This past Memorial Day weekend, (except for the tiny little moms who look more like their children's nannies than their mothers) I am the only mommy at the beach club not wearing a cover-up. How do those stick-like moms do it? Do they not eat ice cream? Is it genes? I admire their commitment, whether it's to skipping pasta and dessert or running 5 miles each morning. Work it, girls! You earned it! (Unless it's hereditary...in that case, sigh, some girls have all the luck. Carry on)
I don't want to not be wearing a cover-up. But my 5 year old wants to go in the pool, and even though he's a good swimmer he rightfully asserts it's more fun to go in the pool with mommy. And I've yet to find a cover-up that's underwater-savvy.
And I love being in water. Pools, inside or out. Any ocean. Most lakes and rivers. The tub. I like playing Marco Polo and doing chicken fights. But this winter we had A LOT of snow. And I baked a lot of cookies, breads, cakes and casseroles. And there was a lot of vodka, books and board games. And when the vodka ran out there was always wine. I wasn't able to run throughout the cold months and it was only in late April that I started running again (translation: labored jogging) on a regular basis. The calories accumulated more than the snow.
So, to put it very forgivingly my nearly 5 foot 8 frame is carrying an extra 10-15 pounds. This unwanted extra weight is getting lost slowly but healthfully. When you cease eating 5 banana chocolate chip muffins a day the weight seems to come off pretty easy, although I can't imagine why. No one seems to care about my weight gain. Not my friends or my kids or my husband or my mom. That is, no one except me.
I care deeply about my extra weight when I'm forced to parade into the pool at the beach club in a swim suit. And I realize now how awful it feels to be insecure about your weight because (despite my abundant insecurities) I generally have always felt good about my body. ( I think this stems from my father always telling me, without irony, that I was smart and beautiful when I was going through an awkward stage at 13 even though the potential permanence of my purple glasses, zits and braces must have scared the crap out of him.)
See, I've never had much hatred for my hips and curves. The women whose figures I always idolized and thought were beautiful (whether in my family or on tv) were more voluptuous than skinny. Especially since having two children I feel pretty amazed at what my superhero of a body is capable of. (We don't know what its capable of! Except for eating an entire lasagna during a snow storm. That much is clear.) So this disgust at my body is something new and it makes me feel for women who struggle with body issues on a daily basis. Throughout their whole life. Because how bad must it feel to constantly want to escape from your own body and know that you can't?
Since my husband was off on baby pool duty with our 2 year old and my be-goggled, sun-blocked 5 year old practically had ants in his pants to get into the pool, I steeled myself to molt my cover-up. What was the alternative? Giving up fun pool time with The Big A because I felt like an Orca? Sitting on the sidelines and watching him play alone when I desperately wanted to be in there with him? Warping his young mind by saying "Mommy can't play with you in the pool because Mommy feels fat today." Less so than being an unfortunate model of low self-esteem I feared the disappointed look that would flash across his face as he would surely doubt my intelligence while probably asserting "Mommy that's dumb."
So I did it. I stripped off the cover-up, tugged my bright pink one piece down to cover an escaped butt cheek, adjusted my straps and walked the length of the pool over to the steps with as much panache as I could muster. No one even seemed to notice me, let enough laugh or leer. Except that there was one dad sitting on the side of the pool with his wife and toddler. He was wearing a visor and full-on staring at me. I knew the water would be freezing (hence why only a handful of kids were in, and no parents) but I slipped into the pool to The Big A's delight and began swimming after him.
I was surprised when Visor Dad raised his visor at me.
"I have to say something" he said.
"Okay." I said cautiously.
"I have never seen someone enter a 50 degree pool so...elegantly. You just walked right in, like it was nothing. No squealing. You're tough," he said admiringly.
"It's true!" affirmed his wife. "You couldn't get us in there!"
I was touched by this unexpected compliment. I was both glad to be in the pool playing with my son and even a little ashamed I had felt so uncomfortable with my body to begin with. I wondered, in a flash, if my extra padding even made the freezing water more tolerable.
I smiled at them. The cold never bothered me anyway.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
French Fries and Forgiveness
"Watch closely" said my husband, The Big G, as hit bit into a cheeseburger and stared at our 5 year old son, The Big A. "This is the only time that you will ever see your father eating fast food."
We were at Wendy's somewhere in northern Pennsylvania driving back from Niagara Falls this past weekend. Though it's strange, but true, I have known my husband 15 years and this was the first time I'd ever seen him eat fast food.
"Daddy," said The Big A, "can you please relax? Mommy says everything in mon-er-AY-shun"
"Yes!" I chorused as I dipped a fry in ketchup. "Everything in moderation! Now, are you gonna eat those fries?" I asked of my 2 year old, Little D. I took her silence for consent (she was busy with her straw wrapper) and went for it. A few minutes later she frowned at her empty container "Where my fry go?" she wondered. I unashamedly pointed to Big G as he polished off his burger.
"Honestly?" Big G mused "This was actually pretty good."
The menu on the 8 hour ride home was vastly different from the cuisine served on the 8 hour drive to our destination. For the ride up there I had packed a homemade tofu brown rice salad, raw carrots, strawberries, grapes, grilled chicken and a bunch of bananas along with some dark chocolate brownies. Having exhausted our rations on the trip up we knew we'd have to stop somewhere on the trip back. I just never thought it would be here.
My husband is VERY AGAINST fast food. It's gross. It's fattening. It's full of chemicals. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I don't even need to make a case against fast food because it's too easy a target. There nothing I can write here that we don't all already know. But Big G is a man who drinks a scary concoction of something called Mighty Greens most mornings which bubbles up like thick green sludge. I drink it occasionally and I can assure you it tastes just as it looks -- like grass and soil mashed up in a blender.
Big G gets VERY UPSET when any of the grandparents or that super-indulgent Aunt V treats the kids to a Happy Meal. I have too many other things to get upset about besides my children being taken out for the occasional junk food, especially when it's not by me. They know it's a treat and their dad reminds them of how awful fast food is on a regular basis with flow charts drawing a parallel between quarter pounders and global warming.
So it was kind of surprising when we stopped at a Wendy's for a bathroom break, and my children, having been in the car for ages and being extremely hungry, looked around the brightly lit, welcoming space of the fast food place and asked "Can we please eat here?" and my husband said "Yes!" No one was more surprised than me. I almost ordered a Frosty Dairy Dessert on the spot to commemorate the monumental occasion.
Big A's eyes became more saucer-like than usual.
"Daddy just said we can eat fast food! I want a hamburger, a hot dog, fries, a chocolate milk and chicken nuggets!" he said excitedly, (obviously having no idea how this whole thing goes).
"They don't have hot dogs here," I corrected him. "And you can have a hamburger OR a chicken nuggets....not both."
And I had a rare, surprising moment of peace, happiness and clarity.
I know this may sound bizarre, considering the result was eating fast food, but I was really happy that Big G was stepping out of his comfort zone. He wasn't judging me or the kids but most importantly he wasn't judging himself. When you have clung onto a tightly-held assumption for (at least) 15 years, it can be very hard to let go. ( Perhaps, much like a comet, 15 more years will pass until I see him eating fast food again.)
Because it would seem in that moment Big G was willing to forgive himself for not making the perfect choice as a parent.
But he didn't torture himself that he was somehow lacking because he was letting his children eat grease and fat. He didn't suddenly announce "Now you can eat Wendy's once a week, kids!" and nor did he moan guiltily throughout the meal about what a bad parent he was for allowing such nutritional blasphemy to occur. We had a jovial meal that did not need to be eaten on a bench outside a rest stop.
We got back into the car until a half hour later when both of my children, their bodies not accustomed to this kind of food, had the runs.
Big G felt really bad about that and quite regretful about the french fry frenzy he had orchestrated and condoned but I hope it didn't detract from his ability to be spontaneous and forgive himself for making the wrong choice.
I have a lot of trouble forgiving myself when I make a misstep with the kids. I was rushing Big A out the house so quickly yesterday (he moving at the speed of a tortoise dripping in molasses) that I finally gave up, grabbed his arm and pulled him along with me.
"Mommy, that hurts!" he exclaimed.
I immediately felt awful, got out the boxing gloves and began going Floyd Mayweather all over myself. I shouldn't have been rushing. I should have budgeted more time. I should have been more patient. Big A is only five. I shouldn't have grabbed his arm. I should control my frustration more. After a few minutes, I was convinced that I was unfit to parent even a hermit crab.
I don't want to do this to myself anymore.
If a friend shared that story with me, putting herself in my place, I would have assured her that she is a wonderful mom. That she asked Big A FIVE TIMES to put on his shoes and walk into the garage before she blew her stack. That she's human and we all make mistakes.
So I'm trying to forgive myself for not being the perfect mom and not always making the right choices. And it's nice to see when my partner can do that also.
I believe a lot of the moms of our generation beat themselves up. For not being present enough. For being too present. For not being firm enough. For being too firm. I bought the organic milk, but not the eggs. I work too hard and don't spend enough time with my kids. I don't work hard enough and I'm setting a bad example for my daughters. I yelled too loud. I lost my temper too soon. I was just sick of going to the park and I kept them inside on a sunny day watching Finding Nemo. The self-doubt runs as rampant as a toddler with a kazoo. Please take your gloves off. Mine are taped on with duct tape but I am trying desperately hard to stop boxing myself into a nosebleed for not being perfect.
So if you're reading this blog and you occasionally give your children fast food (or do anything else that's not optimal parenting), I think you are a wonderful mother or father. Don't feel guilty. I'm sure you encourage them to eat their greens the rest of time.
We were at Wendy's somewhere in northern Pennsylvania driving back from Niagara Falls this past weekend. Though it's strange, but true, I have known my husband 15 years and this was the first time I'd ever seen him eat fast food.
"Daddy," said The Big A, "can you please relax? Mommy says everything in mon-er-AY-shun"
"Yes!" I chorused as I dipped a fry in ketchup. "Everything in moderation! Now, are you gonna eat those fries?" I asked of my 2 year old, Little D. I took her silence for consent (she was busy with her straw wrapper) and went for it. A few minutes later she frowned at her empty container "Where my fry go?" she wondered. I unashamedly pointed to Big G as he polished off his burger.
"Honestly?" Big G mused "This was actually pretty good."
The menu on the 8 hour ride home was vastly different from the cuisine served on the 8 hour drive to our destination. For the ride up there I had packed a homemade tofu brown rice salad, raw carrots, strawberries, grapes, grilled chicken and a bunch of bananas along with some dark chocolate brownies. Having exhausted our rations on the trip up we knew we'd have to stop somewhere on the trip back. I just never thought it would be here.
My husband is VERY AGAINST fast food. It's gross. It's fattening. It's full of chemicals. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I don't even need to make a case against fast food because it's too easy a target. There nothing I can write here that we don't all already know. But Big G is a man who drinks a scary concoction of something called Mighty Greens most mornings which bubbles up like thick green sludge. I drink it occasionally and I can assure you it tastes just as it looks -- like grass and soil mashed up in a blender.
Big G gets VERY UPSET when any of the grandparents or that super-indulgent Aunt V treats the kids to a Happy Meal. I have too many other things to get upset about besides my children being taken out for the occasional junk food, especially when it's not by me. They know it's a treat and their dad reminds them of how awful fast food is on a regular basis with flow charts drawing a parallel between quarter pounders and global warming.
So it was kind of surprising when we stopped at a Wendy's for a bathroom break, and my children, having been in the car for ages and being extremely hungry, looked around the brightly lit, welcoming space of the fast food place and asked "Can we please eat here?" and my husband said "Yes!" No one was more surprised than me. I almost ordered a Frosty Dairy Dessert on the spot to commemorate the monumental occasion.
Big A's eyes became more saucer-like than usual.
"Daddy just said we can eat fast food! I want a hamburger, a hot dog, fries, a chocolate milk and chicken nuggets!" he said excitedly, (obviously having no idea how this whole thing goes).
"They don't have hot dogs here," I corrected him. "And you can have a hamburger OR a chicken nuggets....not both."
And I had a rare, surprising moment of peace, happiness and clarity.
I know this may sound bizarre, considering the result was eating fast food, but I was really happy that Big G was stepping out of his comfort zone. He wasn't judging me or the kids but most importantly he wasn't judging himself. When you have clung onto a tightly-held assumption for (at least) 15 years, it can be very hard to let go. ( Perhaps, much like a comet, 15 more years will pass until I see him eating fast food again.)
Because it would seem in that moment Big G was willing to forgive himself for not making the perfect choice as a parent.
But he didn't torture himself that he was somehow lacking because he was letting his children eat grease and fat. He didn't suddenly announce "Now you can eat Wendy's once a week, kids!" and nor did he moan guiltily throughout the meal about what a bad parent he was for allowing such nutritional blasphemy to occur. We had a jovial meal that did not need to be eaten on a bench outside a rest stop.
We got back into the car until a half hour later when both of my children, their bodies not accustomed to this kind of food, had the runs.
Big G felt really bad about that and quite regretful about the french fry frenzy he had orchestrated and condoned but I hope it didn't detract from his ability to be spontaneous and forgive himself for making the wrong choice.
I have a lot of trouble forgiving myself when I make a misstep with the kids. I was rushing Big A out the house so quickly yesterday (he moving at the speed of a tortoise dripping in molasses) that I finally gave up, grabbed his arm and pulled him along with me.
"Mommy, that hurts!" he exclaimed.
I immediately felt awful, got out the boxing gloves and began going Floyd Mayweather all over myself. I shouldn't have been rushing. I should have budgeted more time. I should have been more patient. Big A is only five. I shouldn't have grabbed his arm. I should control my frustration more. After a few minutes, I was convinced that I was unfit to parent even a hermit crab.
I don't want to do this to myself anymore.
If a friend shared that story with me, putting herself in my place, I would have assured her that she is a wonderful mom. That she asked Big A FIVE TIMES to put on his shoes and walk into the garage before she blew her stack. That she's human and we all make mistakes.
So I'm trying to forgive myself for not being the perfect mom and not always making the right choices. And it's nice to see when my partner can do that also.
I believe a lot of the moms of our generation beat themselves up. For not being present enough. For being too present. For not being firm enough. For being too firm. I bought the organic milk, but not the eggs. I work too hard and don't spend enough time with my kids. I don't work hard enough and I'm setting a bad example for my daughters. I yelled too loud. I lost my temper too soon. I was just sick of going to the park and I kept them inside on a sunny day watching Finding Nemo. The self-doubt runs as rampant as a toddler with a kazoo. Please take your gloves off. Mine are taped on with duct tape but I am trying desperately hard to stop boxing myself into a nosebleed for not being perfect.
So if you're reading this blog and you occasionally give your children fast food (or do anything else that's not optimal parenting), I think you are a wonderful mother or father. Don't feel guilty. I'm sure you encourage them to eat their greens the rest of time.
Night Out
On Friday night, I said a quick “Hail Mary”, gulped down a
glass of wine and boldly went off to a fancy schmancy Italian restaurant with both
my children (Little D, age 2 and Big A, age 5) to celebrate my parents’ 45th
wedding anniversary. I’m not a big fan
of taking my young children to a restaurant at night. ( Their presence seems to
disturb the other diners from enjoying their meals and by other diners I mean
me.) But my folks insisted they wanted all four of their grandchildren present
at this dinner so I steeled myself for an evening of eating cold food while I
tried in vain to stop my overactive children from knocking over wine glasses and
wanting to make multiple dashes to the bathroom.
See, the thing is, I know that Little D would be the epitome of a quiet, perfect child, if only I would hypnotize her with a handheld device. But you know I just can’t. My sister and I decreed that our four collective children would get 15 minutes as soon as we arrived to look at pictures (Little D) play Minecraft (Big A) and do whatever (my 9 year old nephew and 7 year old niece) on phones or iPad touches while we all were getting settled and ordering meals. After that, they (and we) were on our own.
I’m not kidding… a huge part of me wanted to just yell “Just let them play! Let them play as much as they want…as long as they want! I’ll just sit here and drink my non-spilled wine, enjoy adult conversation and relish the first pasta I’ve eaten in weeks!” But then I would have missed what happened.
Because here’s what happened. The children roamed to different parts of the table to converse with all of us adults. They also had a spaghetti slurping contest but that's besides the point.
Our son launched into a stand-up comedy routine that lasted about 20 minutes. Every time he thought up another joke or story he would lightly clink his fork on his glass and announce “May I have your attention please?” The aunts and the grandparents were in hysterics. I would have missed Little D doing pull-ups on the back of her chair and snuggling into my sister’s fiancé as she smushed her cheek against his, laughing. I would have missed hearing all about my nephew’s last baseball game and I would have missed the opportunity to answer his question “What does the word racist mean?” If the children were quiet and sorted, staring slack-jawed at their hand-held devices, I never would have gotten to hear my niece’s hopes and dreams about her attire for an upcoming family wedding. “Why CAN’T I be the bride?” she asked reasonably “My communion gown would be perfect!”
See, the thing is, I know that Little D would be the epitome of a quiet, perfect child, if only I would hypnotize her with a handheld device. But you know I just can’t. My sister and I decreed that our four collective children would get 15 minutes as soon as we arrived to look at pictures (Little D) play Minecraft (Big A) and do whatever (my 9 year old nephew and 7 year old niece) on phones or iPad touches while we all were getting settled and ordering meals. After that, they (and we) were on our own.
I’m not kidding… a huge part of me wanted to just yell “Just let them play! Let them play as much as they want…as long as they want! I’ll just sit here and drink my non-spilled wine, enjoy adult conversation and relish the first pasta I’ve eaten in weeks!” But then I would have missed what happened.
Because here’s what happened. The children roamed to different parts of the table to converse with all of us adults. They also had a spaghetti slurping contest but that's besides the point.
Our son launched into a stand-up comedy routine that lasted about 20 minutes. Every time he thought up another joke or story he would lightly clink his fork on his glass and announce “May I have your attention please?” The aunts and the grandparents were in hysterics. I would have missed Little D doing pull-ups on the back of her chair and snuggling into my sister’s fiancé as she smushed her cheek against his, laughing. I would have missed hearing all about my nephew’s last baseball game and I would have missed the opportunity to answer his question “What does the word racist mean?” If the children were quiet and sorted, staring slack-jawed at their hand-held devices, I never would have gotten to hear my niece’s hopes and dreams about her attire for an upcoming family wedding. “Why CAN’T I be the bride?” she asked reasonably “My communion gown would be perfect!”
And yet, the night culminated in Big A belching so loudly I thought a
wild boar had somehow sneaked under our table. “Excuse me!” he called over to
the adjacent table of two well dressed couples in their mid-50s. That’s when my husband and I went over to
make our customary apologies.
“I’m very sorry,” I began. “I apologize for my children’s behavior. We usually don’t take them out to a restaurant this late but my parents insisted-”
“Oh no!” said the woman in pearls. “They were so well behaved!”
“Thank you for lying to our faces.” my husband nodded.
“Really,” said the man sitting with her. “We barely noticed they were there at first. And then we heard them having such great conversation with you all.”
“Really?” I asked dubiously. “You weren’t bothered?”
“Oh no!” said the other blond woman. “We all have children in their 20s and it seems like just yesterday they were toddlers.”
“Even when he burped?” my husband said suspiciously.
“He said ‘Excuse me’” the blond reassured us.
“I just loved,” said her companion “how we could see your kids’ faces. They weren’t huddled over their phones. Your baby daughter has such a gorgeous face.”
At that moment, Little D of the gorgeous face had messed up her hair so badly from climbing about various laps that she looked like a cross between a hedgehog and Albert Einstein. Big A was in the midst of telling a joke about omelettes.
“I’m very sorry,” I began. “I apologize for my children’s behavior. We usually don’t take them out to a restaurant this late but my parents insisted-”
“Oh no!” said the woman in pearls. “They were so well behaved!”
“Thank you for lying to our faces.” my husband nodded.
“Really,” said the man sitting with her. “We barely noticed they were there at first. And then we heard them having such great conversation with you all.”
“Really?” I asked dubiously. “You weren’t bothered?”
“Oh no!” said the other blond woman. “We all have children in their 20s and it seems like just yesterday they were toddlers.”
“Even when he burped?” my husband said suspiciously.
“He said ‘Excuse me’” the blond reassured us.
“I just loved,” said her companion “how we could see your kids’ faces. They weren’t huddled over their phones. Your baby daughter has such a gorgeous face.”
At that moment, Little D of the gorgeous face had messed up her hair so badly from climbing about various laps that she looked like a cross between a hedgehog and Albert Einstein. Big A was in the midst of telling a joke about omelettes.
“Omelettes?” I called over to him.
“Yes,” he yelled over “Breasts. Like on ladies. I call them omelettes”.
The foursome pealed into laughter as my husband and I slunk
back to the table in embarrassment.
But besides that mortification, it was a joy to be
interacting with all four children, cracking up at both their bon mots and their
embarrassing moments. And I’d like to
think that we were teaching them something about learning the art of
conversation and how special restaurant meals can be when you don’t check out into a
game of Angry Birds but enjoy laughter and debate with your dining companions.
These hand-held devices can be a Godsend when you need to
occupy your child for a short period of time and certainly the kids enjoy them.
Yes, it bothers me when there’s a christening at church and there’s a kid in
the front row playing on an iPod. Yes, it saddens me when I’m at the Molly
Pitcher bar, having dinner with my mom and sisters and a child is PITCHING A
FIT, complete with high pitched shrieking and kicking when Mom and Dad say it’s
time to put his electronic game away because his chicken fingers are getting cold. I was horrified at a play date last week when
Big A had access to an iPad and he burst into sobbing tears when I told him it
was time to shut it down. So once,
again, everything in moderation.
But after the joy of Friday's dinner I think I just might put on embargo on screen time when we're out to eat, even at the expense of good behavior. And next time, we're having omelettes.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Kindergarteners in Love
Since I wrote about the topic of marriage last week, it's seems only natural to follow up with some ruminations about falling in love. But in this entry it's not me but my 5 year old.
My 5 year old, The Big A, (despite a penchant for attending musical theater) is your typical boy. He loves Minecraft, Star Wars and Angry Birds. He adores drawing but his subject matter is limited to the aforementioned three topics. He likes play fighting and wrestling. Words like "butt" or "toilet bowl" are the height of humor to him and at this year's Easter egg hunt he refused to pick up any pink or purple eggs on principle because they were "girly colors". I've heard him mutter "Boys rule, girls drool" a few times. I put that smack down on that so he later amended it to "Kids rule, grown-ups drool". This year, unlike last year in pre-school, nearly ALL of his play dates have been with boys. So, keep in mind he's identifying more with his own gender and also keep in mind that every time he cracks up when someone "toots" I realize that there's not a lot of deep thinking going on here.
So imagine my surprise when, a few weeks ago, I was putting him to bed and this conversation happened. VERBATIM.
Big A: (staring up at the ceiling) Mom, I think I'm falling in love with Faith.
Me: (having fallen off the bed) What?
Big A: I've fallen in love with Faith.
I recalled a cute little girl with long hair. I began to grin and tried to stifle laugher at what my 5 year old was earnestly telling me.
Big A: (raising an eyebrown) Are you crying?
Me: No. I was laughing.
Big A: Because sometimes people cry when they're happy. It's okay to cry.
Me: (equally shocked by his observation) Yes, that's true. But I wasn't crying. I'm happy, though. Falling in love is good. Does Faith know?
Big A: (begins grinning) Yes.
Me: Well, does she feel the same way?
Big A: I think so.
Me: How do you know?
Big A: We play on the playground together a lot. She pretends to be Princess Toadstool. And I'm Mario. And I save her and bring her snacks.
(Ah -- the bringing of snack offerings to your lady. The cornerstone of any successful relationship. Big A's father has taught him well.)
Me: That seems about right.
Big A: Yes, when someone is in love with you, they like to spend time with you.
(So true, Little Grasshopper, so true!)
Me: Well, I think Faith is lovely!
Big A: (somewhat annoyed) Maa-omm! It's not how she looks on the outside. It's what's on the inside that counts.
Me: shocked silence
Big A: (concluding) She is pretty though.
My eyes bugged out of my head as I pondered the level of self-awareness being expressed by this little person who is usually smashing something with his foam sword or whining to play on his father's phone and eat jellybeans, usually simultaneously. I stared at my child as I wondered where all of this was coming from. Although we're both free with kisses and I-love-yous when we're coming or going, my husband and I rarely prance around the house beaming at each other while proclaiming "I'm in love with you!" I had no idea where Big A was getting all this "in love" business from as even the nomenclature he was using seemed so foreign to me.
(A few days later I found out that the children have been watching Frozen all winter long during lunch so perhaps he drew inspiration from there.)
Big A ended the conversation by rolling over and saying "I'm going to sleep now. I still want to be a train engineer, a golfer and a farmer when I grow up. But I'm also going to be Faith's husband."
Me: Well, she has to agree to that. Rather than jumping the gun, maybe we could start by inviting her over for a play date?
Big A: That would be great! And I'm going to invite her to my birthday party.
Love hasn't yet become complicated for The Big A. Find someone you like to hang out and eat with and invite them over your house and....that's amore!
My 5 year old, The Big A, (despite a penchant for attending musical theater) is your typical boy. He loves Minecraft, Star Wars and Angry Birds. He adores drawing but his subject matter is limited to the aforementioned three topics. He likes play fighting and wrestling. Words like "butt" or "toilet bowl" are the height of humor to him and at this year's Easter egg hunt he refused to pick up any pink or purple eggs on principle because they were "girly colors". I've heard him mutter "Boys rule, girls drool" a few times. I put that smack down on that so he later amended it to "Kids rule, grown-ups drool". This year, unlike last year in pre-school, nearly ALL of his play dates have been with boys. So, keep in mind he's identifying more with his own gender and also keep in mind that every time he cracks up when someone "toots" I realize that there's not a lot of deep thinking going on here.
So imagine my surprise when, a few weeks ago, I was putting him to bed and this conversation happened. VERBATIM.
Big A: (staring up at the ceiling) Mom, I think I'm falling in love with Faith.
Me: (having fallen off the bed) What?
Big A: I've fallen in love with Faith.
I recalled a cute little girl with long hair. I began to grin and tried to stifle laugher at what my 5 year old was earnestly telling me.
Big A: (raising an eyebrown) Are you crying?
Me: No. I was laughing.
Big A: Because sometimes people cry when they're happy. It's okay to cry.
Me: (equally shocked by his observation) Yes, that's true. But I wasn't crying. I'm happy, though. Falling in love is good. Does Faith know?
Big A: (begins grinning) Yes.
Me: Well, does she feel the same way?
Big A: I think so.
Me: How do you know?
Big A: We play on the playground together a lot. She pretends to be Princess Toadstool. And I'm Mario. And I save her and bring her snacks.
(Ah -- the bringing of snack offerings to your lady. The cornerstone of any successful relationship. Big A's father has taught him well.)
Me: That seems about right.
Big A: Yes, when someone is in love with you, they like to spend time with you.
(So true, Little Grasshopper, so true!)
Me: Well, I think Faith is lovely!
Big A: (somewhat annoyed) Maa-omm! It's not how she looks on the outside. It's what's on the inside that counts.
Me: shocked silence
Big A: (concluding) She is pretty though.
My eyes bugged out of my head as I pondered the level of self-awareness being expressed by this little person who is usually smashing something with his foam sword or whining to play on his father's phone and eat jellybeans, usually simultaneously. I stared at my child as I wondered where all of this was coming from. Although we're both free with kisses and I-love-yous when we're coming or going, my husband and I rarely prance around the house beaming at each other while proclaiming "I'm in love with you!" I had no idea where Big A was getting all this "in love" business from as even the nomenclature he was using seemed so foreign to me.
(A few days later I found out that the children have been watching Frozen all winter long during lunch so perhaps he drew inspiration from there.)
Big A ended the conversation by rolling over and saying "I'm going to sleep now. I still want to be a train engineer, a golfer and a farmer when I grow up. But I'm also going to be Faith's husband."
Me: Well, she has to agree to that. Rather than jumping the gun, maybe we could start by inviting her over for a play date?
Big A: That would be great! And I'm going to invite her to my birthday party.
Love hasn't yet become complicated for The Big A. Find someone you like to hang out and eat with and invite them over your house and....that's amore!
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
For Better or For Worse
I never dreamed that when I bumped into a tall surfer dude at Brannigan's in 1999 he would wind up being anything to me but a guy buying me a drink. I didn't realize until years later how pivotal that moment would be to changing the course of the rest of my life. But it's only now, when The Big G and I have been together nearly 15 years (and married for 11) that I realize just how far we've come. And quite frankly, considering that I was a 22 year old amoeba when I met him I'm shocked at how well things have worked out...or that they've worked out at all.
All around us, friends' marriages have crumbled. Six weddings we attended in our 20s ended in divorce and in the past two years alone we've attended 3 second weddings of some of those same people. And I will be the first to admit, I understand the high divorce rate, because marriage is really, really hard. And although I pray Big G and I will never have to go through it, I don't have any judgment on concept of divorce in general. While some marriages can transcend infidelity, some cannot. No woman should stay with a man who physically or verbally abuses them (and vice-versa)and for every person that insists they want to "keep our marriage together for the sake of the children" I would argue to be careful -- if you are showing your children an indifferent, passionless union based sheerly on finances or function then THAT is the model they will try to emulate one day when they are looking for a partner. But for The Big G and I, well, it's pretty safe to say, that at this moment in time, marriage is our jam.
When Big G and I made it to eleven years this past weekend, we got a lot of congratulations from a number of other married couples. "This is A BIG accomplishment" they would say with a knowing look. Because they know. They know how hard it can be to have to constantly compromise, put each other's needs first and sometimes even go to bed angry. It can be exhausting. And what I tell any bride-to-be who expresses admiration of my own long-standing, seemingly happy relationship is this -- "No matter how good a man is...no matter how giving, loving or amazing with the children...no matter how considerate he is about sending flowers and taking care of you when you're sick and always supporting your dreams...at some point...I promise you, you will literally have the urge to smack him across the face with a toilet seat."
You won't DO IT of course. That erodes trust and anyway it's illegal. Physical violence is never the answer. But what I'm trying to say is that there will be times in your marriage when you will have feelings so overwhelming you will not know what to do with them. Some of them (like when your husband takes your parents to brunch two weekends in a row, spirits the kids out for a bike ride so you can sleep late and then plants you a surprise rose bush) will be such powerful waves of love and gratitude that you think you might die if you ever lost your soulmate. Other feelings, like the one when he insisted on leaving your grandfather's 85th birthday between dinner and cake to "go for a quick jog"...are not as delightful. True story. I still have no idea why the Big G did that...we weren't dating very long at that point and I guess he didn't realize the importance of long gatherings in my family where you eat dinner twice and dessert all day long.
But when these brides-to-be wrinkle their noses at me, never imagining that they will ever feel anything but goo-goo over their betrothed I only chuckle quietly to myself, thinking they've never had a husband decide to wax all of his surfboards in your dining room one hour before you were hosting 15 friends for a tea party. Marriage is hard. Yes, it's rewarding and comforting and exhilarating but it's also hard. Please, don't say it's not.
Then, you have children. And for realz, you look at this man that you married...and you see him tenderly caring for your children, giving the bottles, exclaiming delightedly over their 1000th drawing of an angry bird and you literally think to yourself "My God. Just when I thought that I couldn't love you any more I have developed this deeper, even more profound bond with you because we are the only two people in this world who will ever feel the same way about our children." And then you come home one night and you realize that the neat home you left before going to the PTO meeting looks like a bomb hit it, and your husband and children are happily eating chocolate ice cream IN YOUR BED, it's 9 pm and your two year old actually is wearing a pair of her brother's Batman underpants on her head. "They're clean...they just came out of the dryer" your husband grins at you, as if that's the only thing wrong with this scene.
And that's when you pour a tankard of wine, call your sister and bitch incoherently about men in general. This is the reality of marriage. It's sometimes ugly. It doesn't mean that I don't love, cherish, honor and respect The Big G. He's really the only one for me. My rock. The guy who brought me the watermelon 15 years ago and stole my heart in the process. No man I've ever met before or since Big G has ever been this perfect for me. But please don't think it's been easy. It hasn't. Because, (say it with me now!) marriage is hard.
Was I told marriage is hard before I entered into the marriage? Perhaps someone mentioned it to me but I just didn't listen. But to be so challenged by someone, so loved and still, so incredibly surprised as I am by The Big G makes all of the hard times worth it. The hard times exist in any marriage. Someone tries to come between you. Tensions with extended family can run high. There's money struggles. A child gets sick. Work is stressful. But it's all ours and between The Big G and I there's a lot of laughing going on.
Because we have a happy, fulfilling, extraordinary union. But don't think it hasn't been without it's bumps and messes because we're certainly had our share. And our mishaps haven't detracted from our relationship, they only serve to strengthen it. So Happy Anniversary to us for making it this far...and to all the rest of you who know how hard it is to nurture and maintain a marriage. And to those of you who are still looking for your price, fear not. I guarantee he's on his way, and he's getting here as fast as he can. And when he does, I will assure you that the occasional urge to hit him with a toilet seat is perfectly natural.
All around us, friends' marriages have crumbled. Six weddings we attended in our 20s ended in divorce and in the past two years alone we've attended 3 second weddings of some of those same people. And I will be the first to admit, I understand the high divorce rate, because marriage is really, really hard. And although I pray Big G and I will never have to go through it, I don't have any judgment on concept of divorce in general. While some marriages can transcend infidelity, some cannot. No woman should stay with a man who physically or verbally abuses them (and vice-versa)and for every person that insists they want to "keep our marriage together for the sake of the children" I would argue to be careful -- if you are showing your children an indifferent, passionless union based sheerly on finances or function then THAT is the model they will try to emulate one day when they are looking for a partner. But for The Big G and I, well, it's pretty safe to say, that at this moment in time, marriage is our jam.
When Big G and I made it to eleven years this past weekend, we got a lot of congratulations from a number of other married couples. "This is A BIG accomplishment" they would say with a knowing look. Because they know. They know how hard it can be to have to constantly compromise, put each other's needs first and sometimes even go to bed angry. It can be exhausting. And what I tell any bride-to-be who expresses admiration of my own long-standing, seemingly happy relationship is this -- "No matter how good a man is...no matter how giving, loving or amazing with the children...no matter how considerate he is about sending flowers and taking care of you when you're sick and always supporting your dreams...at some point...I promise you, you will literally have the urge to smack him across the face with a toilet seat."
You won't DO IT of course. That erodes trust and anyway it's illegal. Physical violence is never the answer. But what I'm trying to say is that there will be times in your marriage when you will have feelings so overwhelming you will not know what to do with them. Some of them (like when your husband takes your parents to brunch two weekends in a row, spirits the kids out for a bike ride so you can sleep late and then plants you a surprise rose bush) will be such powerful waves of love and gratitude that you think you might die if you ever lost your soulmate. Other feelings, like the one when he insisted on leaving your grandfather's 85th birthday between dinner and cake to "go for a quick jog"...are not as delightful. True story. I still have no idea why the Big G did that...we weren't dating very long at that point and I guess he didn't realize the importance of long gatherings in my family where you eat dinner twice and dessert all day long.
But when these brides-to-be wrinkle their noses at me, never imagining that they will ever feel anything but goo-goo over their betrothed I only chuckle quietly to myself, thinking they've never had a husband decide to wax all of his surfboards in your dining room one hour before you were hosting 15 friends for a tea party. Marriage is hard. Yes, it's rewarding and comforting and exhilarating but it's also hard. Please, don't say it's not.
Then, you have children. And for realz, you look at this man that you married...and you see him tenderly caring for your children, giving the bottles, exclaiming delightedly over their 1000th drawing of an angry bird and you literally think to yourself "My God. Just when I thought that I couldn't love you any more I have developed this deeper, even more profound bond with you because we are the only two people in this world who will ever feel the same way about our children." And then you come home one night and you realize that the neat home you left before going to the PTO meeting looks like a bomb hit it, and your husband and children are happily eating chocolate ice cream IN YOUR BED, it's 9 pm and your two year old actually is wearing a pair of her brother's Batman underpants on her head. "They're clean...they just came out of the dryer" your husband grins at you, as if that's the only thing wrong with this scene.
And that's when you pour a tankard of wine, call your sister and bitch incoherently about men in general. This is the reality of marriage. It's sometimes ugly. It doesn't mean that I don't love, cherish, honor and respect The Big G. He's really the only one for me. My rock. The guy who brought me the watermelon 15 years ago and stole my heart in the process. No man I've ever met before or since Big G has ever been this perfect for me. But please don't think it's been easy. It hasn't. Because, (say it with me now!) marriage is hard.
Was I told marriage is hard before I entered into the marriage? Perhaps someone mentioned it to me but I just didn't listen. But to be so challenged by someone, so loved and still, so incredibly surprised as I am by The Big G makes all of the hard times worth it. The hard times exist in any marriage. Someone tries to come between you. Tensions with extended family can run high. There's money struggles. A child gets sick. Work is stressful. But it's all ours and between The Big G and I there's a lot of laughing going on.
Because we have a happy, fulfilling, extraordinary union. But don't think it hasn't been without it's bumps and messes because we're certainly had our share. And our mishaps haven't detracted from our relationship, they only serve to strengthen it. So Happy Anniversary to us for making it this far...and to all the rest of you who know how hard it is to nurture and maintain a marriage. And to those of you who are still looking for your price, fear not. I guarantee he's on his way, and he's getting here as fast as he can. And when he does, I will assure you that the occasional urge to hit him with a toilet seat is perfectly natural.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Everyone's A Winner! Or Are They?
I am going to go on record and say that after the age of say, 6, I do not, repeat I DO NOT believe in the notion that every kid should get a trophy. While 90% of success in life is indeed showing up, I don't think you deserve a medal just for doing so.
I was on a run (translation: a slow, labored jog) this morning with my sister Chrissy and she proudly shared some great news about her 9 year old son (and my nephew) James. James had done an excellent job at playing catcher for his entire baseball game last night, showed exceptional sportsmanship in trying his best and cheering on his teammates and gotten a single, 2 doubles and a triple, leading his team to victory. The coach of his little league team, a 23 year old volunteer, insisted that James get to keep the ball from the game.
"Wait!" James's father Jim (my bro-in-law) objected.
"What?" asked the coach.
"Um...James got the ball at the last game." Jim stated. "Another child should be given the ball." he suggested.
The coach looked at him.
"I gave him the game ball at the last game because he pitched an amazing game," the coach explained.
"You really don't need to. Please give it to another kid," Jim repeated in an attempt to be fair.
"No," the coach responded reasonably. "James earned that ball."
While I was happy to see that my brother-in-law hasn't become one of those sports-crazed competitive dads with which Monmouth County is rotten, I also felt gratified that hard work and extraordinary effort gets rewarded. Yes, James got the ball for two games in a row, but it was based on his performance. Isn't that what we want to teach our kids? That being amazing equals reward, even if, in this case, the reward was just a game ball? And that "just" a game ball means a lot to a child...I know because I remember mine.
Let me take you back to the year 1989.
My little league softball team, The Hollies, were down by 2 runs, it was the bottom of the last inning, the bases were loaded and I was up. Whoever won this game would win the entire MYAA championship. In a moment of sheer joy that I will never forget, I got over my nerves and hit a triple, driving in 3 runs and winning us the game. It was a beautiful moment, especially since playing sports has never really been my strong suit, and it was made all the sweeter by the fact that the Coach handed me the game ball. It was the only game ball I have ever gotten in my life. I still have it, to this day, and when I come across it every so often it brings me back to a moment of which I am proud. I wonder what my feelings would be if I received a game ball after every single game...if the entire team did...regardless of how we played. I doubt I would have kept any of them, as they would have been far from special.
I think participation certificates are awesome. But every child cannot be a winner at everything. I like when being outstanding is acknowledged and rewarded. What's next, there will be no "lead" roles in the school play and 10 different girls will all play Annie, at the same time? I'm not sure this kind of thinking is inspiring our children to anything other than mediocrity. They learn that they don't need to try too hard and they will still be rewarded. I'm not certain that this is good preparation for adulthood nor does it foster the desire for greatness.
When our friend Griffin won the school's spelling bee, I was delighted to see his name on the big board outside the school as "Bee Champ" It was nice to see they didn't squeeze on the names of the rest of his Fourth Grade class with the proclamation "Nice Try!" I like when hard work is celebrated. We try to instill that in our children because it's for their own good. A kid is not entitled to someone gazing at their scribbles and insisting "You're Picasso!" I mean, that's what grandparents are for. You're not entitled to an "A" in math if you haven't yet learned to subtract. And wouldn't a trophy mean a lot more to a kid if they know they've earned it?
I know I'm in the minority here. I also know that my 5 year old came home and burst into tears because he didn't win something he called "The Christopher Columbus Coloring Contest" a few months back. Apparently, this was a loose competition where the kid with the best colored Columbus won a sticker. I didn't call his teacher to object, nor did I say "That's NOT fair! Everyone should have won a sticker!" His tears led to a nice discussion about how you can't win everything but if you try your best, then you can rest easy knowing you have done all you can to achieve. He wiped his eyes and admitted "But I didn't try my best. I colored super fast so I could go play." And a few things seemed to dawn on his young psyche. He seemed to have made the connection between effort and reward. How proud he was last month when he was 1 of only 5 students in his class of 20 who got an award for reading the most books online. He had been diligently reading a few books each night for weeks and he was so happy to see his hard work paying off. We hung the certificate with pride, knowing that a) it meant something and that b) it was his very first award for merit. I am convinced if every child had received one, whether they read 100 books or zero the reward would not have meant nearly as much. And I wondered what message that would have sent. And I wonder, as parents, educators and coaches if we really want to be sending that message.
I was on a run (translation: a slow, labored jog) this morning with my sister Chrissy and she proudly shared some great news about her 9 year old son (and my nephew) James. James had done an excellent job at playing catcher for his entire baseball game last night, showed exceptional sportsmanship in trying his best and cheering on his teammates and gotten a single, 2 doubles and a triple, leading his team to victory. The coach of his little league team, a 23 year old volunteer, insisted that James get to keep the ball from the game.
"Wait!" James's father Jim (my bro-in-law) objected.
"What?" asked the coach.
"Um...James got the ball at the last game." Jim stated. "Another child should be given the ball." he suggested.
The coach looked at him.
"I gave him the game ball at the last game because he pitched an amazing game," the coach explained.
"You really don't need to. Please give it to another kid," Jim repeated in an attempt to be fair.
"No," the coach responded reasonably. "James earned that ball."
While I was happy to see that my brother-in-law hasn't become one of those sports-crazed competitive dads with which Monmouth County is rotten, I also felt gratified that hard work and extraordinary effort gets rewarded. Yes, James got the ball for two games in a row, but it was based on his performance. Isn't that what we want to teach our kids? That being amazing equals reward, even if, in this case, the reward was just a game ball? And that "just" a game ball means a lot to a child...I know because I remember mine.
Let me take you back to the year 1989.
My little league softball team, The Hollies, were down by 2 runs, it was the bottom of the last inning, the bases were loaded and I was up. Whoever won this game would win the entire MYAA championship. In a moment of sheer joy that I will never forget, I got over my nerves and hit a triple, driving in 3 runs and winning us the game. It was a beautiful moment, especially since playing sports has never really been my strong suit, and it was made all the sweeter by the fact that the Coach handed me the game ball. It was the only game ball I have ever gotten in my life. I still have it, to this day, and when I come across it every so often it brings me back to a moment of which I am proud. I wonder what my feelings would be if I received a game ball after every single game...if the entire team did...regardless of how we played. I doubt I would have kept any of them, as they would have been far from special.
I think participation certificates are awesome. But every child cannot be a winner at everything. I like when being outstanding is acknowledged and rewarded. What's next, there will be no "lead" roles in the school play and 10 different girls will all play Annie, at the same time? I'm not sure this kind of thinking is inspiring our children to anything other than mediocrity. They learn that they don't need to try too hard and they will still be rewarded. I'm not certain that this is good preparation for adulthood nor does it foster the desire for greatness.
When our friend Griffin won the school's spelling bee, I was delighted to see his name on the big board outside the school as "Bee Champ" It was nice to see they didn't squeeze on the names of the rest of his Fourth Grade class with the proclamation "Nice Try!" I like when hard work is celebrated. We try to instill that in our children because it's for their own good. A kid is not entitled to someone gazing at their scribbles and insisting "You're Picasso!" I mean, that's what grandparents are for. You're not entitled to an "A" in math if you haven't yet learned to subtract. And wouldn't a trophy mean a lot more to a kid if they know they've earned it?
I know I'm in the minority here. I also know that my 5 year old came home and burst into tears because he didn't win something he called "The Christopher Columbus Coloring Contest" a few months back. Apparently, this was a loose competition where the kid with the best colored Columbus won a sticker. I didn't call his teacher to object, nor did I say "That's NOT fair! Everyone should have won a sticker!" His tears led to a nice discussion about how you can't win everything but if you try your best, then you can rest easy knowing you have done all you can to achieve. He wiped his eyes and admitted "But I didn't try my best. I colored super fast so I could go play." And a few things seemed to dawn on his young psyche. He seemed to have made the connection between effort and reward. How proud he was last month when he was 1 of only 5 students in his class of 20 who got an award for reading the most books online. He had been diligently reading a few books each night for weeks and he was so happy to see his hard work paying off. We hung the certificate with pride, knowing that a) it meant something and that b) it was his very first award for merit. I am convinced if every child had received one, whether they read 100 books or zero the reward would not have meant nearly as much. And I wondered what message that would have sent. And I wonder, as parents, educators and coaches if we really want to be sending that message.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
The Hunger Games
My 2 year old likes to "help" me make dinner by scattering food everywhere and refusing to budge from in front of either the dishwasher or the garbage can making it impossible for me to get into either. She also enjoys stealing my giant, fish-shaped cutting board and pretending it's her skateboard. She also points to the stovetop repeatedly and says "This is hot?" She knows it's hot but she keeps checking with me like she doesn't really believe me. But the great thing about Dilly (her nickname) is that she has the palate of a food critic. She eats raw red cabbage slaw, veggie sushi, eggplant parmesan, guacamole and hummus. I know a lot of kids possess this adventuresome trait but since my almost 5 year old is THE PICKIEST EATER IN THE UNIVERSE I really enjoy Dilly's desire to try different healthy foods. (She also scrapes frosting off of cupcakes, just eating the cake part, and hates chocolate chip cookies. This makes me wonder if she was switched at birth but since she still enjoys most pies, I think she's mine)
But back to my 5 year old, The Big A. He's a terrible eater in that if I let him eat plain macaroni every night he would be perfectly content. Red sauce is far too exotic for him. He never met a hot dog he didn't like. And besides carrots, he makes a big federal case out of eating any type of green vegetable. Although he's literally thrown up into his plate when tasked with eating asparagus, broccoli or spinach we still make him do it. I have to give my children something to discuss in therapy one day.
Last night was no different.
I made a salad plus a wheat pizza for Dilly, my husband and I, topped with fresh grilled chicken, balsamic, mushrooms, sautéed onion and asparagus. I topped it with aged provolone and fresh tomatoes for a sort of different type of pizza than the same-old same-old.
The Big A, who helped me grate all of the cheese, dubbed it "Garbage Pizza. It looks like garbage."
"Well, aren't you a treat?" I scoffed as I shoved it in the oven.
"Don't worry," he assured me. "Daddy will like it. He'll eat anything."
That is true. But how did two total foodies like my husband and I get stuck with such a finicky eater?
As I served Big A's dinner, neatly separated into quadrants as per Big A's OCD demands the whining began.
"We're not having noodles!?" he protests.
"Nope, not noodles." I said through gritted teeth.
I had served little chunks of roasted chicken, baby carrots, sliced apples, cheddar wedges and some bright green steamed asparagus with butter. A glass of milk completed what was a very fresh and nutritious meal.
"Arrgh" he grouses as he plops into his seat "Asparagus again?"
I am now sort of furious because I just served a delicious meal and he's already complaining. Also, considering the food that we are always collecting for Lunch Break through our church, I should not need to remind him how many children would be thrilled to get this meal.
And then the negotiation begins. Such as:
"Can I just eat the heads of the asparagus?
Do I have to eat all 5?
If I promise to have a tea party with Dilly can I not eat it?
Can I eat it tomorrow?
Can I eat it later?
I think I'm too full to eat my asparagus."
So now I'm past my breaking point, I already poured myself a glass of red and I'm taking a deep breath. He scarfed up the rest of his simple repast, including all of the carrots, which he has deemed the only non-evil vegetable.
Then he looks over at me.
"Do I really have to eat it?"
"No," I respond, "you don't have to. You can go straight to bed right now at 6:15."
So then, while mugging, gagging, moaning, flailing his arms and acting like I've just given him fish heads, poison or both, he takes tiny bites of the asparagus, chasing each one with milk and then slumping, in a heap, onto his chair. He's only eaten one spear at this point.
Then he does something that aggravates me so much I want to scream.
He begins talking to the asparagus. And himself.
"Okay Big A," he mutters, "You can DO THIS!" He's dead serious, giving himself a pep talk to eat delicious fresh steamed asparagus, crisp tender and smothered in butter. He eventually finishes it all, acts like he's just done me a great favor by dealing with this indignity and clears his plate. This was good night. Sometimes he talks his way out of eating all the greens or my patience runs out before his does.
I give up. I gaze over at Dilly who's polishing off her asparagus, a small slice of "Garbage Pizza", and some spicy beef empanadas my father brought over earlier from her favorite Latin restaurant. She loves empanadas. Like most 2 year olds. I guess if we lived in Argentina.
I don't know when The Big A will realize that boy cannot live by plain spaghetti and chicken nuggets alone. He also likes pancakes and birthday cake but that does not a healthy diet make. I can't help but wonder how two children that came from the same parents and who have grown up in the same home can be so vastly different when it comes to their taste buds.
I guess I'll keep wondering. And I'll keep in mind what every grandmother says with a shrug -- "When they're hungry, they'll eat." But will he ever eat his greens without a fight?
But back to my 5 year old, The Big A. He's a terrible eater in that if I let him eat plain macaroni every night he would be perfectly content. Red sauce is far too exotic for him. He never met a hot dog he didn't like. And besides carrots, he makes a big federal case out of eating any type of green vegetable. Although he's literally thrown up into his plate when tasked with eating asparagus, broccoli or spinach we still make him do it. I have to give my children something to discuss in therapy one day.
Last night was no different.
I made a salad plus a wheat pizza for Dilly, my husband and I, topped with fresh grilled chicken, balsamic, mushrooms, sautéed onion and asparagus. I topped it with aged provolone and fresh tomatoes for a sort of different type of pizza than the same-old same-old.
The Big A, who helped me grate all of the cheese, dubbed it "Garbage Pizza. It looks like garbage."
"Well, aren't you a treat?" I scoffed as I shoved it in the oven.
"Don't worry," he assured me. "Daddy will like it. He'll eat anything."
That is true. But how did two total foodies like my husband and I get stuck with such a finicky eater?
As I served Big A's dinner, neatly separated into quadrants as per Big A's OCD demands the whining began.
"We're not having noodles!?" he protests.
"Nope, not noodles." I said through gritted teeth.
I had served little chunks of roasted chicken, baby carrots, sliced apples, cheddar wedges and some bright green steamed asparagus with butter. A glass of milk completed what was a very fresh and nutritious meal.
"Arrgh" he grouses as he plops into his seat "Asparagus again?"
I am now sort of furious because I just served a delicious meal and he's already complaining. Also, considering the food that we are always collecting for Lunch Break through our church, I should not need to remind him how many children would be thrilled to get this meal.
And then the negotiation begins. Such as:
"Can I just eat the heads of the asparagus?
Do I have to eat all 5?
If I promise to have a tea party with Dilly can I not eat it?
Can I eat it tomorrow?
Can I eat it later?
I think I'm too full to eat my asparagus."
So now I'm past my breaking point, I already poured myself a glass of red and I'm taking a deep breath. He scarfed up the rest of his simple repast, including all of the carrots, which he has deemed the only non-evil vegetable.
Then he looks over at me.
"Do I really have to eat it?"
"No," I respond, "you don't have to. You can go straight to bed right now at 6:15."
So then, while mugging, gagging, moaning, flailing his arms and acting like I've just given him fish heads, poison or both, he takes tiny bites of the asparagus, chasing each one with milk and then slumping, in a heap, onto his chair. He's only eaten one spear at this point.
Then he does something that aggravates me so much I want to scream.
He begins talking to the asparagus. And himself.
"Okay Big A," he mutters, "You can DO THIS!" He's dead serious, giving himself a pep talk to eat delicious fresh steamed asparagus, crisp tender and smothered in butter. He eventually finishes it all, acts like he's just done me a great favor by dealing with this indignity and clears his plate. This was good night. Sometimes he talks his way out of eating all the greens or my patience runs out before his does.
I give up. I gaze over at Dilly who's polishing off her asparagus, a small slice of "Garbage Pizza", and some spicy beef empanadas my father brought over earlier from her favorite Latin restaurant. She loves empanadas. Like most 2 year olds. I guess if we lived in Argentina.
I don't know when The Big A will realize that boy cannot live by plain spaghetti and chicken nuggets alone. He also likes pancakes and birthday cake but that does not a healthy diet make. I can't help but wonder how two children that came from the same parents and who have grown up in the same home can be so vastly different when it comes to their taste buds.
I guess I'll keep wondering. And I'll keep in mind what every grandmother says with a shrug -- "When they're hungry, they'll eat." But will he ever eat his greens without a fight?
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