Last night Basil asked me for paper and pen. He got busy scribbling. He happily told me, "I'm drawing a shark". The he excitedly pointed at the paper and squealed, "There is his dorsal fin!".
As a mom of six, all handrafted and raised with the same mate using the same methods, I have been blessed with top secret information on the nature vs nurture debate. Kids are what they are and they come here different. And while this may take some of the wind out of the sails of people who think their kids are great BECAUSE they are great parents it is important to remind parents who have kids who struggle that they really couldn't have changed much. Even with all of the evidence I've been presented with I still beat myself up with What If's.
Basil is two and will be three in the beginning of January. I've had two/three year olds who could not speak, who spoke in one word sentences, who could spell their name, who could sleep through the night, who had their nights and days confused, who could go for sleepovers, who couldn't handle having me in a different room than they were in, who breast fed, who were weaned, who loved outings, who could not leave the house, some who were afraid of sharks, and some who could identify a dorsal fin. Ariel and I raised all of them with equal access to extended family and community and resources. We didn't decide to make certain things easy of some of our kids and cripple some of them in certain areas. They just came out who and how they are.
The best we can do as parents is treat ourselves to really enjoying all of the good and extending a helping hand for the bad.
They other day Ariel teased me by calling me Tiger Mom. Tiger Mom is a woman who pushed her kids to excellence by expecting excellence of them. I argue that they were simply made that way and she lucked out that they were "good enough" for her exacting standards.
I am not a Tiger Mom. I'm not a good mom or a bad mom. I just gave birth to and fed and sheltered and loved six kids.
Monday, November 25, 2019
Thursday, November 21, 2019
Half and Half Mystery
Most of the mysteries I've solved have been for the same client, one Mr. Ariel Jones. I can't count how many times he has crawled into my office (I don't have an office) begging me to piece together some riddle he can't figure out: "Where are my winter hats?", "How did that dent get in side panel of the van?", "Am I the only person in this house who eats cherry tomatoes?","When is Israel's birthday?", "Are we out of butter?", "What is Basil's middle name?", "HOW MUCH did you spend on Christmas?", "Oh my God, you're not pregnant again, are you?".....the list goes on.
Usually my excellent detective skills are able to crack a case within moments. This week however, my client has presented me with a mystery that is taking some time to figure out. In fact, so much time has passed that Mr. Jones himself has started applying some of his own precious brain power to this difficult game of deduction.
Approximately four days ago Ariel was pouring his morning cup of coffee (decaf-so why bother? THAT is the true mystery) when he discovered the half and half container was almost empty. "The half and half is nearly gone!", he exclaimed. "The half and half is always nearly gone. I just bought this container yesterday! Where does it go?"
I adjusted my ridiculous Studebaker hat, took a long drag from my pipe, played a few notes on my violin, then answered, "Somebody has been drinking it". I already knew that half of the seventeen and under population at 48 Church Street preferred half and half to regular milk, having discovered this during the many times we found ourselves out of milk and unable or unwilling to walk five doors up to the convenient-mart to procure a fresh gallon of the stuff. Throughout the day I interviewed all of the possible suspects, including those who have not previously claimed to adore half and half, just in case they'd been turned on to the unfortunately expensive liquid in the adorable mini milk carton without my noticing. Not one person admitted to the crime of draining the container but a muscle twitch here and an averted eye there allowed me to narrow the list of suspects down from four to two. At this time I decided the best course of action was to start purchasing half and half by the half gallon because it became very clear to me that I did not give a fiddler's fart who was actually drinking the half and half or why.
This morning however, Mr. Jones informed me that he had taken on the role of chief inspector after I closed the case. He conducted his own interviews of all six, young residents of 48 Church Street. Numbers one through four all denied having ever tasted half and half but number five cheerfully admitted to being the person who guzzles the half and half daily. He practically bragged about his gluttonous dairy crimes.
As he told me this I looked at my husband and wondered how in twenty one years of co-residence I had not noticed he was severely mentally handicapped. I began looking closely at his face for any sign of a recent stroke or traumatic brain injury. I slowly asked him, "You are aware that he can't pour his own drinks, right?"
"After some time it dawned on me that he was just one of those people who confesses to a crime they did not commit because they want the fame and they glory that goes along with it".
Clearly.
I tried to convince the head of this household that it didn't really matter who done it- even though I was pretty sure I knew who it was. I proposed my half gallon plan. It was immediately refused on the grounds of being too expensive. So now I'm just sitting and waiting for elaborate booby traps and security cameras to be set up around the refrigerators (we have three-talk about wasting money!). Perhaps an all night stake out will be staged. Whatever the next step may be I can say two things for sure: middle age has done strange things to my husband and I'm definitely going to start drinking and serving as much half and half as I am physically able to from now on.
Usually my excellent detective skills are able to crack a case within moments. This week however, my client has presented me with a mystery that is taking some time to figure out. In fact, so much time has passed that Mr. Jones himself has started applying some of his own precious brain power to this difficult game of deduction.
Approximately four days ago Ariel was pouring his morning cup of coffee (decaf-so why bother? THAT is the true mystery) when he discovered the half and half container was almost empty. "The half and half is nearly gone!", he exclaimed. "The half and half is always nearly gone. I just bought this container yesterday! Where does it go?"
I adjusted my ridiculous Studebaker hat, took a long drag from my pipe, played a few notes on my violin, then answered, "Somebody has been drinking it". I already knew that half of the seventeen and under population at 48 Church Street preferred half and half to regular milk, having discovered this during the many times we found ourselves out of milk and unable or unwilling to walk five doors up to the convenient-mart to procure a fresh gallon of the stuff. Throughout the day I interviewed all of the possible suspects, including those who have not previously claimed to adore half and half, just in case they'd been turned on to the unfortunately expensive liquid in the adorable mini milk carton without my noticing. Not one person admitted to the crime of draining the container but a muscle twitch here and an averted eye there allowed me to narrow the list of suspects down from four to two. At this time I decided the best course of action was to start purchasing half and half by the half gallon because it became very clear to me that I did not give a fiddler's fart who was actually drinking the half and half or why.
This morning however, Mr. Jones informed me that he had taken on the role of chief inspector after I closed the case. He conducted his own interviews of all six, young residents of 48 Church Street. Numbers one through four all denied having ever tasted half and half but number five cheerfully admitted to being the person who guzzles the half and half daily. He practically bragged about his gluttonous dairy crimes.
As he told me this I looked at my husband and wondered how in twenty one years of co-residence I had not noticed he was severely mentally handicapped. I began looking closely at his face for any sign of a recent stroke or traumatic brain injury. I slowly asked him, "You are aware that he can't pour his own drinks, right?"
"After some time it dawned on me that he was just one of those people who confesses to a crime they did not commit because they want the fame and they glory that goes along with it".
Clearly.
I tried to convince the head of this household that it didn't really matter who done it- even though I was pretty sure I knew who it was. I proposed my half gallon plan. It was immediately refused on the grounds of being too expensive. So now I'm just sitting and waiting for elaborate booby traps and security cameras to be set up around the refrigerators (we have three-talk about wasting money!). Perhaps an all night stake out will be staged. Whatever the next step may be I can say two things for sure: middle age has done strange things to my husband and I'm definitely going to start drinking and serving as much half and half as I am physically able to from now on.
Thursday, October 31, 2019
The Word of the day is....
GIGANTIC
As in,
"Dad! Dad! Dad! I'm in here! Come see! I'm pooping on the potty. It's gonna be gigantic!"
~ Basil Emrys Jones, age 2
and,
MOM: "Wow Basil! Brushing your own teeth and using the potty? How big are you getting?"
BASIL: "Gigantic!!!!"
As in,
"Dad! Dad! Dad! I'm in here! Come see! I'm pooping on the potty. It's gonna be gigantic!"
~ Basil Emrys Jones, age 2
and,
MOM: "Wow Basil! Brushing your own teeth and using the potty? How big are you getting?"
BASIL: "Gigantic!!!!"
Thursday, October 17, 2019
Water Works
Our first house was right across the street from the one we live in now. Because we have a hoarding disorder we still own that one too. It is a cute little house and I love it. I lived there when I got married and I brought my first baby home there. I first noticed my husband was a lunatic in that house on that random Saturday when I was sitting on the sofa nursing Baby Enzo and Ariel came stumbling down the stairs cradling the upstairs toilet in his arms, you know, without any discussion leading up to that moment.
I like living across the street from my first home. I like being able to see it and remember it all so easily. Today it got a little strange though. Today I saw a couple of men with shovels and a blow torch ripping up that sweet little front yard. I had to be conflicted as to what I should do, who I should act as. Neighbor or homeowner. I called Ariel and asked him if he knew what was going on and what I should do given the ZERO information I had. He gave me a green light on marching over there and getting to the bottom of what was going on.
I went, feeling every bit like a stupid, useless housewife. I knew I looked like a bored, gossiping, woman to those men at work. I decided to clear that up right away and I announced myself as an apparent nosy neighbor but the actual homeowner ("actual" might be a stretch....my name isn't on any of the paperwork...I am ACTUALLY a guest in my husband's life)
It turns out that there is a water pipe leak across the street that I needn't concern myself with except for, HELLO, I happen LIVE across the street, Our poor village's water system seems to have a new break every single day. It makes me a touch fearful of the quality of our water. I'm aware that people survive on stream water and whatever, but my first world self is going to go right on being suspicious anyway. What else have I got to do? Maybe I am a bit of a bored housewife after all.
Tuesday, September 24, 2019
His Way *OR* Who's Afraid of Greta Thunberg?
A few years ago I realized I was completely over taking recyclable bottles, cans, and papers from their pile on our kitchen counter to our bin outside. I only have one life to live and I don't want to spend it moving other people's trash from Point A to Point B. There was never supposed to be a pile anyway. In my domestic fantasy everyone would walk each recyclable to the outdoor bin as soon they were finished using them. There would be no counter top layover. This almost never happened and so one day I proclaimed, "I'm not buying anything in a bottle or can ever again!"
Multiple meltdowns followed my decree and then Enzo came up with a plan to keep soda flowing into our home while keeping the mess under control. Enzo proposed an indoor recycling bin. I agreed to this under one condition; the recycling was now Enzo's responsibility.
This was the very first real, regular chore any of our children had ever had and I felt that because he had been the mastermind behind this plan, Enzo would take real pride in this task. It turns out chores are chores no matter who dreams them up and they are always on the very bottom of a child's priority list.
Today is Tuesday. Tuesday is the eve of the best day of the week in Chatham Village. Tuesday is the day The Village People bring their trash bags and recycling bins out to the curb to be magically hauled away by a team of miracle workers at some point during the day on Wednesday.
Last Tuesday I gently reminded Enzo of the arrival of the sacred day and he assured me he would bring the bins out front, "later". True to his word he managed to get them out front today, a week "later". This became a two bin, stuffed to the brink of explosion, ordeal, because despite my best efforts, eight people make a LOT of waste. The bins were so full when he dragged them out front that Enzo stood looking over the indoor bin this afternoon and asked, "What should I do? This bin is full but there is no place to put the stuff".
I fought my know-it-all/helicopter urge and responded with, "Do you have any ideas?"
"We could leave it here and just throw the recyclables in the trash can until tomorrow when the big bins are empty again".
At this point it became difficult for me to breathe. The room spun around my head and I think my heart might have stopped. What was he saying? Was he insane? Had he even tried to imagine the outcome of choosing this path? Wasn't he even a little bit afraid that Greta Thunberg would somehow find out about his diabolical plan and come flying in here, braids a swingin', ready to thunder punch his scrawny ass right into our compost pile?
I'm pleased with myself. I managed to keep my mouth shut. I figured it was best to let him do things his way and learn from the natural consequences of his actions. But mark my words, this is between him and Greta. I'm not taking any punches for him. He is very nearly a man now. He can fight his own fights and sort his trash as he pleases. I can't protect him forever.
Multiple meltdowns followed my decree and then Enzo came up with a plan to keep soda flowing into our home while keeping the mess under control. Enzo proposed an indoor recycling bin. I agreed to this under one condition; the recycling was now Enzo's responsibility.
This was the very first real, regular chore any of our children had ever had and I felt that because he had been the mastermind behind this plan, Enzo would take real pride in this task. It turns out chores are chores no matter who dreams them up and they are always on the very bottom of a child's priority list.
Today is Tuesday. Tuesday is the eve of the best day of the week in Chatham Village. Tuesday is the day The Village People bring their trash bags and recycling bins out to the curb to be magically hauled away by a team of miracle workers at some point during the day on Wednesday.
Last Tuesday I gently reminded Enzo of the arrival of the sacred day and he assured me he would bring the bins out front, "later". True to his word he managed to get them out front today, a week "later". This became a two bin, stuffed to the brink of explosion, ordeal, because despite my best efforts, eight people make a LOT of waste. The bins were so full when he dragged them out front that Enzo stood looking over the indoor bin this afternoon and asked, "What should I do? This bin is full but there is no place to put the stuff".
I fought my know-it-all/helicopter urge and responded with, "Do you have any ideas?"
"We could leave it here and just throw the recyclables in the trash can until tomorrow when the big bins are empty again".
At this point it became difficult for me to breathe. The room spun around my head and I think my heart might have stopped. What was he saying? Was he insane? Had he even tried to imagine the outcome of choosing this path? Wasn't he even a little bit afraid that Greta Thunberg would somehow find out about his diabolical plan and come flying in here, braids a swingin', ready to thunder punch his scrawny ass right into our compost pile?
I'm pleased with myself. I managed to keep my mouth shut. I figured it was best to let him do things his way and learn from the natural consequences of his actions. But mark my words, this is between him and Greta. I'm not taking any punches for him. He is very nearly a man now. He can fight his own fights and sort his trash as he pleases. I can't protect him forever.
Monday, September 23, 2019
Elana's Apple Cake
1 cup flour
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
1 tsp vanilla
sprinkle of salt
cut up apple chunks in bottom of baking pan
350 degrees
This is all my pink index card says because this recipe was given to me in the best way a recipe can be exchanged, sitting in my house, telling stories with loved ones. My sister in law had come home to visit tiny and quaint little Chatham from fancy and exciting LA, where, despite the raging cleanse trend, some of the residents still consume solid foods. This apple cake is something Elana makes in her LA apartment because it is inexpensive, delicious, and easy.
I recently became the proud owner of three, large, reusable shopping bags full of apples because my children and I think playing farm laborer is a fun activity and apple picking is high on our list of favorite farm chores. After forking over a rather large sum of money to pay for our Sunday entertainment Ariel sighed, "Well, I guess the only way we can throw away thirty pounds of apples is if we buy them fifty pounds at a time".
Another activity I've come to enjoy after sharing a home with Ariel for twenty-one years is becoming very offended when he points out any of my many, obvious flaws. I then like to vow to prove him completely wrong as if the flaw never actually existed and certainly will never rear its ugly head in the future. So in this case, I've been on an apple using mission because how dare he insinuate that I ever waste so much as a drop of food especially where over priced fruits picked primarily for sport are concerned?!?!
On the first day I baked a three foot tall, double crusted apple pie. Later in the week I prepared a heart shaped apple crisp (which prompted a heated debate on the difference between a crisp and a crumble). Every lunch box that has left this house for school has had an apple lovingly tucked inside and most meals and snacks involve apple slices, maybe with peanut butter, maybe with cheese, maybe solo, doesn't matter.
This morning I proudly looked at my dwindling supply of apples and designated eight of them to represent each member of our family in something I would bake today because my sister Alyssa told me it was important that I bake something on the equinox. Baking today didn't really seem like a great idea to me because three days ago I took all of Basil's shorts out of his dresser due to the cool, autumnal weather we'd been having. This, of course, brought on an immediate heat wave and I've done nothing but sweat ever since. Sweating doesn't really inspire me to bake but Alyssa said it was important so I decided to find that apple cake recipe Elana recited to me the last time she was in town. Somehow the months had passed without me ever making the cake. Today seemed like as good a day as any. My only other plans for the day involved rigging a clothes line on my fence but as soon as I had that thought the sky turned dark with rain storm clouds. Apple cake quickly became priority number one.
I took my eight apples to the table, having decided to peel them, and began dicing them into a buttered baking dish. Basil grabbed a ninth apple and stabbed it with a peeler a few times before pretending it was a mallet made especially for smashing into the dining room table. His apple eventually exploded all over the place and he picked up one, really small speck of apple off of the cutting board and threw it in the baking dish (or "glass basket ball hoop" as he called it). I wondered what his speck of apple would do to the symbolic integrity of my representational apple family and briefly considered an eight week miscarriage I once had. Then I decided to sprinkle cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger over my diced up apple family (and speck) because who's ever even heard of an apple recipe that didn't have cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger in it? I mixed up all of the other ingredients that weren't apples because that seemed like a reasonable thing to do. I spread the batter this created over the apples with a vague memory of thinking this recipe sounded like cobbler when Elana told me about it, (which at the time prompted a heated debate about the difference between a cobbler, a cake, a crisp, and a crumble).
My metaphoric family didn't look quite tucked in enough with the one cup and one cup mixture so I mixed up a second batter and smeared it all over the dish as well. I'm much braver about cooking this year than I used to be. Since my mother gave my children a small flock of chickens I can use all of my mistakes as chicken feed and I no longer share my husband's fear of food waste, even though he has tried at least once to convince me that "chicken feed" is not the same as "not wasting".
Content that my "family" looked comfortable, I slipped my baking dish into the oven and crossed my fingers. Every once in a while I checked on the dish figuring that it required the same "or until golden brown" time everything else I've ever baked has. I don't know how many minutes it took to reach that desired color but I can say it was long enough to nurse Basil to sleep, watch a bit of Victoria Season Three on Amazon Prime, squirt some of that nasty cheese like stuff in a can on some crackers for Dorothy and Israel, call Ariel and tell him one of those, "Israel was so funny but in such a bad way that it was all I could do not to laugh in front of him" stories that he is so fond of, and get a very sad call from a very sad Alyssa sharing with me news of the man she took care of poetically passing away at noon on the equinox.
Here I am; on the equinox, with my children, waiting for a rain storm and for my husband to come home so we can cut into the most attractive (and only) Equinox Cake I've ever baked. I'm feeling overwhelmed with gratitude for my apple family and my actual family and these moments we still have to share together. OH!!! And for whipped cream, which I'm just remembering right at this moment that I made yesterday afternoon and still have lots left over to put on the cake because this is not LA and we can be as plump as we please in Chatham. I am grateful to be overweight in a small town with a big family and I think that is what Mabon might be all about.
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
1 tsp vanilla
sprinkle of salt
cut up apple chunks in bottom of baking pan
350 degrees
This is all my pink index card says because this recipe was given to me in the best way a recipe can be exchanged, sitting in my house, telling stories with loved ones. My sister in law had come home to visit tiny and quaint little Chatham from fancy and exciting LA, where, despite the raging cleanse trend, some of the residents still consume solid foods. This apple cake is something Elana makes in her LA apartment because it is inexpensive, delicious, and easy.
I recently became the proud owner of three, large, reusable shopping bags full of apples because my children and I think playing farm laborer is a fun activity and apple picking is high on our list of favorite farm chores. After forking over a rather large sum of money to pay for our Sunday entertainment Ariel sighed, "Well, I guess the only way we can throw away thirty pounds of apples is if we buy them fifty pounds at a time".
Another activity I've come to enjoy after sharing a home with Ariel for twenty-one years is becoming very offended when he points out any of my many, obvious flaws. I then like to vow to prove him completely wrong as if the flaw never actually existed and certainly will never rear its ugly head in the future. So in this case, I've been on an apple using mission because how dare he insinuate that I ever waste so much as a drop of food especially where over priced fruits picked primarily for sport are concerned?!?!
On the first day I baked a three foot tall, double crusted apple pie. Later in the week I prepared a heart shaped apple crisp (which prompted a heated debate on the difference between a crisp and a crumble). Every lunch box that has left this house for school has had an apple lovingly tucked inside and most meals and snacks involve apple slices, maybe with peanut butter, maybe with cheese, maybe solo, doesn't matter.
This morning I proudly looked at my dwindling supply of apples and designated eight of them to represent each member of our family in something I would bake today because my sister Alyssa told me it was important that I bake something on the equinox. Baking today didn't really seem like a great idea to me because three days ago I took all of Basil's shorts out of his dresser due to the cool, autumnal weather we'd been having. This, of course, brought on an immediate heat wave and I've done nothing but sweat ever since. Sweating doesn't really inspire me to bake but Alyssa said it was important so I decided to find that apple cake recipe Elana recited to me the last time she was in town. Somehow the months had passed without me ever making the cake. Today seemed like as good a day as any. My only other plans for the day involved rigging a clothes line on my fence but as soon as I had that thought the sky turned dark with rain storm clouds. Apple cake quickly became priority number one.
I took my eight apples to the table, having decided to peel them, and began dicing them into a buttered baking dish. Basil grabbed a ninth apple and stabbed it with a peeler a few times before pretending it was a mallet made especially for smashing into the dining room table. His apple eventually exploded all over the place and he picked up one, really small speck of apple off of the cutting board and threw it in the baking dish (or "glass basket ball hoop" as he called it). I wondered what his speck of apple would do to the symbolic integrity of my representational apple family and briefly considered an eight week miscarriage I once had. Then I decided to sprinkle cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger over my diced up apple family (and speck) because who's ever even heard of an apple recipe that didn't have cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger in it? I mixed up all of the other ingredients that weren't apples because that seemed like a reasonable thing to do. I spread the batter this created over the apples with a vague memory of thinking this recipe sounded like cobbler when Elana told me about it, (which at the time prompted a heated debate about the difference between a cobbler, a cake, a crisp, and a crumble).
My metaphoric family didn't look quite tucked in enough with the one cup and one cup mixture so I mixed up a second batter and smeared it all over the dish as well. I'm much braver about cooking this year than I used to be. Since my mother gave my children a small flock of chickens I can use all of my mistakes as chicken feed and I no longer share my husband's fear of food waste, even though he has tried at least once to convince me that "chicken feed" is not the same as "not wasting".
Content that my "family" looked comfortable, I slipped my baking dish into the oven and crossed my fingers. Every once in a while I checked on the dish figuring that it required the same "or until golden brown" time everything else I've ever baked has. I don't know how many minutes it took to reach that desired color but I can say it was long enough to nurse Basil to sleep, watch a bit of Victoria Season Three on Amazon Prime, squirt some of that nasty cheese like stuff in a can on some crackers for Dorothy and Israel, call Ariel and tell him one of those, "Israel was so funny but in such a bad way that it was all I could do not to laugh in front of him" stories that he is so fond of, and get a very sad call from a very sad Alyssa sharing with me news of the man she took care of poetically passing away at noon on the equinox.
Here I am; on the equinox, with my children, waiting for a rain storm and for my husband to come home so we can cut into the most attractive (and only) Equinox Cake I've ever baked. I'm feeling overwhelmed with gratitude for my apple family and my actual family and these moments we still have to share together. OH!!! And for whipped cream, which I'm just remembering right at this moment that I made yesterday afternoon and still have lots left over to put on the cake because this is not LA and we can be as plump as we please in Chatham. I am grateful to be overweight in a small town with a big family and I think that is what Mabon might be all about.
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