Momma Bean can cook.
I do, I really do. For those of you that know me, you are probably rubbing your eyes, certain that you just read wrong, but I feel confident in my advances over the past year to make the bold statement that I can cook.
For years, I was either bored with, intimidated by or too busy to cook. I’ve written before about what a wonderful cook my mother is and how every dish I make, I compare to her and constantly fall short. Very short. But, I’ve heard many times the stories of her cooking abilities when she was first married. She was a horrible cook and even worse, soon after she married my dad, they moved back to the United States, a country that was foreign to her with food and stores that must have been more intimidating to her than I feel trying to recreate her dishes.
That’s not to say I wasn’t a little curious about cooking and food in general. I love food. I love discovering new flavors and trying new dishes. My dear friend and I spend countless hours during the week emailing back and forth and more often than not, it is about food. We talk about new restaurants in the area, recipes we’ve found, kitchen gadgets we long for and our (her) beloved Gordon.
So, I was playing around with what to do with this site, to keep it fresh and new, to wipe away the cobwebs and neglect, and to infuse the spirit of Beans in my writing, which was my original intent. I have been losing the game with time organization and it’s been more apparent as the Beans became older. I can’t sit for long stretches of time in front of the computer, recounting their newest giggle or their latest word, before one peers over my shoulder, asking to go to “Disney Dot Com” (thank you, cross-promotion) or another knocks softly at the door wall with longing to run in the grass and water the flowers. I thought about the time I spend on the computer at home and, lately, it’s to find a recipe that would be suitable for the wide range of taste buds I have living under my roof. So, to ease back into this, I thought I’d share the recipes that I’ve tested on the Beans, and their reactions. Hopefully this will evolve into something important (to me and to them) and into me getting back to the business of writing the history of my children as they grow before my eyes.
Lucky
Last night, after we returned from the in-law’s and my parents’ house, we spent a little chocolate induced energy with a pillow fight between the four of us. Max attempted to get involved too, but he just couldn’t keep up. Eventually it turned into a round of Jump On Daddy Time and I collapsed on the couch, laughing hysterically at the sight in front of me. Every groan emitted by J led to a squeal of delight by me and an intensification of effort by the Beans.
Peanut beamed at my encouragement and ran into my arms. When I swooped her up, I whispered into her neck, “We’re so lucky, aren’t we? We’re so, SO lucky!” I gasped at the thoughts that followed and banished them from my mind so that I wouldn’t lose this overwhelming feeling of joy and thankfulness.
Later in the evening, as J and I were closing the house up and waiting for the dogs to finish outside, I held him and told him about my conversation with Audrey a few hours earlier.
“I think about it all the time,” he told me, after I asked him if any one person is allowed to feel like this. Will we be allowed to continue on like this or will our luck run out one day? For a moment I allow myself to get caught up in the thought that this might be temporary. That one day the giggles will go unheard and the world will turn dark. In that instant, my heart shattered into a million little pieces and I couldn’t catch my breath at the thought.
Stay up a little later. Hug them a little longer. Smell their hair, tickle their toes. Close the laptop. Turn off the T.V. Hold their face in your hands and watch them smile. Revel in the noise of your life. And hold on as tight as you can.
*Shana, I don’t know you, but I’m praying.
The Morning Snub
From: Bean, Daddy [mailto: daddybean@lastofthemortgagecompanies.com]
Sent: Wednesday, November 12, 2008 12:38 PM
To: Mommabean
Subject: RE: morning commute
Forgot to tell you another Bean story
So, this morning we’re driving down Main Street by the construction
We saw a big snort yesterday
Maggie asked where the snort was today
I said he wasn’t there, but there was a baby snort
So, Audrey says: “Awwww, cute little baby snort”
I say: “He is cute”
Audrey says: “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to Melman”*
*For those of you who didn’t know, or didn’t read the previous post, Audrey is Alex, Maggie is Gloria, Daddy Bean is Melman and I am Marty. Responding to any other name is strictly forbidden by Audrey.
The Great Debaters
"But, Mom. I really don’t think that’s a good idea."
"I don’t care if you think it’s a good idea, you’re going to do it."
"But. Moooooooooooooooooooooooooooom."
"No buts."
"Fine."
"Whatever."
Reminiscing about adolescent angst? Try again. This is a conversation I had with a certain three year old legume the other day when I told her to do something that was just a tad bit more exciting than watching me clip my under-groomed toenails. My pediatrician calls it advanced language skills. I call it a pain in the butt I had hoped to stave for at least another eight years.
Both girls are exceptional at communicating exactly what they think, feel, dream of and hope for. It’s both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it is so easy to tell them exactly what I need from them and likewise, for them to let me know what is is they need from me. On the other hand…whoa. Apparently I know how to make opinionated women. They are certainly not shy, though Maggie has her moments of uncertainty. Maggie tries to reason with me while Audrey sets on a path of telling me why what I am saying does not benefit her.
I tell everyone that this is the age that is the most enjoyable. I believe I have said that during every stage, but I really mean it now. Now they are at the age where they can tell me what they are thinking, and inject their thoughts with bits of humor and mischievousness perfectly tailored to their personality. We can have secrets and inside jokes and we talk about dreams and wishes and what ifs. Now is the age that their imagination is in full force and has yet to be tampered with by the oftentimes cynical and cruel world that they live in.
Sometimes Audrey uses made up, silly words and carries on a conversation with me in this pretend language, punctuating her meaning with an earnest look or a raised voice. Other times, she demands that you only speak to her as if she was Alex, the lion from Madagascar. And when she is in this mode, inevitably her trusty sidekick Maggie must play along as the hippopotamus. If she responds to me in any way other than that of an animal, Audrey is quick to correct both of us. When Maggie is not playing Audrey’s game, she’s playing the role of teenager in a toddler’s body. She calls my bluff and questions my logic. You see, she was the one that I was quoting above. And yes, she says "Fine!" in that way. "Whatever" too. Only she doesn’t say it with the nastiness that teenagers can sometimes drum up. She says it with a smirk, as if she already knows my reaction will be the incredulous look on my face and the slow shake of my head.
I love that I can tell them what I’m (mostly) thinking now and they can respond with their own ideas and opinions. They give me suggestions and they remind me of promises made. They keep me in check almost as much as I keep them in line and they force me to be honest with myself and with others. That they disagree with me sometimes is only a sign that I’ve helped to create independent, smart little women. But mostly, I revel in the fact that, not only are they growing into wonderful women, they are becoming great friends that I cherish on a level different from their places as my children.
An American duty
Daddy Bean: Mommy and Daddy have to go vote for the president today.
Maggie: What’s that?
Daddy Bean: well, we live in the United States so we need to vote for the president. The president is like the king of the United States. Kind of like Julian is the King of Madagascar.
Maggie: Oh. I’m going to vote for Magglio!
My little wallflower…
I had to sweep the cobwebs away to even get here! I have so much to talk about yet I can’t get the words through my fingers and onto the keyboard. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t, but I am still here and alive and kicking. For those of you who are having Bean withdrawal, I give you this…You tell me if her father and I have anything to worry about in the future!!
Because he begged me not to post it.
Audrey, stifling a laugh at J’s expense.
Okay, so really it was that Audrey couldn’t stomach the smell of cow and pig at Wolcott Farm. The girl does not know how to feign interest nor can she mask disgust for politeness’ sake. Don’t ask her for an opinion if you aren’t ready to hear the answer. But, oh, if she loves you. She loves with the same ferocity that she despises, and the strength of it is so shocking, coming from such a tiny bean.
Painting
I’ve never been the crafty type. I am not an artist, I’ve given up on scrapbooking at least three times and the extent of my pottery experience is painting a mug at Plaster Playhouse. But Shawn inspired me to step out of my comfort zone of coloring (with washable markers) inside the lines and letting the girls get a little messy with some finger paints. Truth be told, I was looking for a way to keep the girls from the eighty-nine degree, 100% humidity back yard. Movies weren’t motivating them and they were tired of the playroom. So, I pulled out the paints, some sheets of paper and their paintbrushes.
Initially, the girls stayed on the paper. Audrey is as precise about her paint as she is about her markers. I think she was around twenty-eight months when she began coloring within the lines of a picture. Her attention to detail is amazing, and when she is working, she zones out completely. So, she began dabbing her paintbrush neatly into different colors and painting a portrait of polka-dots, making certain that she did not mix any of the paint colors.
Meanwhile, Maggie had tossed her paintbrush aside for a more convenient tool. Fingers. Soon enough, she had mixed all the colors of her palette until it was a wet mess of brown. She plopped her hands on the paper for a bit but soon became bored with this form of art. So, she squished her fingers together and giggled at the sounds of the paint oozing through her hands and onto her bare legs. Once there, the floodgates were opened. By the time she was done, Maggie had painted most of each arm, her belly and the bottoms of her feet. When Audrey spied what Maggie was doing on the other side of the table, she shook her head in disbelief and continued to quietly paint. But Maggie and I coaxed her to try it too and so she took her paintbrush and gently dabbed a bit on her arm. And then some more. And still more.
When I announced that it was time for a bath, both girls protested. They were having too much fun and they didn’t want it to end any time soon. But I knew if I didn’t put an end to it now, my Beans wouldn’t be the only things covered in paint in the kitchen. Thanks again to Shawn for suggesting this activity. I will definitely come back to it to fight the boredom (and the heat).
Promises
Pie, still reeling from that damn whale, has finagled a new routine of pre-bed bedtime out of me, where both Beans crawl into our bed, I put on the symphonies channel on Sirius and they drift to sleep in the safety of our room. It’s been a little over a week now and every night at around 11:00 p.m., J and I trudge up to our bedroom to collect the thieves of the cool sheets (which, let’s be honest, are the best thing ever!) and return them to their cribs.
Last night, I had to run upstairs twice, all the while muttering the decision to go with the colonial over the ranch, when I overheard the girls pushing and shoving each other off the bed. I gave them each a stern talking to, reminding them that, just because they were in our room, doesn’t mean it isn’t bedtime. Same thing, different room, Girls. By the third trip, I was tired and fed up with the shenanigans. I flipped off the music, took the stuffies away and demanded silence and sleep. Then, I turned and left, leaving behind kicks and wails of protest. Finally, things settled down and I stopped hearing whispers and began to hear the soft snoring Pie and the faint rattle of Peanut’s breath. I settled in to my newest book, while J worked on the laptop in the basement. Soon, my eyes began drooping and not even the sound of the Tigers tying up the game could keep me from nodding off.
Until, just before eleven, I heard a crash and a wail. I sat straight up on the couch, wondering if I imagined it. The crying intensified and I flew, quicker than I ever had, up the stairs. I found Peanut laying in a crumpled heap of sheets on the floor beside the bed, eyes closed, head in hand, moaning, “Momma! Momma! Momma!”
I gathered her up into me and shushed her. I asked her where her boo boos were and peppered kisses along her forehead and on her elbow, at her direction. I held her up and looked into her face to ask her if she was okay after all, but she was still sleeping. And still chanting my name. My name. Momma, momma, momma. She wouldn’t stop right away and my heart broke at the haunting way that she called to me.
“Shhh, shhh. Baby, I’m here. I’m here. You’re okay.” I kissed her head again and held her tighter to convey that she was safe with me, and to apologize for allowing her to be injured. I wanted to wake her to make sure she was okay, to verify that she didn’t hit her head just the right way and had a worse ailment than a bumped elbow and head. Tears formed in my eyes, listening to her cry out to me in her sleep, so I kept rocking her until her chant became a whisper and she weakly pulled from me to lay on the bed that she knew was near. I watched her until her brow relaxed and her breathing regulated.
I thought about my family and friends who don’t have their mother to run to them when they are needed, through distance, through death, through a horrible misunderstanding. I thought about my mother and how she was half way around the world when her mother died. And how she was half way across the country when my sister’s daughter passed away. And how blessed I am to be four miles away from her, to leave my children in her loving arms while I am away. To still have her chide me for my clothing and food choices. To be nearby when I fall. We’ve had our differences, but in the end, I’m still her little girl. And with those thoughts, I gathered Peanut up for one last hug and moved on to her sister, oblivious to the accident, and ran my fingers through her hair and whispered the promise that I would always be nearby.
Winner of the Mother of the Week Award
Not Momma Bean who, whilst attempting a new recipe, failed to allow enough time for the wine to reduce and quite possibly served her Beans alcohol for dinner.*
That being said, the Beans ate better than usual and J gave the new dish 8.5/10. Sounds like we’ll be getting our drink on during every meal!
*It should be noted that no Bean was harmed during the making of this dinner.
Just a little bit of randomness…
1. I was the receipient of free coffee yesterday and today! MIL gave me a coupon for free iced coffee at Starbucks every Wednesday for a month. Yes!! It’s only a tall, but Starbucks girl and I are thick as theives (or she sees the desperation in my eyes) so she upgrades me to a grande with hazelnut for nothing but a smile. And today I stopped at the new drive-thru (I wept tears of joy at that) Beaner’s to pick up my free opening week coffee. Tastes a little burnt, but it’s caffeine. It’s the little things, people.
2. Yesterday, the Beans and I did a little shopping and we did not come back empty handed. I’m a sucker for clothing coupons and I spend them as fast as I get them. And the Disney Store was having a killer sale. Princess sunglasses - check. Princess jams - check. I also purchased a dress for a couple of upcoming weddings. If anyone needs a boost of self-confidence and encouragement, I’ll rent out a Bean at a reasonable hourly rate. Every time I donned a new dress, they oohed and ahhed as if they were watching Heidi Klum herself, strutting down the runway. You can never get enough of, “You’re so beautiful, Momma,” even when you’ve got your hair pulled back, you’re in an old MSU shirt and torn jeans and you know better.
3. The Pie has lovely eyes. I always ask to see them and she responds by batting her long lashes (inherited from J, thankfully) and scrunching her nose. Yesterday, when I asked to see them, she frowned at me and said, “I don’t want green eyes Momma. I want brown eyes, just like you.” And yes. I cried.
4. And lastly…Peanut is still not potty-trained. And, frankly, I haven’t tried. Pie is done and done and I’m thrilled but I don’t have the energy for the battle. I know it’s all a power trip. Peanut knows what she is doing and will actually tell me while she’s in the process. She runs to the bathroom with Pie and is her personal cheerleader, hugging her as she sits on the toilet and reminding me that Pie gets a reward for her business. But, when I ask her (half-heartedly), she just shakes her head no and responds, “Maybe tomorrow.” I keep telling myself that one day, I’ll look for her and she’ll shout from the bathroom, “I’m going pee, Mom!” Right? Right?!?!?
Dear Whale,
You really scared the Pie, you know that, Whale? When she woke in the morning, she told us that you spent the evening in her room. At first, she was brave and all business. Her bottom lip began to quiver when she told us about the cage you put her in. In the beginning we thought it was just her active, vibrant imagination. But when I went to leave for work in the morning, she clung to me and asked me what I dreamt about. Surely I couldn’t leave her if I had been a party to such an unpleasant night.
I told her that I dreamt of the zoo and of picnics in the park with my girls. I dreamt of planting flowers and running through sprinklers. I saw ice cream cones and I chased our dogs. I told her that everything was wonderful in my dreams because she was in them. That didn’t help. J took her and she wrapped her arms around him and when he asked her what she wanted to dream about, she said, “My daddy.” I cried.
A little later in the day, I called Mom to see if the topic was brought up again. She assured me that Pie was fine and hadn’t mentioned a thing about you, Whale. But when I arrived at the house a couple of hours later, Mom confirmed to me that Pie was still disturbed by what had occured the night before.
As it neared bedtime and we commenced our nightly routine, I could see Pie getting more and more anxious. I promised her that I was nearby and would never let anything happen to her. I told her that you had gone and would never return. I invited J to search the nursery to verify that fact. She burst into tears, angry that we were subjecting her to the same fate as the night before, worried that you’d return with your cage.
It was her first nightmare, Whale, and apparently it was a doozy. I couldn’t send her back to the room, though I may have done more damage than I meant to. Instead, I gathered their blankets and let them sleep on our bed. Even that wasn’t consolation enough. When I went to kiss her goodnight, Pie grabbed my hand and pulled her toward me, tears in check but still on the verge of escaping. I curled up next to her and whispered promises that everything would be okay. Finally, her grip loosened a bit and I slipped away. When I turned to make sure she was asleep, she was looking at me. Lips still quivering, but eyes heavy and far away. Then she closed her eyes and turned into her sleeping sister. I wanted to crawl back into the bed with her but I thought the better of it.
When it was time for J and I to call it a night, I gently lifted each girl and placed them into their cribs. Neither stirred but I still whispered, “It’s okay. I’m here. Sweet dreams. Happy thoughts,” in the hopes that she’d hear me and steer her dreaming to something peaceful.
When she awoke this morning, I held my breath waiting to hear if you had broken my promises to her and returned in the middle of the night. Thankfully, she did not speak about you again, but she did mention that she was in her bed last night instead of mine. The tinge of sadness in her voice made me worry that she felt that I had abandoned her to be snatched up again by you. But then she hugged me tight and kissed me goodbye and I was forgiven just like that.
Please Whale, don’t make me a liar. Leave her alone and take your boogeyman and ghost friends with you. Keep the shadows away and don’t make her fall into thin air. Let her dream of puppies and sunshine and of her daddy. Go away.
Yours truly,
MB
The one where I admit I am to blame.
I’ve tried stickers.
I’ve tried bubbles.
I’ve tried M&Ms.
I bought big girl undies.
In all different shades and characters.
I’ve promised school.
I’ve promised big girl beds.
Nothing is working!
Nothing!
I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do.
Actually. I do. It’s my fault. My procrastination and laziness has been the weak link in this project.
This weekend, we had several accidents on the carpet in our living room. Peanut withheld for a day and then woke in the middle of the night, announcing her accomplishment by shouting into the dark, “Change my diaper please!” Pie regressed. Where she had before been exemplary at doing #1 in the potty, she was found clueless, uninterested and damp several times throughout the weekend. I admit, I only half-assed it. We were supposed to stay home all weekend, but balmy weather and restless Beans meant that we weren’t happy sitting at home and waiting for the Potty-fairy to work her magic.
Last night, we had what I think was a small success. Peanut, who was the one that wouldn’t even place her bum on the potty, went. J and I were initially unsure if it was bathwater or actual pee that poured itself into the toilet. I choose to think it was the latter and so I rewarded Peanut with a few minutes on the deck with the bottle of bubbles.
I think I was a little too cocky, going into this adventure. After all, these were the girls that were sleeping through the night by nine weeks and that kicked the bottle and the pipe by fourteen months. Maybe I thought this would go just as smoothly. So far, I haven’t really had to work at this motherhood thing. I mean, aside from the daily chores and physical and mental exhaustion and all that, I can honestly say that motherhood has been a lot easier for me than I ever anticipated. I’ve been blessed with two very easy-going, quick learning children. I never had to struggle with colic, we had few colds and illnesses compared to my friends’ children. I didn’t have sleep issues and, because of their low weight, I have been lucky to be able to feed them anything and everything within reason, in order to increase their caloric intake. Life couldn’t be easier, having these two for children.
So, maybe I thought that potty-training would go just as easily. Maybe I assumed that we’d glide through this as we have through other milestones. Whatever it is, I am now in the grips of my first breakdown of motherhood. So, here’s me, taking the blame. Realizing it’s my fault. Figuring out that I actually have to work at this. And, here’s the thing: I’m going to be better; I’m going to stop giving the girls mixed signals; I’m going to stop starting and stopping and confusing them altogether; I’m going to be patient and understanding and I’m going to accept that this isn’t going to just happen without work.
And then, when they are fully potty-trained, I’m going to take my diaper money and buy myself a great bottle of wine.
An umbrella shouldn’t be so pretty…
otherwise you’ll want it to rain all day long.
Bedtime. Lately.
7:45 p.m.: One last cup of milk for the Beans, to get an extra dose of calories into them.
8:10 p.m.: Fishy time. A’s nightly date with the nebulizer.
8:15 p.m.: The Pie, sensing what is looming, looks out the window and protests, “But it’s not dark out yet!”
8:16 p.m. to 8:21 p.m.: J and I, on the floor of the living room, try to coax, threaten, bully and plead with the Beans to “get over here now and get your jammies on”!
8:22 p.m.: I look at the clock and remind J that it is almost past their bedtime.*
8:23 p.m. to 8:28 p.m.: I get into a tickle war with Pie and J gives me the, “I thought we were supposed to calm them down and not get them riled up,” look.
8:29 p.m. to 8:39 p.m.: Teeth-brushing time, complete with singing the song that J has repeatedly informed me is technically incorrect and possibly dangerous:
Brushing your teeth all day long,
Makes your teeth big and strong.
Brushing your teeth every day,
Makes those cavities go away.
Hey, it works. Whatever.
8:40 p.m. to 8:43 p.m.: The search for both Duckies and both Cookies. One night, this is going to end in disaster.
8:44 p.m. to 8:54 p.m.: Finally in the nursery, I settle down on the floor with the Beans to read a story, while J refills the humidifier.
8:55 p.m. to 9:00 9:05 p.m.: The Beans hug and kiss. J and I give hugs, kisses and a boop** to each girl, and then switch. Then each girl demands a high five.
Then a kiss from Avery.
Then we convince them that Max is too heavy to lift into the crib.
Then we leave, only to hear A call out softly, “Momma?”
“Yes, Audie?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too baby. Go to sleep.”
“But Momma?”
“Aud!”
“I love you! And I love my daddy.”
“We love you too…”
“Momma!”
“Mag-”
“What you doing?”
“Go to bed Maggie! Talk to your sister if you don’t want to sleep!”
“Okay Momma. Daddy?”
…
…
…
“Daahhh-deeeee!”
9:06 p.m.: Finally.
*We tell everyone that their bedtime is 8:30 p.m. It used to be. Now it’s just a goal that we hope to reach again one day.
**From “Superbad”. Don’t ask.
Momma = Me
It’s Mother’s Day this weekend and time for me to reflect. I’m a mom! It continues to amaze me, the things I’ve discovered in these two and a half years of motherhood.
I found patience.
I know how to cook.
I can’t finish a book in less than a week any longer.
The Wiggles and Jack Johnson are the most played artists on my iPod.
I know how to draw a lion.
I work part time.
I garden.
I rarely eat at restaurants that use cloth napkins anymore.
Hiding half my body under a throw blanket counts as a great hiding spot.
Sidewalk chalk is awesome.
I choose sensible shoes for (gasp!) comfort now.
I sometimes forget to check my mail for a week.
I know what muffin top is now.
I can’t watch the news.
My handbags all have Purell hidden in a pocket.
I only ever see three quarters of a movie anymore.
I shop at mom-to-mom sales for “outside toys”.
Routine isn’t so boring anymore.
I pick other peoples’ boogies.
I have magic in my kisses that make bruises and pain go away.
I do playdates.
I bristle when they call me “Mom”.
I love when you ask me to see pictures of the girls.
Chasing after Beans = workout.
I appreciate my mother more every day.
It only takes 2.75 glasses of wine to get me drunk anymore.
I love being a mom.
I love being Mom.
A conversation between sisters.
Pie: “Hey Aud. Sit down here and listen to me.”
Peanut (running in circles around Pie): “I can’t. I’m too busy!”
Pie: “Why?”
Peanut: “I’m running! Run Maggie!”
Pie: “Okay!”
And then Audie pulled Maggie up by the arm and they ran and ran until they collapsed to the ground in a fit of laughter.
Hello World. Are you ready for Beans?
At 31 months, the Beans have been on more plane trips than their father had by the time he was 31. Now the count is 6 to 4, but only because Daddy Bean and I squired ourselves away for a little R&R to Puerto Rico last year and left the little ones with the grandparents. Otherwise it would be all tied up.
I’ve lived in three different countries in my life. Three states. For the first sixteen years of my life, plane trips were more common than road trips. Daddy Bean had never been to Chicago before I met him. Never stepped foot in Canada. He hadn’t even been to the northern part of Michigan, for God’s sake! His only trip out of the state was to South Carolina one year with his family. We were like night and day, this boy and me. He wanted to stay, I wanted to go. I won.
By the time the girls were born, we had been to Chicago almost every year that we were together (including the year that they were born, when he had to wheel my 25 week pregnant body around the Windy City - not as easy as it sounds). Toronto, Orlando. All over Michigan. What was supposed to be his first flight on our honeymoon in Vegas ended up being a road trip to Florida, due to the 9/11 tragedy and the grounding of all flights. Instead his first flight was to Las Vegas for my sister’s wedding. The Beans’ first flight was to Oklahoma last year.
He’s caught on to my need to go. Even if it’s just to Mackinac Island. Although he was resistant at first, he’s begun to enjoy traveling and he understands why I want to make sure that the Beans discover a love for it. The thought of flying still terrifies him, but he hides it well from them. He has to. I won’t have it. There is too much to see and do to be hindered by such a fear. And, before it has a chance to take one of them too, I want to go. I want to take them to my old stomping grounds in Virgina and Washington D.C. I want to show them the beauty of Big Sur. I want to introduce them to my mother’s sister and share some world-class food in the middle of the busy streets of Bangkok.
Tomorrow, we’ll be taking them on their next plane ride to Oklahoma to meet their new cousin. They are giddy with excitement. In September, they’ll be traveling to Vegas to act as flower girls in their aunt’s wedding. Next year - Disney and hopefully either Boston or California. After that, who knows. I hope Barcelona, Dublin, Phuket, Montreal. Wherever they want to go.
Little Miss Home & Garden
She loves watching Food Network with me. Markers are her screwdrivers when she checks to make sure that tables and chairs are properly built. Sweeping the kitchen includes, but is not limited to, dust bunnies, crumbs and doggies. And she waited with bated breath for the flowers that she planted to sprout so that she could use her new watering can.
Check please!!!!!!!!!!
When the girls were just infants and I took them to visit M and her boys, I was a bit disappointed that, instead of having a proper lunch in a restaurant, she immediately informed me that she’d be making us lunch. And, during our next visit, when tummies began to grumble, M again took the reins and had her sister run to get us carry-out at the local Applebees. Not that I don’t enjoy her cooking or am above Applebees’ carry-out. I just thought, since we don’t get together often and I hadn’t been to many restaurants since the Beans arrived, we could go to a place where the food was prepared and hot and we didn’t have to clean up a thing.
Now, I understand. I know exactly what she was doing two years ago. She was protecting her sanity, averting disaster, saving me from the ugly truth.
Toddlers and restaurants don’t go together well.
I shouldn’t lump the whole lot of them into one sticky, food throwing, hollering, defiant group. They don’t all become irrascible messes upon entering “eating places” (a Bean phrase). And even the most polite and well-mannered little human has her moment. Kids are unpredictable. I’m just now realizing this. It’s been two and a half years, give me a break.
The Beans arewere very well-mannered. We are were the parents that smile sympathetically at the table next to us, filled with screaming kids, while our little angels sit quietly coloring their menus. Of course, they’d have their moments, individually, and we’d easily quell the storm by whispering encouragements into their ear or taking them for a little walk to the restroom. And then we’d resume our delightful dinner in peace, able to carry on a decent conversation while the girls occupied themselves with people-watching and their own personal conversation.
In the past month or so, that pretty little picture of dining enjoyment has been scribbled over with a non-washable marker. If it’s not the fact that they don’t want to sit in their booster seats or high chairs, it’s that their BLUE crayon has fallen to the floor for the eleventy millionth time. Food is boycotted, milk is spilled, threats are ignored. If we’re lucky, that’s the end of it. If we’re unlucky, there is crying, defiance, even yelling. It’s only happend three times but we’ve quickly learned our lesson. The kicker is that the minute we leave the restaurant, exhausted and beaten, M&A revert to their usual well-behaved selves.
Today I mentioned to J that I felt like Italian. He looked at me like I was nuts and reminded me that the night before the girls had made a quick mess of things at a very family friendly, loud, balloon and ice cream sundae chain. I remembered telling my dad, who we had invited to come along, that I was glad that he was able to see his perfect little angels like this.
Fine. Carry-out it is. I placed the order, more than a little bit resentful. And then I remembered the look of terror that flashed on M’s face two years ago when we began discussing lunch. This is what had frightened her so much. I get it now!
I’ve finally resigned myself to the fact that dinners out would have to be saved for date nights or until the girls are out of this phase. Hopefully the phase is short because date nights are few and far between.
