school of cake

I know I often wring my hands here about the difficulty of finding balance between work and family. It's a problem, being pulled in opposite directions. But this morning? This morning I got a break, because there was nowhere else in the world I would rather have been, nothing else I'd rather have been doing, and no one else I'd rather have been doing it with. Kitchen + cake-baking + Gabriel = blissful mothering.

Are there any pedagogical approaches to homeschooling that advocate cooking? All the time? I mean, what better way to explore science and math while nurturing a sense of imagination and wonder? First, we read the recipe together. After I peeled, Gabriel eagerly took to the job of carefully cutting the pears into many small pieces. He was wielding a knife! He was a dicer! Needless to say he was very pleased with his work.

Then came the most successful egg-cracking of his short culinary career, and witnessing the magical transformation of raw eggs into an airy, thick, pale yellow mountain via lots of high speed mixing. There was measuring, counting, smelling, touching. Sprinkling pear and chocolate that we'd cut into fairy-sized pieces onto the finished batter, then licking the impossibly delicious residue off our fingers. Oh, and did I mention the thrill of operating heavy kitchen machinery?

We luxuriated in a whole morning with nothing else on the agenda. Cooking with a small person, without the pressures of the clock or other children anxiously awaiting a turn (sorry, Frances!), is an activity that opens and opens and opens. It's beautiful. It's a place I love to be.

The only thing left to do, while our fragrant cake was cooling on the counter, was hang up the welcome sign for Heather, today's birthday girl (and a frequent commenter here, famous for her love of order, white sugar, and good clean living). She arrives at four, direct from a conference in DC. We cannot wait to see her and celebrate together!

welcome, rules

 

It's not surprising that the thoughtful list of rules that Frances' first grade classroom came up with, and that the two of us printed out to read together, is nestled in among scissors, homemade fly swatters, broken colored pencils and scrap paper on the kitchen table right now. I've been feeling a new rage for order lately, but my habitual disorder (which in optimistic times past I have called coziness) often gets the better of me.

The school year is underway, our varied schedules have become more rigid, and I had a tiny epiphany last week about structure, or rather, our insistence on living with a low level of it. When we don't know the rules--the expectations, the script, the what-will-come-next--we get majorly stressed out. And yet! I persist in my attachment to flexibility, spontaneity, and the ability to break rules when the situation calls for it. As in: you're right, who needs underwear anyway? Or: that cookie isn't the crumbly kind, I guess you could eat it on the couch just this once. Or: I know I said Saturdays were allowance day, but you're behaving so poorly right now I'm not sure. And I don't have any cash anyway. Maybe tomorrow?

Doesn't this inconsistency sound like a nightmare for a kid? To drive home the point: the only part of parenting that Mike and I totally kick butt at is bedtime. There have been modifications and adjustments over time but generally, the routine is always the same. There is no discussion or argument at the end of the day. I don't cave when it comes to requests to stay up later; those requests are infrequent anyway, because all parties know there is just no messing with bedtime.

The rest of the day, however, is up for grabs.

Until now! At least, I'm working on it. Area #1 of increased organization (and hopefully, peacefulness) is school lunches. I photocopied this chart from a favorite cookbook, Feeding the Whole Family. Frances and I brainstormed "growing foods," fruits, and vegetables that she would like to eat at school. We added those items to the Shopping List (another fine new innovation in our lives!), filled in the chart together, and hung it on a kitchen wall for easy reference.

Eating in general has been stressful these days. I knew when the children cheered at their last "Kid Dinner," explaining that they preferred eating separately because we don't give them a hard time about trying different foods, that we were in trouble. What could be more central, more hallowed and honored, than gathering around the family table to share a meal? How could my kids have negative feelings about dinner, one of life's most pleasurable and beautiful institutions? But they're picky, and unlike bedtime, we do not have hard and fast rules and routines around dinner. After I read this, I felt a new wave of inspiration.

I sat down with the kids two weeks ago and made a menu for the week. I know, many of you do this at home and have long understood how helpful it is. But I had never thought out the week's meals before. Like I said, spontaneity! Fun! I cook however the wind blows me, recipes be damned. This often means that by Thursday or Friday the picking are pathetically slim. I also get stressed out if the wind dies down to a gentle breeze and it's 5 o'clock and I have no idea what to make. So we're presently on week 2 of menu planning, and by far the best thing about it is that the kids partake in the decision making process. Before we even sit down, dinner has become less of a top down, my-parents-are-oppressing-me kind of affair.

We also came up with some rules for our family at dinner time the other night. It's all the usual stuff (you have to try one bite, only use kind words with each other, stay on our seats during dinner, etc) but articulating these guidelines together, and agreeing upon them, left me with a feeling of fresh optimism.

And finally, one more bit of order and intention in our lives. I bought Gabriel a bulletin board, just like the one his sister has in her room, and helped him choose pictures of the special people in his life. Mike and Gabriel hung it on the wall together, and we carefully placed the pictures and affixed them in place with push pins. Like all this rule talk and sign-hanging, I wanted to formalize and make visible the constellation of people who adore Gabriel. It is very sweet to see him stand motionless before his new bulletin board, gazing at the pictures.

Throughout all this ordering of family life, I had a nasty cold that developed into a sinus infection. We were also steadily walking towards September 11th, and I felt the day's approach palpably. Returning to the stories of loss and sacrifice, to the memories of that time - walking through the quiet streets of Philadelphia feeling lost, sitting on the steps of our church, watching people cry and pray - brought on bouts of a vulnerable, empty kind of sadness. In some strange way I must be trying to ward off not only tantrums and stress, but illness, accident, even widespread tragedy by wielding these freshly-made lists and charts. To you, sinus infection, I say we will always wash hands before dinner. And to you, terrorists hiding in the shadows? You'll have to cancel your plans for later in the week, because look what it says right here: we will have tofu and green beans with peanut sauce on Thursday night!

All a mother can do is try, right?

tenderness

Gabriel is three years old, and he has been pondering the mysteries of existence as only a three year old can. His favorite problem to puzzle over is language. "Mama," he asks at least once a day, "why is there a word for everything?" Are there things without words? If it doesn't have a name, is it real? Why do other people know so many words that he doesn't? If he makes up the word can it be a real word for a real thing? Clearly my answers to his questions are wholly unsatisfying, otherwise he wouldn't have to ask me over and over.

He's also been trying out some creative ways to get around death. The unthinkable finality of death is so terrifying and strange that it has no place in his way of thinking. Just today he noticed I'd taken a zinnia out of the little yellow vase in his bedroom. Why did I do it? Well, the flower had died.

"But you said if we put the flower in water it will stay alive!"

"But not forever. Eventually the petals dry out and turn brown."

The lower lip had already begun to tremble, and tears were gathering, making his eyes glitter beautifully. No, no, no, the flower cannot die. There must be a way to ensure forever. I told him we could pick a new one after naptime, which didn't solve the problem by a long shot but kept the tears from spilling over.

I was carrying Gabriel to bed tonight, and his whole body rested heavily in my arms (we both have colds, the consolation for which is fantastic snuggling).

"Can I always carry you like this, even when you're bigger?"

We were sitting in the rocker at this point, and his head was burrowed into my shoulder. He lifted it up to look at me a bit wistfully and say, "Probably not."

"What if I'm the strongest mama?"

"Maybe." We sat quietly for awhile, savoring the still moment before I started our bedtime routine. Then Gabriel looked at me again, his face sharpened into focus with a new idea to share. "Did you know, Mama, that when kids grow up, grown ups turn into kids? They do! Grown ups get small again."

"So when you're all grown up, I'll be a kid?"

He nodded vigorously. "You and Papa will both be kids when Didi and I are grown ups."

"Will you carry me?"

Another emphatic nod, yes. "I will. We'll take care of you and Papa. And then we'll go back again, and we'll be kids, and you'll be grown ups again. That's how it goes, back and forth. Wait and you'll see, Mama."

I didn't say his related thought out loud: and then we'll never die. The four of us will be a family forever, taking turns caring for one another. We'll never have to leave parts of our lives behind; we'll always be able to go back. We snuggled in the chair for a long time, pondering his vision of eternally loving and being loved. Then he looked up again and with an equally bright light in his eyes said, "Mama. I think a hockey stick is just like a polo mallet!"

He's probably dreaming of sports by now, but I'm still thinking about turning into a kid. Should Mike and I be so blessed as to grow old together, so old that we shrink and become like little children, I have no doubt that Gabriel would carry us. I hope we have the grace to let him.

briefly

 Good morning! Today is our third day of school and our fifth day without power. We are slowly but surely getting the hang of first grade, but life without electricity continues to challenge us. Yesterday at pick up time I circled the jammed parking lot and surrounding side streets twice at the Key School, getting increasingly frazzled as the time got later and Gabriel continued to cry because, just woken from his nap, he had dropped the picture of a "football guy" cut out for him from yesterday's sports section and couldn't retrieve it, and so I pulled over in the parking lot, jumped out of the car, tried to ask the nice mustachioed man directing traffic what in the heck I should do so I could get my kid already, and burst into tears instead.

"Are you new?" he asked.

"Yes, I'M NEW," I sobbed, "and I don't know why I'm crying."

Well, we made it through. He was very sweet and helped us. I thanked him this morning at drop off time, then picked up a load of our laundry from our dear friend Milena, who has also been supplying us with extra ice and loads of moral support. I returned home to find a bag of ice left on the porch by another dear friend, Katie. The candles have burned pretty low, and we are appreciating phrases like "the dying of the light" in a whole new way, having lived for a week with the reality of darkness. Once it's dark, it's dark. There's no going back. But it sure is nice to have the unwavering light of friends and neighbors at a time like this.

These pictures were taken during the storm. The children were so tickled with their abilities to put each other into "packages."

Now off to get some work done! Happy new school year and new beginnings to all of you. The reports come in fragments and small details, but overall my impression is that our daughter is already starting to love her new school.