This morning: a good start to the day
Two days ago, it was grey and cool and mild. All of this snow fell within about 18 hours yesterday.
The older children apparently took my chat about responsibility to heart. Inspired by a specific garbage-dropping incident two days ago, I took the opportunity of all of us gathered for supper to explain that while I, as their mother, am happy to be responsible for many things, including feeding them and washing and folding their laundry, there were other things that were their responsibility. And then I threw the ball into their court: could they think of anything that was their responsibility more than mine? Albus instantly thought of cleaning up the water he always spills when getting himself a drink. AppleApple thought she could take her plate to the counter and scrape food into the compost. Socks in laundry basket, not chucked across the room. Banana peels composted rather than left on a bedroom floor to rot. Basic stuff, but helpful. (These supper conversations are our new version of family meetings–spontaneous topical conversations). Sometimes I feel like I’m talking to myself (though not always), but I do believe strongly that the kids are listening. Spontaneously, yesterday evening, Albus decided that shovelling the walk was something he could take some responsibility for. This morning, I found them outside early, both hard at work with school bags on backs.
These are some of CJs favourite toys: Albus’s go-gos. Every single time CJ wants to play with them, he asks first: “It okay I play with Albus’s go-gos?” And every single time, I say yes, or Albus does. But he still asks the next time. Which is a good general policy, I think. Shows good little brother instincts.
Fooey is on a photo album binge this morning. In this one, Albus is a two-year-old watching Winnie the Pooh on our old, tiny tv, and AppleApple is a baby. I actually said to Fooey, hey, that’s you! Before realizing it was my other red-headed baby girl. When they were babies, they all looked perfectly unique to my eye, but now that they’ve grown out of babyhood, I find myself looking for other cues–what era was this? where were we living?–to identify them in photos.
:::
No photos of me. The eye woes continue, despite antibiotics–oral and drops–hot compresses, and following all of the dr’s instructions on care. All I can cautiously say right now is that they don’t seem to be getting any worse. But they’re not getting better either.
Actual conversation with actual child (who shall remain nameless)
“I’m your mama, not your slave. My job is to take care of you.”
“Well, you’re not taking care of me!”
“I read you stories and make you food. That’s taking care of you.”
“That is not! Doing what I say is taking care of me!”
Being Better
Temper. Blaming. Complaining. Comparing. Name-calling. Stubbornness. Picking on. I’ve just been lying here, post-early-morning-exercise-nap, thinking about the negative behavior that can sometimes be observed in my children … and it occurred to me: wow, I’m guilty of much of that same behavior, only in more subtle, grownup ways.
Example. Blaming. I have a habit of saying, “Someone must have done such and such.” Someone forgot to close the front door. Someone’s made a mess of the bathroom. Someone must have put the scissors in the wrong drawer. What I’m saying is: hey, I didn’t do this and therefore one of you lot must have! Hardly a productive response to any situation, and not so very different from one child saying to another, “You lost my [insert precious possession here]! I know it was you! It was here when I left and now it’s gone!”
The opposite of blaming is taking responsibility. As I tell the child, owner of said precious possession, “If it’s very precious to you, you need to keep it in a special place, and not on the counter.” And if I don’t like that someone’s made a mess of the bathroom, I need to instill a greater sense of ownership and responsibility in my children for keeping the house tidy, rather than grumbling while cleaning it up all by myself.
(If someone can tell me how to do that–how to instill a sense of responsibility in my children–please let me know).
I’d like to think I don’t call names. But I do say things like “that was a dumb thing to do.” Which is next-door to name-calling, and even if it’s true (which let’s face it, in some situations it just might be), if dumb isn’t a word I want kids to use, why am I using it?
I won’t go through the whole list, calling out each of my less-than-worthy-role-modeling. Instead, I’m thinking about the alternatives.
Okay. Blaming. Taking responsibility.
Temper. Finding other expressions for emotional distress or disturbance. Apologizing as immediately as possible after the fact is helpful, too. Nobody’s perfect.
Complaining. Thinking of ways to change the situation causing the complaint, or at the very least to change my response to the complaint. There is always something that can be done.
Comparing. Celebrate and consider each family member as an individual.
The opposite of name-calling? Uh. Don’t do it, I guess. (Though there are some situations in which name-calling and poking fun can be positives and can reinforce relationships, and in fact are markers of a trusting and close relationship).
Stubbornness. Flexibility.
Picking on. I don’t believe that I do this. But I do see it happening in my family: two siblings subtly teaming up to bait another sibling. Not pleasant. And we call it out and separate them, but haven’t found a better way of curbing it. Maybe maturity will do the trick. I remember my brother and I picking on our younger brother (who we just knew was our mother’s “favourite,” and who was so darn cute and better behaved than us). And we’re all good friends now.
A week in suppers: 2
Monday supper. Veggie beef soup in crockpot (made with one steak that simmers all day in the tomato-y liquid until it is rendered meltingly soft). Cornbread. Cut up raw veggies. Albus doesn’t like cornbread, which is a pity, but there’s always someone who doesn’t like something. Fooey didn’t like the soup–too much corn. The corn and green beans were from last summer, frozen. That’s it for the green beans. Albus had a friend over for a sleepover. They went to bed very sweetly and slept soundly until about 5 the next morning, when they woke up and decided to play wii. Mama Bear, up for an early spin class, did some growling, and they turned it off and went back to bed. For half an hour. It’s the thought that counts.
Tuesday supper. Chili in the crockpot. Were the black beans leftover from the week before, or did I cook them up fresh on Monday? I can’t remember. I also made yogurt at some point this week, perhaps today. I made a vegetarian version of chili, with few additions. Baked rice and baked squash on the side. The squash was divine–one of the last remaining in the cold cellar, a sweet keeper variety. I love a good orange veggie in this lean month of March. I also baked a tray of ginger cookie-bars that morning. We’d had friends over for lunch (leftovers and sandwiches), and I was tired, on this the second day of March break. Not so much napping with all the kids home. I skipped yoga and went to bed early.
Wednesday supper. Tortilla wraps baked in the oven, using the leftover beans from the chili, the leftover squash, the leftover red peppers, the leftover rice, and some freshly grated cheese. Assembled by Kevin, who came home early so that I could go to a yoga class and regain my sanity. Big thumbs up from everyone. I ate late, alone. Kevin made two especially for me, and heated them up for me when I got home. He also did the dishes. Then we watched a movie together as a family: School of Rock. Must be said, I’m starting to enjoy March break.
Thursday supper. Spring is in the air! And drunken university students are stumbling in their green mini-skirts down the street. Must be Saint Patrick’s Day. I took the kids to a movie this afternoon: Yogi Bear. Supper was simple and good. And green. A big bowl of pasta with homemade pesto (toasted pecans and sunflower seeds, basil from the freezer, olive oil, two cloves of raw garlic, salt). Buttered green peas, frozen last summer. A big green salad using up the last of our local greens from Bailey’s buying club. Apple-Apple said it was the best dressing ever (olive oil, cider vinegar, maple syrup, salt, and tamari). Fooey said the pasta wasn’t green enough. The cook’s feelings were hurt, and Fooey wasn’t invited to the table until she apologized. We have a rule: no complaining about the food that is set before you. Well, smallish complaints are okay. It’s okay to say, for example, This isn’t really my favourite. It’s not okay to say, Yuck! Disgusting! There is not way I’m ever going to eat that! Add: That pasta is not green enough! to the verboten list. (Especially if said with a certain whiny disgust and disdain). The good news is: she apologized. The other good news is: Kevin discovered two cans of Guinness in the basement.
Friday supper. “Leftover surprise.” In other words: I cleared out the fridge (this is the after photo). It was actually quite a spread. Leftover pasta with pesto. Two kinds of soup (the chili, without the majority of its beans, was a bit thin). A fresh loaf of bread gifted to us by a neighbour. Cheese, butter. The kids had skating, but no soccer. The evening was blissfully free, so naturally I filled it with baking: I made granola and breakfast pitas. After the kids were in bed, Kevin and I caught up on my favourite tv shows (currently): Parks and Rec, and 30 Rock.
Saturday supper. Macaroni and cheese, baked in the oven. The kids ate it, and I didn’t take a photo. Instead, I took a photo of me and Kevin dressed up and ready to go out for supper at a fancy restaurant uptown. Whoo-hoo! (Though after the photo was taken, we both changed our minds about our outfits and fancied ourselves up a bit more). The day contained a strange mixture of activities: I ran 18km in the morning, came home and quickly showered and changed to go to the funeral for my kids’ crossing-guard, came home and picked up all the toys spread all over the house after a week of March breaking (with help from Kevin, but sadly, very little from the kids–which is our doing, not theirs–we need to get them helping more regularly), and then I made supper for the kids. Kevin and I ate a bowl each, too, because our reservation wasn’t til 8:15. For my supper, I had: a mojito-like martini, smoked salmon with house-made onion rings, a salad of escarole and sheep’s milk cheese, a sirloin steak with green beans and potato croquettes, and an apple donut-like dessert with whipped cream, with the first three courses paired with wines, and the last with a decaf cafe au lait. Put your hands in the air!
Sunday supper. Fooey’s menu: make-your-own-soup, with steamed homemade wontons, noodles, spinach, bean sprouts, and shrimp. I helped season up the broth, which was made from frozen homemade stock (I added miso and tamari). Kevin and Fooey are wonton experts–this is the second time they’ve made them, and he grinds together shrimp, spinach, ginger root, cilantro, and last night he added leftover peas when the stuffing ran low. Thumbs-up from around the table. Something for everyone. Kevin and I tag-teamed the dishes, and ran around like chickens with our heads cut off trying to get organized for school/work/routine the next morning. It was a late night, but I went to bed with the feeling that everything was under control.
Eye Woes
This is not the post I’d composed in my head during yoga class this morning. That post might yet materialize, but what’s top of my mind in the here and now of this chilly grey first afternoon of spring is my eyes. My eyelids to be precise. On my left eyelid, I’ve developed what may be a sty, though it hasn’t been diagnosed yet by a doctor, and wikipedia suggests several exciting alternatives (and yes, I’m trying quite hard not to self-diagnose). On my right eyelid, another bump is starting up. The one upon my left eyelid has grown rather, well, enormous, let’s just say. I can’t look up out of that eye, or to the left, because of the lump in the eyelid physically blocking my way. It’s red. It’s swollen. It’s disfiguring. It’s the kind of thing that people feel compelled to comment on because, you know, it’s there, in your face, so to speak. In mine, that is, which is facing yours.
What is especially miserable about this unexpected arrival is how it shakes my sense of self. It targets my vanity. I think of myself as being a strong, confident woman. But add in a giant eyelid pustule, and suddenly I shrink. I become smaller, weaker, more cautious. For example, I’ve noticed myself not entering into friendly casual conversation with strangers–you know, the kind of conversation that happens in line-ups at the grocery store, or in other public, potentially (but not necessarily) social situations. Once upon a time, I never had those conversations. I avoided them and stayed quiet. But post-children, I’ve grown to enjoy that kind of interaction, and I don’t think these exchanges are superficial at all, but a way to be present in the world, and open to the humanness of everyone I come into contact with.
I wonder–is my confidence, my willingness to reach out, only skin deep?
Do I need to consider myself attractive to step forth, strong and confident? If I feel ugly or weak, am I still myself? If I were much more sick, or altered physically, would my sense of self crumble quite utterly? What is it that makes me strong and confident? It can’t only be on the outside, on the surface, can it? Can I feel like myself while integrating a mild deformity into who I am?
Can I rock this eyelid pustule?