Finding Freedom in the Kitchen

I come from a family with an absolutely pathological commitment to homemade cooking. My grandmother was a dietician, who bore six children in the 1950s and cooked hot meals for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day. She taught her five daughters and one son to eat a plate of food only if it had different colors of food on it, and at least one of them had to be green.

So dinner growing up was almost always meat, carbohydrate, green vegetable, salad and a glass of milk. In college I continued to eat like this. My roommate called me "the Side Dish Queen" because even when I was cooking for only myself, I'd dirty every pan in our little kitchen making rice pilaf, steamed greened beans and pork chops.

Grandma, Mom and my four aunts took their upbringing seriously, too, and never, ever brought anything store-bought to a holiday dinner. Not even rolls. There wasn't always a lot of joy in this tradition. Food prep was pretty stressful, especially when the yeast mysteriously didn't rise in a double-batch of Thanksgiving rolls. And the only time I ever remember my mother cussing was when she made the family pie crust recipe; made with flour, egg and lard, it is legendarily tempermental. I avoided pie making for years, believing the phrase "easy as pie" to be a cruel ruse on the American housewife. Still, when I was newly married, my husband suggested we bring a Marie Calendar's pie to my grandparents' house and I looked at him in horror. I would be humiliated to show up with a pie in a box.

These days, I'm easing up on things, however. I really do love to cook, and I do prefer just about anything homemade to store bought, but giving myself grace in the kitchen is part of my new life philosophy. Born out of my thirties and my mother-of-young-children life stage, I like to call it Imperfectionism. Trader Joe's frozen side dishes, and even entrees, often find their way on my table, and my kids like them better than the "whole foods" that I make from scratch.

I can't be an Imperfectionist alone. Like any other addiction, kicking the habit of always doing things the hard way in the kitchen takes a support group. I'd like to take this moment to thank my sponsor, Tristina, who believes that ordering good food in is actually a spiritual discipline. She told me about all Trader Joe's wonderful bottled salad dressings. She encourages me to show up at our mommy groups with a box of doughnuts instead of homemade muffins (she doesn't even want me to transfer them to a pretty bowl with a homemade napkin). And she makes me order pizza for our families when we get together instead of cooking -- and even to have it delivered!

I'd also like to take this moment to thank a couple of other women who have helped on my path to recovery.

* Jenni, for getting me on bagged salad, and also introducing me to Costo's pre-shredded Mexican blend cheese

* June, for teaching me that you can be a good person who loves the earth, and still occasionally buy bottled water

* Grandma Gardner, for buying me the Cake Doctor cookbook, which uses boxed cake mix to make incredible desserts

* Susan, who, despite being a phenomenal cook, turned me on to Pilsbury pie crust. It is seriously so good.

* And finally, my mom and dad, who actually praise me whenever they come to my house and find me serving something I didn't make, like frozen quiches. They celebrate the freedom my generation has found.

Now, farewell, friends. I'm off on vacation. When I return, more on my conversion from a Perfectionist to an Imperfectionist.

Cowgirl Up

I'm about to steal one of my pastor's stories.

Every year, my pastor Kenton Beshore goes to Texas to spend six weeks with his kids and his wife's extended family. They boat, fish, swim, wakeboard, and eat. One year he was relating vacation stories and he said something that stuck with me:

"It takes work to have fun."

Then he described a family member who was prone to lounge-chair sitting and beer drinking while all the other men where helping get the boat in the water. One of the feisty Texas women in the family walked by him, smacked him in the back of the head and said, "Cowboy up!"

I thought of this today as I surveyed the pile of gear stacked in my backyard in preparation for our camping trip, for which we depart tomorrow night. My daughter caught me sighing as I was packing today and said, "Don't worry, Mom. Soon we'll be on vacation, and then you won't have any work to do."

True, darling daughter. Except unpacking the car, setting up tents, cooking food over a live fire, doing dishes in a plastic tub, bathing your three-year-old sister in an outdoor shower, and supervising you both so neither of you fall in the river or expose yourselves to poison oak, and then packing it all up again in four days and driving six hours home.

Being the good mommy that I am, I didn't say this out loud. I don't think.

But today I was seriously wondering if this is all worth it. Especially since two out of four people in our family have had strep infections this week, and another a cold and fever.

But just when my camping mojo began to wane, I got a vision of my girls sitting on the picnic table in Big Sur eating the tiny packets of sugary cereal they're so excited about, swinging their little footed pajama feet. I saw myself drinking camping coffee by the fire, and my husband floating down the river in his new inflatable boat. Suddenly I felt that I could go on.

My fondest memories from childhood were of spending time in my grandparents double wide mobile home (quite luxurious for the 1960s when they bought it) at Lake Havesu. We'd wake up in a sleeping bag mosh pit of cousins on the living room floor, have a huge breakfast, and head out for an entire day of swimming, water skiing and picnicking on the cove. We'd come home ravenous and eat a huge barbecue dinner.

Now as Mommy, I remember what was only in my peripheral vision as a child: the army of aunts, marshaled by five foot tall General Grandma, all cooking, packing, list-making, and tidying up around us and we reveled in vacation bliss. They were a bunch of tough women: skilled in the kitchen, strong of heart and arm, and hell on skis. And the last I remember as a central part of those great times: My mom and all her petite sisters, taking a break from their labors and getting back to their adolescent selves, tearing it up on a slalom ski.

So, it's my turn now. It's vacation time, and it's up to me to make it happen. Time to pack, cook, pitch tents, and hit the river with my paddle. It takes work to have fun. Cowgirl up!

Panties on the Head, and Laughter in my Heart

My almost three year old is not potty trained. Not even close. A month ago, when I asked her if she'd like to wear big-girl underpants like her sister, she gave me a look and said, "No mommy. I where diapers. I'm the only one in the family that wears diapers."

Well. That was that for a while.

But yesterday, for reasons known only to herself, she decided she'd like to try on some of her underwear. She wore them around the house for several hours. She didn't actually use the toilet, but neither did she wet the rug. This is progress of a kind.

Today she wanted to wear underpants again, but this time, she wanted to wear them over to a friend's house for a play date. This friend (hi, Tris) happens to be a bit of a germ-a-phobe, and I also happen to know that she just had her carpets cleaned due to a doggie doo doo incident this week. So, I had to tell Livie no, she could not wear her undies. But she could bring them with us and show them to Auntie Tris.

Half way over on the car ride, I checked the rear view mirror, and there in the back seat was Livie, sporting her pink undies with the white polka dots -- on her head. She looked exactly like Brett Michaels with his bandanna on. Only with leg holes. Despite the danger, I immediately snapped a photo with my cell phone. I'd post it if I had the equipment or know-how to do so.

For once, my stubborn almost three year old found a compromise to make herself happy all on her own. It may not be a socially acceptable compromise, but it worked for Mommy. Just one of those moments I had to celebrate in blog. Good times.

Holding it All Together

One week from tomorrow, we are heading off for our family of four's first ever camping trip all on our own. The real kind of camping, with tents and fire pits and everything. It will be an adventure for sure, and not necessarily in the way Hubby is envisioning it. Realistically, I think my Mommy jobs can only get more complicated by the simple life in our camp site. But we're going for it, and I'm excited.

The kids are over the moon about the trip. Sophia (age 6) felt we should have a team name for our family while we camp. So she dubbed us the Four S'mores. Hubby and I like it so much we're considering having matching shirts made.

When my sister-in-law heard our new name, she wanted to know which of us represented each s'more element. We decided Hubby was the chocolate, sweet Livie was the graham cracker, feisty Sophia was the fire, and I was the marshmallow. "Because as the mom, you're the one who holds it all together," sis-in-law said.

What a nice compliment. Too bad, though, that the next day, Sophia asked, "Mom are you the marshmallow because it falls all apart, and you fall apart?"

Ooh. That stung a little bit.

But then I laughed, thinking about the ways in which I did "fall apart" over the weekend that prompted my recent "cranky" blogs: like when I surveyed the damage in our backyard on Sunday, filled with the detritus from a day at the beach and a morning of my husband's garage sale foraging. Or when an econo-pack of toilet paper rained down on my head while I was trying to get picnic supplies off the laundry room shelf. Or when Livie had her 10th tantrum on Sunday, apparently not caring that the Sabbath should be kept holy.

"Well, sweetie, Mommy does fall apart sometimes," I told her. "Sometimes I just get very tired. But that's not why I'm the marshmallow."

Look at me: I'm growing. A few years ago, Sophia's comment would have sent me in a week-long Bad Mommy Shame Spiral. Now, I'm comfortable with the fact that sometimes I do indeed fall apart. But only because I know how hard I'm working to hold it all together.

I'm in charge of feeding, cleaning, dressing, supplying the house, signing forms, making appointments, keeping the social calendar. I'm responsible for my kids' relationship with one another; for socializing them with their peers; for teaching them to respect their elders. I plan the birthdays. I schedule babysitting and make sure Hubby and I get date nights. I'm the one who makes the dreaded statement, "Honey, we need to talk about our relationship." I say the bedtime prayers and answer the questions about the universe, nature, God, what TV does to their brains, and what sugar does to their teeth.

And humbly I can say, this job is too much for me. I don't mind the fact that my daughter knows that. Being a woman is hard, wonderful, scary stuff. So I'm allowed to fall apart once in a while. And when I do it in an unhealthy way, like yelling or saying something unfair and hurtful, I don't mind apologizing to my kids for losing it. It gives them the opportunity to extend grace to me, and teaches them how to ask for forgiveness, too.

That, in fact, might be the best lesson I have to teach my kids: I am not enough for them. I am not strong enough for this job. But I don't have to always be strong, and neither do they.

I rejoice in 2 Corinthians 12:9: "But he [God] said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me."

When I fail the kids, I can point them up, to their perfect parent, who loves me so much that I can make mistakes without feeling condemned. I can tell them that freedom is available to them too. I also rejoice, that God gives me the opportunity to be the marshmallow, the one that holds my little children's lives together, and gives me the power to do it, not perfectly, but well enough.

Renegade Gardening

I am the Johnnie Appleseed of Irvine!

If you know me well or – for some odd reason – read my blog extremely carefully, you know that I have a love-hate relationship with Home Owners’ Associations (hereby referred to as the HOA). While I like having lots of trees, well-kept lawns, and no cars up on blocks in the front yards, I’m not crazy about the way they stifle creative expression. HOAs typically favor beige paint and sturdy, unassuming plants, the kind my clever neighbor calls Default Shrubs. You know the kind: they bloom pink for about two weeks of the year, at which time they attract an unholy amount of bees, and the rest of the time they just fade into the background.

There’s a little rebel left in this suburban mother’s soul. So every once in a while I defy our HOA rules, hopefully in small, victimless crimes. My kids and I continue to color the walkway with sidewalk chalk, for example, despite the fact that we have actually received a written note insisting we clean it up as soon as we’re finished creating. My repertoire includes portraits of the girls and their friends, chalk outlines of the kids (looks like a very colorful CSI team was working the block when I’m done), and the main characters from Monsters, Inc. Many of the other neighborhood kids join us in this, so I don't believe we're actually bothering anyone, and so often forget to clean up. Hubby, however, whose inner rebel is much less developed than mine, and who will also have to pay the fine if we incur one, usually comes home and hoses it off.

But my favorite underground activity is what I like to call Renegade Gardening. In between my next door neighbor’s back patio and my own is a small patch of earth, cursorily planted with – what else – the default shrubs. I pass this area half a dozen times a day when I enter my house, and used to get a not-so-lovely view of the gas meter and our circuit breakers. It really drove me crazy. So, whenever I planted seeds in my garden, I’d “accidentally” throw a couple over the fence, hoping they’d take root. Unfortunately, they never did.

But this spring, when I was removing a root-bound and leggy geranium from a pot, I decided to sneak into the HOA owned plot, and plant it. I’m happy to say, it’s growing beautifully. Meanwhile, my Black Beauty Geranium, the pride of my tiny garden, has worked it’s way under the fence and quadrupled in size. The gas meter is completely obscured! (My apologies go out to The Gas Company employees who have to read my meter. I have no bone to pick with you. But the cause of Beauty must be forwarded at all costs.)

Even better, now joining the geraniums are the leafy tendrils of a Black Eyed Susan, an unruly vine I removed from my yard two years ago, but whose seeds must have scattered and lay dormant all this time. They have also taken root in the boring ivy beds that line our carports, and I water them with love. I rejoice in these small victories. They help reconcile me to all the beige stucco.

Johnnie Appleseed, as the legend goes, was a friendly eccentric who walked the American wilderness scattering seeds, wearing a saucepan on his head. My extensive Internet research of this afternoon revealed that he was actually a nursery owner and a missionary named John Chapman, who planted orchards throughout Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Pennsylvania and Ohio two hundred years ago, some of which are still growing. He believed in trying to mimic the goodness of God, and envisioned a country where no one would go hungry because there were always enough apples to eat. My mission may not be quite so altruistic, and my geraniums, not to mention my condo, will be long gone in a century. But I do believe I’m practicing senseless acts of beauty as the bumper sticker used to say. Plus, I’m satisfying my inner rebel at the same time. Not a bad use of my energies when all is said and done.

Not Cranky Any More, a Gratitude List

Is it any fun to read what someone is thankful for? I can't make it funny like I can my complaints. But just home from an evening swimming with Aunt Kari and Uncle Cody, and remembering what summer fun is supposed to feel like. After two days of serious crankiness, I'd like to reboot with my gratitude list for this evening.

1. Thank you to the community planners of my neighborhood, who, back in the 1970s, built this beautiful swimming lagoon -- water slides and all -- where I can take my kids.



2. Thank you to same for including a very close parking lot, warm showers, and a bathroom.

3. Thanks to Ralphs grocery for putting graham crackers, Hershey bars, and juice boxes all on sale on the same day.

4. Thanks be to God for our wonderful siblings, all of whom are stand-up kind of people and two of whom married stand-up kind of spouses. (Just to be clear, the others aren't married yet but I'm sure will chose well when the time comes.)

5. Thanks be to God for my two beautiful nieces and one more on the way.

6. Thanks to our parents, who raised us to love each other and never compete with one another. These beautiful relationships mean our kids have the priceless gift of cousins, plus aunts and uncles who spoil and love on them.

7. Thanks to our neighbor for a bundle of really old, really dry firewood that made a righteous bonfire.

8. And finally, thanks to the inventor of the s'more. I love you, whoever, wherever you are.

Fun Mom -- An Oxymoron Part 2

*** caption 1: Our fantasy family, happy in our giant sand castle we built. ***
*** caption 2: Our family the reality, exhausted from carrying the ridiculous amount of gear we take to the beach. ***

I used to be a girl in a Beach Boys' song. Now I am a cautionary tale.

Watch me as I walk the three blocks from my inconvenient but cheap parking space to the beach. On my back is a folding chair complete with pocket. As I walk, its solid aluminum construction bangs me in the funny bone every third step. In the crook of one elbow, my Target-dollar-bin beach bag, overflowing with a variety of sunscreens and swim diapers. On the end of the other arm, a toddler, who would rather be carried and is therefore whining the whole way.

This is the sound I make as I walk: rattle, rattle, clank (elbow-chair frame collision), groan, shuffle. Rattle, rattle, clank, groan, shuffle.

My husband, who in the years before fatherhood carried only a towel, our matching fins, and a board and looked quite sporty and hot, is now wearing an uber-uncool boogieboard bag, stuffed with two boards, two kids' spring suits, the umbrella anchor, a kids' chair, a frisbee, a kids' umbrella, a smash ball set, and our matching fins. (I will not get to wear my fins, because someone will have to stay on the sand with the toddler.) He pulls a wagon filled with cooler, towels, sand toys, and enough dry snacks for a preschool classroom.

Our six year old Sophia skips along, carrying nothing. Then after three minutes, she complains that she is tired of walking.

Young, scantily clad couples cruise past us on beach cruisers, obviously thanking their stars that there is such a thing as birth control.

I felt so cranky on this walk today, when I was also shivering because the sun refused to shine despite what weather.com said, that I decided to try smile therapy, like quirky little Fish on the TV show Ally McBeal. Sophia looked at me and said, "Mom, you're making a really weird face." At least that made me laugh.

Again, as I wrote yesterday, I really want to be a fun mom. But at no time do I mourn my former self more than on a beach day. If I squint I can see that old self, lying prone and half asleep, tanned as a pinto bean, reading a paperback book.

Not that it's all bad now. In between guarding the cooler from the kids' sandy hands, wrestling them through sunscreen application, and feeding Livie who literally NEVER stops snacking and still is tall and thin as a golf club (perhaps her modeling contract will pay for college), I do get to build sand castles. I just love bending over in my bathing suit in front of dozens of strangers. Then I can catch sand crabs (more bending over) in the 60-degree water with Sophia. And then, while Jeff takes Sophia out in the waves, I can feed Livie again, until Sophia comes out with blue lips and sand in all possible crevices, possibly crying with fatigue. I wrap and coddle her, feed her, and then feed Livie again.

Then we pack up and walk back to the car. Rattle, rattle, clank, groan, shuffle. Rattle, rattle, clank, groan, shuffle.

Why do it then, you might ask? Most mothers of young children I know simply don't go to the beach much. There are two reasons why I persist in this madness. One: I love my husband, who works in a windowless room all week and dreams of the moment that he can dive into a wave on Saturday, no matter how cold the water is. Two: I really do love the beach. I love body surfing, sun, sand in toes, searching for seashells. I love the crusty feeling in my hair and the way my skin smells on the way home.

Before my young married beach days, there were teenager beach days, with a pack of friends and a stack of Seventeen Magazines. Before that, there were family beach days, spending hours in the water with my dad, and being fed Jack-in-the-Box strawberry shakes on the way home by my mom. My parents' first date was on the beach; I probably ocean swam in utero. I want my girls to be Beach Boys songs, too.

So. Look for me on Saturdays between Newport's 32th and 30th street jetties. I'm the one standing in the giant hole my husband dug, waving at him and Sophia as they catch a wave together. And if you see me as I lug all my gear back to the car, say a prayer for me. Or at least offer to carry my chair.