Thursday, November 5, 2009
I Hate Lunch
I am perilously close to labeling Flipper with one of the most annoying labels of all: picky eater. How, how HOW can this be happening to me??? And do note that I said "me" not "her" because believe me, her myriad inconsistencies affect me WAY more than they do her, the little tender-palated creature. While she does like a nice variety of rather sophisticated "adult" foods, like marinated pork loin, she does not like many typical "kid" foods, even things like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or macaroni and cheese. I make the best mac-n-cheese in the world, from scratch, with real homemade garlic breadcrumbs on top no less...and nope, she won't eat it. What is so maddening is that she USED to be this GREAT eater, inhaling sushi like there's no tomorrow, all manner of fruits and vegetables, and then, slowly, the edibles have become narrower and narrower, and the inedibles greater and greater, until I am going to go insane if I have to throw out one more uneaten honey-and-peanut-butter sandwich, while she melts into a sobbing mass on the kitchen floor because she is so hungry and therefore teetering on the very edge of rationality. Note: she's not the only one teetering. Part of me, the nurturing, mommy-part, cares a great deal. The other part of me can't really get too worked up about her disdainful rejection of food that just a few weeks, or days, or even hours ago she happily inhaled. And the third part of me simply cannot stand to toss money out. Nor can I bring myself to let the dogs devour her rejects day after day. They are both on diets. And pack her lunch past the age of 7? I think not. There are many students in the high school, 18 year old kids, mind you, that bring a lunch packed by their mothers. I can't get my brain around this. How? And, really, WHY?? I am already beyond sick and tired of it; merely doing the very, very advanced math required to figure out how many lunches that is after 14 or 15 years of school is enough to put even me off my feed. It should be noted that the math required for such a sum is advanced only for someone with my low math skills. Nonetheless...I find it maddening. And frustrating. And a bit humbling, since my smug, she'll-eat-anything smile has been diminishing more and more as each week passes. But maybe that's what it's all about: the rise and fall of pride. And taste buds.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Farewell to Two Gourmets.
Last week I heard the news that after 70 years in circulation, Gourmet magazine would cease to publish. I was surprised and saddened, although I don't have a subscription to it (I have one to Bon Appetit instead). I hate and fear the death knell I hear sounding for print journalism of all kinds; I have no doubt that one day my favorite paper, the New York Times, will also fade away. But the death of Gourmet?? Too soon! You might well wonder why I have a soft spot for a magazine I don't even receive, or buy except in airports.
It goes back to my grandfather. He was a long-time subscriber to Gourmet, it came right to his house in West Virginia. It is a never-ceasing sense of amazement to me that this man, who grew up in a coal-mining town in West Virginia went to college, had a successful career as an engineer and photographer in WWII, and an even more successful career at a hideously ugly DuPont chemical plant less than a mile from his house in Belle, West Virgina, loved Gourmet. He loved all of life's gentler pleasures, but food and wine and travel and golf were right at the top. And us. My sister and I were his only grandchildren, and the word "spoiled" really doesn't accurately convey the amount of adoration, time and attention he showered us with. We were very, very, lucky. Very. It was with him that I was able to, with his encouragement, override my parents' rules about ordering food at a good restaurant (never get the most expensive item) and tasted lobster for the first time; at another meal in Hilton Head, SC, where he and my grandmother spent their winters, he, my sister and I shared a plate of escargots, washed down the inevitable Shirley Temple, which was quite a treat for kids that had no junk food of any kind in their home.
But he also had serious, seemingly endless string of health problems that stemmed from a heart that was strong in the emotional sense only: he suffered his first (massive) heart attack in his late thirties, then went on to have 5 or six more, bypass surgery, surgery for an aneurysm, a benign brain tumor, all before succumbing to lung cancer (he was a non-smoker) in his mid-70's. After his death, my grandmother slipped away into Alzheimer's, and died some years later. When we were clearing out their house, there, in the basement, were hundreds of copies of Gourmet, all in special magazine storage boxes. I wish they could have stayed there forever, or at least been transported back to Durham. But my parents' house has limited storage, and so they, too, were disposed of. The house my father grew up in, the one right down the road from the DuPont plant was, along with the whole neighborhood, razed to the ground so the already-wide river could squeeze in a few more coal barges, bearing their load from another pillaged mountaintop. The house, the magazines, all of it gone forever. But whenever I saw Gourmet in a store, at a friend's house, at a rack in the airport, I couldn't resist picking it up, and thinking of him, a natural gourmet from West Virginia. And so another print magazine falls (it certainly won't be the last) but it might be, for me, the saddest.
It goes back to my grandfather. He was a long-time subscriber to Gourmet, it came right to his house in West Virginia. It is a never-ceasing sense of amazement to me that this man, who grew up in a coal-mining town in West Virginia went to college, had a successful career as an engineer and photographer in WWII, and an even more successful career at a hideously ugly DuPont chemical plant less than a mile from his house in Belle, West Virgina, loved Gourmet. He loved all of life's gentler pleasures, but food and wine and travel and golf were right at the top. And us. My sister and I were his only grandchildren, and the word "spoiled" really doesn't accurately convey the amount of adoration, time and attention he showered us with. We were very, very, lucky. Very. It was with him that I was able to, with his encouragement, override my parents' rules about ordering food at a good restaurant (never get the most expensive item) and tasted lobster for the first time; at another meal in Hilton Head, SC, where he and my grandmother spent their winters, he, my sister and I shared a plate of escargots, washed down the inevitable Shirley Temple, which was quite a treat for kids that had no junk food of any kind in their home.
But he also had serious, seemingly endless string of health problems that stemmed from a heart that was strong in the emotional sense only: he suffered his first (massive) heart attack in his late thirties, then went on to have 5 or six more, bypass surgery, surgery for an aneurysm, a benign brain tumor, all before succumbing to lung cancer (he was a non-smoker) in his mid-70's. After his death, my grandmother slipped away into Alzheimer's, and died some years later. When we were clearing out their house, there, in the basement, were hundreds of copies of Gourmet, all in special magazine storage boxes. I wish they could have stayed there forever, or at least been transported back to Durham. But my parents' house has limited storage, and so they, too, were disposed of. The house my father grew up in, the one right down the road from the DuPont plant was, along with the whole neighborhood, razed to the ground so the already-wide river could squeeze in a few more coal barges, bearing their load from another pillaged mountaintop. The house, the magazines, all of it gone forever. But whenever I saw Gourmet in a store, at a friend's house, at a rack in the airport, I couldn't resist picking it up, and thinking of him, a natural gourmet from West Virginia. And so another print magazine falls (it certainly won't be the last) but it might be, for me, the saddest.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Tiredness and Mental Health Days (yes, they ARE related!)
I headed down to the Lower School this morning to deliver files and mail from the high school when I saw Flipper holding her teacher's hand, the rest of the class nowhere in sight. My heart fell-this could only mean that she was sick and they were coming to get me so I could take her home. "She's tired," her teacher explained. I asked if Flipper was sick, and she said no, just tired. Since I want her teacher to like me, and think I am not Totally Evil Mommy, I restrained myself from saying, "She's tired? WHO CARES. Now get back to class!" But restrain myself I did. After a short, brutal interrogation, "Are you sick? Are you hurt?No? Then what's the problem?" I reminded her that if we went home, which wasn't going to happen, she had to get into bed and stay there the rest of the day, no DVD (which she can watch when she is sick) no nothin'. Bed only. Then, I pressed her for an answer. Since Flipper is wise, she said (in a very small voice) "I'll think I'll stay here." "GOOD!!" I could barely contain my glee/relief. Then I fled, before she could change her mind. I mean, tired?? This from the kid that didn't sleep through the night until she was 3 years old? I'LL SHOW YOU TIRED, FLIPPER!!
Then, I fled. I returned to the high school and mentioned this exchange to a teacher, and she mentioned that the exclusive private school where she taught previously actually had a small ward with beds set aside for students that needed a nap during the day. She was somewhat horrified at this practice; "we live in an indulgent society." I have friends that probably would have taken their tired child home, but I fear that precedent, I really do. Sick is sick and we stay home, tired is icky but we go to school. I think this issue will rear it's ugly head again and again, particularly as we hurtle down the rocky path of adolescence. But how do you balance being kind and sensitive to your child's very real needs, and still maintain some sort of order and commitment in their lives? I have a friend that has a family-wide policy of Mental Health Days; every member of her family from the 8 year old on up to high-schoolers are allowed a certain number of MHDs per school year, to be taken at their discretion, no questions asked by the parents. I can actually see myself doing something like this, giving Flipper a few days a year. But not yet. Not now, not at 6. And this begs the obvious question...how many days do I get??
Then, I fled. I returned to the high school and mentioned this exchange to a teacher, and she mentioned that the exclusive private school where she taught previously actually had a small ward with beds set aside for students that needed a nap during the day. She was somewhat horrified at this practice; "we live in an indulgent society." I have friends that probably would have taken their tired child home, but I fear that precedent, I really do. Sick is sick and we stay home, tired is icky but we go to school. I think this issue will rear it's ugly head again and again, particularly as we hurtle down the rocky path of adolescence. But how do you balance being kind and sensitive to your child's very real needs, and still maintain some sort of order and commitment in their lives? I have a friend that has a family-wide policy of Mental Health Days; every member of her family from the 8 year old on up to high-schoolers are allowed a certain number of MHDs per school year, to be taken at their discretion, no questions asked by the parents. I can actually see myself doing something like this, giving Flipper a few days a year. But not yet. Not now, not at 6. And this begs the obvious question...how many days do I get??
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Scary Visit!!
Yesterday I raced home right after lunch to clean my house-which consisted of tossing random objects into a paper grocery bag and stashing it in my magical "back room"-the downstairs bedroom that is a repository for all things that cannot find a home anywhere else, and then, when the room gets full, my mom helps me clear it out by donating things or putting it away where it actually belongs. Then it fills back up again. And again. But why did I go to this frantic effort? Well, yesterday was our Home Visit (no, not from DSS) but from Flipper's first grade teacher. This is our third time with a teacher visit, and by now, I have finally relaxed and not been so panicked that the teacher is casting a sharp eye on the dust in the corners, the dog hair on the couch, the ancient Barbie doll Flipper inherited from a friend. And so now, I am fine.
I fled as soon as the teacher arrives by taking the dogs for a walk, and let the teacher and Flipper play with (hopefully) all of her nice, eco-friendly, all-natural wooden toys, and NOT the hidden Barbie, but I am no longer as fearful that I won't measure up as the Perfect Mother. Flipper, on the other hand, was THRILLED to have her teacher in her home, and I was reminded, as I so often am, but how children perceive things that we think are tiresome or boring as magical and special. I can only remember how exciting I would have thought a teacher visit would have been beyond thrilling, my mother would have been indifferent, and my father would have rolled his eyes and hidden behind the paper.
But now it's over, and I can breathe easily again, hopeful that THIS IS THE LAST ONE after previous visits from her preschool teacher followed by her kindergarten teacher, and I can rejoice in the knowledge that the Barbie stayed hidden, blessedly hidden.
I fled as soon as the teacher arrives by taking the dogs for a walk, and let the teacher and Flipper play with (hopefully) all of her nice, eco-friendly, all-natural wooden toys, and NOT the hidden Barbie, but I am no longer as fearful that I won't measure up as the Perfect Mother. Flipper, on the other hand, was THRILLED to have her teacher in her home, and I was reminded, as I so often am, but how children perceive things that we think are tiresome or boring as magical and special. I can only remember how exciting I would have thought a teacher visit would have been beyond thrilling, my mother would have been indifferent, and my father would have rolled his eyes and hidden behind the paper.
But now it's over, and I can breathe easily again, hopeful that THIS IS THE LAST ONE after previous visits from her preschool teacher followed by her kindergarten teacher, and I can rejoice in the knowledge that the Barbie stayed hidden, blessedly hidden.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Cutting but not pasting
What are you reading out loud to your child(ren) before bed?
We are plowing through the 8th Little House book, the happy one where Laura falls in love and gets married and Mary returns from a college visit confident and joyful and nothing too devastating happens to the family; no crops devoured by grasshoppers, no trying not to starve to death during a brutal winter. But perhaps I should amend the above: "we" aren't exactly reading every word; I am "creatively omitting" massive chunks that I deem, on the spur-of-the-moment unsuitable for one of a million reasons: too boring (long descriptive passages of prairies), songs (since I refuse to sing out loud) or just a bit too much for Flipper at her tender young age of 6. Remember poor Laura waking up in the middle of the night with the woman who's house she was staying in holding a massive butcher knife in the air? You don't? Well, Flipper won't either: I skipped all three pages. Am I the only parent that does this-skips over sentences that I don't like, leaves out words I consider extraneous, censoring content that might make our already-annoying "winding down" period even longer? Trying, at times as much as possible, to avoid topics that might raise questions that will delay the end of the chapter and the clicking off of the lamp? Please tell me I'm not alone!!
I wonder, however, when Flipper can read on her own, if she will ever coming trotting up to me, These Happy Golden Years in her hand, and say, "Did you know there was a BIG KNIFE in here??" Which will be quickly followed by "But you never told me!!!" Can't you hear it now? Because I can. These are the things that keep me up at night, although perhaps not so much as a huge knife kept Laura awake. And, looking for more chapter books that I can stomach reading out loud (Junie B. Jones does NOT qualify) so toss me some suggestions before Laura and Almanzo head off into the sunset. Knowing me, it will be very, very soon.
We are plowing through the 8th Little House book, the happy one where Laura falls in love and gets married and Mary returns from a college visit confident and joyful and nothing too devastating happens to the family; no crops devoured by grasshoppers, no trying not to starve to death during a brutal winter. But perhaps I should amend the above: "we" aren't exactly reading every word; I am "creatively omitting" massive chunks that I deem, on the spur-of-the-moment unsuitable for one of a million reasons: too boring (long descriptive passages of prairies), songs (since I refuse to sing out loud) or just a bit too much for Flipper at her tender young age of 6. Remember poor Laura waking up in the middle of the night with the woman who's house she was staying in holding a massive butcher knife in the air? You don't? Well, Flipper won't either: I skipped all three pages. Am I the only parent that does this-skips over sentences that I don't like, leaves out words I consider extraneous, censoring content that might make our already-annoying "winding down" period even longer? Trying, at times as much as possible, to avoid topics that might raise questions that will delay the end of the chapter and the clicking off of the lamp? Please tell me I'm not alone!!
I wonder, however, when Flipper can read on her own, if she will ever coming trotting up to me, These Happy Golden Years in her hand, and say, "Did you know there was a BIG KNIFE in here??" Which will be quickly followed by "But you never told me!!!" Can't you hear it now? Because I can. These are the things that keep me up at night, although perhaps not so much as a huge knife kept Laura awake. And, looking for more chapter books that I can stomach reading out loud (Junie B. Jones does NOT qualify) so toss me some suggestions before Laura and Almanzo head off into the sunset. Knowing me, it will be very, very soon.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Please, tell me how!!
Well, I have to say---I just don't know how all of you full-time working mothers do it. (No, Sarah Palin, I'm not actually talking about you). But I am talking about real mothers that work full-time all day every day. I, it must be confessed, work part-time, 30 (plus a few more) hours a week. 7:30-1:30; great hours, I know. Plus insurance!!!! But I have been slowly taking on a bit more in committees and now assistant coaching our high school's co-ed soccer team, and as a result I am coming home at 5-6 every night, 5 nights a week. Even though Flipper is more than happy to stay in after-care for those hours after school is officially over at 3:15, I feel guilty. The poor dogs, home alone all day, I feel guilty. My hastily assembled meals-more guilt. Somewhat messy house, with only the downstairs remotely presentable-guilty again!
And yet-I wouldn't trade this current schedule for much of anything right now, (except a clean house) because it is really, really fun and exciting and fulfilling, Flipper is happy, as she would much prefer running amok on the playground than going home with boring old me, and it will end in 6 or 7 weeks. But what about my friends that do this every day, day in and day out? How do you get everything clean and laundered and folded and cooked and washed and dried and walked and fed? Really, how do you do this when you get home at 5:30 or 6? Now, I admit that the fact that I generally pass out around 9 and sleep until 4 or 5 cuts into what could be some seriously productive hours, but I am TIRED at night, and so am not motivated to do much else beyond dinner and a shower. Flipper, thankfully, is pretty independent, can take a bath unsupervised, wash her hair, and do all the pre-bed prep work. I cannot imagine having a baby or toddler that I had to sctively deal with hour after hour.
And do you feel guilty at all, or is it just me, like so many things seem to be? Either way, this has been a really, really good eye-opener for me-I wish I could afford a maid is one such realization, along with the awareness that Flipper, as long as she is engaged and happy with wonderful adults in her life is, well, enough. For now. But seriously...how do you do it??
And yet-I wouldn't trade this current schedule for much of anything right now, (except a clean house) because it is really, really fun and exciting and fulfilling, Flipper is happy, as she would much prefer running amok on the playground than going home with boring old me, and it will end in 6 or 7 weeks. But what about my friends that do this every day, day in and day out? How do you get everything clean and laundered and folded and cooked and washed and dried and walked and fed? Really, how do you do this when you get home at 5:30 or 6? Now, I admit that the fact that I generally pass out around 9 and sleep until 4 or 5 cuts into what could be some seriously productive hours, but I am TIRED at night, and so am not motivated to do much else beyond dinner and a shower. Flipper, thankfully, is pretty independent, can take a bath unsupervised, wash her hair, and do all the pre-bed prep work. I cannot imagine having a baby or toddler that I had to sctively deal with hour after hour.
And do you feel guilty at all, or is it just me, like so many things seem to be? Either way, this has been a really, really good eye-opener for me-I wish I could afford a maid is one such realization, along with the awareness that Flipper, as long as she is engaged and happy with wonderful adults in her life is, well, enough. For now. But seriously...how do you do it??
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
To Buy A Slice Or Not To Buy...(that is the question)
Yesterday Flipper came home with something that felt very normal-school: an order form for a fundraiser. And it is a clever fundraiser for the 8th grade class trip; you pay a smallish sum for a slice of pizza delivered every Wednesday for 11 weeks for lunch.
My (silly) reaction? TOTAL WORRY ABOUT WHAT OTHER PARENTS WOULD THINK IF I SIGNED FLIPPER UP FOR THIS. I almost called my friend Justine to talk me off the ledge, as it were, but my fear of her derision at worry over parenting peer pressure scared me more than the thought of other parents talking about me behind my back. Would they think I was feeding her awful food? Never mind that the pizza is bought and therefore supported by the very school she attends, my worry knew no bounds. Was I setting up some weird dynamic whereby other kids in her class that did not opt into the pizza would feel bad? Was I over-thinking this to death? (I think we know the answer to THAT, don't we). Tinging that worry was the realization that I was a total idiot; was I really this susceptible to imaginary peer pressure at the age of 41? Obviously, the answer is yes, I am. Usually I (like most parents) forge blithely ahead, making decisions that I agonize over in private only, usually in the middle of the night. I haven't been too concerned about what folks think of my choices, perhaps because I am largely surrounded by people that I am in sync with. But...pizza??? What on earth was going on? Frankly, I still don't know. I did turn the form in, and ran into another parent outside the room that held up her form and said, "So, pizza. What do you think about this?" Isn't it always a good feeling to realize that you aren't the only over-thinking mother around? I think it is. So we talked about it a few minutes; I said that, basically, Flipper really wanted it and I couldn't come up with a good "no" and we would see how it goes. I think she felt the same way; her child definitely wanted the pizza (surprise surprise) and yet she felt uneasy too. But I don't think peer pressure-or the fear of judgement-ever really goes away. Even about pizza.
My (silly) reaction? TOTAL WORRY ABOUT WHAT OTHER PARENTS WOULD THINK IF I SIGNED FLIPPER UP FOR THIS. I almost called my friend Justine to talk me off the ledge, as it were, but my fear of her derision at worry over parenting peer pressure scared me more than the thought of other parents talking about me behind my back. Would they think I was feeding her awful food? Never mind that the pizza is bought and therefore supported by the very school she attends, my worry knew no bounds. Was I setting up some weird dynamic whereby other kids in her class that did not opt into the pizza would feel bad? Was I over-thinking this to death? (I think we know the answer to THAT, don't we). Tinging that worry was the realization that I was a total idiot; was I really this susceptible to imaginary peer pressure at the age of 41? Obviously, the answer is yes, I am. Usually I (like most parents) forge blithely ahead, making decisions that I agonize over in private only, usually in the middle of the night. I haven't been too concerned about what folks think of my choices, perhaps because I am largely surrounded by people that I am in sync with. But...pizza??? What on earth was going on? Frankly, I still don't know. I did turn the form in, and ran into another parent outside the room that held up her form and said, "So, pizza. What do you think about this?" Isn't it always a good feeling to realize that you aren't the only over-thinking mother around? I think it is. So we talked about it a few minutes; I said that, basically, Flipper really wanted it and I couldn't come up with a good "no" and we would see how it goes. I think she felt the same way; her child definitely wanted the pizza (surprise surprise) and yet she felt uneasy too. But I don't think peer pressure-or the fear of judgement-ever really goes away. Even about pizza.
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