Suburban Kvetch

Mom’s night out

I’m surely not livin’ the dream, but I reside in a picturesque Midwestern town with award winning schools, a quaint downtown and friendly neighbors. It’s ethnically diverse, has a commuter train station and a gorgeous new library. People stop their cars when you cross the street and wave when you walk by.

But…

For a single, 45 year old mom with two teenagers, it’s b o r i n g. Girls Night Out means home by nine — if I’m lucky and not home by 8. Conversations revolve around dads who are babysitting for their own kids, and the havoc that will be wreaked without mom at home. There’s talk of multi-family getaways, three-story additions and the perils of country club assessments. There are no single parents at all — or anyone without back-up or tee-times, no classes to take (don’t even mention it), no clubs to join and nothing for Jewish singles within 50 miles.

So, as daunting as it is that my kids are now a Senior and a Freshman in high school — it also means I am that much closer to moving somewhere else – ANYWHERE ELSE - perhaps where coffee shops with wifi are open late and there is more than one bookstore within a 30 minute drive. Heaven forbid — there might be other single adults and yes, maybe even a class or two. I’d bow down if I had a mall to meander, but alas, the only mall nearby is desolate, anchored by Posters-R-Us and Sears — and has been under construction for the entire decade I’ve lived here.

I’ll give credit where it’s due. It’s a tight knit community and I have steadfast friends who make me laugh. If I sent out an SOS in the middle of the night I would have more help than I knew what to do with. So, a while back, when a casual friend’s father passed away, I didn’t think for more than a moment whether or not I should attend the Shiva (the mourning ritual for Jews). It’s never wrong to attend a Shiva. Never wrong to show support with a plate of cookies and a hug.

And anyway, who was I kidding? I got to go out! On a Tuesday night! There would be adults! And food! Everyone would talk! I’d have to look nice too – you don’t show your respect in cut-offs. This would indeed even include mascara. Maybe even a spritz of perfume!

So off I went. I was where I should have been. It was a sincere gesture on my part, tainted only slightly – and stealthily – as I asked about the health and well-being of some old people chatting in the corner.

Picking your battles can lead to pleasant surprises

My 17-year-old son stared at the laptop.

“Uh huh,” he said.

“Uh huh what?”

“Uh huh I’ll empty the dishwasher in the next hour.”

Of course that meant he’d do it in 59 minutes, but that was enough.  If it were me, I would do it right away and get it done, get back to laptop.

Same goes for meals.  He has always saved the veggies for last, because he likes them least.  I save the best for last - which usually means the carbs, or I eat it all at the same time.  Goes to the same place, y’know.

Whatever works.

I’ve learned that with my son, if I ask him to do something within a certain period of time, without nagging (reminding is ok - which I tell him) then it usually gets done.  It can be in 5 minutes, an hour, the next few days.   If it’s urgent then so be it, but let’s be honest, how many household chores are truly of-the-moment?  He’s the tallest, strongest person in the house, so he lifts, carries, moves and reaches at a moment’s notice.  But for those things not even I like to do, I don’t mind saying “When the game is over please take out the trash.”

I was sitting at my desk when he came in and said he was going to the driving range.  I kissed him good-bye and continued about my business. But when I walked into the kitchen, the dishwasher was full.  And no, I did not even think to ask him if it had been emptied before he left.  I didn’t assume he did it, pressing matters prevailed. I just didn’t think of it.

I’m not of the mind to call a kid back from practicing for varsity golf tryouts to empty a dishwasher that will still be amply full when he returns.

I went back to work.

And while in my mind I hover over my kids, in reality, I do not.  I keep close tabs on their internet expeditions, but I do not check, double-check and triple-check if homework or a chore is done.  I ask who he’s with and where he’s going, but even when he called me at 11:55pm to ask if he could sleep at a friends (he has a midnight curfew) I said yes, and did not get out of bed and drive to see if his car was where he said he was , although I thought about it.  I also did not do it when I awoke the next morning as I had promised myself.  He hasn’t given me any reason not to trust him - so I do.  That, and I was really tired.

A while later I texted him with the age old mother-son question.

“Sushi?”

His answer: “Ya”

I’ve learned “Ya” is short for “yes,” (because that’s so long), not short for “you.”

Then my phone rang.

“Hey,” I said.  It was golfer/non-dishwasher emptying son.

“Want me to go pick up the sushi?”

“Sure,” I said. “Thank you.”

If you’ve read this blog, or anything regarding sushi that I’ve written before, you know that the suburb we live in is not a foodie’s dream.  Sushi we like is about 10-15 minutes away — which meant my son volunteered for a 20-30 minute excursion without me asking. I didn’t remind him about the dishwasher.  I didn’t scold him for leaving his chore undone.

He returned home and we indulged together, chatting and watching Food Network in our family room.   He got up from the sofa when he was done, presumably to throw away his chopsticks and containers.

And I heard dishes clanking.

Fat Tuesday

In the poorly lit dressing room of a local department store I heard a mom talking to her daughter.

“I look so goddamn fat in this,” the mom said.

“No you don’t Mommy, you look good. Pink is nice.”

It was a little girl’s voice, not a teenager’s.  I imagined her eight or nine on the little triangular wooden seat in the corner of the two by four foot room, swinging her legs and holding discards on her little lap.

“Oh you think so? What do you know?”

“I know you look nice in pink, Mommy.”

“Yeah, well, whatever.  My ass is so fat I don’t look good in anything.  Damn, look what time it is, I have to go to work.”

“It’s your new job right, Mommy?”

“Uh huh.”

“I heard you talking about it on the phone.”

“Yeah well I won’t like this one either.”

“Sure you will, Mommy.”

I rattled the hangers in my room just across the narrow hallway.  I coughed.  Maybe if she knew someone was there, listening, the woman with the fat ass and fat mouth would be kinder to her daughter.  If only for a few minutes, I figured it would be something.   She was obviously having a bad day but I wondered if she ever had a good day.  If she talked to her daughter this way in public, how was she talking to her in private when there was no coughing across the hall.  With so many negative messages about herself, what was she teaching her daughter about the way she felt about herself?   I bet it made the little girl sad to hear her mom talk that way.

I checked out an outfit in the three way mirror and waited as I heard the duo scrambling to get out of their box.  I wanted to smile at her or say “Hi sweetie” to the little girl.  But instead I was speechless.

The woman and girl emerged from the room.  Extra large and round, the mom with bleached blonde shoulder-length hair was followed by an extra large and round little girl no older than nine, with long golden curls, twinkly blue eyes and tanned skin.

I’d been wrong.  The mom did not just expose her negative feelings about herself, but by genetic and grocery default - she was talking about her very own daughter.

And for that I wanted to kick her in her fat ass.

Don’t put an artichoke in the microwave

I fancy myself a decent cook and purveyor of above-average meals that have gotten two children to - and almost through -  the adolescent stage of life.  Healthy foods fill the cabinets, fridge and freezer — Omega 3’s and whole grains, organic beef and free range chicken.  Even quinoa.  Of course  occasionally I make a grave error in judgment - like the time I attempted to pass off turkey as beef, the misplaced attempt to hide pulverized vegetables in burgers and today, when in an effort to expand the 5-a-day repertoire, I decided that steaming an artichoke could be done in the microwave.

It cannot.

Houses that smell like burnt artichokes for upwards of four hours, send teenagers running for the proverbial hills and dogs under the beds.  Come to think of it, burning artichokes might be something to consider depending on the day.

That being said, I consistently and successfully broil, braise and grill.  I slow cook and stir fry.  I follow recipes and I wing it.  I can make different meals with the same ingredients and the same meals with different ingredients.

But I’ve never entertained the idea of a cooking blog.  I’ve written posts about food and nutrition, of my whatever philosophy that has led my kids to make a lot of good choices.  But cook online?  On display?

No.

I don’t have pretty, matching mixing bowls or vintage measuring spoons.  My mix-master is white and dusty, and my hand-held mixer has one blade.  I have cabinets with stacked  pots, pans and nary a pull out drawer that gives me easy access.  I have lids that almost fit most of my casseroles dishes and my Tupperware collection has no real Tupperware.

I don’t clean up as I go, which means that every bag, box, package and bowl is on the counter when the cooking is done.  It lends itself to little more than an overwhelming clean-up - which often means that I leave it until morning especially if I need to watch The Bachelorette or The Next Food Network Star.

While none of those things have effected my enthusiasm for creating a meal that meshes — it has tempered my ability to cook in a group - and to share my passion on a blog.

I will offer you a word of advice though - without the benefit of step-by-step instructions or a litany of  colorful photographs showcasing antique stoneware bowls with bright yellow neatly whisked, bubbly egg yolks.

When you want artichokes,  just open a can.

Sleeping through curfew

I woke and looked at the clock.  2:30 a.m.  The dogs followed me to the bathroom.  Had I dreamed that my son mumbled  “Nite, Mom” or “Hi, Mom”  hours before?  Had I responded? Or was that the day before?  I’m a sound sleeper but usually wake at the lightest footstep, toilet flush, groan or  whimper.  I was disoriented.  I remembered, but not really.

I made a decision about six weeks ago to go to sleep before my son’s curfew.  Meaning, I go to sleep while my son is still out.  We live in a small town that’s next to a bigger small town.  There’s no place to go - especially after 9pm because nothing is open. So if he’s not here with his friends playing video games in the basement, he’s in someone else’s house playing video games or pool or watching TV.   I’m not concerned about long, late night drives or cruising the mall.  There is no mall.  He knows when he has to be home, and in over a year of driving he has missed curfew only twice - both times I was actually impressed with his creative reasoning — knowing that is all part of being a teenager.  And when you have a really good kid — and I do — you have to pick your battles as carefully as when you don’t have a good kid, and not freak out when they go outside the lines they usually stay within.

I knew I could not go through an entire summer waiting up for him until midnight.  I like to go to sleep at 10.  Or 11, the latest.  And when I get into bed and my head hits the pillow, I’m out.  But I always wake up when he gets in — sometimes right before curfew and I pretend I’m asleep as he pokes his head in my bedroom door to tell me he’s home.  Then I fall back to sleep, more soundly than before.

But not last night.

Last night I slept through curfew.

The dogs followed me down the hall to my son’s room.  It was dark.  Darker than usual since he’s fallen asleep with the TV on since he was little.  The TV was off.  Though I saw the glow of the cell phone by the side of his bed, I wasn’t convinced.  But, not only do you not wake a sleeping baby, you do not wake a sleeping seventeen-year-old.  I also knew if I ventured further the dogs would help me by jumping on his bed letting me know for sure, through his screams, that he was indeed, safe and sound and sleeping.  So I turned heels and walked  to the laundry room and door leading to the garage.  I opened the door a bit, keeping the dogs behind me with a foot shake and a shh.  I pressed the light button.

Two cars.  His and mine.

It was much easier when I just peeked into the crib to make sure he was breathing!

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This month, in my Imperfect Parent column, I’m writing about the blogosphere’s Promo-Moms.