That Omelet Doesn't Threaten Me

A Tip for Mothers. Or Fathers. Or People.

This is a public service announcement.  Probably kind of a long one.  But here it goes:

At least a year ago, a mom I know told me a story about the day her teenage son made himself an omelet.  She told the story to illustrate that he is more capable than she had previously imagined.  I'll admit it: I was impressed.  My teenage sons can barely make toast.  And there she was, waxing eloquent about the vegetable chopping, and the spice using, and the whisking, and the this and the that and the competency.

I won't go so far as to say that my confidence in my children -- or in my ability to raise them to be capable adults -- plummeted just from the story of the omelet.  But I do remember thinking: "Man, I wish my kids could do that."  And I've thought about that kid every now and then over the past year or so, especially when I make frittatas for my family, which I do with some frequency, giving me occasion to ponder the big questions: Will these boys ever know how to feed themselves?  Will their palates, and imaginations, and basic attitudes toward food ever move beyond Subway being the pinnacle of gastronomic delight?

Who the hell knows?

All I can be sure of is that that kid made an omelet.  It could have gone one of several different ways.  Herewith, I suggest just two:

Scenario One: 

Kid: I'm hungry.
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: That's a great idea!  Do we have any dill weed? Fresh basil? Feta cheese?

Scenario Two:

Kid: I'm hungry.
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: Phhht.

Kid: I'm hungry!
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: Ugh! Whatever!  I'm not THAT hungry.

Kid: Gaawwwwd…I'm…so…hungry…I'm gonna die…ughgrrrrraaaaaghhhhh...
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: FINE WHATEVER FINE JEEZ FINE.  Crap.  Where the hell is the frying pan thingee?  How do I do this anyway?  Do we have a flippy tool thing?  I can't BELIEVE you are making me do this.

* * *

See, just hearing that someone did something tells you NOTHING.  There are so many ways to do something: quietly, angrily, enthusiastically, peevishly, piously, deviously, pleasantly, like a teenager…the list goes on.  Let's go back to the kitchen for a moment, shall we?

Scenario One:

Kid: Mom, do you want one?  I've got tomatoes, basil, feta, a little mozzarella if you prefer, I'm sautéing some onions first, adding a little garlic.  The kitchen smells fabulous!  Do we have any organic, whole wheat, HFCS-free bread I can toast to go with it?
Mom: Sure I'll have a small one, as long as you're offering.

Scenario Two:

Kid: (picture all of the following being said while the kid is using 10x the necessary number of dishes and utensils, dropping half the ingredients on the floor, and gyrating like a Woodstock attendee.) You mean I have to CHOP stuff?  Forget that.  Ewwwwwww: eggs are slimy and gross.  Do we have the cheese that's already shredded, cuz no way am I gonna use that flesh ripping thing you call a grater.  And by the way, we have barely enough salt: there's only like half a cup in that Morton's canister.  How do you flip this?  I can't flip this! This is fricking IMPOSSIBLE.  OH MY GOD THIS IS A MESS!  And everything's burning! UGH, NO WAY NO ONIONS.  Whatever.  This is stupid.  Why can't we just go to IHOP like normal people.
Mom: (She's actually pretty quiet.  The only thing you can hear, if you listen very hard, is barely audible weeping into a coffee cup spiked with whisky.)

* * *

The result in both scenarios: The kid makes an omelet.  Truth.

Here's the thing: that mom, the one who told me about her son making an omelet, if I were her, I am sure I would have told the story the exact same way.  The damn kid DID make an omelet, and to a mom or dad, that is MON-U-MEN-TAL.  A Scenario 2 mom gets to tell the story just like the Scenario 1 mom gets to, because in the end, it may not be pretty, but the omelet does get made, which is proof positive that someday the kid will be OK, or at least, that's what we are hoping like hell it means.

Also?  The good news, for all parents and other people out there, is that we get to narrate our own stories.  Every single one of them has a germ of truth in it.  Sing that song as loud as you want to. As soon as it starts to make someone else feel like crap, that germ of truth is dust, but until then?  GOLDEN.  Stories are meant to lift us up and show us what is possible, not prove how lame we are and how together everyone else is.  I don't begrudge my friend her omelet story, for two reasons. First, it shows me that I can tell my own stories, with their germs of truth, any way I want, and I can decide what those stories really mean.  And second, I celebrate the fact that on my good days, I can see beyond the halo cast by that story and realize the essential truth: kids grow up and learn how to make omelets and it isn't necessarily pretty along the way, but eventually, we won't have to make them frittatas.  Which reminds me of an image I saw recently:

I heard the omelet story IRL, from an actual person.  But the reverberations of it -- the fact that I think of it sometimes when I'm yet again making frittatas for 14 and 16 year olds who can't boil water -- reminds me of the scourge of Facebook and the like.  I am 100% sure that while social media is keeping us connected to family and friends near and far and making all kinds of powerful social movements possible, it is also responsible for a crap ton of anxiety and neurosis, as we find ourselves staring at screens depicting in word and picture how wonderful and well-adjusted all of our friends' families are.

So.  Here's the public service announcement:

• No one knows the price a mother paid to get her kids to pose like that.
• No one knows the many twists and hair pin turns, the set backs and restarts a father endured to teach his daughter to drive.
• No one knows just how loud those kids were screaming at each other, or with what degree of vitriole, mere moments before mom snapped that Back to School photo.
• No one knows what went down in the omelet kitchen.  All we know is that an omelet emerged at the end.

Tell your stories.  Don't let anyone else's bring you down.  See the germs of truth and let them inspire, not hen-peck, you.  The long road of raising children, of life, is not pretty, but there are fantastic views along the way and we get to frame the photos.

It doesn't hurt that just recently, the omelet maker got in trouble with his coach for coming to soccer practice high.

Nope.  Doesn't hurt at all.

* * *

Don't Miss This Opportunity

Yesterday, I found out why I've been experiencing muscle pain and muscle fatigue for the past several months: turns out I have a pretty severe Vitamin D deficiency.  How delightful that my inability to move is not a character flaw!  How delightful is health insurance!  How delightful that, with Vitamin D supplements on board, my children might remember me for something besides collapsing on my pillows!  I am so looking forward to feeling better.

This discovery is a good reminder that we should listen to our bodies.  I've been ignoring my collection of symptoms for a long, long time, assuming that it was just a matter of not getting enough rest, or just because I'm getting older, or just not important enough to pay attention to.  I would never have ignored the ongoing, chronic aches and pains of one of my children; why was I willing to ignore my own?

Think about your own body: are you ignoring anything that you maybe should give a little credence to?  Anything worth asking a doctor about?  Anything worth feeling better for?  Don't miss this opportunity.

* * *

Yesterday, I read a New Yorker essay by Roger Angell* that moved me to tears.  (Updated: The link will take you to full article; The New Yorker posted it in its entirety today.)  So much of my day is occupied by keeping up with my computer and responding to my smart phone that I think some of those tears were due to spending a few minutes with the slick, weighted pages of a good magazine, but most of them were because Angell's writing is exquisite.  His ability to weave back and forth between the personal and the universal is captivating.  I miss reading and I miss writers, and I can't wait to read more and more and more.  Why and how did I ever lose that habit?

Think about your nightstand: does it hold books and magazines you have been meaning to read? Are you making time for Downton and Duck Dynasty but putting off Didion, Diaz or Dos Passos?  Is there anything there worth spending time with?  Don't miss this opportunity.

* * *

Yesterday, while I was ranting on Facebook about mistakenly buying cilantro instead of parsley and being severely disappointed that I couldn't make the dinner I was planning, a family in San Diego was mourning the loss of a 20 year old son, killed while skateboarding by a young drunk driver who fled the scene.  I heard about it, mere moments after my silly FB post, from a friend of mine who knows the family.

There aren't really words for losing a child.  It's too painful to imagine or express.  So many things are unimportant, so many daily annoyances and inconveniences distract us from what really matters.  I read the article about the family: there was a photo of 7 or 8 of them, gathered on the beach facing a makeshift memorial of balloons and flowers.  They stood in a group, shoulder to shoulder, leaning and holding on to each other, keeping each other upright in their grief.  One of them was missing.  One of the people who belonged there was not there, could not help with the holding.

Think about your family and friends: who belongs there?  Are any of them missing?  Can you go grab one and hold him up for awhile?  Can one of them do the same for you?  Do you need to leave aside minor annoyances and tell someone you love them?  Don't miss this opportunity.

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*Thank you Kelly Corrigan, for the Twitter recommendation for Angell's essay.

Obama Spoke To Me In a Dream Last Night

Well, actually, he didn't, which is precisely the point.

We got iPhones a few months ago, and I have to admit, they are fairly miraculous. They have made many things easier and more fun, and I am thoroughly enjoying having one. But when my husband asked me the other day if I like my phone, I gave him the honest, if hard to admit, response: "I do like it, but I need to have a different relationship with it."

Apparently, Obama and my subconscious agree.

Last night, I dreamt that I was watching my daughter play in a soccer game against a team on which played one of the Obama girls. This was the coolest thing ever! There we were, on a great expanse of green grass, on a lovely sunny day, watching girls play the Beautiful Game, and there was Mr. President, looking casual, jaunty and charming, watching his daughter as well.

I was so excited! I might get to talk to him, to shake his hand, to ask him why John Boehner is such a tool!

But first, I thought, I have got to Facebook this!

So I stepped away from the field for a moment to try to compose some super witty post about Obama and me hanging out, but my phone was being testy, and the Facebook ap was being weird, and I couldn't get the post to go up. It was supremely frustrating. I tried for awhile, editing my thoughts, trying to come up with the best little phrase to capture the moment...and the ap was failing me big time.

Forget it, I thought. I can either post about being here with Obama, or I can go hang out with Obama. I'm opting for the latter! But as I turned back to the field and the other parents watching the game, I saw his motorcade pulling away. He had to leave before the end of the game (maybe to go over to Home Depot to find a new color of paint for the debt ceiling, since it seems like we might be stuck with the one we have). I watched him drive away and felt like such a fool for missing my chance.

Gone. Gone. I didn't get to talk to the Leader of the Free World, because I had my stupid nose stuck in my stupid iPhone, trying to compose some stupid FB post. Stupid is as stupid does.

If I had one of these, I'd have to edit it...

...to say Soccer Mama missed Obama.

So yes, I need a different relationship with my iPhone. Clearly, it's getting in the way of some IRL moments. Obama may not be in my living room, but six other people are, and they might just be more important in my little sphere of existence.

At least I don't need a professional to interpret this one for me.

* * *

An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Facebooking

We've all got that Facebook friend who makes us wonder: "Does he do anything all day long except post status updates? How does he have that much time to be online? And does he really think we care that much?"

Is he simply oversharing? Suffering from a little narcissism? Afflicted with an inflated notion of how much his friends care about his morning hot yoga class or the fact that he loves thunderstorms?

Maybe. But now that I've been using Facebook for awhile–and I was an extremely reluctant joiner–I understand the impulse. I am guilty of posting some pretty silly stuff, which is no great crime, but definitely a waste of time, mine and my fb friends'. We're all guilty of that, probably. I think Facebook is getting under our skin. It's getting into our psyches and starting to be something like second nature. It's changing the way we think: we now think in the structure of The Status Update.

Instead of enjoying a gorgeous sunset alone or with people we can actually touch, we rush to a screen interface and wax eloquent about how blessed we are to live where colors this beautiful grace our evenings.

Instead of thinking (and keeping) to ourselves that we're not sure what the heck we're feeding the family for dinner tonight, we think in pithy little phrases meant to amuse others: "Will have to feed natives again tonight, hope they like gruel."

Then, we wait. We wait for someone to tell us what they're making for dinner, or for an "LOL!", or at the very least for a 'like' or two. And then we feel validated. If we get no response, we fight the urge to delete the update, wiping away any evidence that our social network is ignoring us.

A life worth living makes a status update with a long and lively post thread.

But today, rather than risk being ignored by my social network, I decided to fight the urge to overshare on FB. Instead, I'm just going to channel all my would be status updates into today's blog post. Should be fascinating.

8:21 Remote controlled Christmas lights + unsuspecting children = hours of entertainment.

9:15 Is it impossible for a kid to open a box of cereal without shredding the top and annihilating the interior bag?

9:29 It only took until 9:28am for me to hear the first "OH MY GOD YOU ARE SO MEAN!" of the day.

10:07 My daughter just wrote the cutest note to "the elf" who is responsible for the Christmas lights going on and off: "To Elf, Please let us have more time to do magic." I am dying of cuteness.

11:46 ...is swearing at a rented rug doctor upholstery cleaning contraption.

11:47 ...is holding on to dwindling hopes of making biscotti today.

11:48 ...is eating chocolate. Still swearing.

12:29 ...is now swearing at the person who rented her this $@&#*!# machine.

12:36 It's official. I am physically, mentally and emotionally unable to remain or appear calm and neutral in the face of picky eaters.

2:05 ...thinks she could leap tall buildings in a single bound if she only had two children.

3:10 ...is returning the piece of $*#&! machine after discovering a crack in the hose.

3:12 ...needs a drink. Will have to wait.

3:14 ...yells too much. Is it a bad sign if your kid offers you a drink?

5:43 ...just got back from dropping a kid off at soccer, going to Costco for gas, making a bank deposit, returning the stupid machine, and appeasing the young ones with hot chocolate from Starbuck's. Whew! Just enough energy left for some hot yoga!

5:56 ...ok, for realz, I gotta feed the natives. Mac-n-cheese ready at our house in 45 minutes -- come on over! This ain't comin' out of a kraft box...

5:57 ...first: a beer.

6:45 Earlier today, my 6 year old said: "All I want for Christmas is a playdate!" So we're having her friend over this evening. Can I write DONE next to her name on the Christmas list?

6:47 ...another beer.

7:47 ...every hour on the 47th minute! Beer me!

8:03 What a day! Food, family, and fun! And lots of suds all over the living room from the broken rug doctor. Oh well: Christmas Day guests don't really need a clean place to sit, do they?

9:45 Time for bed! Nighty-night everyone!

When I started this post, I planned on only posting real stuff. I came close, except for the fact that I've never done hot yoga in my life and I didn't drink that many beers tonight. Oh, and the last time I when to bed before 11:30 was...I can't actually remember going to bed before 11:30. But it's all mostly true. And anyway, how can I be sure that that dude I went to high school with really did just return from a 10 mile run in the snow and is now sitting down with the twins for a game of Boogle while his perky wife serves him a protein shake?

There's a reason it's called virtual, people.

Now, before I actually do go to bed, I think I'll go share with the flesh and blood folks who live here. Maybe I'll even make them LOL.

* * *

Remember Her?

Note: I originally wrote this post back in April, but never posted it. Now, with this NaBloPoMo craziness, I'm pulling it out of its holding pattern. The time references don't make sense; everything else does.

I received one of the greatest gifts on Friday: a visit with an old friend I have not seen in over 10 years. It was truly fantastic to see her, and it's had me thinking about what happens over time.

Kathy and I went to high school together, and there are few people in my life that I've ever had as much fun with or shared as much of myself with. She was intelligent, funny, sweet, and slightly geeky (sorry kath!), and I was at least two of those things as well, and we hit it off. We weren't in the "party crowd" but we sure enjoyed our wine and 7-up mixers, served on multi-colored square-patterned carpet of her older brothers' room (who was away at college) because his room was detached from the house and we had more freedom out there. We were tipsy to the Beatles and the English Beat and the Rolling Stones. We spent lots and lots of weekends together, sleepovers at each others' houses. We grew up together. Few friends have ever known me as well as Kathy did.

We stayed in close touch during the first few years of college; I even flew out to Virginia to visit her at the College of William and Mary (I told you she was smart!). We shared long letters back and forth between our dorms, as we both adjusted to college life, to growing up and away from our families. I was particularly miserable in my first year away, and she was a rock of support for me in the hardest year of my life.

Somewhere along the line, we drifted. Unlike other friendships that drift because people lose that sense of the bond they once shared, I think Kathy and I drifted only because we both got busy. I have never forgotten the bond we had, never felt it lessen, but we still somehow lost the "habit of being" good friends. We attended each others' weddings, of course. But then we drifted even further away.

And then, some genius person came up with this crazy Facebook thing!

And we found each other once more. Just in time for her to be one of the few people I spoke to on the phone when my dad was recently in a terrible accident. She responded to a facebook post about my dad (posted by someone else) and then sent me an email with her phone number, and I called her. Hadn't talked in years and it was like we talked just yesterday, and I was telling my good friend about my idiot father riding his idiot bicycle and getting slammed into by an idiot truck driver. (Life is generous that way: plenty of idiocy to go around.)

Kathy brought me back to who I was as a teen and young adult. I liked that person. She was funny, quirky, independent, and bound for greatness. She had no clue that "greatness" meant raising five people, but for now, this is where whatever greatness I have resides. But Kathy reminded me of the joy we experienced, the pure, giggly fun of two smart teenage girls who were loved by their parents and had just enough freedom to get in very, very little trouble, enough to feel like we were getting away with something.

Remember her? Remember me? Remember us? Friendships like that raise us, as sure as our parents do. Thank you Kathy, for helping me become the person I am today, and thank you for the "meet and greet" at Noah's bagels that reminded me of where I have come from.

So all you Facebook skeptics out there: join. If only for that one person you'll find who will make your day and take you back to a place you'll love to visit. Facebook is weird, but it brought my Kathy back to me. You'll find your Kathy too, and you'll be so glad you did.

* * *

Twenty-Five Minus Twenty

I have been tagged by a few of my friends, three to be exact (Gabriele, Laura, and Carolyn) on Facebook to do the 25 Random Things About Me dealie-bop.

I can only think of one. So here it is:

When I was a child, instead of a toy box, I had an elephant's foot. A real, African elephant's foot, hollowed and dried, and about 3 feet high. Or so. My sister and I kept our toys in it. My dad spent some time in Africa, and came home with this thing, and we kept our toys in it. Now, when my kids say "Mom, have you seen my [fill in the blank] toy?" I usually respond with "Have you looked in the elephant's foot?"

When I was a child, I was not aware that keeping one's toys in an elephant's foot was not commonplace.

OK, so that was one thing. For the purposes of this post, I will come up with four more, and call it Five Random Things About Me.

2. I can tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue.
3. I don't care that Michael Phelps was caught with a bong.
4. I was born with one ear folded over.
5. My most embarassing moment was tripping and falling on stage while in a college production of You Can't Take It With You. My merciful cast members covered it rather well, but this particular performance was for the student body specifically...so the embarassment quotient was high.

And a Bonus #6: Bushmill's makes me a better mommy. At least tonight it does.

There ya' go. If I get more ideas, maybe I'll do the whole 25 things. I just don't think I'm 25-things interesting.

***

I Speak Facebook

"Monica is listening to music and preparing cinnamon french toast and turkey bacon, while soft rain falls outside and the children dance adorably through the house."

That's Facebook-eze for I haven't showered yet and the whiney children keep telling me they're hungry and I have to use this french bread or it will be hard enough to use as a blunt force object. The kitchen is an abysmal mess and I don't have anywhere to set down this freaking spatula I'm holding. I'm facing a day with all of them indoors because the weather sucks, and I wish it were 5 o'clock because I just got up but could really use a drink. Can someone make these wild banshees shut up? And if I have to listen to this infernal kiddie-music for five more minutes I think my ears are going to pop off the sides of my head. I am swirling amidst utter chaos.

Facebook makes my life sound so much nicer.

Virtual Life, 1; The Real Thing, 0.

***

I Get It!

OK, so I finally joined facebook. And I figured it out. Facebook is how adults can recapture the joy and the rush of passing notes in class.

Facebook. It's better than botox for makin' a girl feel young.

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