“Look, look!?”
“Hey! You’re missing something!”
“No, it’s right here in my hand, see?”
“Wow!”
“I’m a big girl now.”
“Oh, yeah? Who told you that you were allowed to grow up?”
“I told myself, Mommy.”
“Okay . . . . Can I still call you peanut?”
Sigh. “Yes.”
Basic Instructions:
1. Drag your kids to the grocery store because no one else is around and your ten-year old’s theory about the minimum legal age that children can be left at home unsupervised isn’t fooling anyone but your six-year old, who is well aware that her sister can reach the cookies in the high cabinet if she uses the stool.
2. Find a box of this while in the baking aisle looking for Splenda packets, because coffee without sweeteners tastes like bitter death, using enough real sugar to compensate is not conducive to health, and a morning without caffeine is bitter death.
3. Ask your kids if they want to make a cake that afternoon and show them the box. Receive one secretly-interested shrug and one excited plea for blue vanilla frosting to match, because it comes with fish-shaped sprinkle thingies—see? See, Mom? Imagining the potential devastation blue frosting could have in the talented hands of your offspring, negotiate down to chocolate frosting and multicolored sprinkles
4. Get home, put away the groceries, examine the back of the box, decide exactly which steps should be done solo, and do them up to the point where you have to divide the batter between six small bowls. Decide that Duff and his crew probably wouldn’t be using margarine containers and oblong Gladware, but remember that no one on this earth would pay you $450 for one of your cakes anyway, and leave the pretty cookware for the pros.
5. Have your kids wash their hands. And again with soap. Dry them. Thank you.
6. Using a fourth-cup measure, have the kids count to make sure the batter is evenly distributed. Carefully open the food coloring packets and have your ten-year old read how much of each goes in each bowl for which color, and have your six-year old count the drops, which she will do with the seriousness of a small bossy child who knows that the entire project is depends on her ability to keep you under strict control.
7. Stir the color into the batter with great enthusiasm and a separate spoon for each bowl. Add a bit more color as needed to make the red “redder” and the purple less blue, Mommy.
8. Prepare the pan of your choice. If you have chosen a bundt pan, because you think the curved shape would be really cool, put it away and use something else. Seriously.
9. Take turns pouring the different colors in the not-bundt pan in ROYGBV layers, using every rubber spatula you own, ignoring any questions about the absence of indigo, and wondering , with sharp 20/20 hindsight, why you didn’t insist on aprons and plastic sheeting. What are you, a rookie?
10. Have fun anyway because it’s impossible not to with this stuff.
11. Bake, as the instructions say, until the cake is done. Ponder that if you were the kind of person who knew even approximately how long that would take, or what the purple-batter-version of “done” might look like, you wouldn’t be the kind of person who needs to use cake mix in the first place. Decide that this is an adventure, set the timer for twenty-five minutes and find your toothpicks.
12. Clean up the kitchen.
13. When the timer screams, test the cake for doneness, put in for a few more minutes for the sheer paranoia of it, and let cool for twenty-five.
14. Invert the pan. The cake will release beautifully, because you paid attention to step 8. If you hadn’t paid attention to step 8, the adjective “beautifully” would hypothetically have been replaced with, “missing most of the red and orange, which is still in the bottom of the pan and will not release in one piece or in any way that can be reattached to the top of the main cake.”**
15. Let the cake cool, carefully brush off the crumbs and ice it while the children are watching tv and no one is around to witness your nonexistent skills at covering a slightly lopsided cake with gooey frosting.
16. Clean up the kitchen.
17. Call the kids in to decorate the entire counter cake with sprinkles. Swear them to secrecy so their Dad will be completely surprised after dinner.
18. Clean up the kitchen.
19. Run interference between their father and their inability to stop hinting that something amazing is up with the cake on the counter.
20. After dinner, cut the cake and step back so the kids can take full credit for everything but the bundt pan, which you didn’t use anyway, right?
21. Make plans to buy another box and do cupcakes this weekend. With blue vanilla frosting and little fish.
Optional:
21. Pack a piece each in your kids’ lunches the next day.
22. Come home from work to hear that all the other kids were amazed at the cake—and that the mean girl whose daily goal, until very recently, was to make your gorgeous older daughter feel like a loser, begged her to ask you to tell her mother the name of the bakery because it’s the coolest cake she has ever seen and her mother would totally buy one—a bigger one—for her birthday party. To which your daughter shrugged and said, “We made it ourselves—because my Mom’s really cool like that.”
Boo-ya.
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*Or Dad, ’cause we’re all about the equal opportunity around here.
**The scraps, however, which you would have hypothetically eaten in frustration, would be hypothetically delicious.
Jane had a friend over Saturday night, which was sincerely fun—her guest is a great kid—but ended up being a platonic game of musical beds, in which Sunny fell asleep in our bed and her friend ended up falling asleep in Sunny’s bed, and instead of trying to put Sunny down in the sleeping bag without a) dropping her from a height that Child Services would deem iffy or b) playing tiddly winks with my vertebrae, I slept on the living couch—which had almost the same effect on my back as option b, but live and learn.
The next morning, after my husband left to teach his Sunday morning class, I made Pokemon Rabbit pancakes* for the remarkably bright and bushy-tailed kids and a staggering amount of coffee for the zombies adults and we all did an MST3K-like viewing of Toy Story 2 (with pillow fight) before Jane’s friend went home and I started cleaning up because my MIL, who had been away for the weekend, was due back that evening and I didn’t want to hear it.**
And then my husband returned and we went to a baseball game.
My friend Cha-Cha came, too, because she’d never seen a live baseball game before—I’m not certain how much of the game she saw, since the kids were there to “enhance” her experience, but a good time was had by all, including the man in front of us, who thought Janie’s explanation of baseball was funny as hell, which was a relief*** because it went on forever, until Cha Cha intervened.
” . . . There’s a fastball (duh), a curveball (which goes like this), and a spitball (which is against the rules and germy), and a slider, and a knuckleball, and—”
“What’s a knuckleball?” I asked, mostly so she’d take a breath. ”Is it the way you hold the ball or something else?”
“It’s like this,” Cha Cha said, grabbing Jane. ”Right?”
“That’s not a knuckleball!” hollered Jane, struggling. ”That’s a noogie!”
Sunny, who was so tired from her late night that she’d come through total exhaustion to the other side, had no interest in baseball but loved that the popcorn comes in plastic helmets. I took her to the bouncy house playground for the last few innings, hoping to wear her out, but she did ten rounds on the Big Slide without making a noticeable dent in her energy level until we had to climb the stairs to get back to our seats.
Our team won the game, too, which was nice.
We went home, where my MIL and Watson were waiting with open arms and some new clothes for the kids, because my MIL’s favorite way of spending her vacation is to buy clothes for everyone else. That isn’t a complaint, by the way, just an amused observation.
While Sunny and Jane did an impromptu fashion show, with music and runway, and my husband did the grocery shopping,*** I dragged myself to the bathroom mirror and realized that a) I’d had a bit more sun than I’d thought and b) it was unlikely that I was going to be awake enough to re-rework the chapter that I’d forced myself to stop messing with the previous evening because my sense of continuity was slipping and I couldn’t see to type through my yawns.
Which is why I’m sitting in front of my laptop today^^ with a layer of aloe on my bright red nose and cheekbones trying to reintegrate a very minor character whom I’d ruthlessly cut before I realized that she’s the one I should have kept instead of the two other minor characters, whose only reason for surviving was an inside joke that no one else would get because I’d cut their set-up.
And why this post was a bit later than usual. Sorry.
So . . . how was your weekend?
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*Because kids won’t eat Deformed Rabbit pancakes, that’s why.
**Except I heard it from my kids, who were upset they’d missed Sunday School and didn’t understand why I can’t provide instant teleportation on command.
***The poor man also had to hear Cha Cha and I discussing our favorite baseball movies (I’ve seen the end of The Natural ten times, but never the whole movie) and sports movies (Does Simply Ballroom count?), and my personal opinion (once Janie left to get drinks with my husband) that umpire pants might look shapeless, but are actually quite flattering (“Watch that one at home plate when he crouches down to—see? Isn’t that nice?”).
^He volunteered because he needed the alone time and I let him because I needed to sit down.
^^I have the day off from the library for good behavior. More or less.
I know I said a while ago that I wasn’t going to muck out clean the kids’ playroom ever, ever again unless applying lighter fluid and a pack of matches counted, but I lied, okay? I might be one of those people whose personal filing system involves geological strata instead of folders but even I like to be able to walk into a room without having to wear steel-toed boots and shin guards.
So that’s what I did most of Saturday, which means the muscles in the back of my legs feel like someone beat me with the two miniature souvenir baseball bats I unearthed two hours into the job, and the hockey stick I sat on a little later.
The kids did help, to their credit, which means I’ve also gone hoarse, as Sunny’s hearing is inversely proportional to her level of boredom.
But everything is mostly in order.
The final harvest this time was two bags for the landfill, three bags of recycling, two bags of donations, and a ridiculously large pile of stuffed animals and dolls I’m going to have to throw out, too, because they can’t easily be washed, disinfected, or repaired and The Velveteen Rabbit is a beautiful lie.
The mess didn’t break my spirit, but this is threatening to break my heart.
The books were easier to pare down than this mountain of formerly-loved creatures.
How can I throw out Carla Baby, gone gray and grubby with love?
How am I supposed to let go of the Pooh Bear that was bigger than Jane when he arrived and kept her safe? Sunny’s one-eared piggie? The Very Hungry Caterpillar whose fuzzy antenna were gummed off by two Very Hungry Babies?
How can I toss the adorable hedgehog with the sock on his head. . . wait. I don’t have to. He’s mine. And the Honeymoon Haggis. Don’t ask.
But how can I possibly give up my children’s childhoods?
I can’t. I just can’t.
Which is why, at the age of forty-cough, I’ve started a Grandparent Box.
I will fill this box with the discarded bits and pieces that Man so much to me because they meant everything to my kids once upon a time.
And when my children grow up and I eventually and inevitably become another one of those discarded things, I will tell my children’s children the stories of the Grandparent Box as they hug the ladybug pillow with the missing spots and kiss the orange nose of the snowman with the tooth-marked buttons.
There is no doubt that, in the fullness of time and in the venerable tradition of my people, I will also bring a box or two whenever I visit and hide them in closets or a corner of the garage when no one’s looking.
You know, just in case the Velveteen Rabbit magic needs a little more time . . .
Sometimes, the only thing that will do is a big ol’ bowlful of warm carbs and calories. Potato soup is my favorite way to fill that bowl.
This recipe is pretty simple, though circumstances often add extra ingredients and steps that aren’t in the original.
Yesterday, in fact.
I’ve placed the original in bold—feel free to leave the rest out.
If you can.
—two long carrots or the equivalent in baby carrots
—two ribs of celery
—six medium all-purpose russet potatoes or the equivalent in whatever size tubers you have handy
—a couple cans or containers of chicken broth, or veggie broth if you prefer (either way, don’t bother with the good stuff)
—a cat with separation anxiety
—one or two onions
—two bored children
—6 Tablespoons butter/margarine
—6 Tablespoons flour, combined with:
—1 teaspoon salt
—½ teaspoon pepper
—garlic powder to taste
—1 ½ cups of milk (I use 1%, because that’s what we have)
—a cell phone, sans headset, with your parents on the line
—shredded cheese (optional)
—cooked, crumbled bacon (optional)
Chop the carrots up small, because they’re only a gesture to nutrition anyway, and toss ‘em in the pot before marauding children can steal them all off the cutting board. De-thread the celery—is there a real cooking term for that?—and do likewise, though there’s no rush because the kids hate celery. Drown ‘em with the chicken broth—the veggies, not the kids—because you have several potatoes to get through and you don’t want the first two to go purple on your cutting board while you deal with the rest. One or two at a time, peel all the vitamins off the potatoes, chop them into bite-sized pieces, and add them to the swimming party. If it looks crowded, add a little water to cover, bring to a boil, cover, and simmer.
Meanwhile, chop the onion into small pieces and call your parents because it’s been about two weeks since you’ve talked to Dad and you keep missing Mom. Talk for a couple of minutes about hot dog calamari and why grandparents should really be the ones to introduce children to the real deal while parents record the event for engagement parties and blogs. Step on the cat’s tail.
Check the veggies after ten minutes—the potatoes are done when they’re soft enough to squish between your fingers, if you were dumb enough to try that with a hot piece of potato, which you won’t be because I am a walking cautionary tale with two burnt fingers. Agree to make Hot Dog calamari for the children because you feel guilty for saying that Bad Word that you aren’t sure if they heard.
Talk to Dad about why the scenes he likes in your WIP he’s reading were edited out in the new draft. Tell your children to stop throwing the ball in the kitchen, please, and if they want to help, they can stand over there and assemble their own dinner. Smile as they evaporate and discuss your parents’ 50th wedding anniversary, which is coming up way too soon.
Put your colander over a saucepan, because you’ll need the cooking liquid later, and drain the veggies. Put the empty pot back on the burner and toss in the butter or margarine to melt it, which it will do quickly, so be ready with the onion, which you will saute until it goes translucent. Alternate stirring with jamming spaghetti into pieces of hotdog, while telling your children again not to play catch in the kitchen and remind them in a tone you will later wish you hadn’t used in your parents hearing that you are on the phone.
Apologize to your parents, pick up the bowl with the flour, salt, pepper, and garlic and step on the cat again. Sweep the spilled flour mixture off the counter and dump it in the pot. Stir until you’ve make an oniony roux and slowly add the milk , stirring constantly until it makes a lovely sauce. End your phone call because you need both hands now. Fold in the cooked veggies, but don’t worry about being careful, since the potatoes are supposed to disintegrate. Much like your sanity.
Add a little of the reserved liquid to the pot to until the soup is the consistency you want and turn the heat as low as it goes. Carry the half-full saucepan to the sink and trip over the cat, drenching yourself in warm chicken broth and hollering at him to get the hell out from under your feet, as he leaps away and crashes into the cabinet. Look up to see your younger child staring at you in disbelief and try to explain that you hadn’t kicked the kitty, honey, you just tripped.
Decide to leave out the bacon because in your current spiral, a house fire or third degree burns seem inevitable. Fill a small bowl with shredded cheese and use a few shreds to bribe the cat into forgiving you before he does something unspeakable somewhere unthinkable.
Clean up the kitchen as the now subdued children set the table, more or less.
Serve the soup, and psuedocalamari, with potato rolls and fresh carrot sticks.
Enjoy a bowl of well-earned comfort food, knowing full well that if you hadn’t decided to make it, you wouldn’t need it so much.
But it’s still worth it.
