortillas, oil, queso fresco, and the eggs, which you don't have to do, but I'm going to be really disappointed if you leave them off.   

Whew. Let's wrap this up.  I'm getting impatient. 

Slice the tortillas. You can do strips if you want.  Or squiggles.  Or squares.  Really, it's just all about whatever suits your mood at the moment.  I was in a triangular type of mood.  Wacky. 

                                        

Pour an inch or two of oil into your pan and fry your chips up in batches. 

                                   

I forgot to time it because I'm a ditz. However, common sense goes a long way here: When the chips start to look brown, take em out. 

See?  Logic.  For something so intimidating to space cadets like me,it sure proves useful from time to time. 

Where were we?  Oh yeah.  Ladle on some sauce. 

Then throw on some more chips.

Then more sauce.

Then some queso fresco. 

And then you stick that cheesy, crunchy, salty mess under the broiler for 5 minutes.  

While it's under there, if you're using an egg fry it up.  (Please, try the egg at least once.  That's all I ask.  Just once.  And if you don't like it, I'll never bring it up again.  I may secretly wonder what's wrong with you, but I won't actually say anything out loud.  Deal?)

Here's the best part.  Ready? 

When you take it out from the broiler, it'll look like this:

                                          

When you put an egg on top, it'll look like this:

When you bite into it, it'll look like this:

And this:

And finally, this:

The pictures aren't doing it justice, guys.  This is good stuff.  Make some today.  Or okay, tomorrow if you have to wait that long.  Just make 'em.  Then let me know what you think, cuz what I'm saying is that we need a Chilaquiles Revolution.

Or at the very least, a food truck specializing in them.

The time is now, people.

Have a good night.