Breaking Ice & Making Nice

Boy Troubles

Who knew that as a 30-year-old, married mother of two, I would have boy troubles?

And yet, the Breaking Ice Department of Homeland Security raised the ex-boyfriend threat level today to orange.

Turns out that my high school sweetheart, J, is coming to Seattle this weekend to stand up in a college friend's wedding... which is happening at a church 1/2 mile from my office, and he's likely staying at a hotel just 1/2 mile in the other direction.

I also happen to work on the campus of Seattle Center, one of the city's primary tourist attractions.

Compared to every other day, where he lives in the Midwest, I live in the Pacific Northwest, and the chances of a run-in are infinitesimal, today and tomorrow have a high likelihood for inadvertent reunion.

And I am SO not looking forward to that.

Allow me to enlighten you with a little backstory:

J was one of my very best friends in high school. I clearly remember the moment when, sitting on his parents' couch late one summer night, I decided to kiss him, and therefore permanently alter the dynamic of our friendship. We dated for one year, and I unashamedly declare it remains one of the best years of my life. If J had asked me to marry him that summer after I graduated from high school, I would have said yes. I was in love.

But J was not. Just as quickly as my dreams of a romantic, pre-college summer with my boyfriend began, they ended. He broke up with me because he wanted to enjoy his senior year of high school without the substantial commitment of a long-distance romance.

That summer, J and I would occasionally rendezvous to reminisce about the past (read: we played strip poker in my mother's basement and made out in the crawlspace of his parents' split-level). Turns out, he was also making out with one of my best girlfriends, who had recently broken up with her high school boyfriend, a couple with whom we frequently double-dated. When that dalliance was revealed, J decided to pretend that I do not exist, a ruse that continues to this day.

Exhibit A: Between my junior and senior year of college, I walked into a friend's family room with two other girlfriends. J, who was already in the room, jumped up and bear-hugged both of my friends. Then he sat down and refused to acknowledge my presence for the rest of the evening.

Exhibit B: Shortly after I married and J became engaged, we ran into each other at our childhood church. I went up to say hello; but J barely made eye contact with the CDR or me, and quickly left the lobby. As we headed home that morning, my husband commented, "I have never seen someone dislike another person the way he obviously dislikes you."

Here's the thing: In no way do I pine for this boy, or wish that I had ended up with him. I am so thrilled with my life, and especially with my husband and children. But I am conflicted.

One part of me is tempted to hole up here in my office because I do not want to suffer the hurt that inevitably comes with running into a person whom I trusted with my heart, and called my "best friend;" but who now pretends that I am a useless waste of space.

Another part of me wants to strut my cute spring outfit and beautifully highlighted hair across Seattle Center in the hopes of running into him, just to see if I'm someone he can't afford to ignore any more.

I tend to side with the third, more mature part of me. She wants to blend the hurt young girl with the brazen thirty-something woman by running into another member of the wedding party (and former classmate) who can later say, "J, you'll never believe who I ran into today! And she looks great!"

I think I'll take a walk toward Starbucks and buy myself an iced latte.

Side Note: That girlfriend who also made out with J in our pre-college summer? She apologized for what happened as soon as she realized that I was still in the picture, and she remains to this day one of my very best friends and confidantes. She is a woman that every woman would love to know.

Running on Empty

Two day ago, I planned a party for more than 150 people at a beautiful antique Belgian circus tent in downtown Seattle. I welcomed a wide variety of guests, from elementary school teachers to state senators, and the evening was a resounding success. From Thursday to Monday, I ran on a steady stream of espresso and adrenaline, and now...

Now, I am exhausted.

Today is my first full day back in mom-mode; and, while it feels really good to make three healthy meals, and spend time on the floor playing trains with my boys, I cannot motivate myself to do much more than that.

Actually, that's not true. At night, after the kids are in bed, I can motivate myself to open the bottle of Pinot Noir and pour myself a glass, then toss a few dark chocolate M&Ms into a bowl and head downstairs to sit in front of the television. I have even folded a piece of laundry or two.

But here's the thing: The CDR comes home one week from Saturday, and there are so many things that I intended to do around the house while he was gone. There are so many pounds still taking up contended residence in my midsection that I meant to lose while he was gone. There are so many errands that I planned to run while he was gone.

And now, when push is coming dangerously close to shove, I still can't get myself motivated to prepare for his return.

Sometimes I feel guilty about that. I am, after all, a Type-A, detail-oriented perfectionist with a fairly strong record for meeting deadlines. And I really like making people happy.

Other times, I think, "Hey! I've held down a part-time job, cared for two small children and a dog, and kept a somewhat orderly house. I think that's pretty darn good!" Have I mentioned I'm also lazy and fairly indifferent about clutter and mess?

I think the truth of the matter lies somewhere in the middle. My house does not have to be all Martha-Stewart-perfect for the CDR's homecoming, but I should at least clean up the dirty dishes and change the sheets on our bed. The kids and I do not have to be perfectly groomed and dressed, but I should probably give the kids a bath and shave my legs the night before he comes home. And, at least for the duration of this afternoon's naptime, I'll catch up on General Hospital while I put my abdominal muscles to work.

Don't You "You" Me

Every Wednesday morning, I attend a Mother's Fellowship group at my church. It's a fantastic group of ladies who meet for two hours each week to talk about parenting issues, share our joys and struggles, and drink lots of coffee. Meanwhile, our children enjoy supervised playtime in the newly renovated Child Care Center, which is, quite frankly, far more beautiful and functional than my children's home daycare environment.

I usually enjoy these mornings, so much so that I find my best mom days are Wednesdays, because I come back to my children at 11:30 with a renewed attitude and a refreshed spirit, ready to take on the busy lunch crowd at Panera with a smile.

Today, I came back to my children just plain pissed off. Why? Because our guest speaker spent more than an hour You-ing me.

"You need to be a consultant parent, coming alongside your children instead of leading them through every life challenge."

"You should speak patiently to your child while offering him a logical consequence."

"You get so stressed out that You just yell without thinking. It just comes out of Your mouth."

Now, I'm not going to judge this woman's opinions, and I don't totally disagree with her. In fact, I'm inclined to agree with many of the ideas she presented this morning.

But I cannot stand it when someone tells me how I should feel, or what goes through my mind before I yell. How on earth can you know how I feel? And do you know my children?

I love learning from other parents. I love to hear what bedtime tricks work for their kids. I love to know there are other women out there that struggled with post-partum depression. I love to share information that we've learned from the many child discipline books out there.

But I do not love being You-ed.

How about You?

Calling All Guinea Pigs

Ladies and gentlemen, I am writing a cookbook.

Okay, okay, I don't yet have a publisher. Or an agent. Or a book proposal.

But I'm gonna do it! And here's why.

In the past year, I have come to accept that my children do not appreciate my finer culinary skills. What I refuse to accept, however, is eating toddler food myself. And that's how "Make Mine Gourmet" first found life.

One night, I was dishing up the usual dinner suspects - chicken nuggets, buttered noodles, and peas - when my appetite stood up and said, "No! I will no longer subject myself to toddler food! I demand the gourmet cuisine to which I was accustomed!"

I looked in my refrigerator, then in my freezer, and finally in my pantry, and knew that I could not satisfy my appetite per my "pre-children" standards. So I decided to get creative.

I browned a tablespoon of butter in a small saucepan, then mixed the butter and a handful of peas into a bowl of noodles. I chopped up a few chicken nuggets and scattered them over the top, sprinkled a palmful of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, and finished it with a tablespoon of chopped fresh parsley. Voilà!

Those were the best chicken nuggets I have ever eaten.

Don't get me wrong. I believe in feeding my children fresh, healthy food that isn't shaped like dinosaurs or smooshed into something that vaguely resembles Strawberry Shortcake. But I also know that from time to time, you just need to feed your kid a hot dog, and not feel guilty about it.

I have since created two or three other "Make Mine Gourmet" recipes, and I have a dozen other ideas floating around in my brain (and stomach). In the next few days, I'll formalize a recipe for the meal I just described, as well as the others. I'll also take a picture, because that always does the trick for selling me on a recipe from Smitten Kitchen.

So what do you think? If this sounds yummy to you, post a comment and let me know you're interested in seeing more MMG recipes. You can be my Gourmet Guinea Pigs!

Here's a Tip! The Timing in the Rhyming

Here's a Tip:

As you raise a precocious preschooler, I entreat you, do NOT teach your child rhyming and hockey at the same time. If you do, you will inevitably hear the following one day, and hopefully not in a cavernous and quiet public space:

Hockey lockey jockey tockey rockey.

Goal boal roal toal foal.

Stick lick rick mick d***k.

Puck luck tuck suck f***k.

Not my best and brightest parenthood moment, I know. But you can bet I have catalogued this moment in the "stories for teenage embarrassment" category for future use.

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It STOP!

It snowed on Saturday.

Saturday, March 29, 2008. Seattle, Washington.

Seriously? Seriously.

We had at least an inch of snow on the ground, maybe two.

And it was those big, fluffy white flakes that make you want to run outside and roll a snowman, then curl up under a blanket and sip hot cocoa while your fingers warm up again. It was the kind of snow that makes you want to sing Christmas carols.

Did I mention that it's almost April? Hey, Mother Nature, the clue phone is ringing and it's for you, babe. In case you hadn't glanced at your calendar lately, let me remind you: It's SPRING! What's with all the snow?!?

When we first learned about this assignment, one of the "bright sides" we clung to was the boat's typical schedule: underway for six months, from April to October, home for the other six months. Yes, it's a long time; but at least the CDR would be home for the holidays and gone during the dry, sunny season, when this land of a million parks and outdoor recreational activities really comes to life.

But that's not the way it's worked out. The CDR left for his first big trip in early March, when this land is still covered by clouds and soaked by a cold, persistent mist. And I'm fairly sure I have seasonal affective disorder.

My poor children have suffered through these past three weeks, as the frequent rains have rendered their typically jovial, fairly easygoing mom into a frequently sniping, surprisingly short-tempered witch.

Today was a bright, fairly warm day; so Mo and I spent a good chunk of the morning outside, playing hockey and pruning the bamboo. As a result, I got more done during this afternoon's naptime than I have accomplished in the past three days.

Seriously? Seriously.

I'm hoping for more days like today, not just for my own productivity, but more importantly, for my children's happiness. I have given them far less than the best of me in the last few weeks; and with seven weeks to go before the CDR gets home, something's gotta give. And that something's gotta be this depression.

WebMD says that it takes at least two years to determine whether or not someone has SAD. But I have to act now, for myself and for my boys. So tomorrow, while the kids are in daycare, I'm going to leave work early and buy myself a happy lamp. So long, Sister Sadness. Hello, Little Miss Sunshine.

From the Mind of Mo

Last night I took Mo to see a great basketball game: Valparaiso University vs. University of Washington in the first round of the inaugural College Basketball Invitational. The Valpo Crusaders (my alma mater) upset the UW Huskies 72-71 in a game that rarely went beyond a five-point spread. It was amazing!

(And by the way, if you ever find yourself in an arena full of Husky fans (or what have you) while you're wearing a Valpo sweatshirt and cheering your head off for the Crusaders (or what have you), make sure to bring an adorable preschooler wearing a Husky shirt and Husky Crocs who yells in a quiet moment, "Go Huskies! Come on, guys! Get that basket!" You can rest assured that you will not be lynched as you leave the Arena.)

Anyway, that's not at all the point of my post, but I do like a good digression every now and again, don't you?

So, BEFORE the game, Mo and I stopped by McDonald's to eat a quick dinner. Mo's chicken nuggets were quite hot, so I broke them into smaller pieces to cool. Midway through our meal, I noticed that Mo still had not eaten any nuggets. Caught up in a thousand other thoughts, I mentioned distractedly, "Mo, don't forget your nugget's right there."

Quickly and a little condescendingly, my snarky preschooler replied, "Mom, it's not nugget. It's nugGETSSS. There is more than one nugget in my box."

Yeah. That is definitely my kid.

The Dishes Won't Do Themselves

I've done everything I can think of. I've begged and I've pleaded, cried and cajoled, whimpered and whined, but to no avail.

The dishes won't do themselves.

I had hoped that the CDR might do some of these dishes before he left last Thursday, since many of them were the remains of a weekend visit by his family. But when he finally came to bed on his last night at home, it was nearly midnight and I hadn't the heart to say, "Honey, don't you have some dishes to clean?"

Instead, the dishes have lived a disgustingly dirty and dangerously stacked existence on my kitchen counters, slowly crowding out all productivity until last night's meal was a one-pan Hamburger Helper because, quite frankly, it was the only clean pan I had left.

In my ideal life, my kitchen would be clean every night before I went to bed. I would load the dishwasher; clean the pots, pans, and delicates; then wipe the counters and stove top to a sparkling sheen. In the morning, I would awaken to the luscious smell of Starbucks Colombian Roast, freshly brewed and just waiting for me to pour a cup and enjoy.

In my real life, I rolled out of bed this morning to change the baby's diaper, monitor the potty-training toddler, help the toddler mix pancake batter, and get both kids ready to eat breakfast. Then I took advantage of their brief occupation to shove aside the Leaning Tower of Potsa and access my coffeemaker.

Dang it all! The remnants of yesterday's brew were still floating in the bottom inch of my coffee pot, so I poured out the old stuff and gave the pot a quick hot rinse. And you know, when there's still some coffee floating in the pot, there's probably still some used grounds in the filter basket. So I threw them into my heaping-mound-o-food-waste (our garbage service has a compost program - it feels good to be earth-friendly) and moved forward with increasing urgency, as Kel's pancake bites were almost gone.

Double dang it all! I had no coffee grounds to brew. So I whipped out a new blender cup and poured in some whole beans, then gave it a quick zap in my Magic Bullet. (Thank you, God, for my Magic Bullet.)

Five minutes later, I had my cup of coffee. And even more dirty dishes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dear reader, I did the dishes.

Last night, I developed a theory that if I went to bed when the kids went to bed, I might actually be productive during today's naptime. And I was right!

Instead of sinking into my couch and flipping open People magazine, I stayed in the kitchen for almost two hours, loading and scouring and scrubbing and wiping until every last dish and countertop was clean.

It feels good, that clean kitchen. So good that I took a picture for you to enjoy.

Dang it all! I forgot to clean the coffeemaker!

The Reaper in The Recliner

The CDR left yesterday, and the Grim Reaper moved in.

He swept into the deep, dark rec room of my brain with hood draped menacingly over his eyes, then settled into his hellfire red La-Z-Boy and picked up the remote. He turned on the television with a careless flick of his spindly, calloused finger and leaned back to watch the show.

First on the screen was a harrowing drama about a Coast Guard icebreaker struggling to stay afloat in the Bering Sea, tossed like a toy from wave to wave in the raging storm. Moments later, the ship cracked in half and sank like the Titanic, killing the entire crew (including its strong and stalwart XO).

Bored already and looking for some amusement, the Reaper clicked to another channel. This show played like a sitcom to its viewer, but a tragedy to its players. A mother tried desperately to scrabble up the wall of a vastly black and bottomless pit, while her two young children stood helplessly at the edge, crying and calling her name.

After a few quiet chuckles at the poor woman's helpless plight, the Reaper clicked again. He smiled as a large tractor-trailer crossed the highway divider and slammed into the side of a tan minivan, sending it and its three passengers hurtling across several lanes of traffic and flipping over at the highway's edge.

Suddenly, the door opened and light spilled into the dark room, startling the Reaper and blinding his view.

"Go to hell," I told him.

The smoke from the accident scene seemed to float right through the television screen and into the room, cloaking the Reaper in gray plumes. Gasping for breath, he jumped from his recliner and quickly swept past me with a hateful glare, then darted out the door.

"And don't come back," I whispered. "Don't you ever come back."

MmmMonday: Bananas Foster Breakfast Sandwiches

It's been a long time coming. Welcome to another delicious installment of MmmMondays!

I'm really excited about this post because it's the first "almost-original recipe" that I have shared. I admit to some inspiration from Annabel Karmel's First Meals. But I am pleased as punch with myself for figuring out something that achieves the breakfast trifecta: delicious, nutritious, and a quick-fix!

Bananas Foster Breakfast Sandwiches

   1 ripe banana, sliced on the diagonal
   1/2 Tbsp. butter or butter substitute (we use Smart Balance)
   Maple syrup (pancake syrup doesn't count!)
   Cinnamon (ground)
   2 whole- or honey-wheat English muffins

1. Put the 1/2 Tbsp. butter in a small sauté pan and melt over medium heat.
2. Add the banana slices and cook for 1-2 minutes, until golden brown.
3. Flip the banana slices with a small spatula. Drizzle maple syrup and sprinkle cinnamon over the top, then cook for another minute more. Remove from heat.
4. While the bananas cool slightly, toast the English muffins and spread with butter, peanut butter, honey... whatever your pleasure!
5. Place one-half of each English muffin on its plate, top each with half the sautéed banana slices, and perch the other pieces of muffin halfway over the bananas (it looks so fancy that way). Enjoy!