family crafting to the rescue

We returned from Thanksgiving with my stellar hostess of a mother yesterday. We departed after countless trips up and down the stairs, our car jammed with dirty clothes, books, shoes for running and shoes for dressing up, sacks of whole wheat pastry flour in pleasingly plain brown paper, wooden chairs for small people to sit on, diapers, peanut butter sandwiches, Widget, Ha Ha, and four clementines with their peels carefully removed in a small plastic bag.
(I told you she was stellar.) 
While in Lancaster, I visited the health clinic where I used to work. Amelia had asked if I'd like to help transport Thanksgiving dinners donated by families at Frances' old school for clinic patients (a project I once organized), and I happily agreed. I hadn't visited since we moved to Annapolis well over a year ago, and it sounded like fun to see everyone. Fun. Of the light-hearted, lots of hugs and how-are-yous variety.
Has this ever happened to you? I bounded in with boxes of donated meals, feeling good in a very uncomplicated way, and within a few minutes I was fighting off tears. The more people I saw at the clinic, the more weepy and disoriented I felt. What was going on? Every time someone told me how much I was missed, each time someone joked about when I was coming back to work, I felt my knees grow weaker. My face get hotter. My responses get less and less light-hearted.
Uh, no, I guess I don't love Annapolis. Uh, no, still not working. Oh, but I really love being with my kids! I do! And we're fine, I mean, I think we're fine, I mean, it's totally great, and I can tell you're so busy right now, wow, it is SO GOOD to see you and I should really get back to carting those boxes...
Etc. Mumble and stumble some more, feeling sweaty and downright unhinged. This continued until I met up with Amelia in her car and burst into tears. I was caught off guard! Unfair! I had no idea I was walking into a trap -  a trap to show me how much I miss my old identity, miss working with the poor, miss excellent and dedicated colleagues, miss a sense of larger mission about my daily tasks. I miss being known as someone besides a wife and mother!
The tears continued for the next 24 hours or so. I felt utterly depressed and lost about my life, unable to shake it (and really, only able to succumb to this sort of thing because I was with my mama). I could barely explain to Mike and my mom what was going on inside me; I wasn't sure myself. Life with my children has been more satisfying and joyful in recent months than ever it has been...and yet. My own work is missing, and the imbalance is getting to me.
So. So, I am rededicated to working this one out, and perhaps I'll have more to say on that in another post. But this post is about a fine antidote to disorientation and uncertainty about my professional future - family crafting.
More of the same? Really, Meagan? Aren't you telling us you need a change? Well, yeah, I guess so, but when all four of us sat down in our pajamas this morning to glue and paint and marker felt squares for an advent calendar, I felt an unexpected blast of reassurance and peace. This new chapter in my life is still unfolding. Not knowing how I - how we - will find the new equilibrium is not easy to tolerate. But to hear Gabriel hoot and holler about the lellow paint, the geen and the boo, to see Frances assemble Rothko-esque felt squares from ribbon cut and pasted in layers, to watch Mike lay out little white and black beans and study them carefully before applying the glue...to swim in our familial creative waters and sprinkle the wheat berries onto the blue felt before me...for a few moments no one was speaking. In that quiet I think I heard my heart take stock of the fears of the week before, and grow in faith and love anyway. It'll be okay.

This is where our calendar is tonight. It makes me so happy. It is a beautiful document, for me, of our loving family in this moment of growing and not-knowing what the future will bring.

Stepping off the Big Insights pedestal and back down to the nitty gritty for a moment: we did have so much fun working on this today, pulling out every bit of crafting material we could find. I hot-glued the felt squares tonight to make little pockets out of them. (What can't a person do with felt and a hot glue gun? I plan to make Frances' prom dress with just these items...). Tomorrow I'll make loops at the top and figure out a way to add numbers below the pockets. Hopefully it will involve more hot-gluing. Man, that is satisfying stuff.

glamorous, yet practical

Here's a fun little craft project Frances and I worked on together a few days ago. It was so satisfying to make - the process and the finished product - that I wanted to share it with all of you, just in case you have also been wishing for a bejeweled pencil holder and can't wait until Christmas.

We started with an egg carton, which we filled with all the 'jewels' we could find in the pantry. The red lentils added lovely color, and the pepitas were a particular hit, because we could munch on them as we worked.

We used a toilet paper roll as the base. I couldn't find one initially, so in a fit of indulgence I let Frances spin half a roll of paper off onto the table. Talk about process! I then cut a circle of paper to fit the bottom and reinforced it with masking tape. I also reinforced the peely parts of the tube with tape and covered the whole thing in brown paper.

Then came the fun part, painting glue on the sides and sprinkling and pressing the jewels all over the thing. As soon as it was dry enough to handle, Frances raced to fill it with its intended items:

She will tell you, it nicely accomodates one pair of kid scissors, four pens and two pencils. Not bad. And it looks even nicer now that the glue has completely dried. 

didi and the too-bigs

Yesterday I took the kids to a popular local playground. It was a beautiful day, yellow sunlight filtering through the trees, just cool enough for a scarf. As we approached the playground, Frances looked up at me with her big eyes and said, Maybe we'll meet some new friends today!!
I heard all the screaming and boisterous play coming from the playground, and I thought: uh, maybe, yeah. Frances is intensely social, but also - perhaps because of that - she can feel overstimulated, a little manic, brittle, in big busy social settings featuring lots of kids off their leashes. (Did I just suggest children are like dogs? Yes, I think I did.) Let's just say many a meltdown has occurred in the vicinity of the swings.
You may be wondering who the too-bigs are. That moniker dates back to the 2007-2008 toddler class at the New School in Lancaster, and refers to the big kids who can take over a playground in seconds, who can knock a toddler off her feet as they barrel past on the bridge or push a tentative three year old aside at the top of the slide, making him fear for his life. Too many too-bigs can ruin a perfectly pleasant day at the playground.
So, back to yesterday. Frances takes stock of the social opportunities before her, looks at me a little grumpily, mutters something about how there aren't kids here her age to play with. I suggest we hop aboard the planet taxi, which always cheers her up (a little platform featuring the solar system in relief). Gabriel adores spinning the big wheel opposite the planets and Frances starts her imaginary play motor running, chattering about tickets and which planet we'll be stopping at first and how long it will take us to arrive. She tries engaging other kids, but no luck. She is so earnest about it! She climbs up to the next platform to ask an older girl in sparkly pink mary janes if she'd like to join us on our planet taxi? because we're visiting all the planets and you can get on board! Do you want to play? And the girl looks askance, tilts her head to one side, and informs Frances she is already playing with someone else and doesn't want to. And then she runs past towards the wobbly bridge.
Oh, it pains me!
Frances is getting discouraged. She heads for her most successful spot - the place she has roped in countless children before - the pretend ice cream store. This is a little window she can lean out of and hawk her 'cinnamon surfer' and 'chocolate chocolate chocolate' flavors to all the kids heading up the stairs to go down the big slide. It's prime real estate. But today, what is with these kids?? No one wants any pretend ice cream! Gabriel is admirably game; he keeps repeating CHOCOLATE! and smiling, almost falling off of some nearby climbing apparatus, waiting for the actual chocolate to appear. Suddenly I notice about 5 older boys have surrounded Frances and her ice cream stand. They look between 6 - 8 years old, and they are standing a little too close to her. Their ringleader is whacking his hand violently on the top of the stand, almost immediately over her head. She looks out of her depth. I feel my feet moving towards the scene before I even know I'm going to intervene. I hear the boy tell her we don't want your ice cream in a rather not-nice tone. I squat down so I am eye level with him. I feel hot rage coursing through me and I tell him with quiet restraint that he is not being very nice at all. Would he and his friends give her a little space? Go play somewhere else. And when I finish, I find I am staring at his still-whacking hand. He looks at it too. He explains sheepishly that's he just bouncing a pretend basketball upside down on this part of her ice cream restaurant.
He is a little boy, after all.
Frances looks at me, disoriented. I cheerfully suggest we take Gabriel to another part of the playground, maybe play on the swings, okay? On the way Frances mournfully wonders out loud why none of the kids want to play with her today. My heart breaks a little. I help Gabriel up to a slide and watch him go down it. I help him again. Perhaps 2 minutes have passed. I turn around and Frances is running across the playground hand in hand with our basketball bully. She catches my eye and yells WE'RE PLAYING GHOST TAG AND ZACHARY IS MY PARTNER!!!!
He smiles at me too.
For the rest of our visit, she is playing ghost tag hard, running like crazy, screaming louder than any of them (and you know she can), finding and losing Zachary over and over, informing every parent and grandparent on the playground of the rules of the game while she catches her breath. (Someone is the ghost; that's all I could figure out). She is plotting, directing, heading off to do some tricks that will help her game, heading back into the fray, a small girl among many bigger boys in a bright blue old pilly fleece jacket and uncombed hair. She is mine.
But how did it happen? How did she do it? I realize that my own memories tell me a lot about social misfires, feeling funny and let down, feeling outside of some social reality I can't quite crack or understand. But this quality Frances has, this charisma and confidence she can access - I was never that kid. So I don't expect her to be, but so often, she is. She got off the planet taxi, strode right into life on earth, and made it hers.
Was it a good idea to tell those boys to back off earlier in the afternoon? I'm not sure. They looked physically intimidating and it scared me. But Frances showed me she can handle it - not just handle it, she can excel in it. A ragamuffin queen of the too-bigs! I'm the one who needs to back off. She's got this.
And in some future posts, let's talk about the fact that a group of boys is far easier for her than a group of girls. Let's also talk about the image of Gabriel yelling DIDI!!!! and toddling after Frances as she booked across the playground with Zachary and his friends, totally unaware of him. Let's talk about sibling relationships.

My little ringleader, a sometime too-big herself.

and getting back to food...

Your responses have been extraordinary, these past 24 hours! I am truly grateful for such generous, smart, insightful and kind people in my life.

But enough talk about the pain of love! Let's get back to one of my favorite topics. I think we need to talk more about special magic green sauce. If you haven't been reading all the comments, here is the digest:

Milena has discovered raw spinach leaves also work well. So do smaller amounts of arugula, and soon perhaps she will report on a creamy pesto variation. I tried it this week with ricotta instead of cottage cheese - a bit denser (I added milk) but just as yummy. This makes me think I should try special magic orange sauce with a bit of squash or sweet potato, special magic pink sauce with tomatoes, etc...if anyone comes up with something interesting, do share!

And since you now know about the go-to kid meal in our house, I thought I'd also share the go-to adult fare. I must eat rice and dahl once or twice a week, and I'd eat it every day if anyone else would join me. As it is, Gabriel and Mike like it (within reason) and Frances loves when I make it, because she can have a dreamy all-white dinner of basmati rice, yogurt and cucumbers.
I do the most short-cuttingest technique imaginable with this. Every few months, I hit an Indian grocery (I like Ohm in Lancaster) and buy sambar masala spice mix, pickle, coriander chutney and a big bag of rice. And all sorts of other things that I may or may not be able to identify but have a pretty good feeling about. Here's what I do with it:

1. Saute onions in a lot of oil (I should use ghee, but oh well). I usually use one enormous onion, or two medium-sized ones. When they are translucent and soft, I add about 1 - 2 tbsp spice mix and continue sauteing until the onions are almost caramelized. Sometimes I add water to keep things from sticking too much.
2. While onions are mellowing in the spices, I cook about 2 cups of red lentils in water with a pinch of salt. When they are soft, I add the spiced onions and let the whole thing simmer for  a few minutes.

Voila!

I often add vegetables. I love a sprinkling of frozen peas at the end. I usually serve this with chutneys/pickles and some plain yogurt mixed with cucumbers, ladled over basmati rice. If not for Frances, I'd probably get a little more daring with the yogurt...grated carrots? Nuts? Tomatoes, scallions, garlic? All would be lovely, I think. I have a thing for mushy food and this really hits the spot.

And speaking of mushy food... I am the only person in the house that eats this one, but if it works for you, it really works. I found this recipe for a breakfast porridge a few months ago and I've been eating my own version of it ever since. I call it the growing edge of breakfast. It is a little challenging, truly. What I love is that it satisfies the yearning for things warm and mushy I feel at 6 am in our cold house, and all those whole grains keep my body busy for hours. I don't feel too full, and I'm not ready for lunch at 9:30! Amazing. I make it with golden raisins and vanilla soymilk. Sometimes I add some maple syrup if I'm not up to the challenge!

Anyone else want to share their beloved standard dishes?

how plans to write a love letter saved the day

This morning I woke up and determined it was time to try something new with Frances. We have been in an awfully snippy rhythm with each other. She baits, and I fall for it hook, line and sinker. I wind up hounding her about her manners or finishing her carrots or whatever - whatever offense is in front of me and seems most glaring (but is in fact pretty minor). She, predictably, finds my nit-picking equally awful and sufficient reason to say something mean to me or take her brother's toy. And the cycle continues! How to interrupt this madness?

I determined to blog a love letter to Frances tonight. Instead of feeling bad about myself and worrying about her limitations, I thought it would help to remember why she is so dear to me. No baby stories or vaseline-on-the-lens nostalgia allowed. This letter had to be an accounting in the here and now, a 'let me count the ways' type of deal. This would be a love letter. Hearts and cupids! I thought it was worth subjecting all of you to some real gooey gushy stuff, if it meant getting my relationship with the girl back on track.

So, on the way to school I'm thinking about this, and we're listening to Sufjan Stevens. It's been awhile, and Frances is asking me to turn it up, she can't quite remember hearing it before. Driving down Generals Highway, I glance at the children in the rear view mirror, both of them are staring off somewhere, very quiet. We arrive at school a few minutes early. I put the car in park and turn around. Frances, do you like this music? A grave, serious little face looks back at me and utters the word: yes.
Pause.
Mama, can we come up to the front seat and listen to more music with you? So that's what we do. Frances unbuckles herself and climbs into the driver's seat. I fetch Gabriel and we sit in the passenger seat. We three are very quiet, listening. I watch Frances, watch her face and her big eyes. I watch her body listening to the music, and eventually she looks at me and snuggles her face into my shoulder. Sigh. Time to go in to school.

After dropping her off, it occurs to me that the thing that can make me most annoyed (read: most worried) about Frances - the fact that she sometimes reacts to others' pain or disappointment inappropriately - this thing is maybe a defense against how very deeply she can feel. I can be so impatient when Frances doesn't seem to get that someone else is sad, or hurt, or scared - at least, when she doesn't respond in a caring way. But maybe the fact is that some part of her gets it all too well, and it's scary, and beyond her ability to understand cognitively, and leaves her exposed. And being four is maybe exposure enough.

Just watching her listen to the music this morning, absorbing the mood and language...I knew she was okay, doing her best to manage enormous emotions, and feeling just as lost as I was in our icky, mutually antagonistic mode. I decided to meet her where she was, and stop being disappointed in her after setting up situations that leave her coming up short. Perhaps I could even help her. What a thought!

So, what did that mean? Gabriel and I were at the craft store later, picking up some stickers and little things to send for a cousin's birthday. Some part of my brain began to anticipate Frances catching sight of these treasures and whining about how I NEVER get her ANY STICKERS not even one time not ever why CAN'T she have these stickers why aren't they for HER??? And then I felt my heart closing up, making judgments about how irrational the child is who gets stickers all the time and cannot even allow someone else a sheet of stickers on their birthday... and so I decided to handle the situation differently: I bought a sheet of stickers for her and a sheet for Gabriel. Blue butterflies for Frances and horses for the galloping boy. Stickers for everyone!

Gabriel was clutching his stickers in an iron grip when we arrived at school. Again, I felt the inward eye-rolling groan, bracing myself for the why-does-Gabriel-get-stickers-I-never-get-stickers-I-am-SO-ENVIOUS-Mama! torrent as soon as we met Frances outside school. But no! Wait! Another little self-intervention: I will not do that, I will not be annoyed at her before even setting eyes on her. I carried her stickers in, quite visible in my hand, ready to be offered before any injustice was registered.
It worked.
A happy greeting. A happy drive home. A happy, industrious spell making Courtney's birthday card.



A plan to have a party for one of Frances' invisible acquaintances that she chats with in the bathroom, Dister Lister*. An ascent up to her bedroom without any complaints (woah) for Quiet Time, where 45 minutes was peacefully spent reading books. A happy reunion after quiet time, and some silly party prep which involved selecting music, making snacks, and getting out the dress up clothes. Gabriel wore a gold skirt around his neck and we called him the King. Dister Lister came really late, after the dancing, but joined us for some stories on the couch. Frances sat on his head by accident.

I swear to you it was a beautiful day. I didn't even have to write that love letter. I realized how destructive I was being: waiting for her to whine, to tantrum, to screw up, and feeling the anger start to creep in before anything even happened! And in the past couple of weeks, something always did actually happen, but this had a lot to do with my fight-anticipating and even fight-picking.
I am not proud.

Today really was about meeting Frances where she is. Accepting it. Accommodating it, even. So she feels grumpy when other kids get stuff. So what? Today, I got her some stuff too so she wouldn't have to feel that. I'm not advocating stickers and ice cream whenever things look unpleasant. I remember reading in a Penelope Leach book that your kid is not spoiled if you truly enjoy giving her the things you do - if you don't feel manipulated or desperate about it. I gave a lot to Frances today. Not just the stickers. That set the tone, sure. But we spent a lot of time together, and I invited her to bring her imaginary world into our family world, which delighted her to no end.

I didn't feel pushed around today, not once. I felt my heart open to her. I felt the ice melt. She felt it too.
Oh, gratitude! For small shifts and loosenings, and for a dear precious girl so full of passion, big thoughts and big feelings. I love her. I love her like crazy.




*
M: How did you first meet Dister Lister?
F: Um. I was just like in a parking lot and I saw a mother, but not her boy, but then I heard a boy saying I'm Dister Lister!! and that's how I first met him.
M: What's he like?
F: He's invisible! Remember? You just see a mouth, and no face, and no shirt, and no body. Just a mouth.
M: Does he eat?
F: Yes.
M: What does he like?
F: Pasta. Green beans. That's all he likes.
M: Where does he live?
F: I'll check in this book (checks book she made this morning entitled The Myth of the Super, about a star that goes into a rainbow tunnel). Massachusetts.
Why don't you ask me another question about Dister Lister?
M: How old is he?
F: 6.
M: What's his school like?
F: Very fun. He has a desk.
M: What's his house like?
F: Red walls. A green roof. Ask me another question.
M: What are his favorite things to do?
F: Do homework. Ah...dress up. Those are his favorite things but he likes to do everything.
M: Will he like the party today?
F: uh huh, I think so.
M: Does he have any friends?
F: Yes. Like pretend friends. I don't remember their names.
M: Does he have any pets?
F: A dog. Placzki. Wanna ask me another question?
M: Nah. I want you to ask me a question instead.
F: Like what?
M: Like, anything you want to know.
F: No thanks.

children and animals

On Tuesday morning, I left the house to take a jog with Gabriel. We had just started out when a fox darted in front of us, running from one neighbor's yard, across the street, and into the woods behind another neighbor's house. We were flabbergasted. A fox! An enormous, red, black-tipped tailed fox! It ran with such impressive intensity - as if it were zipping through space on an invisible track - because its torso, face and tail were almost motionless, on the same horizontal plane, while its legs moved so fast they were a blur.

The day before, Gabriel and I were at a playground, killing some time before we had to pick up Frances from school. There were some other mothers and children there (it was unseasonably warm) and Gabriel was going down the slide again and again. My post was at the top of the slide, to help him sit down. Just at the moment when every blond head was bowed over a small person, to tie a shoe or offer a snack or to chastise, a deer bounded across the grassy field separating the parking lot from the playground. It came from the direction of the busy street we were but a few yards from, and ran straight into a stand of trees and then stood there, motionless, staring at us. It is strange, given how close this large wild animal was, but we were the only ones to see it. Everyone else was distracted, and Gabriel and I happened to be standing high up at the top of the slide, just the perfect viewing spot, and he looked at me, and I looked at him, and I whispered: a deer. A DEER!! shouted Gabriel. Then: GALLOP, GALLOP! (It had been running pretty fast). Then: BIG. Bi-i-i-i-g. Big Deer.

The two wild animal sitings have become linked for both of us. Sometimes, apropos of nothing, Gabriel will stop what he's doing and look at me in his unblinking serious soul window kind of way. With great intention he utters the words: a fox. Yes, Gabriel, we saw a fox. A deer! Big! Yes, we saw a deer too. A fox!!! And on and on, for a little while, we relive the events and feel little spine shivers all over again.

Even before this week, I've been thinking a lot about the intensity of feeling with which children seem to regard animals. From their earliest days we sing about farm animals, and read them books about talking animals; often first loves are dogs and cats. Perhaps we condition all this - perhaps we all have this intense feeling towards animals but it seems most manageable and appropriate in small children so we foist it onto them - but I think it is something deeper. I have this intuitive sense that children and animals are supposed to live together. Work together. What does that mean? I'm not sure. I have not, by any means, been fantasizing about getting a dog. No thank you. I have, however, been dreaming of chickens and goats in the backyard.

At the risk of getting all fuzzy and "spiritual" on you, I think small children feel a connection with animals that is fundamental and real; something for grown ups to respect and honor. And having a puppy in the house that acts like one extra kid doesn't seem to get to the nature of the thing. A goat that has a role in the family, a job to do (eat scraps, keep the grass short, whatever it is that goats do) - a kid could feel that such a goat was a partner in family life and work. A goat that lives outside, thus preserving its animal-ness. Not an animal that wears a sweater and has a flannel bed, but an animal that communicates the natural world to us, that is a bridge of sorts, that we care for and respect - this is what I'm longing for, for myself and for my kids.

Sometimes we run around the yard with leftover lengths of clothesline wrapped across the kids' chests and yell Gallop!! (hence Gabriel's response to the running deer) and Neigh!! and take turns being the horse and rider. Except after a few minutes, no one really knows who is what; we're just a wild jumble of kid and (pretend) animal, running and making noise. I love that. We're trying to touch something, something beyond the world of other people and the spaces they live in.

We've been to two zoos in the last couple of months (more than I'd been to in years). The children were fascinated. In Providence, we were able to hang out in the 'giraffe house' and watch a giraffe family munch hay but a few feet away. Just us and the giraffes (the zoo was remarkably empty that day). We were wide-eyed, awed, mesmerized - utterly caught by their gaze. In DC, Frances and Gabriel would have clung to a stone wall, staring at a gorilla mama and baby all day long, had we not eventually dislodged them. In this case, I too felt the possibility of forgetting time, watching these extraordinary human-like animals do human-like things...but I was struck violently by the suspicion that I was participating in an act of voyeurism that was completely wrong. That mama gorilla looked right into my eyes and I felt her accusing me. I am a mother too. So how could I stare like this? It seemed to me she deserved privacy and space to roam. I left conflicted about what a zoo is, and what it should be - the awe and wonder my children felt before the animals seem positive things, to be nurtured - but is encountering them in captivity the way to do it?

I've also - no surprise - been feeling drawn back towards vegetarianism. At the very least, I have resolved (again) to not participate in factory-farmed animal consumption. And I guess I feel like part of respecting the bond my children (all children?) feel with wild and domestic animals would be to keep industrial meat out of their orbits as well. They don't really eat meat anyway, but I've never suggested they shouldn't, and it has never bothered me if we're at other people's homes and meat is on offer - basically, I haven't enforced any rules. In fact, I've often thought that graciousness and flexibility with other people should trump preferences about diet. But now I'm not so sure.

All kinds of people surround their children with animals by way of pets, petting farms, zoos, animal-print clothes, animal books, music, etc. For many families, there doesn't seem to be any connection - or rather disconnection - between feeding children animals and simultaneously encouraging an intense (if arm's length) relationship with animals. But shouldn't there be? Maybe for much of our history, pre-industrial agriculture and pre-factory farming, the small scale proximity of humans and animals made for a more continuous and holistic world for children to enter in, to play and work in. I imagine that for most children growing up in Anne Arundel county 100 years ago, life presented many occasions - both mundane and spiritual - to be face to face with a horse, a deer, a fox, a rabbit. Maybe, then, eating some of those animals would not seem so very strange.

Thanks for hanging with all these disparate musings. For now, we're on the lookout for that fox.

a shopping list

special magic green sauce for everyone!

Some of you, I know, have children who eat actual food. They even enjoy it! The first time I met Henry he was munching on defrosted-in-Mommy's-purse frozen spinach with gusto. Katie and Elie once complimented me on my vegetable-heavy lentil soup, and with such disarming sincerity I could barely remember to say thank you.

Even my own little Gabriel slurped down a bit of curried sweet potato soup this evening. I still can't believe it when he happily eats my cooking. Frances is, and has almost always been, very into purity. White foods make her happiest. Plain, Mama! Will you make some plain for me? Pleeeeeeeze!

So the following recipes may not really be something you're looking for, but since we have found them so helpful, I thought I'd share them with you. I don't think this stuff officially falls into the sneaky-vegetable style cooking that Jerry Seinfeld's wife and others have advocated - or maybe it does - all I know is it makes this mama feel a tiny bit better about the mostly cheese and pasta diet my eldest adheres to. Disclaimer: I am a sloppy fast-and-loose sort of cook, so you may have to play around with the quantities to get it just right.


Special Magic Green Sauce

1/2 - 3/4 c cottage cheese
glug of olive oil
1/3 - 1/2 c frozen spinach
1/3 - 1/2 c grated parmesan (or pecorino, also good)
tiny splash of milk, if you want a runnier sauce
tiny pinch of salt

Blend it all up! I let everything sit for a couple of minutes so the spinach begins to thaw, then use our immersion blender. Pour it over just-cooked pasta. You can also do this without the spinach - it's creamier, and a perfectly good substitute for macaroni and cheese. I found I was able to resist the Annie's after we started making this sauce, in part because Frances actually likes it better, and if I buy an exciting shape of pasta she's especially happy.

**Addendum! Milena made this with fresh (raw) spinach leaves and also added garlic; Nathaniel had two helpings. Success!

Rice-Carrot Pancakes

1 c cooked brown rice
1/2 - 3/4 c grated carrots
about 1/2 a small onion, diced tiny
an egg
2 - 3 tbsp flour (I used chick pea flour)
pinch of salt
oil to fry

This is a new one. A nice way to use up extra rice - just mix everything together, add enough flour to make it stick together, heat up some oil and fry little patties of the stuff. The carrots become golden, the rice browns a little. We ate them latke-style, with applesauce. Yum.

Latest Quesadilla Filling: I mixed leftover roasted (mashed up) squash with canned refried black beans, added a bit of cheddar cheese, and both children gobbled them happily. I was sort of shocked that Frances went for it. I was inspired by the memory of those delicious sweet potato-black bean burritos out of the Moosewood cookbook. Remember??

And speaking of leftover squash...this one is for Marjorie and Diane:
Pumpkin Muffins
(my apologies to some anonymous baker -- I know I got this online but wrote it on a scrap of paper long ago and tweaked a bit since)
2 c whole wheat pastry flour
1/3 - 1/2 c ground flaxseed
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp ginger
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/4 tsp cloves
3/4 c brown sugar*
3 tbsp molasses
1/4 c oil
2 eggs
1 c pumpkin
1 tsp vanilla
3/4 c buttermilk**

Mix everything up until the sugar in a medium bowl. Whisk the remaining ingredients - except for buttermilk - together in a large bowl. Then alternate pouring in the dry ingredients and the buttermilk to the wet ingredients, whisking as you go. Depending on how watery your squash is, you may need to add more flour or flaxseed or, come to think of it, wheat germ at the end to get a consistency that seems right to you. I also think grated apples would be a lovely addition to these. Bake at 400 for about 20 minutes.
*I've also used 1/2 c honey instead and they were great.
**I often do the sour milk trick when buttermilk is too much of a pain to get: a dribble of vinegar in your measuring cup, then fill the rest of the way with milk. Let is sit for a few minutes.

to readers, with love

Tonight I want to thank all of you for actually reading this and sticking with it, even though it isn't quite the mama-friend resource center/support group I originally had planned. It's nothing that useful; just another stay-at-home mama blog all about yours truly and the little ones. I've joined the legions of ladies chatting about life on the homefront and I must admit, it's pretty fun.
This little project has had unanticipated consequences, for which I am deeply grateful. (Here is where you come in.) After 18 months of stay-at-home living, most of it done in a new town where I am relatively unknown outside my roles as wife and mother, I'm afraid my confidence was beginning to crumble. I suspect this is fairly typical for others in my position, but its universality doesn't lessen the sting: it was hard to remember if I was good at things besides getting plastic barrettes to stay in place and executing stand-up diaper changes. We would go to dinner parties and I felt I had nothing to contribute. I felt exposed without my kids, or without the ability to talk about them. I used to be interesting, I swear! Invite me over in a few years, I'll tell charming anecdotes that do not rely on the zany antics of preschoolers, I promise!
Strangely enough, writing about the zany antics of preschoolers has helped enormously to quell this fear that there is a vacuum where my adult self with all its capabilities and agency used to be. Turns out I'm still here. Sharing some of the bits of my daily life with all of you has reminded me of that - and the support, kindness and enthusiasm you've expressed for this funny little family journal has helped shore up some of my crumbling confidence. Writing itself is a restorative pleasure I had forgotten about. But the love and kindness this thing has generated have buoyed me up, up, up to a place where I can look all around and feel sincere gratitude for this time with my children. Yeah, yeah, I complain a lot about the limits of my life now, but your responses have helped me see through all the junk to what's real and true.
Thank you, thank you.

homemade time

The scene: our utterly chaotic pre-dinner kitchen, Gabriel doing laps around our first floor carrying an enormous plastic piece of a toy kitchen, saying "HEAVY... HEAVY!" to indicate that he can barely lift the thing, Frances telling me all about how in this doctor's office you can have more than one appointment and now she's fixed the ear infection so what ELSE is wrong with your baby today - when suddenly she is struck with hunger and the following exchange ensues.

Frances: How many minutes until dinner, Mama?
M: About twenty.
F: Oh no! But that is so long! (runs away to the living room. runs right back.)
Mama! Do you know how you can make homemade time? Homemade twenty minutes?
M: Why, no, I don't know how to make homemade time.
F: You just count to sixty twenty times in a row! Then you've made homemade twenty minutes! (rushes off to sit in her chair at the dining room table; begins to count).

My dear daughter! Thinking she can take charge of time. If only. But I love this idea; so much so I'm considering renaming the blog. I love that for her the way to take charge of - to put her own special stamp on - bread or a Halloween costume is for it to be homemade, so why not apply the same principle to time?

We think a lot about creating a homemade space to live in, homemade food to eat, homemade (or rather homegrown) plants and vegetables and herbs to surround us and nurture us... what does it mean to create homemade time? Apropos of Amelia's latest post, and a talk with Cameron last night about waiting for children to get old enough to hike, or to read quietly by themselves ... and also the feeling I had today on the way to school (Gabriel screaming in his car seat and Frances faux screaming so she wouldn't feel left out) - the feeling that I simply would never make it until bedtime - you are getting the idea. The character of time has changed since having children. Long days, short years. Isn't that what Grandmother Presler used to say?

There is a certain blur-like quality that seems unavoidable in time spent parenting small children. But I don't want to lose it, either, even though I have been near tears wishing for time to pass a little more briskly. I have also often felt a certain frantic grasping at time, during those extraordinary bursts of in-the-moment joy so acute they hurt. They hurt because they are slipping away even as they are realized, like so many brilliant golden paw paw leaves, now curled up and brown on our lawn.

So I get it, kid. I would like to sit down and count to sixty with you at the dining room table, in the middle of all this mess and lunacy.

I am going to keep thinking about homemade time, and what that means for me and my family. I think perhaps it might have to do with those rare times when I'm able to let go of my agenda and experience time with my children, to encounter the world alongside them, at their pace. Like walking today with Gabriel, stopping to touch the fuzzy tall grass and to admire the green pickup truck and to wave goodbye to the bushy orange mums in a neighbor's yard. A seven minute walk took thirty minutes, but so what? Where did I have to be just then? Nowhere but with him.

two little speckled frogs

And now for a lighter-hearted post. You do need to see a little bit of Halloween, right?



Trick or treating is AWESOME, even in the rain, even with a persistent ear infection.









This spider was/is the most beloved item in Gabriel's haul.



Candy makes us happy. I decreed the family-wide rule: two pieces per day. Eat them whenever you want. (In Frances' case, that's by 7:30 am every morning). Don't tell anyone, but I'm afraid this mama broke her own rule within hours of making it.

gender, continued

I have tried responding to Amelia twice and somehow my comment disappears! I have apparently figured out how to post but not how to comment. Very frustrating. Also embarrassing. So I will comment here, on a new post:

First, I had no idea that concerns about gender equity were part of why Michael hesitated to have children. (Hard to believe we haven’t talked about this more in the past). I have always envied you your shared job, and admired that it wasn’t just about ‘having more time for the kids’ but also about having more time for other projects, for flexibility, for yourselves and each other – and now I also get how it helps ensure equal status, at least in the eyes of the world and in terms of your paycheck. It seems an ideal starting place if equity is the goal, though I imagine even so negotiation about who does what and how is required.
Speaking of negotiation. Because of the nature of Mike’s job, how it expands and contracts and is ever-present, we aren’t able to come up with rules about who does what to ensure a balance. (Rules can be dumb anyway). That means we need to communicate regularly about these things, and communication of that sort requires time and energy, two things young children sap with a relentless ferocity the likes of which I’d never encountered before they arrived.
But even more than the confines of work life right now, I think the thing that demands negotiation is what you refer to in part 2. We figured out before the kids that gender equity cannot mean splitting everything down the middle, 50/50, because we are different. We have different strengths and desires and we simply would not enjoy our lives as much – we would not flourish - if such a structure were enforced. Truth be told, I desire to care for the children more than Mike does. I want to make papier mache maracas and fall trees. I love cooking. He loves gardening. I prioritize a clean bathroom. He doesn’t mind folding laundry. But put a little stress on the system (too much work, an ear infection) and we get into our own gender-associated ghettos that can lead us to bad places, unless we actually talk about it.
It seems like a goal might be to live day to day life as equal partners. A partnership of equals, wherein both people feel free to express discontent, free to ask for change, able to listen, able to adapt.
I do miss sharing domestic tasks, the way we did before children. This seems a major loss to me. Now we must divide and conquer, or at least divide and do an okay job. Perhaps when the children are older we’ll be able to cook together again.
Now I’m off to work on my resume. ! I’ve decided to try to market myself as a freelance writer and editor for non-profits and NGOs around here – a way to stay connected to the things I am passionate about, use some of my skills, and hopefully develop good connections for future work. What do you think?

p.s. HOW WAS PARIS???? Please tell us about what it is like to be away for so long...in the world's most beautiful city, speaking a bit of French, drinking excellent coffee, etc.!