mojalodz: parenting

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Hijacked: or, Why I'm a Better Parent When My Hand is Up a Puppet's Butt

Let's face it. I'm not a very patient person.

Which, as you might imagine, makes having a highly intelligent, verbal, opinionated two-year-old female around you all day a bit of a challenge.

Enter the Plague Rat.

My son got the Plague Rat hand puppet as a third birthday present from his aunt, long before N. was born. It wasn't a terribly cuddly creature, so like most of his less-beloved stuffed animals, it lived in one of several baskets, making an occasional appearance in home puppet shows. And to be perfectly honest, we were probably a little embarrassed about it. What good parent wants her child to become friendly with a plague rat? Maybe we buried it a bit deeper in the basket than, say, the fluffy elephant, or the furry monkey.

And so it lived in relative anonymity, until my daughter became a curious toddler. On one of her ransacking missions around the house, she discovered the rat. And of course, because it's an awkward item, it quickly became her constant companion. That's just how she is.

She calls it Mousie, which is probably a name she got from me, much as I tend to avoid the diminutive toddler-speak version of the animal kingdom. "Mouse" is a bit less demented-sounding than "rat" when you're trying to explain that no, your adorable two-year-old is not holding a squirrel, and "Mousie" makes it sound ... almost ... cute.

Little did I know, though, when that creature made its appearance on the scene, how grateful I would be. Because, you see, Mousie has power.

For example.

My daughter isn't much of a fan of eating. It's not that she doesn't like to eat, so much that it doesn't really interest her like it interests me, and she wants to do everything on her own terms. She would snack on Cheerios all day and be perfectly content. Though she'll eat fruit and vegetables, they're not as high a priority as, say, beans. Or meals with several different courses. Mealtimes can be a battle.

"N., eat some more carrots."

"I don't like carrots." (Which, for those of you playing along at home, means "I don't want them.")

"One more bite."

"No." (Pushes plate away.)

But. If if I put Mousie on my hand, and squeak, "N., yummy carrots! I love them. Eat another carrot!" my daughter will obligingly pick up the carrot, make comments about its deliciousness, and crunch away with gusto.

Or yesterday, when N. yanked her gaudy pink and purple flowered one-piece bathing suit out of her closet before you could say lickety-split and demanded to wear it RIGHT NOW. It was barely 40 degrees outside, and though we were mostly done being outside for the day, still: it's March. Because she was so insistent, and finally asked so sweetly, I caved. But I also asked her to throw a zip-up sweatshirt over her shoulders. I had to pick up my son from a play date down the block, so without something else on her under her jacket, I'd have to get her undressed and dressed again. Not convenient. She wasn't buying the sweatshirt.

"But N," I coaxed, "aren't you cold?"

"No," she said, certain, continuing her scantily clad dollhouse play without missing a beat.

"How about if we put on this nice pink sweatshirt?"

"No," she repeated. "I don't like it."

I reached for Mousie, wiggling my fingers into its hands, and waved them to intervene. "Brrr, N.," he said, shivering. "It's cold. Don't you want to put on your pink sweatshirt? Ooohhhh, yesyesyesyesyes. Sweatshirt!"

"Okay," she said, amenably, walking over to the closet and holding out her arm so that I could help her. And then promptly threw herself into a full-body Mousie-hug. "AWwwwwww, I love you, Mousie," she thralled.

Or today, we wanted to get the kids outside for a walk. N. wanted to zip her own jacket, was unable to do so, and threw a fit when we zipped it for her. She was still wailing when I put her down on the sidewalk, and Mousie squeaked "see you later, N! have fun!" from her room. She looked up, tear mid-spurt. I asked her what we would bring back from the farmer's market for Mousie; she ceased crying immediately, looked up at me with complete composure, and answered: "applesauce." Then she waved to our house, telling Mousie she'd be back soon.

I'm not sure how to analyze this. There is certainly something about Mousie that both diffuses the difficult situation for me, and motivates my daughter to do my bidding. Is it Mousie's high-pitched voice, which appeals to my daughter more, and therefore, she'll do what it tells her to do? Is it that I am better able to rein in my anger and frustration when I'm speaking Mousieze? Is it that a neutral figure seems less threatening and more conspiratorial than a parental authority figure?

Mousie makes me a better parent. It's true, it's hard to scream when you're squeaking pleas in falsetto. It's hard to be impatient and frustrated when you're concentrating more on making your movements look authentic, when you're covering your puppet-eyes with your puppet-hands in a game of "GAH I can't possibly see what I think I'm seeing." It's hard to feel rage when your hand is covered in a mass of fur and fluff, and your two year old is gazing sweetly at you, completely in love.

And it's hard to take yourself, and the little things, too seriously when your authority--and your arm--has been hijacked by a plague rat.

Re-boiled.

If you're a parent, you've heard the admonition that you're going to find yourself saying the same things to your children that your parents said to you. It's hard not to. After all, we are good students, and those lessons happen at an impressionable age. And we see ourselves in our children, too, don't we? Sometimes the resemblance is obvious, and sometimes less so; sometimes it's physical, and sometimes something much deeper than facial features. Sometimes it's flattering, and there is great joy in those moments. Sometimes, it's anything but.

Especially when we see the parts of ourselves that we struggle with (or against) emerge in our children.

My son is sort of a perfectionist. He's been that way as long as I can remember, lining up his vehicles in lines that had to go just so, having a complete meltdown when he doesn't do something exactly right the first time. His teacher, in a recent conference, said that she noticed this quick frustration (to the point of tears) and it worried her, to see it in a child so young. We do the best we can to prevent this from becoming a life-long obstacle. Being encouraging. Telling him that practice is important. Assuring him that the mistakes are part of the learning process, and that everyone learns at a difference pace.

But of course, this is my nature, too. Having things just so. Doing everything exactly right. Never disappointing anyone. Making everyone happy. Or if I'm pissing people off, doing so with full knowledge and confidence that it's my intention to do so. And as much as I try to be reassuring, I confess that sometimes I also respond to the things that make me frustrated by expecting him to be perfect. Why didn't you get those math problems right? You know the answers. Why can't you bathe yourself faster? You're a big boy, you don't need me to supervise you every minute. And so on. Just, of course, like my father.

I also see him react out of anger, snapping with a quick temper, rage flaring up and going off like fireworks. Which is also the way I've reacted to bottled-up anger over the years. Quiet, quiet, quiet, and then BANG.

It's a scary negotiation, those moments. Because I step back and see myself with a lens that makes me uncomfortable.

The difference, though, is that I see it, and talk about it, and let him know that I'm not happy with the way I sometimes deal with anger, or disappointment, or frustration. And we try to talk about how both of us can problem-solve better.

A few years ago, Brene Brown wrote, in her series about imperfect parenting, about the fact that parenting is a journey that we have to walk with our kids, while also continuing to figure ourselves out. And in some ways, having kids forces us to figure ourselves out, even if we thought we'd figured out everything already before we started family-building. (Good for you, by the way, if you have managed to do this.) We may want to forget about our own flaws, or our own self-work, but we can't focus on our kids without looking a little more deeply at ourselves, too.

The other thing to remember about parenting is that as much as our children do resemble us, they are also, thankfully, their own people, subject to a different set of environmental conditions, and a different co-parent (or even in single-parent homes, different adult role models). I know that there's hope for my son, because as much as he's a perfectionist, he's also, as my husband might be, perfectly happy with hastily written homework, or half-eaten sandwiches and crumbs on the counter, or pajamas on the floor. And he's just as apt to walk away from a situation, or let his rage go, as he is to allow it to fester and scream. Which are good reminders for me, too.

It's sort of like ribollita. You start with bean soup. And you cook it forever. And it's really good bean soup. But then, you stop cooking it, and you throw in some bread, and you cook it all over again, and now it's heartier, and stronger, and more flavorful. That goes for them, and for us.

I ate a soup like this in a small cafe in Kingston with a friend, at the end of a long weekend training program. It wasn't quite ribollita, even though it was listed as such on the sandwich board (perfectionist that I am, I wasn't going to point out that they'd left out the beans and the bread). But it was the sort of thing that had been cooked forever, which is sometimes exactly the kind of soup you want.

What traits did your parents have that you see in yourself? If you have children, which of your traits, if any, do you see in them? How has the "reboiling" changed you?

(not exactly) Ribollita

1 T. olive oil
4 stalks of celery, diced
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 yellow onion, diced
4 sprigs rosemary (2 T. dried)
3 sprigs fresh thyme (2 t. dried)
1 c. white wine
4 yukon gold potatoes, 1/2" cubes
15 oz. can fire roasted tomatoes
15 oz. white beans (optional)
5 c. vegetable stock
1 c. water

1 bunch of kale, stems removed, leaves chopped

Heat oil in a large stock pot over medium heat. Add garlic, onions and celery and saute until just fragrant and beginning to become translucent. Add rosemary and thyme, and stir until fragrant, a minute or two. Pour in white wine, and reduce heat to medium-low; cook until the vegetables are tender.

Add potatoes and season with fresh ground pepper and sea salt. Stir to coat. Add tomatoes, beans (optional), vegetable broth and water and simmer on medium-low heat for 2 1/2 hours (or however long you can stand it), stirring occasionally and adding extra seasoning or water if necessary.

Remove the sprigs of herbs if they haven't disintegrated by now. Add kale and cook until just tender and wilted, about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Enjoy with a crusty white bread and the rest of your bottle of wine.

Homework: Kitchen Sink Cookies

I've been good. Really, really good. No cookies, no cake, a spoon or two of ice cream. Minimal processed sugars and dairy. Low carb, and no refined carbs. So when my son started his read-aloud homework last night, my reaction was understandable.

"The Cookie Quest? Sounds like the story of my life," I said drily. I listened with half an ear as he read, stopping him to ask about words he misread as other words, trying to entertain my daughter, who was making tea in the cupboard, uninterested in her brother's assignment. At some point, the reading stopped. I'd lost track of the details, but I had a vague sense of the plot: something about a mother creating a contest-winning cookie recipe, and her son's friend trying to find it out before it was published. Not exactly a quest, in my book. I reached for the pen to sign the sheet saying he'd done the reading.

"All done," he said. "Oh, wait ..." He turned the page. "Hey LOOK, Ma! There's a recipe! We can MAKE these cookies!" He was practically shouting now. "Kitchen Sink Cookies," he read, pointing.

"You mean I can make these cookies," I corrected him, knowing full well who was going to end up manning the mixer and dropping little balls of dough onto cookie sheets for two hours. "Since when did your homework become my homework?" I scanned the recipe quickly and turned back to N., who was now dismantling the cupboard.

Ignoring me, he continued, "SO? Do we have all of the ingredients?"

I shook my head. Negative, dude. No chocolate in the house. I can't be trusted. Actually, I probably could be trusted now. But I am not about to start taking chances just yet.

"Well, you can go shopping tonight and get the chocolate chips," he assured me. "I'll copy the recipe for you." And he climbed up onto the stool to reach a recipe card, beginning the painstaking process--for a first-grader, at least--of transcribing the recipe by hand, in pencil. "I'm going to use abbreviations. Do you know what 'tea' and 'tab' will stand for?"

I was beaten. And really, what kind of a parent would I be if I didn't bake him cookies from his read-aloud homework book?

I didn't go shopping last night. But guilt-ridden, I went to the store today.

I took a few liberties to make them a little healthier, but really, they're still cookies. I guess I'll have to send them to his teacher. I hope I get an A.

Have you ever found a recipe in an unexpected place?

Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Coconutties
The "real" kitchen sink cookies, in my book, are made with more stuff. Like raisins. Or butterscotch chips. Or cranberries. And maybe potato chips and pretzels. Random bits of things in your cupboard. You can do that and tell me how they turn out. In the meantime, I think my name for them is better.

1/2 c. shortening (use Earth Balance)
1 c. coconut palm sugar (or use 1/2 c. brown and 1/2 c. white)
1 egg
1 T. vanilla
3/4 c. flour (whole wheat pastry will work OK)
1/2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt
1 c. oats
1/2 c. chocolate chips
1/2 c. unsweetened coconut
1/2 c. chopped walnuts (or other nut of your choice, or raisins if you have nut allergies)

Preheat oven to 350.

Using an electric mixer, beat shortening and sugar until well combined. Add egg and mix well. Mix in the vanilla.

In a small bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt. Add to the shortening mixture and beat to combine.

Add in the rest of your mix-ins, and combine well, using your hands if necessary to incorporate all of the bits. The dough may be a little crumbly in appearance; don't worry about that.

Mold the dough into 2 t. size balls (you can squish it in your hands to make the balls solid), and bake on baking sheets covered with a sheet of parchment for 10-12 minutes, or until browned. Cool cookies for a minute or two on the baking sheet, and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. Store tightly covered for up to 1 week.

On the last Monday of each month, my lovely friend Lavender Luz at Write Mind Open Heart sponsors Perfect Moment Monday, a blog hop/writing prompt that offers an opportunity to notice and reflect on the "perfect moments" in our lives, rather than create them. These moments can be ordinary, momentous, or somewhere in between. Everyone is welcome to join.

***

Though the days have been colder lately, sometimes bitterly so, I still try to get outside in the afternoons with N. We haven't been to the park much lately, though, and I suspect that she misses the swing, which she tells me, jubilantly, is "like flying."

On a particularly raw day, we'd just gotten back from the grocery store, and I was going to head inside for the few minutes before I's bus made its appearance down the street, when to my surprise, N. stopped on the porch, demanding, "swing, mama": which meant, "come, sit on the porch swing."

"Really?" I said. "Now? N., you haven't wanted to sit on that swing in months." I had some mulligatawny cooking inside, and I wanted to go check on it, really, to inhale the fragrant smell of curry and apple and leeks and coconut and feel warm again.

"Yes, yes ... SWING."

It was too cold to swing, really. The thought of more cold air on my face made my body temperature drop another five degrees. But she was adamant. So I perched her on one end and sat down next to her gingerly, waiting for the creak and snap of the cold teak, bracing myself for the chill that would begin to seep through my seat.

We started slowly, and as she giggled, the swinging got a little more raucous. My nose felt frosty. I giggled, and she laughed, and I pushed the swing a little higher. She laughed, and I laughed more. Eventually, we were laughing at the laughing. Has this ever happened to you? The laughter spirals out of control, and soon you don't even know what's funny and what's not. Because it's all funny.

And you know what? The mulligatawny waited until we were done.

Mulligatawny with Chicken (or Chickpeas) and Apples
adapted from Arctic Garden Studio and The Unofficial Downton Abbey Cookbook
Perfect for frosty February days. You can veganize it if you like by simply substituting chick peas for the chicken. I love the addition of the banana, which gives this version a different flavor dimension, unlike the version I've made before.

1 lb. boneless chicken, cut into bite-sized chunks (or 1-2 cans chick peas)
2 T. olive oil
2 carrots, diced small
2 celery stalks, diced small
1 medium onion, diced small
2 leeks, sliced thin, white and light green parts only
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 1/2 inch piece of fresh ginger, minced
1 T. curry powder
1 t. cumin
1/2 t. cinnamon
6 cloves
1 t. salt
freshly ground pepper to taste
8 c. chicken (or vegetable) stock
1 1/2 medium banana, very ripe and mashed well
1 c. long grain white or brown rice
1/4 c. unsweetened coconut
2 granny smith or other tart apple, diced medium
2 T. lemon juice
1 can coconut milk (I used light)

Toppings (optional)
chopped cilantro or parsley
1 cup yogurt
slivered almonds, toasted

Heat 1 T. oil over medium-high heat in a saute pan. Add chicken and saute quickly until browned on the outside but not necessarily cooked on the inside. (If using chick peas, skip this step.)

Heat oil over medium heat in a large stock pot or dutch oven (at least 5 1/2 quart). Add carrots, celery, onion, and leek. Saute, stirring often until onions are soft and translucent. Add garlic and ginger and stir for a minute or two until fragrant. Add spices and stir for one minute. Add stock, add banana, chicken (or chick peas) and rice.

Bring to a simmer, then turn down heat to medium low and simmer for about 30 minutes. Add apples and coconut; simmer another 15 minutes. Turn heat down to low. Gradually stir in lemon juice and coconut milk; do not boil! Top with cilantro, yogurt, and almonds.

On the Boycott of Playdates, and Raw Broccoli Salad

When I was little, we lived in a neighborhood in which there were always kids within walking distance. Two sisters my age lived across the street. A family with three girls lived up the block. Two little boys my brother's age lived around the block. And while I wasn't around much after school because my parents were both teachers and we spent a good chunk of the afternoon commuting, it was still nice to know that if I was bored, all I had to do was go ring their doorbell.

As I got older, and was entrusted to go a little farther on my own, I had a friend who lived two streets away, and I'd ride my bike to her house, where we would spend long afternoons pretending in her attic. And finally, when I got to high school, I'd head by bike to a friend's house two towns and several miles away.

I know that this is a different time and age than the one in which I grew up. But there are some things that I don't know if we need to give up just yet. Like the impromptu doorbell-ring.

There are some neighborhoods where this is not possible, for a host of reasons. The houses are too far apart. There aren't enough similarly-aged children in the neighborhood. You folks get a pass.

And there are some neighborhoods where the impromptu doorbell-ring (or simply entering with a passel of friends without the extra step of ringing) is alive and well. You folks aren't the people I'm talking about here, either.

We live on a street with no fewer than five boys and girls who are I's age. There are also three children N's age. And yet, hardly ever does anyone ring the doorbell. Instead, we organize elaborate playdates, mostly with children who don't even live on our block.

My son and I were talking about this one night, after I'd put him to bed. About how I dislike the word "playdate," because it feels so contrived. Like our toddlers need iPhones from birth, scheduling their play and organizing their relationships. And how the arrangement feels exclusive to me; once you've committed to a "playdate" with one friend, you can't add a third random friend to the mix, who happens to ring the doorbell.

Partially as a follow-up to the conversation, the next morning, on a Saturday, I sent I. up the block to his friend's house to ring the doorbell, with instructions that upon the door opening, he was to invite said friend over to our house to play. "But what if they're not home?" he worried.

"Then come home," I answered.

"What if he doesn't want to come over here, and what if he asks me to go there?" he asked.

"Then ask to use the phone, and call us to tell us that you're going to stay," I said. "That's fine with me, as long as I know where you are. And I'll tell you when we'll come pick you up."

"What if he doesn't want to play?"

"Then tell him thanks anyway, and tell him that you'll see him later, and come home."

He seemed satisfied with this, and skipped up the street. It turned out that his friend's mom wasn't able to open the door, but she called later to bring the friend over to play for a while. My son was thrilled.

Even as adults, we seem to tiptoe around each others' lives. We don't call up friends without a reason any more, because Facebook takes care of our quick check-ins. We don't drop by randomly for a cup of coffee, at least, most of us I know don't. Or I don't. And I feel like it's a dying art, the art of the unexpected visit, the art of intrusive friendship. I feel like it's an art my children need to learn, if they're going to learn to notice people, and care about them, even when those people don't tell them that they need to be cared about.

So I've decided that for now, I'm going to boycott playdates. I'm going to randomly call up my friends and ask if they want to come play [*edited later to add: with as much acknowledgement of work schedules as possible, and understanding when people have prior commitments!]. I'm going to send my children to ring doorbells, and interrupt our over-scheduled lives. I'm going to welcome people to my house if they come calling, and always have something I can throw together and offer up as a light lunch. Because sometimes the most fulfilling moments are the ones we never put on the calendar in the first place.

Do you -- or your children, if you have them -- ring doorbells? Or do you tend to make plans to see friends?

Broccoli and Kohlrabi Salad
I've been thinking about this salad as an antidote to all of the unhealthy eating from the holidays, and with a crusty loaf of bread, it's a perfect throw-together kind of meal that's fancy enough to offer a guest. Kohrabi is cool-weather vegetable, and one of the first and last things that we get in our CSA shares. If you're looking through seed catalogues yet, as we often do here in the midwinter, it might be something to add to your order.

1 head broccoli, stems removed and cut into florets
1 c. kohlrabi, finely chopped
1/2 c. golden raisins
1/2 c. sunflower seeds
1 avocado, peeled and pitted
3 T. lemon juice
3 T. orange juice
2 T. lime juice
2 T. apple cider vinegar
1 T. agave
3 T. oil of your choice
6-7 chive blossoms (you may not have these right now, so you can always use a scallion or two, but the chive blossoms are really lovely and light)

Toss together broccoli, kohlrabi, raisins, and seeds. In a blender, blend remaining ingredients. Pour over vegetables.

Break apart chive blossoms into small bits and scatter over the salad.

***

Of all of the things I am called to do these days, I hate supervising teeth-brushing the most. More than laundry, even: at least my laundry doesn't fight back, or claim that it's dying or that I'm mortally wounding it by giving it an extra thorough scrubbing.

And thanks to my husband, there are always dental hygiene products in our Christmas stockings. His grandfather was a doctor, and so soap and toothpaste and toothbrushes made regular appearances in his family stockings since he was a child; we've married that tradition with the "school supply" tradition that comes from my family, but somehow, the pencils never seem to elicit tears.

But I have to hand it to him: this year, he picked a winner.

When my son opened his stocking, and found a toothbrush that played "I Gotta Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas, I rolled my eyes. A lot. It's true: I was a doubting Thomas.

Last night, I walked into the bathroom to find my six-year-old swaying his hips to "tonight's gonna be ... a good night ... yeah, tonight's gonna be ... a good, good night" and ... well, it wasn't long before I was dancing, too.

There we both were, he grinning open-mouthed into the mirror and then at me, swaying his hips, toothpaste-laced saliva dripping from his mouth, and me, pumping the air and dancing and singing. It was, in a word, perfect. And when the music finally stopped, he looked at me wisely, eyebrow arched, and said, "you know, mom, they made these toothbrushes so that parents could feel happier while kids brushed their teeth."

Moral of the story: dance more. It makes dental hygiene a little more fun.

A Not-So-Modest Proposal, or My Trouble with #26

I need to talk about #26Acts. And I hope that you'll give me the benefit of the doubt and read through before you react. {Updated to add: please understand, too, that my intent is not to diminish the #26Acts movement. Because I agree, as Kathy comments below, that movement is serving an important purpose.}

***

I wouldn't say that I was a do-gooder when I was growing up, but I was certainly no stranger to the idea of service. We had to do service for my Confirmation in the Catholic Church, and for graduation from high school; I was a candy striper at the local hospital, and I did some other things, too. I was a member, and then Vice President, of my high school's Social Action Club; we raised money for important causes, wrote letters for Amnesty International. And I felt pretty good about my contribution to the world.

When I was in college, I took some courses in social justice. And I started to understand the long-term investment and commitment necessary to make social change happen. No, I'd never thought that I could change things overnight. But I discovered that in order to really make change, you needed to act in a sustainable way. And sustainability? Is HARD.

Like many other people, I've watched #20Acts and #26Acts hashtags spread like wildfire, trending on Facbook and Twitter and Instagram and blogs. I applaud Ann Curry for promoting the idea, and I'm glad for the enthusiasm around acts of kindness. I've done my share of random acts of kindness over the years, ever since I heard the phrase used in college. And I don't want to diminish some of the amazing, generous projects that some of my blogging friends have started. But there's something about the movement that bothers me, too.

You see, #26Acts, like many forms of social media itself, feels perfunctory to me. You leave $26 in $1 bills taped to gas pumps. You donate to Toys for Tots or "adopt a family" for Christmas (which to me is the wrong word; adoption is not just "borrowing" people to give them gifts, even if they're really fabulous gifts ... and silly as it sounds, I feel like the semantics matter). You deliver plates of cookies to first responders to thank people for their service. You leave 26 lovely handmade ornaments with tags on them around town, encouraging the recipients to do 26 acts of their own. And while these are genuinely nice things to do, it feels more like chain mail, or like a popular internet meme, than a deep and meaningful tribute to lives lost. How can I say that $120 at Starbucks, even if I give it to people anonymously, and even if my gift prompts 20 people to give 26 more cups of coffee or do whatever acts they choose to do, is worth of the 26 -- or 27, or 28, depending on how you're measuring -- lives lost in Newtown? And am I done grieving when I reach 26? Do I suddenly feel better about the world? How long before the movement fades away?

Because here's the thing about grief: it doesn't last only for an hour. It doesn't go away after a month. It doesn't live in envelopes with surprise gift cards or on lovely Christmas ornaments left on park benches. Grief lives on for years, sometimes hiding under the bed or in a closet or even at the mall, and then BAM it leaps out and shakes you to the core again when you least expect it. At some point, the nation will stop grieving. Maybe it already has. We have to, after all; life has to go on. But those people who lost loved ones in Newtown will grieve for years, for forever. And there are few more terrible feelings than grieving alone, than feeling like you're grieving alone.

I don't know. There's a lot all tied in together here for me. The events in Newtown hit too close to home. I have a first grader. It could have been him. My heart still hurts, aches for the grieving parents, for our communities; I long for a more peaceful, loving world. And I want to make a more lasting impact on the world than doing 26 nice things. I want to make the world a better place for my children, and for the other children who survive. I also know too much about working for change to be satisfied with movements that are not sustainable, especially when I believe that we are capable of so much more.

I posted something to this effect on the Facebook page of #26Acts and immediately got attacked by people telling me that now is not the time for criticism. That "you have to start somewhere." And maybe they were right; I took down the comment. But I felt like we had so much momentum, like there was so much potential -- and that settling for something less than heroism was shortchanging the opportunity.

Doing twenty-six really difficult things is too overwhelming. I get it. And that's the appeal of #26Acts. Short, manageable. An attainable goal.

So I'd like to propose an alternative. {updated to add: Or maybe a supplement.}

ONE act.

Commit to one act that will change something about the world, that will change you and other people for the better in the long term, that is difficult for you, that will take effort. Quit smoking and give the money you saved on cigarettes to an organization that provides needed mental health services for the community. Forgive someone who has hurt you deeply. Start a nonprofit. Go every week to a food bank or a soup kitchen and think about ways that you can eliminate poverty. Participate actively in an advocacy campaign. Do something that you've been putting off, something your heart says is the right thing to do to create peace in the world.

Give yourself a year to do it. Remember the love of Newtown for a year. Make it something more than a New Years' Resolution; commit to it for long term, for the teachers and staff and 6 year olds who smile at us, gap-toothed and hopeful, from their school photos, and for the sake of fostering a fierce and relentless love in the world. Be in solidarity with those grieving families for a year. Not just for an Instagram moment.

This kind of work--this deep soul-work--is difficult. You need a support system in order to change something that big, and it needs to be more than a Twitter feed or a Facebook page. So I'm offering myself: if you want someone to keep track of your commitment, to remind you about it, to send you encouragement periodically, to hold you to your promise, I will do that. You can post it here, or you can email me directly, and I'll hold in in confidence. No one else will need to know.

I will commit to #OneAct of my own. I'm not going to post it here. But I promise you that I'll be working on it all year long, with anyone who wants to do so with me.

And I will guarantee you this: that even if nothing profound happens in the world as a result of your gift, after one year with #OneAct, you will be changed. And that, friends, is a sustainable foundation for a fundamentally different, more beautiful world.

What do you think? What would you commit to if you were to commit to #OneAct?

Tea for One: Gingersofts

I got through the weekend pretty well, all things considered. The events at Newtown have continued to weigh heavily on my mind. There was a birthday party for a friend in my son's class, and seeing all of the children together made me think about those children who don't get to celebrate any more birthdays. And those parents whose arms are empty, who wrapped Christmas presents to give to a child who will no longer be there on Christmas morning to open them. But I tend not to grieve in the form of tears until a few days or weeks after something happens. It's just the way I work. And besides, I still have my children.

But this morning, after putting my son on the bus, I almost threw up. And then I wept, walking back to my house with my daughter in my arms.

Because the reality is that every day I watch my son leave on that bus, and am faced with a complete lack of control over what happens to him. It's nagged at me a little bit every day since the first day of school. It was just a little harder than usual today.

I could keep him home. I'm home now with my daughter; I could homeschool him. He's smart, and though he also resists instruction and correction from me, we would make it work.

But that's not where he belongs. He's a social child, a child who expresses his creative self best in the company of others. We have a good school system. And horrible things happen everywhere, in many places that are supposed to be safe, not just in schools.

I could enroll him in a private school, a smaller school where there would be more vigilance, more safety measures, less intrusion from the outside world.

But I'm a product of the public school system, and I believe in the value of children from all walks of life learning together, and teaching each other.

I could drive him to school every morning, at least removing one more transition during which something could go wrong.

But he loves the bus, he loves that freedom. It makes him feel grown-up. He is probably no safer in my car. And I trust the bus driver to get him to school and home safely.

So I put him on the bus. I wave at him through my tears, as he presses his face against the window, grinning in his inimitably impish way. I try to put things in perspective, feeling lucky for the luxury of waving to him. I remember, as many people have said, that the risk inherent in becoming a parent is that you allow your heart to walk around outside of your body. I make ginger tea, because that usually helps to settle my stomach, and maybe I break into the container of gingersofts. And I wait for him to come home, watching the minutes tick by impatiently.

I didn't want to write about Sandy Hook today. But it also seemed irreverent to write about anything else. So I will settle for comfort, for the normal of Christmas cookies. Because there is more than one way to die in this world, and one of those ways is to refuse to live. And the children of Sandy Hook deserve a better legacy than that.

Gingersoft Cookies
adapted from Two Peas in their Pod

2 1/2 c. flour
1 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt
1 t. ground ginger
1 t. cinnamon
1/2 t. ground cloves
Pinch of nutmeg
3/4 c. unsalted butter, softened
1 c. light brown sugar
1 egg
1 t. vanilla
1/4 c. molasses
1/4 c. diced candied ginger
White sugar for rolling

Preheat the oven to 375 and line baking sheets with either parchment or silicone baking mat.

Whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, and spices in a medium bowl.

Beat the butter and brown sugar at high speed with a hand or stand mixer until fluffy, about two minutes. Add in the egg and vanilla extract.; beat well. Add in the molasses; beat well.

With the mixer on low, slowly add the flour mixture a half cup or so at a time until all of the flour is mixed in. Mix in the crystallized ginger either VERY gently with your mixer or by hand.

Roll dough into tablespoon-sized balls, and roll each ball in white sugar.

Place the cookie dough balls two inches apart on prepared cookie sheets. Bake 8-10 minutes (they should still be soft, just cooked in the middle and barely crispy around the edges). Let the cookies sit on the baking sheet for a minute or two, then transfer to a cooling rack.

With Love for Newtown

This morning, I yelled at my son for losing a magnet.

He and his sister have been playing with the magnet set in a way that is downright careless, and as I am getting together lunches and snacks and gifts for the children and teacher at N's dance class so that I can get everyone out the door on time to do an errand at my son's school, I ask them calmly to put the set away. Instead, they continue to play, and what they are building collapses and scatters across the floor in three rooms. Taking stock of the damage, they inform me that a piece is unaccounted for, as if I am supposed to produce it myself.

"FIND it," I growl, unsympathetic.

My son proceeds to "look" for it in his usual half-hearted way, staring at the floor while he paces, examining unlikely hiding spots (e.g. up the wall behind the curtains). After about five minutes of this, five minutes more we have now spent not preparing to leave the house, I lose my cool. I roar his name. I'm not angry about the magnet, but about the lack of care; I expect that when my children lose something, especially something they prize, that they make a concerted effort to find it, instead of leaving the job of finding to me.

"I hate you," he tells me, defiant.

Ever before he utters these words, I feel badly about yelling, especially since I've found my temper shortening these days, with the stress of the holidays and joblessness. I reply, as evenly as I can, that while I'm sorry to hear that, and that I know my yelling was not an effective conflict-resolution tool, it doesn't change the fact that he had to learn to be responsible with his things, because the things we are trusted with only become more and more important. He stomps away, and the minutes tick by; we are losing critical minutes if I'm to get him to school on time.

After a few minutes, I call him back into the room. I apologize for yelling, admit that yelling was not a useful way to address the problem, but reiterate my concern about the importance of being responsible. I manage to extract a reluctant half-hug before he buckles himself into his carseat, and feel hopeful that perhaps we can smooth things over.

But then I log on to the internet and there are children dead in Newtown. First graders. Kids who are my son's age. And all I want to do is go pick him up and tell him that I don't care about the magnet.

My heart aches for the community of Newtown, Connecticut--not just for the families, but for everyone who is mourning their loss tonight. I've been unable to dislodge the lump in my throat that's been there since the early afternoon. This could have been my son's classroom.

There will be lots of discussion in the coming days and weeks about gun control. About mental health services and proper identification and care of the mentally ill. About lockdown plans for schools. And rightfully so. We need, desperately, to talk about those things.

There will be less talk about how we are raising our children, and how we treat each other.

But the reality is that we, too, are responsible. Not necessarily for one gun-wielding maniac, but for complicit acceptance of a culture in which violence is the norm. If we don't speak up, we are OK with it. If we can't act out of love ourselves, even when love is difficult, we are OK with it. And if we aren't teaching our children responsibility, for themselves AND for the welfare of other human beings--as I saw so many parents at my former university tell their children that they weren't responsible, for grades, for assignments, for whatever--then we perpetuate the culture that hosts the shooters of Columbine and Newtown and Aurora and Virginia Tech.

It's time for everyone to take a stand. Not just against gun ownership policy. And for stronger school safety procedures. But to promote a culture in which we love aggressively. In which we are all responsible for each other. In which finger-pointing is not the answer. In which all of our words can be powerful weapons, and in which we use them wisely. Because it really does take a village, and not just to raise a child.

I'm holding the community of Newtown in my heart, grieving with them. Imagining losing my child, my six year old, to a random shooting at school makes me sick. There are no words for this kind of tragedy, this kind of loss.

And together, my son and I will look for the lost magnet today. Because it all matters.

Risking Joy, and Cornmeal Lime Cookies

I have, for as long as I can remember, been a type-A control freak. This will come as no surprise to those of you who know me in real life, and to be honest, it's served me well academically and professionally. But it's also been something of a liability in parenting; if there's one thing having children proves to me, again and again, is that I can't always be in control, and sometimes that's OK.

The other day, at a park playdate with a friend, I was on the "big girl" swing with N. sitting on my lap, letting go of her just enough so that she could experience the adrenaline rush of a brief freefall, pumping us both high enough so that after she got past the initial uncertainty, her squeals were near-continuous. As we swung into the icy breeze, I couldn't help but notice how the other mother hovered over her child, who was swinging just imperceptibly next to us, and swooped down when her small lip quivered with uncertainty, picked her up and pressed her to her chest.

There's no rulebook for potential parents, of course. Parenting styles are as varied as the individuals who parent, no matter what path we take to achieve that role. We know our children best, and sometimes we can avert disaster by being attentive, by responding to comfort them before they even know they need comforting. My friend is a fabulous parent: smart, caring, nurturing, encouraging. But I was also struck by the thought that as parents, especially as parents who have experienced loss, we have to make a deliberate choice to risk joy, and that joy sometimes requires letting go.

And then I thought, well, maybe that applies to everyone. If you've ever known loss, it becomes hard to trust again. Joy is a risk. It's a risk because you might connect to something that will be taken from you, or you might never find joy at all. But there must be something about being human that drives us to take the risk again and again, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

Last week, on one unseasonably warm day, I decided to take N. for a walk before we met I. at the bus. We locked the door and picked our way down the steps as toddlers do, and when she hit the sidewalk, N. began to run. And run. "RUNNNNNNNNNNNN," she chanted, punctuating her footfalls with "NNN...NNN...NNN," only to rev herself up and do it all over again, occasionally turning around and saying "Mommy's turn?"--encouraging me to run, too. I decided to follow her, just to see where she went. When we got to a street, I asked her to hold my hand to cross, but otherwise, I made sure she was the one in the lead. I don't know if it was the weather, or if she loved being in front, or some of both, but she ran that way, "RUNNNNN .... RUNNNNNNNNN!" for the better part of a mile, to downtown.

I felt lucky to witness that exuberance, to be part of it. And really, that kind of joy is worth the risk, isn't it?

Cornmeal Lime Cookies
adapted from Better Homes and Gardens
These cookies are an unexpected combination, a bit of a risk on your holiday cookie plate. But totally worth it.

3/4 c. butter, softened
2/3 c. powdered sugar
1/8 t. salt
1 c. flour
1/2 c. cornmeal
2 t. finely shredded lime peel
1/2 t. vanilla

In a large bowl, beat butter until fluffy with an electric mixer on high speed for 30 seconds. Add powdered sugar and salt, and beat well to combine. Beat in flour, cornmeal, lime peel, and vanilla. Cover and chill at least one hour, and preferably longer.

Preheat oven to 350. Roll dough 1/4" thick; using a 2" cookie cutter, cut dough into shapes and place onto a cookie sheet about 2 inches apart. Decorate with sugar if desired, and bake 8-10 minutes or until light golden brown around the edges. Transfer to wire racks to cool.

Power in the House: A Post-Sandy Post

I was wrong.

I was wrong when I scoffed at the storm, posting on a friend's Facebook page, "people. It's going to RAIN."

I was wrong when I didn't bother to stock up on more than a few days' worth of boxed milk.

photo by flickr user dvidshub,
used under creative commons license

I was wrong when I almost didn't fill my gas tank.

Because I didn't take Sandy seriously.

Though I hadn't spent much time online, I saw enough in the newspapers and in occasional log in to know that we were lucky. My brother was evacuated from Hoboken, where his building was flooded with several feet of water. Here, at my house, we were inconvenienced, but not devastated. We sustained only minor property damage (if you could even call it that). Though we lost power for a week, we had an inverter, powered by my husband's Prius when he was home from work, that gave us intermittent heat and chilled milk in the refrigerator (because there wasn't much else in there by the second day). I made a conscious decision not to use my computer or my phone if I could avoid doing so, because doing so would mean sucking up gas, which was--and still is--in very short supply here, and desperately needed by so many other people. Even in my town, downed trees cut houses in half, squashed cars. Transformer explosions caused fires.

It had been a week since we'd seen lights on my block. Generators droned on in the background, day and night. Our town postponed Halloween until tonight, and though it was going to be pitch black out, I decided to take the kids out anyway for a little while, just to feel normal. My son walked proudly down the street in his home-made sea captain costume, made out of a cardboard box, to which we affixed a pinwheel for a propellor, hand-made fishing pole, and a hand-sewn (by him) felt flag. My daughter barrelled down the sidewalk in purple tuille, in an oversized freecycle ballet costume we refer to around here as the "poofy dress." And some of my power-less neighbors really came through: one of them built a fire pit in his front yard; another lit candles across the porch; another came over with giant Hershey bars for the kids and Buttershots-spiked cider for the adults. It was a quiet Halloween, but I was impressed by the tenacity of my neighborhood.

Of course, it wasn't all hand-holding and kum-ba-ya here this week.

I was cut off when I was on the road driving my mom to physical therapy by two people who needed to get in line for the Dunkin' Donuts drive through, presumably because they didn't have working coffee makers at home.

I witnessed two neighbors come close to fisticuffs over the noise of the generator at night, which was powering a house blazing with light and TV.

I saw gas lines three hours long (and actually sat in one for an hour and a half), with people waiting for cans of gas. One of them complained in our local paper that he had to fill his generator twice a day. I couldn't help but wonder: for what?

But I also saw Jersey drivers being courteous at traffic lights that no longer functioned. And I had friends all over the state (and in the next state over) offering me a warm place to go, or a hot meal, or a hot shower, or a washing machine and dryer. And when the power came back on tonight almost a week to the hour that the lights went out, I determined to pass that same invitation on to anyone who needs it.

Disasters like Sandy make you think about what's really important. Filling up cars with gas? Yes, if you need to get to work or to the doctor or to the grocery store for essentials. Doing the laundry? Not so much, provided you have a little clean underwear to change into every once in a while. Showers? Maybe, if you're going to work. TV? Dunkin' Donuts coffee? Low priority. Internet? Maybe for basic communication. But certainly not for the kinds of things so many people think they need it for. Cell phones? Again, yes, for communication about where to find food or gas ... but maybe not so much for texting about what's on TV. Shelter? Yes. Warmth? Yes, with the caveat that it's possible to wear enough clothes to stay warm as long as you have shelter. Food? Yes. Basic food. Not beautiful food. Healthy, nutritious, life-sustaining food. That maybe even came out of a can. Like peanut butter.

Still, in my area, thousands of people remain without power, and a nor'easter is scheduled to hit on Wednesday, with snow accumulating up to a few inches. Thousands are displaced, some without things like diapers for their babies or food or warm winter clothing. People will be cold, even if they are lucky enough to have a home. There's a collection center at my local library, just down the road. It's the sort of thing you never expect to see in your back yard. If you're local, and in a position to do so, I encourage you to find a donation center.

If you can't donate locally, I urge you to consider donating to OccupySandy and OccupySandyNJ, because they are on the ground right now helping people get access to food and basic supplies, at least at the Jersey Shore. (You can get to their Amazon wish list by clicking on the Wedding Registry. It's weird, but it works.)

I would also like to host an online bake sale/auction to aid in the long-term recovery efforts for Sandy victims, because the rebuilding process is not going to happen overnight, and because a case of diapers isn't going to make the disaster disappear. If you're a blogger and baker, please leave your contact info in the comment section. If you know of a food blogger and baker, please pass them alone. I don't know much about online auctions, but I think we can do this simply and still amass some amazing looking treats, and send them around the country for a good cause.

Powering down for now. Because I've used my share.

Letting Children Go: The Limits of Freedom and Responsibility

One of the things that Facebook feeds are good for are links to Yahoo articles that leave you open-mouthed in disbelief. I don't make a habit of reading Yahoo, but a few weeks ago one of my friends posted this bit of news, about a mother who was arrested for letting her kids play outside, unsupervised.

Really? I thought. Arrested?

I. comes home from school now at around 3:45, and dinner isn't until 5. Most times we do homework and then I'm outside with him for a bit, but sometimes I go in with N. for a few minutes to make dinner, and I let him ride his bike up and down the sidewalk from our house to the corner of the street. It's a distance I think is safe; I can still see him if I put my head out the door, and we have an agreement, which he abides by, that every few laps he'll come stick his head in the door and say hello if he hasn't seen me in the past several minutes.


Photo by flickr user vastateparkstaff through Creative Commons license

Our street is a well-populated, not very busy suburban street. We know all of the neighbors for two blocks in every direction. I. relishes this freedom, I know ... he goes off on his bike, beaming. I feel like it's a way to build trust; I give him a little bit, and in turn, he appreciates that trust and becomes more responsible.

But then things happen, like the horrible tragedy of Jessica Ridgeway, whose body, it was confirmed today, was found, not intact, in a park not even ten miles from her home.

To say that my heartfelt condolences go out to the family wouldn't begin to describe how I feel. Jessica's community is in my heart tonight, and I know that tomorrow I will hold my children's hands a little tighter again.

I still think that it's important to give our children small freedoms, in order for them to cultivate responsibility. I talk with my son extensively about being safe, and going with people he knows, and staying close to home so that I can see him and yell for him. But at some point, that, too will change. If I'm looking over their shoulders all of the time, how will my children learn to feel independent? So many of the students I used to see at the university where I worked had parents in tow, still looking over their shoulders at age 17. They would come to campus at a moment's notice to stand up for their children, even if their children had been the ones doing wrong, or failing out of school; they would claim that their children were not responsible. And you know what? They were right. Those children were not responsible; that was precisely the problem.

On the other hand, how do we make sure that they are safe?

We can't, of course. So we do what we can do: we prepare them to live in a world where they can control their own actions, even if they can't control the actions of others.

Working Mama: Crockpot Southern Greens with a Kick

I can't remember exactly how the conversation started. We were eating dinner together, my kids and I; S. was at an important dinner meeting for work. Maybe my son had asked about S.'s recent spate of late nights.

"But you don't work," he objected. "You just hang around here all day with N."

Hello, what?

"VERY interesting," I said, trying not to reveal that he had pushed my biggest button. "That is one of the things that not even adults agree about. You've hit on a very sophisticated conversation. So: changing diapers, making meals, making snacks, entertaining your sister, teaching her things ... none of that is work?"

"Nope," he said, confidently, crossing his arms and shaking his head.

"Well then how do you define work?" I asked.

"Something you get paid to do," he replied.

"Huh," I said. "So when you rake leaves in the back yard, is that work?"

"Nope."

"How about when we ask you to make your bed?"

"Nope."

"Let me tell you something, Buster," I said, looking him square in the eye, "taking care of your sister during the day is quite possibly the hardest job I've ever had. And I've worked for some pretty challenging people." I paused. "So tell me this: what if I took N. to day care, and the person there did all of the things for her during the day that I do, and the only difference is that she gets paid. Is that work?"

"Yes," he said.

"Well," I said, thoughtfully. "I guess if what I do isn't work, if it's just for fun, and it's not hard, and it doesn't have value, then it won't matter if I stop, right?"

He looked at me quizzically.

"I mean, I'm not going to bother to bus your plate. Or run your bath tonight. Or do laundry."

"Whoopeee," he said, running into the living room, full of six year old glee, "no bath!"

I ran N's bath, and collected her from her booster seat. About two minutes later, my son came back into the kitchen, hopping around, with his shirt stuck on his head.

"Moooooooom," he called from under the folds of striped fabric, "help me, I'm stuuuuck."

"I'm not working," I said, amused that he was clearly going to take a bath anyway. "And I have to go tend to your sister."

Horrified silence. "But Mom, I'm stuck."

"You'll have to get yourself out. I love you, and I'm happy to help you, but I'm on strike until you recognize that I work." I make like I am going to head into the bathroom, where N. is calling for me and drinking the bathwater. sigh.

A beat. He calls after me.

"On strike? There's no such thing as being on strike."

"Sure there is. When you don't like your working conditions, you can strike to request better ones."

"You can't go on strike."

"Well, I'm not helping you take your shirt off."

I can see him chewing his lip, from under his shirt. Then: "okay, OKAY, you're WORKING."

"Right," I said, removing the entangled button from its hole. "And don't you forget it."

Southern Greens with a Kick
I made these with the new tsunami of kale and chard coming in our CSA share these days. Or rather, my crockpot made them. Because I wasn't working, right? Right.

2 bunches greens (collards, kale, mustard or turnip)
1 large sweet onion, sliced
1 T. olive oil
4 -5 garlic cloves, pressed
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded, minced
1/4-1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1 turkey leg, or 2 ham hocks, or for a vegetarian version, use a T. or so of Spanish smoked paprika/pimenton and salt more liberally
2 -3 cups water
salt and pepper
balsamic vinegar

Tear the greens into large pieces, wash under running water to clean well, drain. Preheat a heavy skillet with olive oil, add sliced onion and garlic; cook stirring frequently until onions begin to lightly brown, add minced jalapeño peppers.

Place the cooked onions in the bottom of the crockpot, add the drained greens, pimentor or turkey leg or ham hock, crushed red pepper and water. Cook on low for 5 to 6 hours or until greens are tender. Remove meat from bones, discarding bone and fat. Shred the meat and return to pot, mixing well; adjust salt and pepper to taste. Top each serving of the greens with balsamic vinegar to taste.

Perfect Moment Monday is a monthly blog hop/writing prompt, sponsored by Lavender Luz at Write Mind Open Heart, about noticing a perfect moment rather than creating one. Perfect moments can be momentous or ordinary or somewhere in between. On the last Monday of each month we engage in mindfulness about something that is right with our world. Everyone is welcome to join.

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When my son was old enough to start attending birthday parties, I was a little bit appalled at the kinds of birthday parties being thrown for the preschool and kindergarten aged set. I felt lucky when he didn't complain about a party-in-the-park that turned into a big-playdate-at-our-house due to rain one year, and when he asked, at age four, for an "adults-only" celebration. Last year, we celebrated more traditionally with a space-themed party at our house, but, type A person that I am, I spent months planning and preparing.

When we asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday this year, he told us that he only wanted one person at his party: a little girl who has been his friend and constant companion since he was a toddler.

We love A. She has the impish grin of an elf, but the seriousness and thoughtfulness of a much older child. She insists on wearing dresses, but also on climbing trees. They met when my son went to Montessori school, in the Toddler House, where they spent hours together, since both sets of parents were working full time. When they moved up to the Primary level, they went to separate classrooms, and were thrilled when those classrooms had to be combined due to some downsizing at the school. The teachers joked that they were inseparable. I. and A. talked about getting married, about buying a house at the beach, about how many cars and campers and tractor trailers they were going to have. It was sweet. And yet, maybe a little too sweet?

I wouldn't say that we tried to dissuade him from his "party for two," but we gave him every opportunity to renege on the decision. I worried about what her parents would think. What about your other friends? we asked several times over the next month. What about the boys? Every time, he shook his head. No, he'd say, firmly, I just want to have A. over. Finally, he became annoyed, and said, in that unmistakeable teenager-y voice, "Mom, haven't you been listening to me?"

Well, I had. But I hadn't.

I.'s birthday would be early in his first year in a new school, in a class full of people he didn't know. Of course he wouldn't feel comfortable inviting any of those new people to a party. And maybe he felt like he just wanted something quiet, and familiar: the companionship of a friend whom he hadn't seen since camp ended, and whom he wouldn't see again for many months.

We agreed, and I offered to take them out to tea, at a local place that does high tea the English way, with small sandwiches, scones, and small desserts. I'd taken I. before, just the two of us, and he enjoyed the attention, the multiple courses, and feeling grown up; he swilled decaf fruit tea like a pro. He set about designing an invitation immediately, which I didn't even get to see before he sealed it up and sent it off. (I still don't know what it said, though A.'s parents assure us that it was entirely appropriate.)

I.'s birthday was a perfect fall day: warm but not hot, breezy without the chill. A. arrived at mid-day, dressed in blue flowers, and I chauffered them both downtown in the MegaWagon. We ordered one prince and one princess tea, and they chatted and giggled over banana-nutella sandwiches and strawberries and scones while I tried to eat my salad as inconspicuously as possible. The staff came out with a candle-adorned cupcake in the middle of generous plates of desserts, and sang happy birthday, as I. beamed, and his companion looked on, grinning broadly.

When tea was over, they went browsing at the adjacent shop that sells all things porcelain, and conspiratorially ran ahead of me back to the wagon. It was hard going on the way back, since I'd drunk an entire pot of tea by myself, and I made the usual adult groaning noises, which they thought were extremely funny. Finally, about three quarters of the way back, they decided to pull the wagon together up the hill to our house.

And as I walked behind them, feeling the warm autumn sun on my face, I thought about the beauty of uncomplicated friendships, of the completeness of children's love, and felt grateful both that I. has a friend like A., and that he recognizes what a gem she is. I felt glad that he didn't feel the need to have a big party in order to feel celebrated, and lucky to have a little boy who has already figured out what's really important. At one point, I was struck by how perfect it was, watching them walk together, and I snapped this picture with my camera phone, I hoped that they would always remember that first friendship, and remember how it's easier to pull a really large wagon when you're both holding on to the handle, bodies close together, talking, laughing, wondering about the world, and not paying attention to how heavy it is.

It's a lesson we would all do well to learn.

Happy birthday, I. May they all be as perfect as this moment.

Strawberry Muffins
These healthy muffins are perfect for a lunchbox, a snack container, or children's tea. Or maybe for you, to share with a friend.

1 c. regular flour
1 c. whole wheat flour
6 T. unrefined sugar or 1/4 c. agave nectar
1/2 t. salt
3 T. baking powder
1 egg or 1 flax egg (1 T. flaxseed + 3 T. water, mixed and let stand)
1 c. milk of your choice (or 3/4 c. + 2 T. milk of your choice if using agave)
3 T. grapeseed oil (melted coconut or canola will also work)
1 c. frozen strawberries, chopped into blueberry-sized chunks

Mix together dry ingredients in a large bowl. Separately mix together wet ingredients. Make a well in the dry ingredients and add the wet ingredients. Stir with a wooden spoon until just moistened ... do NOT overmix! Add the strawberries and stir gently until just combined.

Pour into 12 muffin cups and bake 12 minutes at 400 (or 13-14 minutes at 375 if using agave).

Raw

The world suddenly looks like a caricature when you open a Facebook message informing you that your friend is dead.

You keep waiting for someone to post the witty punchline, because that's what Facebook is for. This is obviously a cruel practical joke. You are angry at your friend for allowing the joke to go on this long. Why won't she post a status update, dispelling the rumors? Stupid Facebook.

Watching the rain that is now blowing sideways across the yard, you huddle on the phone with a mutual friend, refusing to believe, because refusal will make it not-so. You hang up to make dinner, as if this sort of conversation happens every day, and leftover homemade pizza is the next event in the natural sequence.

But your mutual friend has connections, and she calls you again to confirm that this absurdity is real. Together, and then again alone, you begin to gather the story, thinking that maybe it will make more sense once you have all of the pieces. You comb through the posts on her Facebook wall. You look at her text messages. You spend hours on the phone, with friends, discussing the events leading up to this disaster. You play Nancy Drew. But you're an amateur, and try as you may, the pieces don't fit together.

It's simply absurd.

Because this is not the sort of thing that happens to your friends, your warrior women friends. This is what happens on Fox News: women recently separated from their husbands dying inexplicably in hotel rooms in Atlantic City, with their children nestled up against them, one under the crook of each arm.

Fuck that.

You weep over silly things, like the message she sent asking you to join her for hot yoga, to which you replied that you couldn't cheat on your own beloved teacher, but that you'd get back to her. You think about the last time you saw her, and you hate that you can't remember the last time you saw her.

You weep for her children, for their terminated innocence, for the loss of their true north. She was their world, and they hers. You are the sort of person who helps people, and there is not a thing you can do to fix this kind of broken.

You hate that she is a hazy memory already, brilliant, silhouetted by the sun, as if you've Photoshopped her with "Outer Glow." You are standing with her on the dry part of the rocky creek bed, wordless, watching her children and yours skip stones across the surface of the water. She slips away from you like the water in the creek, carrying the boat-branches downstream.

You hold her, and your grief, and the whole world, in your heart.

Trust

So I'd pretty much promised myself that I was not going to do the seemingly obligatory first-day-of-school post, most of which have made me want to go hurl.

But when my son got on the bus this morning for the first time, walking up those steps as if it were the most natural thing in the world, not really knowing, entirely, how he'd get to his classroom or find his teacher or get back on the right bus to get home or get off at the right bus stop to find me ... I was struck by his innocent trust, and by his courage.

Our elementary school is right up the road from us. The only reason he gets on the bus in the first place is that there is no sidewalk on some very busy stretches of local highway, and there's a wacky traffic circle between our house and there. And of course the great thing about being home is that if he needs me, I'm a stone's throw away.

But still: he'd never gotten on a school bus before. Never ridden alone before. Never navigated his school by himself. He put complete trust in the bus driver, and in the people who would help him to get off the bus, get to his classroom, get him back on the bus, and get him home.

I couldn't help but wonder, watching him with pride, when we lose that innocent trust, that ability to put our lives in the hands of strangers without question or fear. And I couldn't help but wish that it came more easily.

When was the last time you put your life in the hands of a stranger? Did you find it difficult to do so?

Coming to Terms and Honey Lavender Ice Cream

I lace up my sneakers, open the door, and step out. It's only been three days since I've gone running, but it feels like an eternity: my limbs feel like stone. I have already decided that I'm going farther today. I reach the street, lean forward, take a breath, take a few steps, quicken my pace, and begin.

***

Before I got pregnant with N., I had a dream that is still vivid in my mind. I am walking down the sidewalk, perhaps towards downtown, perhaps towards the farmer's market up the street; the sun is warm and the light is dappled on the pavement. Ahead of me, my son walks with my husband, holding his hand, sometimes skipping away, then running back to him, like a boomerang. Sometimes he climbs up onto my husband's shoulders, ruffling the leaves playfully when his head nears the branches. I am walking a good distance behind them, more slowly, carrying a child in my arms. A daughter. She is heavy, thoughtful, watching the world go by with solemnity. I want to hold my boomerang child, too, but I know I must carry this one right now. I feel like I'm being left behind, even though I'm not alone. I feel my throat tighten, watching them head into the light without me. Without us.

***

I am sitting in yoga class for the first time in weeks. It's been too easy to miss class lately, with my husband's business trips, and our (too short) vacation, and the loss of momentum. I dragged myself out, knowing that there would probably be a sub because my teacher goes to India every year at this time, also knowing that I need ... something. Recentering?

The sub is someone I know fairly well, a woman who is in the 500 hour training this year. My teacher had given me her name as a reference when I was exploring doing teacher training, the week before I found out I was pregnant with N., when I had given up on getting pregnant and had been handed a diagnosis of unexplained secondary infertility, and had decided I was going to give myself a different goal. Seeing her always reminds me of one of the alternate universes where I didn't end up, the one in which I become a wildly successful certified yoga instructor, but have only one child.

Her style is a little different from my regular teacher, but you can also tell that she was my teacher's student. She does more than just talk about asanas; she talks about philosophy. And tonight she is talking about stillness, that we need to find that place in us that doesn't move, the center around which chaos swirls.

I find some irony in this. On the one hand, I have a hard time not getting swept up in the chaos. Chaos has defined my life for the past 38 years. But on the other hand, I am the center now. I'm the one who isn't changing, who is just watching the world dance around me. And I don't always find it a welcome place to be.

***

I am running through the better part of town now, through the Mc Mansions. I hate these houses, this sprawling treeless suburbia, and yet, I want them. Or more correctly, I want the ability to have them if I wanted them. There are other things like that, too.

***

You should know this about me: I was a valedictorian. I was the one who was always ahead. I was the smart one, the one in the gifted and talented classes. The first one in my class to take my exams in graduate school. The one who won the fellowship. The one who started a new program at my job.

Now I watch with humility and jealousy when the accolades get handed out. I'm no longer the best in show. I watch others walk into the light, and wonder if I'm not running fast enough to keep up with the chaos.

***

My son starts first grade in two weeks, riding the bus for the first time. My daughter is beginning to put words together to form stories: "Eat. Elmo. Eyeball. Nomnomnomnom. bwahahahaaaaa!" (in reference to consuming an Elmo cupcake last week.) My husband orbits us, coming and going on business trips and busy with work. My former colleagues' lives march onward in Facebook, with posts about new student orientations and other harbingers of the new academic year. My non-work friends have their own chaos, some of it not good at all. My blogging colleagues and friends have theirs, some of it very good chaos, indeed.

And I sit here in the middle of it, just watching. Feeling jealous of the movement and strangely disappointed by the stillness that this teacher says I should cultivate.

***

I am three miles out from home, my mind spinning, the air thick with jasmine, gardenia, lavender, and I realize I am gasping for breath. I stop, resting my hand on the splintered wooden fencepost, and am surprised to find that I am shaking, dry-heaving. It comes, like a tidal wave. My face is wet. I brush the sweat away, but it's not sweat.

I am shaking my fist ungratefully at the sky, at the miraculously blue sky. An older couple drives by in a beat up green pickup truck, waving, thinking I am waving at them. I wave, take a deep breath, curse everyone, and pick up my feet, half skipping to start myself moving forward again.

***

When I first got our ice cream maker, I was surprised to see that the paddle stayed still in the middle while the bowl turned around it. It makes perfect sense, of course, given that you want to continually give the ingredients new contact with the coldest surface in order to convince them to freeze evenly; it had just never occurred to me that it would work that way.

Maybe it's a useful metaphor. Maybe I should try to appreciate standing still. The flower around which the bees work, collecting nectar to bring back to the hive. Honey. Lavender.

***

I crest the hill, and turn down, towards home.

Honey Lavender Ice Cream

2 c. milk
1 c. heavy cream
1 T. + 1 t. corn starch
1 t. lavender
2/3 c. honey
3 T. cream cheese (or goat cheese, thank you Healthy Foodie!)

Mix about 2 T. of the milk with the cornstarch in a small bowl to make a smooth slurry.Whisk the cream (or goat) cheese and salt in a medium bowl until smooth. Fill a large bowl with ice and water.

Combine the remaining milk, cream, lavender, and honey in a 4-quart saucepan, bring to a rolling boil over medium-high heat, and boil for 4 minutes, Remove from the heat and gradually whisk in the cornstarch slurry. Bring the mixture back to a boil over medium-high heat and cook, stirring with a heatproof spatula, until slightly thickened, about 1 minute. Remove from the heat.

Gradually whisk the hot milk into the cream (or goat) cheese until smooth. Submerge the mixture partway in the ice bath. Let stand, adding more ice as necessary, until cold, about 30 minutes.

Strain out the lavender as you pour the ice cream base into the frozen canister and spin until thick and creamy. Pack the ice cream into a storage container. Press a sheet of parchment directly against the surface and seal with an airtight lid. Freeze in the coldest part of your freezer until firm, at least 4 hours.

Serve sprinkled with a few lavender buds, toasted almonds, or a square of good bittersweet chocolate.

mojalodz