Planting Dandelions « More Field Notes from a Semi-Domesticated Life Planting Dandelions

Motherhood isn’t a desk job. It’s vaudeville.

May 11th, 2012 . 4 Comments »

“Who are we knocking ourselves out trying to impress, anyway?”

Whenever career counselors try to parlay child-rearing experience to marketable job skills, what they typically come up with are administrative functions, like appointment making and record keeping. They completely overlook the far more specialized skill set moms acquire. By the time our kids head off to college, we are show business veterans, having produced, directed, and starred in such classics as “Christmas,” “Halloween,” “Birthday Party” and other holiday extravaganzas for eighteen consecutive years, at breathless tempo. Motherhood isn’t a desk job. It’s vaudeville.

Take the birthday party. With three kids in grade school, the number of birthday party invitations we receive is staggering. There have been weekends when all I seem to do is ferry kids from one party to another, sometimes as many as three in one day, which thrice exceeds the quota established by the Council for Not Losing Your Freaking Mind. The mileage alone is exorbitant.

The home birthday party seems to be all but extinct, with celebrations held at the newest inflatables/bowling/gymnastics facility, usually in an industrial park on the outskirts of town. I am sure if I added up the fuel cost times three kids at fourteen years each, I would do just as well to buy a trailer and make our weekend home the parking lot of whatever party spot is this season’s must-rent.

I jumped off that bandwagon early, declaring myself a one-mom society for the preservation and advancement of the simple, homemade party. These have struck some of our guests as so exotic, it feels like it is the theme. “What a neat idea!” one mother exclaimed, when she dropped off her son and was told we’d be staying put and playing some bingo and musical chairs.

The key to a homemade party is to keep it simple, or you may as well hire it out. As a Google of do-it-yourself birthday party ideas will swiftly demonstrate, it can be all too easy to get carried away. I recommend not even looking at the Web sites. You’ll be stenciling monograms onto hand-sewn favor bags and airbrushing fondant. The handmade movement is supposed to be an alternative to conspicuous consumption, but sometimes I think it’s just a sneakier way of showing off.

The Great Dragon Cake Wreck of 2010.

Who are we knocking ourselves out trying to impress, anyway? The birthday kid? Mine would love a three-ring circus in the backyard, but they don’t really care what the theme or venue is, as long as they can get together with their friends, eat cake, and open presents. The party guests? I’ve yet to meet a child who wasn’t perfectly delighted with a few rounds of stick-the-tail on something and a helium balloon to take home. For sure, we’re not doing it to impress the dads (“what—is it someone’s birthday?”).

The applause of other moms is what we’re after. A birthday party is an exhibition for us. We use it to communicate how affluent or frugal we are, how offbeat or mainstream, how socially or environmentally conscious, how creative and capable. It has become a statement; our float in the parade.

We should applaud each other. Not for best in show, or showing off, but just for showing up. With heart-shaped sandwiches and store bought cookies. With shamrocks made of twist ties to ward off pinches when all the green clothes are dirty. With dozens upon dozens of plastic eggs filled in the wee hours, whether with jelly beans or nuts and raisins. With our hands full of pumpkin guts.

With our minds full of dollars and cents as we help write letters to Santa. With nothing to say for ourselves when we remember what we were supposed to bring to class that day, and forgot. With a candle for every blessed year, and the wish we could grant every single wish.

We should all hold hands, and take a bow. There’s no business like it.

Adapted from “Mom, the Musical,” a chapter in my book, Planting Dandelions, and performed live at the Arkansas production of Listen to Your Mother, staged at the Walton Arts Center, April 29, 2012.

Happy Mother’s Day to you, and all my wonderful cast mates.

(Photos by Megan Clemence. You can view the full set here.)

The cast of LTYM, Northwest Arkansas production, 2012.

Posted in Uncategorized

The Champ.

May 7th, 2012 . 7 Comments »

A lesson in mindfulness with children.

Sunday’s grocery sacks were still on the kitchen floor, when I dumped another load next to them yesterday afternoon, including about a year’s supply of barbecue sauce, because it was on sale (actually free after coupons), and we go through a lot of barbecue sauce. I’d put off putting away all but the perishables, because I need to re-organize the pantry shelves to accommodate it all, and that’s a job I don’t like. Particularly not late in the afternoon, when my energy is low, and I’m facing dishes, supper, cub scouts, and laundry.

I was mindlessly slogging through one task after the other–emptying backpacks, tidying the front porch, sorting dirty clothes–when I heard a rustling among the paper sacks. “I’m putting away the groceries,” my youngest announced.

“Oh, honey, there’s nowhere to put them until I organize the pantry,” I said, but the Littlest Who was undaunted.

“I know where this goes!” he declared, tucking a bottle of Hickory Smoke under his arm, and flinging open the pantry door.

Something else was demanding my attention, so I let him go on, thinking he’d give up when he saw that there truly was no shelf space.

When I passed back through the hallway, he was busy cramming jars, bottles and boxes into every nook and cranny–sideways, diagonally, upside-down.

I was amused, but I also saw more work cut out for me. Without thinking, I said, “I don’t think you’re helping the way you think you’re helping.”

Patrick was at his desk in the next room, with the door open.

“Kyran,” he said.

I caught his eyes, and heard what had just come out of my mouth. My stock boy was still on the job, but moving more slowly now. I hoped it wasn’t too late. I walked among the empty grocery sacks, as if just seeing them, and made my retraction.

“Wow! You’ve put so much away already. Actually, this is a big help to me!”

He came into the kitchen, smiling. “You were wrong!” he said.

So wrong, sweetheart. I’m sorry.

“Yes, I was wrong. This is fantastic! I think you may even earn some money for all this hard work.”

He turned back to his task with triple enthusiasm, and I stopped everything I was doing just to watch him. When the last can was put away, he grabbed the broom and went after the kitchen floor.

“Would you like to use the vacuum?” I asked.

In a few minutes, the vacuum was roaring through the house, and I heard him singing over it.

“WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS. OF THE WORLD.”

He sings all the time. He is the happiest person I have ever known. Irrepressible, we call him.

I hope so. I pray so. May the weariness of others never drag his spirit down.

The world and me, we need that kind of champion.

p.s. I love this related post by my pal Megan Francis, on practicing mindfulness with children through our daily interactions. Though I love being home for my kids after school, it’s one of the toughest transitions of my day, because it’s the onset of the dreaded “second shift.” I’m thinking maybe the solution is to create a re-entry time, when the focus in on relaxing together, and chores are off-limits. How do you cope with re-entry after work or school?

Posted in my lovely barbarians

Glory Days: 10 things you won’t miss about the baby years.

May 4th, 2012 . 19 Comments »

“One day I’ll miss these early wake up calls,” a new mom assured herself the other day, by way of apologizing for indulging a bleary groan over her baby’s 5 a.m. stirrings.

I felt it was my duty, as the senior mother, to lend some perspective on this swiftly fleeting time of her life.

“No,” I assured her. “No, you won’t.”

She can take my word on this. My youngest just turned eight. His brothers are thirteen and eleven. My family is in that sweet spot, the middle years, where we all still like each other, and everyone can get in and out of the car by themselves and go to the bathroom unassisted. It’s glorious.

Of course, there are things I miss about the baby years, but sleep deprivation is not one of them. Neither is that reflexive guilty feeling whenever I admitted to myself–or heaven forbid, to others–that I wasn’t rolling in gratitude and joy every second of every minute. The early years are challenging, physically and emotionally. But you can’t admit it without someone there to remind you they’ll be grown before you know it, and oh, how you’ll long to have this time back. The insinuation being that you don’t properly appreciate the gift of motherhood right now.

That, my friends, is a diaper load.

Not only is it unhelpful, and dismissive of the totality of parenting, it’s downright depressing. As if the baby years are as good as it gets, and it’s all downhill from there. The years fly by, the babies grow up, and there’ll be nothing left to do but haunt tired new moms in the grocery aisles with tales of the glory days. The ghost of Motherhood Past.

I’m not going to be that ghoul. I’d rather be a beacon of hope instead, the one who says, “Wow, babies are precious, but I remember how exhausting that was. Hang in there, it gets better!”

In that spirit, as a Mother’s Day gift to new moms everywhere, I offer a list of 10 things you won’t miss about the baby years.

Sleep interruption. As fondly as I recall snuggling with nursing babies and spooning with anxious toddlers in the wee hours, I savor every unbroken hour.
The cargo. My back muscles twitch every time I see a mother lugging a sleeping baby from the car in an infant seat, or balancing a toddler on one hip, with an overstuffed diaper bag slung against the other.
The hassle factor. The simplest errands become major undertakings when you factor in car seats, nap schedules, diapers and tantrums. I feel like a stealth operative now that it’s possible to just hop out of the car and duck into the post office. I buy stamps while humming the theme music to Mission Impossible.
Diapering. I put in six accumulative years of cloth and disposables, for an estimated 14,000 changes. I don’t miss one of them. Toilet training is also a 100 per cent nostalgia-free zone.
Lack of privacy. There was a time when my children and I were almost always on the same side of the bathroom door. Nowadays, I won’t even speak to them through it.
Crying as the primary mode of communication. I see this as an evolutionary design flaw. If calves can walk moments after birth, why can’t newborn humans speak simple sentences? Or at least write a note?
Two words: Nasal suction.
Two more: Spit up.
Baby proofing. Let me tell you, the unfettered cabinet door is a marvel of engineering. Never take it for granted.
Insecurity. Anxiety. Obsessiveness. Guilt. Fear of screwing up. Pressure. It’s not that I’ve never known those feelings since my children outgrew the baby years, but experience is a mighty shield against them. I survived that brief, intense, beautiful, challenging time. My back a little weaker, but my confidence much stronger.

Finally, here’s something the ghosts of Motherhood Past never tell you: there is so much to look forward to beyond the baby years. Like the delightful people who emerge from them with you, who will always be your babies. No matter how fast time flies.

Posted in mom the musical

Hibachi Birthday to You

May 1st, 2012 . 5 Comments »

There was a time when I thought hibachi steakhouses, with their turnstile seating and cliche decor were beneath me. That time was before I had children. You can only eat so many discarded sandwich crusts and cold chicken nuggets before you lose all claim to culinary sophistication.

One Sunday, when the boys were very small, and we were at a loss for supper ideas, we walked into one such establishment. The hostess ushered us to a communal table. There was a very young couple, obviously on their first big date, seated at one side. An older couple, obviously long married, sat along the other side. I noted that the older man hadn’t bothered to remove his trucker’s cap. Our table confirmed my theory that people who eat at hibachi restaurants are people who don’t know any better. I ordered a Mai Tai, and braced for the worst.

The worst turned out to be one of the best times we’ve ever dined out with kids. The cook came out with his cheeseball jokes and the knife juggling pyrotechnic act, the drinks arrived with their corny parasols, we discovered the sushi on the menu, and all our hunger and crankiness of moments before went up in an onion volcano. The boys were rapt at attention, Patrick and I were able to converse, and by my second Mai Tai, I loved all our table companions like long lost family.

Halfway through our meal, the older lady turned wide eyes toward her trucker capped spouse, and drawled without a trace of irony, “Well, I guess this is just about the fanciest place we ever ate.”

We’ve gone back for Father’s Day, Mother’s Day and birthday dinners. When the Littlest Who turned eight years old on Friday, we took him and his best friend to Samurai, something he’d been promised all year. We even sprang for the hibachi birthday add-on with pineapple boat and horrible souvenir photo. Hibachi dining is like Vegas: go big, or stay home.

“Well,” I whispered to Patrick, as the birthday drum parade began, “I guess this is just about the fanciest place we ever ate.”

One glance at the birthday boy’s face told me that he thought so, too.

Posted in mom the musical, my lovely barbarians, Uncategorized

The Once and Future Queen. Finding Erma Bombeck.

April 26th, 2012 . 10 Comments »

It’s inevitable. If you are a writer, who happens to be a mother, and you write about family life in a way that sometimes makes people laugh, you will eventually come to the Quill in the Stone. According to legend, whoso pulleth it shall be the Next Erma Bombeck. The once and future queen of domestic reporting.

Some seek out the title, and boldly claim it. Others are carried to it by devoted fans, or thrust toward it by eager editors, agents or publicists — all wanting to know, is it her? Is she the one? The Next Erma Bombeck?

So far, no one has proven to be. Least of all, me.

I was a reluctant pilgrim to that altar anyway. The first time an industry person invoked the “Next Erma Bombeck,” I brushed it off as marketing hyperbole, and evidence that the person on the other end of the line really didn’t get me at all. I may have been mildly insulted. In my mind, Erma Bombeck was a period piece, dated and linty, like fuzzy toilet seat covers and velour jumpsuits. Her name conjured yellowed newspaper clippings Scotch-taped to avocado green refrigerator doors, dusty paperbacks stacked next to gold tone picture frames and ceramic figurines. Mrs. Bombeck had had her day, but I didn’t think she was still relevant.

I wouldn’t say that aloud, of course, because she seemed to mean something to an awful lot of people. Again and again, her name was brought up, and my mind gradually creaked open to admit curiosity. Why was this woman’s footprint (or fuzzy slipper-print) so big anyway? What was it people missed about her? Even my husband remembers reading her column as a teenager. Patrick– who spent those years worshipping Keith Richards, girls and cars. What could Erma Bombeck have possibly had to say to him then, or to me now?

I wouldn’t know, you see, because I hadn’t actually read her. My opinions were based on nothing, just the occasional peripheral glance at a book title in the thrift shop bin, or a casual scroll through a long list of quotes making the email rounds at Mother’s Day.

Then my friend Karen went to the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop in 2010, and wrote about it on her blog. A year later, she read my book, and told me it reminded her of Erma. I tried to deflect it, out of habit, but Karen is not an easy person to deflect. “No, really,” she said, and went on to explain what made Erma’s voice so resonant, and why I should be honored by the comparison.

Resonant, yes. Clearly. But relevant?

Yes. God, yes.

You see, I finally went to the source. I read Erma Bombeck all the way to Dayton last weekend. I got to hear her words read by her husband and children while I was there. I read her again all the way back home. It’s a good thing I waited so long, because I’m not sure I would have had the nerve to publish Planting Dandelions if I had already read Wit’s End. Of almost every chapter, I could have said, “Erma already said that.”

When her son, Andy, read “his” essay, Marching to a Different Drummer, I wept because I could have written it about my middle son. It was impossible not to project my own hopes and fears onto the Bombeck “kids.”

“You turned out okay!” I blurted to Andy later, when we bumped into each other over the coffee machine. He laughed. “I don’t know,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Are any of us really okay?”

A riddle. Just the kind of answer my own coyote cub might give.

“But you’re proud of your mother’s work.”

“Very.”

They’re okay.

***

I don’t think there ever will be a Next Erma Bombeck. One reason is the end of the golden age of newspaper syndication. There isn’t that kind of central broadcast into the home anymore. We don’t get a daily paper. My children aren’t idly flipping through the family section as they eat their breakfast cereal. There’s no need to clip anything to the refrigerator door or the coffee break room when we can just toss it into Facebook’s rushing stream. Things get passed around in the viral age, but they don’t get to stick around. Erma was everyone’s next-door neighbor–the one who could let herself in the side door and pour her own coffee. Familiar to the husband, the kids, the dog. It’s hard to imagine any writer with that kind of access now. We may have a favorite mom blogger we read faithfully, day in and out, but how many of us can say our husbands, friends and neighbors have even heard of her?

Which brings me to the other reason there can never be a Next Erma Bombeck: because there are so many. Every blogger who has ever written about family life can (and should) claim direct lineage to Erma. She is the mother of all mother bloggers, the one who opened our readers’ doors for us and showed us where to find the coffee cups. She wasn’t the first woman writer to tell public stories about private life, but she was instrumental in making it okay. In an era of crushing cultural expectations of wives and mothers, Erma was willing to expose herself as flawed and real. She was the ultimate subvert; the one who penetrates the mainstream.

I’ll never be the Next Erma Bombeck. But if I ever receive the comparison with anything other than honor and humility, may all my books be stuffed into avocado green refrigerators and sunk at sea. As a mother and a writer, I both owe Erma and own her. From now on, I’m proud to do both.

Posted in creativity, d-i-y spells DIE, mom the musical, the book, Uncategorized

Rage against the dying of the light

April 24th, 2012 . 9 Comments »

When my ship sailed away from my thirties, I raised my champagne glass, and waved cheerfully from the bridge. What else is there to do? Mine is a one-way ticket, like everyone’s. Might as well enjoy the voyage.

And most days, I do. Most days, I regard it as an adventure.

But today, out of nowhere, I felt angry about it. After a weekend of talking about self-acceptance, and seeking out the lioness within, and sitting in sheer adoration at the feet of some of my elders, part of me revolted. To hell with it, she said. To hell with lines in your forehead. To hell with the daily war on metabolism. To hell with spots on your hands. To hell with becoming invisible. To hell with time running out, and loss upon loss, and the leaving of everything behind.

To hell with it all.

I know reaching midlife beats the alternative. I do.

But it’s not always smooth sailing.

Posted in the crack in everything

The gift

April 22nd, 2012 . 3 Comments »

Just back from the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Conference in Dayton Ohio, where I gave a workshop called Finding Your Authority to Write–getting writers and aspiring writers to consider writing as an act of service, not of self-indulgence.

This morning, I opened my mail, and found this:

Give, give, give — what is the point of having experience, knowledge or talent if I don’t give it away? Of having stories if I don’t tell them to others? Of having wealth if I don’t share it? I don’t intend to be cremated with any of it! It is in giving that I connect with others, with the world and with the divine.

Isabel Allende

Posted in creativity

close my eyes she’s somehow closer now

April 18th, 2012 . 4 Comments »

Missing her.

The day my mother left to go to law school in Nova Scotia, I didn’t know how to feel or act. I was fifteen years old, and I was being allowed to stay in our family home with my father, at my own insistence. I had gotten my way, but it wasn’t my way at all. My way would have been for my parents to have lived together happily ever after until I grew up and moved onto my own happily ever after. But that wasn’t in anyone’s hands to give.

It was the end of summer. I went up to my room, sat on the floor with my back against my dresser, and turned on my alarm clock FM radio. The Beach Boys came on.

I…I love the colorful clothes she wears

And the way the sunlight plays upon her hair.

I…I hear the sound of a gentle word

On the wind that lifts her perfume through the air.

I closed my eyes, and missed my mother.

I didn’t know how to say goodbye to her then.

I never do.

Posted in deep roots, the way we were

Mason Jar Cocktails for a Crowd

April 11th, 2012 . 5 Comments »

Going beyond BYOB on a budget

I hope this doesn’t get me stricken from future guest lists for all time, but I am so over potluck and byob parties. So I told my co-hosts when we started tossing around ideas for a springtime 40th birthday celebration for our dear friend.

It’s not that I mind bringing a crusty loaf of bread, or bottle of wine, or a bag of good coffee beans to round out a menu, but as a hostess, I want to treat my company, not make them fend for themselves. What I’m saying is, we’re grown ups now. Potlucks and byobs are the milk crate furniture of entertaining. Fine for when you’re starting out, but less charming at mid-life. A good guest will always bring a little something anyway, but it’s liberating for everyone when the occasion doesn’t depend on it.

The problem is that many of us are still working with a milk crate budget. But with a little creative thinking, it’s wholly possible to entertain even a crowd without requiring anything beyond the pleasure of their company. The key is to choose one or two focal points to make an impact, and keep the rest simple. I like to have an interesting pre-dinner cocktail, because 1) it serves as the thematic overture to the rest of the occasion, and 2) guests become extremely easy to please after one or two of them.

So when my co-hosts and I met for our party planning session, I volunteered to do drinks. Even though guests had been invited to bring a favorite beverage, I thought it would be lovely to greet everyone with something special. And I had just the thing in mind: mason jar cocktails, perfect for a springtime cottage setting. According to Pinterest, mason jar drinks have been all the rage at weddings for the past few seasons, but I stumbled on the idea one happy hour last spring when all the dishes were dirty, and I was too tired to wash out a glass. I poured a vodka lemonade in a wide-mouth mason jar, threw in some mint leaves and lemon slices, and noticed how pretty it looked. Bonus: mason jars have lids, and thus are portable and storable, perfect for a make-ahead batch of drinks.

Mason Jar Spiked Lemonade for 30

Supplies:

30 pint-size, wide-mouth mason jars with lids and collars

1 pitcher or measuring cup with spout for pouring

1 shot glass or jigger for measuring

2 coolers for storing/transporting

1 galvanized tub for serving

1 chalkboard sign

Ingredients:

2 10-lbs bags clean filtered ice (plus 2 more for transporting and serving)

6 cans frozen lemonade concentrate

vodka (amount depends on strength of drinks–for a standard ratio of 1.5 oz liquor to an 8 oz drink, you’ll need 90 ounces. One 1.75 l bottle = 56 oz)

4 lemons

I went with concentrate instead of liquid lemonade, because I wanted everything to stay icy cold until party time. With the concentrate, I could substitute ice for most of the water called for, and the drinks wouldn’t be diluted as they warmed up. I mixed the drinks several hours ahead of time, keeping them in my freezer or on ice until served, and they stayed icy cold all night. As long as there is alcohol in them, and you don’t screw on the lids too tight, I should think it would be possible to mix these a day ahead of time and keep them in the freezer overnight.

I packed 30 pint-size, wide-mouth mason jars to the brim with fresh filtered ice (working in small batches to keep everything chilled).

Into each jar, I poured 2 oz of thawed lemonade concentrate and 3 oz of vodka (give or take).

I poured water to the “neck” of the each jar, and floated a slice of lemon on top.

I screwed the lids on finger-tight and shook each jar gently to blend before storing them in the freezer while I mixed the next batch. I transported them in coolers filled with ice, and served them from Pearl’s galvanized tub stand, with a chalkboard sign telling (or warning) what they were.

They stayed deliciously cold all night. Even though some guests stuck with the beer or wine they brought, there was something visually and psychologically unifying about a lot of people mingling over the same drink instead of everyone clutching their own “usual.”

Cost of ingredients: about $60 (or $2 per serving), plus jars, which are infinitely re-useable.

How do you feel about potluck/byob invitations? What are some of your high-impact, low-budget entertaining recipes and tips?

Posted in d-i-y spells DIE, friends and neighbors, semi-domesticated bliss

Springtime 40th birthday celebration

April 10th, 2012 . 4 Comments »

If you can at all arrange it, you should turn 40 in spring, when flowers are blooming, life is bursting and everything that was old is new again.

My best friend hits that mile marker today, and last night we held a springtime 40th birthday celebration, co-hosted by a trio of her greatest fans. It was so much fun to plan and execute, right from the restaurant patio strategy session through to the party’s candlelit afterglow. The lion’s share of the credit has to go to my co-host Pearl, who offered her home as the venue. The cottage setting was perfect for a spring-themed party. It also helped to have a guest of honor who is so well-loved, and so very easy to celebrate.

Details:

Decor: Vintage linens and fresh cut flowers, everywhere

Food: Rustic sandwiches on sliced baguettes, dips and crudities

Centerpiece: a photo montage of the guest of honor clothes-pinned to a branch set in a vase

Cake: chocolate espresso torte, on antique glass plates, decorated with rose petals

Drinks: Spiked lemonade in mason jars (recipe here)

Guest book: a jar to collect guests’ birthday wishes

Lighting: tea candles, antler chandelier, yard fire

Ambiance: good friends, shared history, infinite love.

Happy birthday, Lennie Kat. We sure do love you.

Posted in beautiful things, friends and neighbors, the sisterhood

Planting Dandelions