Catering To My Kids

I’m willing to go pretty far to please my kids but we have a food issue among this family that is going to force me into a “Mommy Dearest” moment much like when Joan and Christina wage war over the rare steak.  I think my results would be much the same as Joan’s, though.  My kids are willful to a fault; I can’t imagine where they got that from.   When I was a kid, you either ate what my mother served or you didn’t eat.   A particular dish comes to mind:  hobo dinners.  Ugh, makes me snarl even thinking about them.  I hated hobo dinners and I still do.  They are basically a patty of meat seasoned with a lot of Worcestershire and other stuff I’m not sure about because I can assure you, I never asked mom for THAT recipe.  The meat was smothered with peppers and onions, wrapped in foil and cooked in the oven.  I knew that smell and would cringe as soon as my nose had deciphered hobo dinners were on tonight’s menu.  To clarify, I’m not throwing my mom under the bus, because my mom did make other things I liked.  I just had a particularly strong aversion to hobo dinners.   I still hate Worcestershire.  I would begrudgingly choke it down because I knew there would be no debate on whether or not I had other options. 

Lily is by far that most finicky eater I’ve ever encountered.  The only foods she’s consistently eaten since she began solid foods has been cheese sticks, macaroni, chocolate of any kind, cereal, cake, biscuits n’ gravy and chips.  Just because she ate it this week, doesn’t mean she’ll eat it again next week.  When she’s around other kids and sees them eating something she typically wouldn’t eat, I’ve watched her follow the crowd and try new things.   She loves her cousin, Hannah, very much.  At a family gathering, I saw her eat pizza which she’d always refused in the past but I guess what was okay for Hannah, was okay for her, too.  I thought:  “Awesome!  We’ve conquered a new food!!!  Yay for pizza!!”  I tried to serve it to her again a week later; no dice. 

Drew’s open to a few more things but not by much.  Drew dislikes things he’s never even tried or anything he presumes to be a fruit, vegetable or anything that could potentially be healthy in any way.  If it didn’t come out of a box, chances are he’ll pass.  I’m a pretty bomb cook and it’s completely wasted on my kiddos; they barely eat half of what I cook.  I could work all day to prepare a five star meal and Drew would ask, “Do we have any hamburger helper, Mom?”  This is the moment where I hope the kids will someday realize the error of their ways and go in on a joint gift of a round of botox for me when they’re older to make up for the amount of facial scrunching and tugging they’ve caused me over the years.  I digress…  There are a few things I cook that Drew likes but are secretly loaded with items he “dislikes” because he can’t see them.  There’s been many a Mexican standoff at the dinner table where I’ve revealed the true ingredients in that dish he likes so much.  It doesn’t phase him and he will continue to believe he doesn’t like those particular foods while scarfing down the spaghetti that’s loaded with onions, bell peppers and basil which all make his “dislike” list.

So like I said before, I go to great lengths to keep them happy and am guilty of cooking a meal for Jason and myself and then making as many as two other meals out of a box for the kids.  I’ve slowly been transformed into a short order cook.  However, I’ve hit a wall this morning when I found myself arguing with Reid over him requesting krabby patties for breakfast and then acting like a brat about my refusal.  He’s my only kid that will pretty much eat anything so seeing him show signs of being finicky, is going to crack me.  Even if I made him a burger that looked like a krabby patty, he wouldn’t eat all those onions, tomatoes, etc.  I served him waffles and before I knew it I was googling sweet confections that resemble krabby patties.  I’m not sure in this moment, if I’m pleasing my kids or just making them downright rotten.  I just can’t bring myself to go the “eat it or starve” route but I’m getting tired of cooking enough for three families just to please everyone in my family.  I’m having a moment of questioning whether me being a complete pushover when it comes to my kids is good for them or slowly turning them rotten.  In this moment, I’m seriously leaning towards rotten but I’d bet you money I’ll probably make those damn krabby patties anyway.

Cousin Cuisine

I’m getting more and more excited as my cousin, Emily, and I delve deeper into the prospects of doing a family recipe inspired cookbook.  We’ve tossed around ideas for names and it came down to one inevitable agreement -- the title must include the word Ozark in some shape or form.  It is such a huge part of our history, our culture, the way we cook, how we feel about cooking and why most recipes are going to contain mass amounts of butter and a southern woman’s true secret weapon – BACON GREASE.  I have a dear friend who’s more like an aunt to me by the name of, Sharmin.  She wrote a very witty blog of the true tale of southern women and their trusty mason jar of bacon grease.  I enjoyed reading it and found it to be very true and well written.

As, my cousin puts it: “We come from a long line of good cooks and smart alecks”.  No truer words were ever spoken.  We’ve decided to indulge in the humor that is so prevalent in our family and use it to our advantage by writing a brief synopsis of our family history and small bios of a family member if we use, (and we will), one of their particular recipes.  There were always many laughs shared around the Thanksgiving and Christmas holiday table and certain dishes are very representative of us as a family and should be shared.  Let me set the scene:  Granny had always been up since dawn cooking.  She was worn out, had no makeup on, wearing her coolots and house shoes.  I don’t think she ever ate and if she did, she did it standing up.  Southern holiday hostess rule #1. Look tired and pissed off and everyone’s a lot more grateful for the meal and will more than likely volunteer to do the dishes.  We’re a smart breed.  There were always funny stories being told, usually at the expense of someone else in the room.  My family is full of characters; half of them I couldn’t make up on my best day.  There was laughter and more food than you could shake a stick at.  There were tried and true recipes that were always there.  Granny’s dressing, turkey and all the fixins and God forbid Aunt Judith not make the tortilla roll-ups.  I’ve heard in the north they put fruit in their dressing - WOULDN’T DREAM OF IT.  But there were always new treats we’d never had before so we were constantly evolving and trying new things.  There are worse problems to have than an overabundance of women who can cook well and having more food than counter space.  Everyone went home with 25 tupperware containers to be reopened after your first food coma wore off. 

Every single woman in my family can cook and cook well; it’s just in our DNA.  So what do we know?  Food and funny.  Yeah, I’ll capitalize on that.  There’s already a funny story that comes to mind of the time my Ma Ma, (pronounced Maw Maw – 2 words), made the same pie as mom one Thanksgiving.  She sat hers near moms and came back later and mentioned how shabby her pie crust was…………..  Only problem is the pie she was referring to was mom’s.  In reading through Paula Deen’s cookbook she has funny little excerpts of how each recipe was born, where it came from or the story of the first time she made it.  As I was reading it, I thought, “I can absolutely do this!”  So stay tuned for Cousin Ciusine - A Taste of Ozark Southern Comfort.  Oh and speaking of Ma Ma – I will be requiring her snowball cake recipe from someone.  I never much cared for coconut so it was never my favorite but she was so I ate it anyway. 

Transition Through Tears

Well here it is…  Today is the last day of week one of Lily starting school.  I’m so glad.  I really just want the weekend to spend time with my kids.  This week has really been a struggle; mostly for me.  Lily’s teacher is great and has kept me very informed of her progress.  She said the first day was tough and Lily did say “I miss my mommy” a few times throughout the day but it has gotten less and less so as the week has gone on.  I didn’t tell her I went home and whimpered and watched the clock until time to pick her up that first day.  I really didn’t anticipate the neurotic meltdown I’ve been experiencing but I guess what happens, happens. 

I began staying home fulltime after Lily was born.  When Drew was born, I stayed home with him until he was about 4 and then he went into daycare so I could work.  We started him off being there in small doses and worked our way up so there was an adjustment period before he stared school so I was a little more prepared for that one.  With Lily, I had intended to go back to work after she was born and had worked up until a few weeks before she was born.  I was waiting tables at a privately owned restaurant by male owners who were less than pregnant woman friendly but the money was great so I took their crap.  I was informed by the owners they were concerned that customers would find my belly offensive and/or be afraid to ask for me for things.  Then they pulled out the doozy of all excuses of why they didn’t want me working while pregnant.  They actually told me they feared my water could break in the kitchen and that would violate health codes.  Never mind the mold and cockroaches running rampant in the kitchen of a place you’re paying $35 for a steak violating health codes.  The day I quit, I was scheduled to close lunch but I had to pick up Drew from school at 3:00.  I traded hours with another waiter who really needed the money so it worked out for everyone involved.  One of the owners caught wind of this, (even though this was commonly done but he was gunning for me), so he said:  “If you just can’t keep up anymore, maybe you shouldn’t be on the schedule until after the baby’s born”.  My pregnancy had nothing to do with my reasons for needing to leave but he was more interested in getting me and my unsightly baby bump off his staff for the next month or so.  I was a good waiter, showed up my on time, left my personal life at home and ran circles around the losers they hired who showed up late and pronounced ceviche as “ce-vetch-e”.  I quit right then and there.  I later went back to visit former coworkers and show them my new baby girl and was offered my job back.  I told them that unless hell had frozen over and I missed the memo I wouldn’t be returning.

After quitting, I went home and waited for the arrival of my little girl.  On November 21, 2005 there she was; screaming, fire engine red and perfect.  As time passed Jason and I discussed if me staying at home fulltime was a possibility.  He agreed it was something we’d both be more comfortable with and it would make life easier not to have to adjust two schedules to get Drew to and from school and school functions and have to juggle daycare.  It felt wonderful to be able to take Drew to school and to be there to pick him up and stay there after he got home.  These past five years I’ve missed nothing.  I’ve been there for everything and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.  This is a truly a blessing because I know not all mothers are this fortunate and I am thankful for this every single day.  Lily has been by my side every single day for five years.  There’s been one or two nights she and her brothers have stayed with my mom while Jason and I ran off for a weekend alone but that’s the about the extent of it.  I got so busy buying her school supplies, clothes and dealing with her eye drama that I hadn’t taken the time to think about how this would affect me emotionally.  Her first day, I had a total breakdown.  If I were to be perfectly honest, it’s winding down but I have cried every single day this week after dropping her off.  It’s tapering off and now it’s just a few streaming tears in the car on my way back home.  No longer is it the full-on ugly cry and throwing myself into the fetal position that went on the first day.  Yesterday I thought I was safe because I stood outside the cafeteria to watch her take her place in her “line” and wait for her teacher and saw a little girl in her class come sit next to her and they started talking.  Turns out it made me cry anyway because I was proud for her making new friends.  Yes, I’m pathetic but you’re just going to have to accept me in all my overbearing, clingy motherly glory.  These kids are all I know….

I’m not just bawling constantly because I miss her.  Yes, that’s a HUGE part of it but all I can think is; as fast as these five years went, Pootie will be starting kindergarten in no time.  We’ve agreed once Pootie starts school we will not only have stopped calling him Pootie and will have finally gotten him to answer to his actual name but that I will also be starting school.  We’ve begun our transition phase and it’s both exciting and scary.  If I’m not a 24/7 mommy, who am I?  I’m not so sure I know anymore.  I’ll be starting a new adventure right along with my kids.  I think I’m more afraid than they are.  As a stay-at-homer, I can attest that we become almost hermit-like and lose most of our social skills and begin to live solely for our children if you stay home for any length of time.  Hopefully it’s like riding a bike and I will re-enter society and it’ll be a breath of fresh air.  It’s so funny how in the past I would beg for silence but now the silence is making me insane.  The old adage is true:  “Be careful what you wish for….”  I’m learning to let go and look to the future even though it scares me.  Maybe when the time comes for me to start school Lily will make me a snack, hold my hand and make sure I make it to my classroom okay.  I think one little, “It’ll be okay, mommy”, will surely go a long way.

"The minute you give birth you’re gripped by an inexplicable fear; the fear of loss.  You start the journey in fear and spend every day trying to keep that unknown threat at bay.”  --  Author Unkown.

Swimming And Girl Crushes.

This weekend, while Jennifer and I played in the pool, we got into a funny conversation about how it still brings out the kid in us.  I still do summersaults and headstands and my belly still flip-flops and makes me giggle like it did when I was young.  It got me thinking about all the weird little quirks I had back in those days.  It takes me back to the days of the Flippin Public Pool.  I think everyone my age who grew up in the area knows your parents didn’t pay for daycare over the summer; they bought you a pool pass and sent you on your merry way.  My friends and I spent the summer tan as could be, red eyed and waterlogged.  This is where I came to perfect my mermaid swim.

The mermaid swim came about because around this time, along with swimming, I was also obsessed with two movies and the women who starred in them.  The first was “Splash” starring Daryl Hannah and the second was “Sheena” starring Tanya Roberts.  I think all little girls become completely enamored of certain women they find to be beautiful and have all the qualities they’d like to possess when they get older.  They’re lovingly referred to as “girl crushes” but they’re not the kind of crushes boys wish they were, lol.  I thought these were the two most beautiful women I’d ever seen in my life.  I wanted to look like them, walk like them, grow fins and would most certainly find any excuse to ride a zebra through the jungle while wearing an animal hide bikini just as soon as I was old enough.   Sheena could communicate with animals through telepathy.  She’d make a fist, put her hand to her forehead, close her eyes real tight and animals would come to her.  I convinced myself I could do this, as well.  I’d try to do it on the sly when no one was looking.  I never got an animal to come to me but I could always count on my childhood friend, Crysta to catch me doing it and totally call me out on it.  She’d say: “Misty, are you actin’ like you’re Sheena again!?!?!”  Me:  “NO!  Shut up!  Gawd!”

I would go to the pool and pretend I was Daryl Hannah and had a mermaid fin and swim like her.  Luckily Crysta never called me out on this weird behavior.  I can just hear it now, “Misty are you are actin’ like you’re Daryl Hannah again?”  I’d say the name of the character Daryl Hannah played but remember her name was something like, “EEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!   EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!  EEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”   She was eventually named “Madison” but who cares.  I practiced and practiced until I had the mermaid swim motion down perfectly.  I practiced it for Jen and was impressed to find I’ve still got it!  It’s like a body whip starting at the head, moving down the body and legs must move perfectly together.  I’d jump off the diving board and mermaid swim and my goal was to make it all the way to the rope in the middle of the pool without coming up for air.  When I achieved this, I can assure you I was quite proud.  I would try to wear my hair just like her.  Achieving the perfect mermaid hair was hard work.  I would wash it, leave it wet and go find one of the Unger sisters up the street to french braid it for me.  I’d wear it that way till it dried so I could take it down and have mermaid waves.

These are just silly little memories but I’m still in love with all these three things.  Jason once surprised me with a limited edition DVD of “Sheena”.  The front reads: “Part Animal.  Part Legend.  All Woman.”  I love that!  It’s a good thing I married someone who embraces my weirdness.  I still think those are two incredibly beautiful women and every now and then I still wouldn’t mind sprouting a mermaid tail and still would kinda like to ride that zebra…  maybe minus the bikini and definitely not bareback.  I still love to swim and will always remember how wonderful those chalky suckers tasted during breaks at the Flippin public pool while I sat thinking about how great my mermaid swim was.  I guess this is just a random look into the odd things that are stored in my mind.  I might have just outed myself as a total little weird-o but maybe made someone smile because they did the same types of bizarre things.  If so, I’m glad.  Never be afraid to let that freak flag fly.

Going To Market

I just fired off my first email in an attempt to do something I’ve always wanted to do, (I’ll get to that in a minute).  First let me preface by saying I love the McKinney farmer’s market and the local trade days.  I love to see the vendors peddling their wares and selling their own original creations – be it jewelry, art or their vegetables they’ve put their blood, sweat and tears into.  It always seems like such a satisfying way to earn a living or a few extra bucks.  It’s the literal definition of, “you get out of it, what you put into it”.  I love the farmers in their over-alls, (it always tickles me when there’s an Iphone clipped to the bib).  I love their thick accents, how they’re always so friendly and proud of their displays of bountiful, ripe vegetables and how the 110 degree heat doesn’t seem to affect them like the rest of us.  They always seem so happy.  It seems like they lead a simpler type of life.  I’m jealous.  I’ve long since begged Jason to move further out into the country.  I want to plant a garden, wear tattered clothes, wear funny lookin’ hats and dig in the dirt, (a southern woman’s legacy according to Ouiser Boudreaux).  I’ve always wanted a bunch of goats and try my hand at making goat cheese.  I’m totally serious about this, by the way.  I’m tired of car horns, car alarms, sirens, nosy neighbors, rude cell phone users and traffic.  Jason is a city boy through and through so moving him out would be a miracle in and of itself.  Not to mention, me ever asking for assistance in milking a goat would be nothing short of “never going to happen”.  It’s just a silly, little dream that will probably never come to fruition but I have recently come across an idea that maybe could…

Last weekend, at the farmer’s market I got the veggies required for my southern feast but then moved on to the vendors selling baked goods, homemade soaps, etc.  I want to and COULD do something like that.  I discussed it with my brother while he was here and was surprised to find out he’s had ideas to do the same thing and mentioned a famous pickling recipe he had lined up.  He encouraged me to look into getting a booth at the farmer’s market and sell my goodies.  I don’t mean to boast but I come from a long line of mean cooks and it wasn’t wasted on me.  I’ve been thinking of what I’d like to sell and thinking about the cute little confection boxes I spotted at World Market that I’d like to get to put my creations in.  Cute little brown sacks tied with rustic ribbons and my logo.  For which, I don’t have a name yet so I’m open to any suggestions on that.  I’ve also been wondering if I could just have a mish-mash of the things I’ve always gotten compliments on when I served them to a group or do the items have to stay cohesive?  Could it be everything from tamales to sweets?  Then I realize I could make my own rules and that just sweetens the pot!  I read an article once that Paula Deen started off selling her cooking in offices.  She’d load up baskets full of goodies and go from office to office selling to famished mouse monkeys who probably wouldn’t have seen a home cooked meal otherwise.  Now that’s ingenuity and it inspires me like you wouldn’t believe!!  Everyone has to start somewhere and I’m going to try to start with a booth at the McKinney farmer’s market.  I’ve sent an email inquiring about booth costs, permits, etc.  It could end up to be too expensive, or require permits I can’t acquire – I’ve prepared myself for that fate.  But today I put forth an effort to do something I’m good at and would want to do.  We should all be so lucky.  I’m already ahead if I think of it that way because yesterday I was still just thinking about it.  Today I tried.

Waisting My Precious Facebook Time.

Lately, I’ve noticed a lot of facebookers complaining about people who post too much or tell you about every little thing they do.  I will admit, statuses like “At the store” can make things like, “Well, I’ll alert the media!”, cross my mind but, I guess what I find amusing about it is that if someone is so annoyed by it, there are options through account settings that allow you to either delete that person or just hide their statuses, (which leaves less hurt feelings).  If you’re reading statuses by someone who frequently annoys you, what does that say about you?  Some people are just addicted to the “ick” factor.  The love to hate…  Hey it’s okay; it’s been me once or twice.  I’m rarely exempt from the same things I gripe out, let me just say that now.  Although, one should admit they are in the same “place” at the same time to get their daily dose o’ boring, too.   I think people lose sight of the fact that people may have several friends on their friend list but actually only interact with a select few.  In most cases, it’s family.  I’ve never added anyone I didn’t actually know but over time I got very slovenly with my “adds”.  I realize I share a lot via facebook but that’s because my family is scattered all over the country.  I had to clean facebook house and take it down to people I love, family, and those who would most likely actually address me if they saw me in a public place.  My family uses facebook as a “check in” tool.  No one has to make any long, drawn-out phone calls to make sure everyone’s okay and to keep up with their day to day lives.  We share pictures, stories, videos and it’s a very useful way for us to feel like a piece of us is there and witnessing it even though we’re so far apart.   Not every status someone produces has anything to do with you or was even intended for you or had a thought of you when written.  It’s kind of arrogant to assume that. I could understand being annoyed if someone stopped you in a store to tell you some mundane thing you didn’t care to hear because that’s on your time.  Well, it was on facebook…………….and you’re on facebook.  Get where I’m goin’ with this?  It just happens to be in a public forum, (as odd as that sounds even in my own head….)  I guess these are modern times, people.  I think there are two options;  either enjoy being a fly on the wall or “hide status”.  It’s a handy little tool.  I wish I’d have had the option to “hide” people all my life.  For some of you, I sure do enjoy being a fly on the wall of your life.

Every Step They Take

I’ve learned my lessons about not being prepared when it comes to my camera.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve been at an event and went to take the money shot and nothing happens.  I check the screen only to read, “card is full” or “battery low”.  I have a temper and always want to just throw the camera across the room.  (It only takes about a second to realize I’d have to buy a new one so I would never actually throw it.  I just have a healthy hissy.)  It’s my way of deflecting the blame for out and out negligence on my part. 

I’m feeling quite proud of myself today, though.  The thought to make sure the camera is charged and both chips are fully unloaded occurred to me in plenty of time for tonight’s game.  I always love to open a chip and remind myself what’s on there.  I have 2 4GB chips that I have to unload frequently because I take so many pictures.  Just in looking through 2 chips tonight, I think it’s kind of awesome how well documented my children’s lives will be when they are older.  Every little mundane thing to every really huge thing they ever did is there.  Not just in pictures but also in my facebook page and blog.  If my facebook page and blog always remain, they will always be able to read and look back at their daily lives. 

We all know I talk a lot about my husband and my kids.  Occasionally if something makes me laugh, go “huh?”, or otherwise pisses me off, I’ll throw that in, but for the most part I talk about them.  They are my life so I have kind of documented their lives by documenting my own.  I know that’s a little deep but I think it kinda rules.  It’s like a play by play of the adventures in their childhood; the good, the bad and the down-right ugly.  I <3 that.

My mom always said she thought I was sweetest when I was sleeping.  (...I get what she meant now.)

I intended to capture a sweet shot of them coloring together.  Instead I captured a kurfuffle.  (Reid colored on her page.)  Don't worry, perfectly normal.

Must've had a rough day...

Always Dance Like No One Is Looking

I have recently become obsessed with Adele and have had her music playing on a loop for several days now.  A day or so ago, I posted to facebook how I was currently wearing “Rolling in the Deep” out.  I moved onto to everything else by her later that day and it has continued on into today.  My new girl crush is in full swing.  This morning I began my daily, morning ritual;  Get up, get Drew up, let dogs out, make coffee, check if I still have two other little ones still safe in their beds, etc.  After Drew is sent off to school, my other two are awake and I’m good and caffeinated, I start the cleaning routine.  It’s necessary in order to keep this circus under control, the clutter to a minimum and the sooner I find the unidentifiable, gelatinous blobs my children leave on any given surface at any time, the better.  It lessens my chances of having to break out the chisel later on.  Motherhood is gross; deal with it.  If you can’t hang with that, you’ll never survive my blog.  It’s only going to get worse as we go along.  I live in a world where the question, “Is it chocolate or is it poop!?!?” is a completely legitimate question and asked often.  For which, we are generally answered with big eyes, shrugs, finger pointing and “I’unno??”

So this morning I decide I’m still into Adele and I’m going to rock out and mop the kitchen.  My kids adore music and will dance around for hours while letting me get some work done as long as I keep those tunes coming.  Lily was pleased as punch to hear the line-up for today was still Adele.  I hear her singing along when she thinks I’m not listening.  She’s got the right stuff and that’s not just her mother’s bias talking.  Once their boogie is fully underway, I’m off to get some serious mopping done because I broke my mop a few days ago and Jason just got me a new one.  Nothing says true love like, “Hey baby, I got you a new mop”.  I’m not even close to kidding, either. 

At some point I realize I’m mopping while still in my pjs, wearing my fuzzy, mop slippers and glasses and all but singing into the mop handle while my kids dance around me.  I don’t want to brag, but it was the performance of a lifetime.  I think it’s fair to say there are certain housewife/stay-at-home mom clichés that are going to slap you in the face at some point if you stay home for any period of time.  All I needed was a green facial mask and pink spongy curlers, a velvet curtain to rise behind me and I had myself a musical.  It’s one of those moments you freeze-frame and go, “Whoa…”  Oh well…  The kids think I’m fantastic and they clap and dance around for me.   It’s just another day in Mommyville.  Today in our fantasy land, I am Adel accompanied by two munchkin back-up dancers.  Fortunately they’re still too young to have “ego” about being the “back-up”.  We’re rock stars.  It’s a shame more people don’t know it and miss our shows.  We’re something to see!  I suggest you listen to Adele’s “Chasing Pavements” today.  It did wonders for our morning!  Our next show is scheduled to coincide with laundry folding.

Three Hour Rolls

Yesterday I decided to make a southern fried spread and have some friends over to enjoy good food, good drinks, and good times.  I got my heart set on making my Granny’s Faye’s yeast rolls.  I love the recipes from Granny’s I have tucked away in my family cook book.  They are always hand written and some measurements are literally written as, “a little pinch a’this and little pinch a’that.  (Just to your likin’.)”  I got started on the shopping a little late and realized after I got all the ingredients to make the rolls that they take several hours to prepare and it was already 5:00.  I was determined to make these rolls so I figured I’d dazzle my guests with booze and my sparkling personality and hope they don’t notice we’re eating at 9:00.  Those rolls became one of those projects where I got 1/3 of the way into, my kitchen is covered in flour, I’m covered in flour, I can’t remember if I added the baking powder and I’m relieved I bought a back-up package of frozen rolls if things go to pot.  Well relieved, but also somewhat saddened that I plan for my failures.  Maybe that just makes me a realist and a survivor.  Who knows?  This is also the time I start debating if having a drink could only help or worsen the situation.  I guarantee you, I'd care a lot less.

There is a total of 10 minutes worth of kneading to be done to this dough, in 5 minute intervals after falling and rising.  At first getting out a little healthy rage while punching and pummeling that dough was fun but then it just got exhausting and everyone around me started looking less and less deserving of my Granny Faye’s homemade yeast rolls.  I toughed it out and the rolls turned out just as I’d hoped and they were as yummy as I remember.   I realize some people might ask, "Why not just use the store bought?"  I have a perfectly reasonable answer to that and it is this: there are some pretty decent heat n' eat dinner rolls out there but there's a certain level of pride that southern woman have when it comes to their pie crusts, biscuits, rolls and cobblers.  We want the glory, plain and simple.  Love us or starve.

I only had 5 adults for dinner so now I’m still left with mounds of yeast rolls.  My oldest and middle child are incredibly finicky and don’t really eat much of what I make unless it comes out of a box and has “Kraft” written on the front.  I learned to stop letting it bruise my ego a long time ago and only really “cook cooked” for Jason and I.  Over time though, my youngest has proved to be the eater of the family.  That little tank can put away serious amounts of food and always loves what I cook.  I don’t care if it has peppers and onions or some of the many other foods that kids usually turn their noses up at.  He will eat it up and say, “Mmm…  Good!!!”  All mothers secretly hope their sons will grow up to be strapping, capable men who can fend for themselves but will always need us desperately and call us and ask us to make those special things no one can or will ever make like us.  All other women must pale in comparison forever, grovel at our feet and ask for our recipes but never make them as well.  I speak truth, I assure you.

This morning Reid came downstairs and the first thing he set eyes on was the saran wrapped bowl of all those yeast rolls.  “Oh!  Oh!  Oh!”  He was pointing and dancing a little jig, so excited to see those rolls.  I immediately opened it up for him and realized I don’t have to worry about them going to waste.  He’ll have a few bites, say “Mmmm”, throw it across the room, watch some more cartoons and come back for it later.  So were the hours of work I put in to make Granny Faye’s yeast rolls worth it?  Oh yeah…  Someday he might call and say, “Hey Mom, will you make those rolls?"  If that's the case, I'll always make those rolls.

Thirty Something

So…  Here I am, about to be 31 --  18 days and counting.  It almost hurts me to write that down.   I guess the question at this moment in time would be, “In my 31 years, what have I learned?”  I’ve learned a butt-load and I guess I feel like putting some of it in black and white for all to see.  I guess it’s no secret by now that I’m an open book and what you see is what you get.  So here it is…

I’ve learned that marrying Jason was the best decision I ever made.  He’s a God.  I met a young, college-bound guy and have watched him mature into a full-fledged man, a very attentive husband and a truly amazing father.  I honestly feel that he was given to me to make up for all the male love and acceptance I lacked growing up.  He’s made up for that in immeasurable ways.  I can’t imagine it being easy to be married to a girl with severe daddy and abandonment issues but he’s stayed with it.  I don’t think many men would have jumped through the hoops he’s jumped through and maintained the patience he’s had with me.  I should say I don’t deserve him but the truth is; I think I do.  I deserve him for the greater good he’s created in me.  I deserve to see a man be loving and affectionate with his children.  I deserve to see a man work his tail off and come home every single night to his family.  I DESERVE IT.  I DESERVE HIM.  I had a lot to learn about what being a good wife meant in the beginning.  I’ve learned it and I’m all the better for it.  I’ve learned that a good marriage doesn’t just happen.  It needs constant maintenance and attention.  I’ve learned you’re going to fight.  I firmly believe couples who claim they don’t fight are full of crap and those who think a good husband and wife blow-out every now then isn’t completely normal are delusional.  Jason and I live hundreds of miles from family or any kind of support system.  When trouble arises, it’s just us.  It’s not always easy being on our own and there are some things that will inevitably be taken out on each other during tough times.  The good part is, we usually throw all our demons out on the table right off the bat and knock it out.  No silent and hidden, yet building animosity, in a sense.  We’re good that way.  We’ve always said, “it’s just you n’ me, kid”.  I vow to do everything in my power to make sure it always will be.  Men like him don’t come along twice.  So to my husband; thank you for everything and for choosing me.  It’s been a wonderful 15 years and I look forward to growing old with you.  I’m nothing without you.

I’ve learned that my children are my little mirrors.  They reflect back everything you do whether I like it or not.  Monkey see-monkey do and that’s one of the hardest parts of parenthood to overcome.  It doesn’t take but one good slip in front of your kids to see it come back tenfold.  Not long ago, Jason was watching a game on TV with Pootie-Man snuggled up right next to him eating Cheetos.  A bad play came about and Jason yelled out, “OH, What the hell?!?!”  For weeks afterward, Reid would respond with, “What the hell?!?!” to just about everything.   Jason spent half of that game trying to teach him to say ‘defense’.  The kid couldn’t say anything that even closely resembled ‘defense’ but, ‘what the hell’ comes out clear as a bell…  Go figure.  Of course you’re going to laugh but then begin immediate damage control.  The required growing up to be an effective parent is no joke!  Times like that you get a clear message it’s time to drink a tall glass of “act right” and get with the program.  I’ve learned that my children can make me laugh so hard I cry.  I’ve learned they can also make me so mad I cry.  I have also learned that there certain undeniable things children can just sense and will put a stop to immediately:  a peaceful slumber, you’ve just sat down to eat, you’ve reached the crescendo of a movie you’ve been dying to see, sex or a very important phone call.  But no matter how loud or rotten or what they’ve interrupted, they will always be my heart living outside my body.  Before I was a mother I would hear women talk about how you have no idea how much you can love until you become a mother.  I didn’t know what it meant to love someone so much it hurts.   I do now.  Their smiles and little faces heal wounds so deep within me I don’t think I could ever put it into words.  They love me just for me and I love them just for them.  It’s poetry.  Their hugs and kisses right every wrong in my life.  I love to watch them grow and I can’t wait to see who they’ll turn into and hope they’ll someday think we did a good job as parents.  They’re the light of my life and have made me grow up in the best sense possible.  I never knew I wanted three little boogers but as fate would have it, they’re just what I never knew I always wanted.  I need them as much as they need me.  They are my soul.

I’ve learned not to sweat the small stuff.  What I’ve come to discover is “small stuff” are things that don’t really having any bearing on my life.  As long as my husband still loves me, my kids are healthy and happy, the people who really mean anything to me are still there and I have a roof over my head then the rest is small stuff.  People’s opinions aren’t worth a rip.  Everyone’s a critic.  Everyone has something to say and we all know the old adage about opinions and a-holes.  I have learned that my time and focus would be better spent on those who love and cherish me.  Curling up with worry of someone’s opinion will only deepen the furrow in my brow and I really can’t afford the botox right now.  So why be wrinkled for someone else’s stupidity.  Opinions are small potatoes; wrinkles are real, far more disturbing and around for an eternity.

I’ve learned I will stand up for what I believe in and defend the ones I love but have learned to pick my battles.  If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything but not everything requires my involvement.  If I think it’s really wrong though, there’s just no shutting me up and that’s just never going to change.  Love me or leave me on that bit.  I’ve learned how to forgive but more importantly how to apologize.  I’m no saint but I’m working on being a better person and making the right choices.  At the end of the day, I can honestly say I like me just fine because I’m willing to grow, evolve and learn through everything that’s thrown my way.  I make mistakes and I stumble but it’s what I take away from these life lessons that really matters.  In 31 years I can say I have attained a wonderful husband, amazing children and a lot of wisdom I will take with me into the next 31.  I’m not perfect but I’m better than I was.

Two Little Girls In Ponytails

This morning I was delighted to wake up and find I had a long and hilarious message from my sister from another mother.  Poor woman is now the mother of a teenage girl and I think it’s just hitting her exactly what that entails.  In turn, she’s scared the crap out of me with the details.  I’m the mother of a pre-teen boy, who comes with his own set of “perks” and up next for me will be a teen girl.  Her message made me laugh inside at how far we’ve come and how the conversations differ from when we were the same age as her daughter is now.  It still seems like yesterday.  Where did the time go?  We’ve gone through every step in our lives together and our bond and ability to always lean on each other is priceless and as strong as ever.  We’ve known each other since we were babies.  I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on her.  She lived next door and was standing in her yard.  She had on a thick coat, a stocking cap and her hair was completely out of control, (as per usual).  She smiled sweetly and asked, “Do you want to play with me?”  It was love at first sight, lol.  She has the most beautiful, brown skin tone and I once asked her if she tasted like chocolate.  She responded with, “I don’t know…  Do you taste like vanilla?”  We always had chores to be done before we could play and she always had to do dishes.  She took FOREVER so I would come help her complete them so we could play sooner.  She couldn’t and still can’t stomach anything so she always made me fish out the crud that was left at the bottom of the sink drain after the dishes were done.  She frequently asked/made me do things I didn’t want to do.  If I heard, “I’ll be your best friend!” once, I heard it a million times.  We would play for hours and then the time would come when her mom would open the back door and scream, “Ccccrrrryyyssstttaaaaaaaaaaa!!!  Get home now!!!!”  Her mom’s voice carried through every inch of Cedar Terrace.  And POOF!  My friend would hit the ground running.  Mama Cindy wasn’t playing around, either, which is why she would always take off so quickly.

No matter where we’ve gone in life, we have always found our way back to each other.  We’ve laughed together, cried together, snuck out together, GOT PUNISHED together, beat the living hell out of each other and stood next to the other as we became wives and later mothers.  We used to be the ones having the sleepovers and talking about boys into the wee hours of the morning.  Now we talk about our children and wonder when it’s a good time to just turn into our mothers and get it over with.  Not to mention, how do you tell them not to do everything you ever did with a straight face?  In her message she said her daughter is 13 but has the body of a 20 year old.  I find it comical how she forgets we did too at that age.   If I’d have had a more involved father I could have put him in an early grave.

Truth be told, we both admit we still feel like teenagers on an average day.  Some days I wonder if I’m just going through the motions and faking it till I make it.  I think all mothers have those doubts and wonder if you’re doing anything right and how do I go about setting them free into the world.  Am I guiding them correctly, am I giving them the right tools to be successful in life?  For my dear friend and me, we’re lucky to have our oldest kids be close to the same age and of the opposite sex.  This way she can prep me by telling me what to expect when my daughter is that age and I can tell her what’s going to blow her mind when her son is that age.  It’s fun to watch our lives unfold and watch each other conquer motherhood and life in general.  Today I miss being 14.  I’d have her over for a sleepover and we’d talk it all out and the best part is, there would be no children around to bug us. 

This story is far from over, however.  There will be much for us to discuss in the future.  First it was barbies, then boys, then children, someday grandchildren and someday our orthopedic shoes and arthritis.  Here’s to the future and mommyhood and everything that comes along with it, dear Bertha!  We’re in this together forever, Sister.  I love you.  You'll never know how much.

The Ugliness Of Self-Righteousness

This blog was originally going to be filled with a lot of vengeance and rage in regards to a lot of hate that’s been swarming through facebook the past few days, regarding gay people.  After what I read last night, I feel if they can say such horrible things and sleep at night, I have the right to put my two cents in also but do it with some semblance of decorum.  I originally planned to launch into a tirade of quick-witted, clever insults, (and believe me, it was going to be a humdinger), but then the realization set in that this would make me no better than the people ticking me off.  So this is me, being better than that.  What I’ve come to except is that these people absolutely possess the freedom of speech.  Because we possess such freedoms, I also reserve the right to think they’re wrong.  The beauty is; I also have the freedom to decide how I will react to it.  I can stoop to their level and let all the nasty little things I had stocked up rip or I can be a grown up and not allow someone filled with such hate and venom to create the same feelings and reactions in me.  Instead, I will simply pity them, not be mad at or insult them.  I will give them the dignity they refuse others.  I would think it has to be so exhausting waking up every day and having to carry around that much animosity and hatred.  I choose to look past their front and come to the conclusion there’s something deeper going on there.  To be that consumed with one issue, like homosexuality, so much it eats you alive?  I can’t imagine that would be much of an existence so I figure that’s punishment enough.  To spat insults and spread hate in the name of God befuddles me.  Westboro Baptist Church, anyone?  If you are truly a Christian and you feel that being gay is such a perversion and so morally wrong, why not choose to pray about it instead of publically using language and terms I doubt you’ll find in any Bible verse to express how you feel about it?  If you feel this conviction so deeply; get on your knees, (as you tell certain others to do – and not in prayer), and pray.  Try to come to some kind of resolve in a dignified way. I’m not asking anyone to argue with their spiritual beliefs; that’s not my place.   I’m asking for the spreading of hatred and intolerance to stop.  This is why suicide rates of gay teens are skyrocketing. These kids would rather end their lives than spend it being publically judged and ostracized.  Why anyone thinks someone would choose to have this burden of judgment put upon them for a lifetime just for kicks and giggles is beyond me, but that will just take me to a whole different point and I promised myself I wouldn’t go there.  I doubt God would be smiling as someone uses words like ‘fag’ and several other misspelled racial slurs I’ve seen regarding the president to spread his word.  Do they believe Saint Peter opens the gates wider for those who quote scripture in the same breath as filth?  “You got this homosexual teen to blow his head off?  Here’s your shiny gold star!”  I thought the song went, “red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight.  Jesus loves the little children of the world.”  At least that’s the song my sweet, little church choir director taught us in my youth.  Maybe our hymnal was loaded with typos and I’ve had it wrong all along.   People who spout such nonsense need an audience and I refuse to be a part of that audience.  If I continue to stew, I’m giving them exactly what they want. After this blog, I will wrap this little nugget up and never look back.  I’ve “written it in my notebook”, so to speak.  This kind of ignorance will only merit so much of my attention and I’ve just given it enough.  I will only leave you with this; Matthew 7:1 Judge not lest ye be judged.  See… I can quote scripture, too.  I guess that means I’ve been divinely chosen to decide which of us are bound for heaven or hell.  I wish someone would have told me this sooner.  Things would have been a lot different for me.

They Shoot Fat Girls, Don't They?

Yesterday I sat down to fold a mound of clothes and got carried away in a documentary.  It was basically the story of 5 different couples who met online.  There was one particular storyline of a guy who was using chat rooms to meet random girls and hooking up, (for lack of a better way to put it.)  He eventually did find love and settled into a meaningful relationship but that’s not what got me all riled up.  He met the majority of them and went through his “harem”, woman by woman, describing each.  He did point out that he’d chosen to meet these women initially based on their personalities but quickly got into how disappointed he was by their appearances after meeting them in person.  It seemed the reoccurring theme of his problem was the girls were just too heavy.  I guess the thought that he’s unlikely to run across Adriana Lima cruising “Single & Lonely” at 11:00 on a Saturday night never crossed his mind, but I guess we can all suppress a little logic for the sake of what you hope to be true… and because HE'S EQUALLY PATHETIC.  I digress…  He said he just couldn’t get passed the weight issue and found himself embarrassed to be in public with these women.  What I’m failing to mention is the guy in question was short, portly, incredibly hairy and frankly, not that attractive.  I also feel the need to touch on the fact that he cruises for chicks in chat rooms.  I think this speaks volumes but if I’m being at all vague, I’ll be more specific:  If he had any confidence at all, he’d meet women in actual life or cruise the selection at his local meat market bar like the living.  But no, he's safe and confident behind the anonymity of his computer screen, allowing his personality to come through first.  Women seem to be more responsive to this than men, but that’s a whole different blog.  It’s like he knew this and used it to his advantage.  He does this, because in the cool, grey dawn of morning he knows he's no catch, either.

I guess this all got me thinking about how harshly women are scrutinized in our society.  Is this what it’s come to?  Men like this can be finicky?!?!  I think something more disturbing than that is that women seem to have turned on each other in response to this pressure.  If I find her flaws, I’m better and have the right to live.  I’ve noticed some women who would sooner take a beating than dole out a compliment to another woman.  It’s vicious out there, ladies.  Think about it, you sit down and watch the Style Network.  They literally have segments called, “Who Wore It Better?”.  They put women on a split screen and decide who has the right not to hate herself today because she paired the right shoes with the right bag or hid her cellulite better than the other girl.  Do you ever see men on the “Who Wore It Better?” split screen?  I recently discovered Natalie Portman graduated from Harvard.  Who knew?  It seems more relevant to shove the fact that she chose an inappropriate pastel down my throat.  I’m guilty of never wondering if the girl had a brain.  We’re fed that emaciated is beautiful, you shouldn't age and being fat should be punishable by death.  Who cares if she's dumb as a bucket of hammers as long as she looks like what we BELIEVE she should look like.  We’re buying into it and I’m over it.

OOoop!  She’s got a muffin top!  HANG HER!

I guess the whole point of my little harangue here is that I feel like women have lost their dignity and value.  Never devalue yourself or let yourself be judged by someone who doesn’t deserve you.  Be nice to other woman.  Celebrate each other and know you are worthy.  Otherwise, more and more women will end up with guys like the one I mentioned, who think they can do better.  They'll end up with guys like this due to a lack of self esteem from being beaten down from the opposite sex and even worse HER OWN.  There will always be bigger, better, richer women who can afford the plastic surgery.  So while you’re busting your hump doing pilates, she’s got an appointment tomorrow to get the fat sucked right outta those thighs.  There’s always a bigger dog in the fight and it will always tick you off so stop hating yourself.  Sometimes you just have to let go, let God and EAT THE CUPCAKE.  Never compromise and never get down on yourself.  I realize, as women, we’re always going to look down and hate that extra roll or find something about ourselves we can work on but what I’m saying is, we need to take back our dignity.  We live in a world where Perez Hilton can be a judge in the Miss America Pageant.  And honeys, let me tell you something…  I’ve been around gay men all my life.  You think women harshly judge each other’s appearance?  Gay men are 10 times worse and Perez ain’t even a ‘5’ on the gay attractive scale, OOOkay?  So in conclusion, you got a fat ass?  Rock that fat ass because I refuse to live in a world where fat, hairy, dill holes who still live with their parents can judge the beauty of a perfectly good woman. 

                                                                                                                                  

Signed,

Tawanda - The Amazing Amazon Woman

Write it in your notebook.

 I was never a quiet child or well behaved from what I gather.  I never thought I was that bad but I’ve been told differently from several of my elders.  I will give my mom props, though.  My mom was the world’s fastest and most accurate smacker.  If seek and smack were an Olympic sport, she’d win gold.  She could reach you from the driver’s seat, into the back seat at 60 mph, never miss a beat or be bothered to look back.  I don’t care how far you moved back or how quick you dodged.  Don’t be misled, though, a good smack didn’t always deter me.

After I got married, I’d returned home for a family function and ran into a lady who used to be our church’s youth choir director.  I was really happy to see her, as I’d known her and been directed by her my entire life.  I walked towards her and did my best to give her a warm greeting.  I said, “Hi Mrs. ‘so & so’, it’s so nice to see you again!”.  I expected a sweet response but instead this sweet, old lady said, “Well dear, it’s nice to see you too, but you certainly were a very mischievous child.”  She wasn’t kidding or even offering a fake smile and simply walked off.  I happened to be standing next to my brother who was doing his best not to gag on his muffled laughter.   I turned to my brother and asked, “Ryan, was I really THAT bad?”  He said, “Yeah, you were pretty bad...” 

Eating crow  --  it tastes kinda like chicken.

I guess the damage was done with Mrs. ‘so & so’ but my mom did develop a system to keep my mouth shut and her dignity in tact by keeping a notebook and pen in her purse at all times.  She had us in church often and worked 2, sometimes 3 extra jobs.  She often had no choice but to drag me along with her.  Church and her jobs were obviously places I was to be behaved.  She would hand me this notebook and say, “Misty, if you have something ugly to say, you write it in this notebook and we’ll talk about it in the car”.  I always did write it in my notebook and, as promised, we’d discuss it in the car.  I think she even started writing a few things in my notebook after a while and now keeps one of her own.  My notebook became a useful tool.  This inside joke and technique has been passed on to my husband as a means to deal with me and my need to sometimes say ugly things.  To this day, in certain situations, I will hear the words, “Misty, write it in your notebook and we’ll talk about it in the car”.  Only now, these words come from my husband and my notebook is now kept in Iphone notes, but why split hairs?