Family Fun Night, for the record
March Break
Check it off the want-to-do list:
We have hosted one friend sleepover (with the boys waking at approximately 5:30am to play wii in the basement, only to be foiled by semi-outraged, semi-amused mother who was leaving for spin class).
We have gone for walks in springlike weather, and visited our little neighbourhood park.
We have gone to the movies. Okay, so we were too late to get tickets for the one we wanted to see (Tangled), and thus ended up seeing the only other option (Yogi Bear), but it was friendly, corny, and funny enough to keep everyone happy, and the big kids were sent to the long concession line, by themselves, with cash, and returned with change and one treat for everyone, even mama (a Coffee Crisp–good choice, Albus).
We’ve had a family fun night (drawing, dancing), and a family movie night (School of Rock–who knew? It was the perfect movie for our sometimes ambivalent budding musicians).
We’ve had friends over for lunch, and vice versa, and everyone’s had a playdate or two sprinkled into the mix.
And now it is Friday. I fear the coming of the end of March Break, if only for the list of have-to-dos. We have to pick up all these toys, for example, the ones that have migrated around the house, along with blankets, pillows, art supplies, fort-building materials, and orphaned odds and ends of mind-boggling proportions. We have to memorize the times tables (well, one of us does, and if the rest of us come along for the rote-ride, all the better). There is much baking to be done (granola, pitas, bread). And there is the sense of: have we done enough with this magical week of freedom?
That question seems front and centre in the nine-year-old mind (almost ten). I’ve been sensing the pre-adolescent emergence this week; more than sensing it, seeing it, witnessing it, being slightly horrified by it. I keep working to emphasize the good, and call out the bad. I’m trying to figure out the balance between expectations and acceptance. If the grumpy nine-year-old has to howl about going for a walk in the beautiful spring breezes, because it doesn’t involve any direct pay-off for him that he can recognize, but then agrees to go for the walk, and comes along, and has a generally good time and is generally pleasant, should I get upset because the good was preceded by the bad?
I’m seeing the edge of mood swings. The precipice of myopia. The unlovely view of a sense of entitlement. I want to figure out a way to say, hey, I get it, but I expect more. You’re allowed to make mistakes, and lots of them–we all are–but you have to apologize, too. It’s natural and normal to want, to crave, to long for, but when you don’t get what you want, it’s good for the soul to look around and be glad for what you have.
Ugh. Are these just parenting cliches? Cliches generally? Well, they’re what I’ve got. If I find something more effective, I’ve let you know.
A week in suppers: 1
Monday night. Twice-stuffed potatoes, sausages, red cabbage salad. Potatoes leftover from Apple-Apple’s supper the night before. Excellent re-use of leftover baked potatoes, sliced in half, emptied out, insides mixed with cheese, crema, and mashed up brocolli and cauliflower. Red cabbage salad recipe from a friend (onion, mayonnaise, vinegar, and maple syrup). We cut each sausage in half, because there were only five. Kevin and I got one half each and the kids divvied up the rest.
Tuesday night. I ate alone. The kids went to a pancake supper at their grandma’s church, with Kevin, while I went to a yoga class. I made a house-favourite, mashed-potato soup, to be served as supper the next day. This “mashed-potato” soup contained quantities of squash. Basically anything goes into this soup, which does contain potatoes, too (though not mashed). Once it’s cooked, I zap it with a submersible hand-held blender, and hurray, instant happiness around the table. But I ate a bowl alone, tonight, and stored the rest in the fridge.
Wednesday night. Wednesday is always a crockpot supper. I tried out a new recipe with underwhelming results: a lentil and rice pilaf, which would have been far superior cooked on the stove. It was mushy, though smelled pretty good while cooking (cinnamon stick). Luckily, there was also mashed potato soup to warm up and serve. We ate together, between music class and Apple-Apple’s soccer.
Thursday night. I ate alone. The family ate pasta with red sauce. Kevin forgot to put out the greens. I cooked up the red sauce from scratch earlier in the day, and Kevin cooked up the noodles. It’s a good meal for the evenings when I’m out at yoga class. Which is where I was. I came home, and devoured a couple of bowls of pasta, along with the greens. That night, our youngest got sick, so we cancelled our babysitter and I missed kundalini yoga.
Friday night. I ate alone. This is starting to look like I eat alone a lot, but I feel like this week had to have been an anomoly. Kevin took the two girls to a pizza supper at one of our churches, Albus was at a friend’s house for pizza followed by the boys’ soccer (lovely parents feed our boy pretty much every Friday), and CJ was home with me, sick. I fried up a package of frozen spinach with cumin and garlic and onions, and ate it over leftover quinoa. Then I ate two pieces of pizza, which Kevin brought home for me. Kevin dropped off Fooey, and immediately left to take Apple-Apple to her goalie practice (soccer, again). Did I mention the pre-supper skating? The kids were all worn out. But also excited, because it was the start of their March break holiday.
Saturday night. Supper out! We went for all-you-can-eat sushi, and ate our money’s worth. Even CJ, who was still sick, discovered a fondness for cucumber maki, and ate at least six. This was such a treat, and it felt like we were on holiday, for real. We pretended we were at Disney (a place I fully intend never to go). I don’t know why, but it really felt like we were in Florida. We stayed for almost the full time limit, and everyone was beautifully behaved, not greedy, and shared the food. When we went home, we had a family drawing time at the dining-room table, and then a short dance party in the living-room. Considering the still-sick child, and the interrupted nights, and the 16km run that took up a large part of my afternoon, it felt like a real holiday.
Sunday night. All I wanted was not to have to cook supper. Yay! Kevin did it. CJ and I took a nap in the late afternoon, tucked up together in a chair. Kevin made tacos with black beans (which I’d cooked earlier in the day), and hamburger, and lots of fixings. It was an excellent meal, but with the time change, we realized it was nearly 7pm by the time we’d finished, and therefore too late for our planned family movie night. The kids were disappointed, but we let them watch part of a Harry Potter movie, while I did the dishes and the laundry. Everyone got to bed late, but slept soundly. I woke up feeling much more like myself again.
Fun with Thesaurus
I put this on Facebook, so forgive the repetition between social media. Yesterday evening, I attempted to get all the kids in bed early, but the older two are used to staying up til 9pm. I pictured myself in pajamas and under the covers before that hour, so I requested that they put themselves to bed. They could read in the office/playroom, and they could use Albus’s watch as an alarm clock so they wouldn’t lose track of time. They were pretty pleased with the idea, and when I came to check up on them, the alarm was set, and the two kids were sitting together on the futon surrounded by books. Heavy books. Books from my office shelf.
“What are you guys doing?”
“We’re playing a fun game!” said Apple-Apple, and she went on to explain that she was looking up words in the thesaurus and reading out all the similar words, and Albus was guessing the original word–to which end, he had several dictionaries on the go.
I’m sure there are equivalant moments of delight for hockey parents and soccer parents and musical parents, and etc. This was just such a moment for me. My kids, playing with words, spontaneously, for fun.
One of the books in the pile is a book of fairly tales–originals–which I bought a number of years ago when I was a grad student interested in the history of children’s literature. Earlier this week, Apple-Apple said she’d been trying to find real fairly tales at her school library, “not the Disney kind,” and I remembered this book. She’s been poring over it, very excited to be reading the “real” stories, though I need to caution her that in the case of fairy tales there probably is no “real” version, in the sense of there being an absolute original. That could be the start of another interesting conversation.
:::
On a different subject altogether, I am thinking about people in Libya and Japan, among many other troubled places here on this planet of ours. Thinking, praying. The security we hold to and assume to be rightfully ours is so fragile. I am not sure whether it is right or wrong to feel gratitude for the ordinariness of today, with its ordinary problems and ordinary pleasures that might not seem so ordinary under different circumstances. But I do feel gratitude; it is mingled with a kind of helpless grief.
Dear Blog, I Miss You
We used to talk all the time. I shared all the ordinary every day details of my life, and you listened patiently. I posted photos! Those were the days. And now it feels like we’ve drifted. I have photos, but I haven’t unloaded them off of my camera. I have ideas for topics, but I’ve been compressing them into status updates on Facebook. More efficient. Though more ephemeral, too, gone in an instant.
It’s not you, it’s me. I have issues with time, and how I’m spending it. Some days I don’t even get to email, and email and I were best friends long before I even considered getting to know you. When I first heard about you, I was a total snob. The term mommy blogger made me shudder. (To be perfectly honest, it still makes me wince, just a little bit). But once I got to know you, I really appreciated what you offered. I was tired and sleep-deprived, and you weren’t critical. You didn’t judge me if I felt the need to post photos of my baby covered in baby food, or if I needed to complain to someone–anyone–about the state of my living-room floor. (You should see the girls’ room right now, by the way; I really should photograph the disaster for posterity). You accepted the mundane with the profound. It’s very generous of you; though some might criticize you (and me) for shallowness, for not knowing the difference between the grocery list and poetry.
I’m not breaking up with you, please understand. In fact, my feelings are quite the opposite, full of intentions of betterment and promises to be more faithful. Every once in awhile, I feel the need to purge myself of all excesses, even the excess of keeping track of every dream, every plan, every daily chore, the minutiae of every change. But the urge is fleeting. I like keeping this stuff. Even if I never look at it again, even if it accumulates like fluff in the attic, like evidence that could be used against me in a court of consistency.
So, I’m sticking with you. And that’s not just this morning’s sleep-deprivation talking.
Yours, OCM