Mother-in-Law's Pot Roast, Also Her Dog

Monday afternoon after I took Erika to the MARTA station to go back to California, I stopped and bought a roast. Matt's mom Betty made this roast in my crock pot one time, and I came here to tell you about it.

It has magic powers, e.g., the power to make my child eat onions and the power to make my husband leave the office early.

You need:

a chuck roast, I got a 3lb one
a large onion or two smaller ones
sliced mushrooms
red wine
packet of powdered blue cheese dressing mix
a stick of butter

Cut up the onion into chunks, like little wedges, and put them with the roast into the crock pot. Sprinkle the packet of blue cheese dressing mix onto the meat and onions. Unwrap an entire stick of butter. I mean it, just do it. Unwrap the butter and set it on top of the meat. Put the lid on and turn on the crock pot. I did "high" for six hours. After a couple of hours, when things have settled in a bit, open the lid really quick and pour in about half a cup of red wine. You don't need any other liquid. Go amuse yourself for another couple of hours. Then open the lid one more time and dump in the mushrooms. When the time has elapsed, the roast should be nice and tender and the broth--man--it'll make you want to hit your granny. As the old-timers say.

I served this with baked sweet potatoes. Normally I am all in favor of putting the potatoes or carrots into the crock pot and crocking it with the rest, but you don't want to put in stuff that will soak up too much liquid, Betty says.

Buddy the dog.

Betty came to my house yesterday to fly out of ATL on a trip, and she left her springer spaniel here to stay with us for a week or so. I had told her it was way too long to board him at the kennel, as he is a sensitive soul and it would be too much for him.

It's possible that I am projecting some of my own inner life onto this dog.

So there are the two dogs here. As Matt has remarked, having Buddy around is like having a dog, which is not quite how I'd characterize Percy the Beagle, Moody Daughter of Time. Percy is in a slow boil that Buddy is here. And Buddy is upset that Betty is gone. He's droopy and he definitely has looked around the house for her.

Today he tried to get in my van. He didn't even know where it was going. Just away from here.

So there are a lot of emotional creatures in this house tonight. We get our feelings hurt, then we eat some chow, then we watch a ball roll and find a soft place to lie down. Then we feel better.

That's the scene by me. xo

And The Living Was Easy

June 2013

The main thing that happened this summer, in the time of No Blogging, was that my sister and her family came to the US from Australia and stayed for six glorious weeks. We hadn't been together in a year and a half. Which is a long time in the lives of some of these people. Here's the before shot:

October 2011

This was the picture I described taking in this post. Which also has a ripping yarn about a pair of nightstands. Look at the kids! And look at Dad--so much less of him. And more of baby Gabriel. And of Laura, who is now taller than her Aunt Amy.

And the Nike pullover being worn by Matt in the top picture was also worn by Jason in the bottom picture. That's mountain house style for you.

It was a relatively last-minute thing that they could come. From late June until they left the first week of August, we made it our main priority to spend time with them, here in the ATL and up at the mountain house. They also squeezed in trips to see Dave and Katie on their forty haunted acres, and a trip to Florida as well. Y'all, it was so nice. The kids were perfect ages to disappear for long periods of time. And we talked and talked and talked. Nobody ate a cricket this time either.

Then, THEN, we all went to Disney World. In August. Of our own free will. When this idea was first broached, Matt and I were like, NOOOOOooooo....But Amy usually gets us to do what she wants and that's what she did and we were glad we did. I'll save that for its own post. Too much magic! The story about the corndogs alone needs its own post.

Here are a few more snaps from our time together. Summah flashback!

Dudes

Gabe

A happy Fourth of July

This is how tired I like children to be.

Nate and Hank!

Ava and Laura

Sibs

Thank you for indulging me in this summer throwback. Basically, besides kid activities and lots of sweating and mediocre tennis, the salient fact of the summer was the Australian clan visiting us. Now it's like you were there! Go get some rest for that scrolling finger! xoxox

Old Man of the Mountain

Dad at Shining Rock in October

You guys who have been hanging around here a while know my dad as Camp Papa, his blog-commenting name. He just yesterday emerged from spending a week on the Appalachian Trail. (My mom was visiting me because she didn't want to be up at their mountain house alone for the week, though I told her she wouldn't be alone. There would be bears and moonshiney ghosts.)

I am proud of that guy. Just eighteen months ago, before he lost 100+ pounds and took up hiking, he would not have been able to dream of doing that trek. Not even one day of it. It's like he's been given a new life. Or more that he's gone out and gotten it for himself.

He was to do the hike with seven other guys, and he had given lots of thought and preparation to his gear and everything, and he has been walking long distances, so I wasn't worried about him. But then Mom showed up at my house and told me about dropping him at the trail head. "How did he seem?" I asked. "Well," she said, "it was like the Roy Rogers galoshes."

The Roy Rogers galoshes: For long, long years, those galoshes have been part of family lore. When my dad was a kid, he was very poor. His mother worked hard to raise her three children alone, and they struggled to make ends meet. Sometimes the ends did not meet. The story goes that when Dad was in maybe the third grade, his shoes wore out and all he had to wear to school were a pair of Roy Rogers galoshes, in rain or shine. One moral of the story as it has been told is that he didn't mind this very much. Another part of the story is that, when I first heard of the galoshes--I was probably younger than Laura--I announced that I couldn't hear about them any more ever because they made me want to cry. They stood as a symbol for all the things about his childhood that were difficult, awkward, and make-do. Those galoshes pained me.

Another legend of this kind was his bicycle--the only bike he ever had. It didn't have pedals and it didn't have a seat--just a pole sticking up--but he loved it and couldn't wait to come home and ride it. Do you see now why, as a younger person, I couldn't stand to hear this stuff? Also he never had a birthday party, I'm serious.

It's okay now though.




Anyway, at my house on Sunday, Mom painted a vivid picture of his meeting up with his hiking buddies in the rainy woods. They arrived all wearing these slick, breathable, two-piece rain suits. Dad, she said, had cobbled together two different dollar store ponchos to cover him and his pack. "And the ponchos were different colors!" she said, shaking her head. "And he has a rain suit at the house!" she protested. "I tried to get him to take it, but he insisted he'd be fine with the ponchos."

"It's the Roy Rogers galoshes!" we exclaimed together.

That night he turned on his phone long enough to text her. "Miserable day. Pray for a dry night for me." We stewed and worried. He also said it was much harder going than he expected, with the steep climbing and the heavy pack combined.

The whole week, as we were going about our normal business, I thought of him out on the trail, trudging forward. Cold frosty mornings and misty foggy afternoons. I thought of how tedious I would find it taking off my boots at night, knowing I had to put them on again in the morning.

Mom was expecting to go pick them up in the Nantahala Gorge this morning, but with the weather about to turn stormy again, they pushed quicker and came out last night. Someone had left a car, and they all trundled to the mountain house to spend the night. He said it was like arriving at the Ritz Carlton.

We talked to him today. He said it was the hardest thing he's ever done--harder than basic training in the Air Force, harder than training for high school football--just really hard. He kept saying, "Did I mention it was hard?" And that if there had been an exit door, he might have taken it. But he stuck with it. They slept in hammocks every night, and boiled water to make food. They met through-hikers who were going all the way, and got to dip a toe into the quirky culture of the AT. They went about fifty miles, which isn't huge daily distance, maybe, but there was a lot of climbing. He learned a lot about the practical aspects of the whole enterprise--gear and food and all that. And he goes, "I've always heard that you can do more than you think you can, but I never actually had to do it."

Old guys! They're tough! I am happy for him.

He said he wouldn't want to do it again next week, but he might want to do it again next year, and he was talking about us doing some kind of family trek, not a week but a few days. I reminded him that the last time I went camping, I took along frappuccino in glass bottles. Whereas he had sawed off his toothbrush handle to cut weight. So we'll see what comes of that.

May International Blog Awareness Day: MIBAD

You Guys! Look mama, I'm blogging!

An actual fortune I received.

I am able to speak to you because my mother is visiting, and she has just embarked on the evening swimming-karate circuit with the kids. Holy be her name! So I have some blessed free moments before I go play a tennis match.

That's where I've been. There is just so much tennis, it has kind of gotten out of hand. Like, even I must acknowledge this. I am on the two teams, as I've said, Sunday and Thursday ALTA leagues. Then I've signed up as part of two different flex league partnerships, one with Matt and one with a tennis girlfriend. My ALTA teams are both going to playoffs (yay! bag tag!) with an accelerated match schedule, and the flex leagues are picking up, so it's like I'm on four teams. Just scheduling all the matches is kind of a lot of work, what with the emailing and the checking of the calendar.

I told Matt that I could really use a personal assistant to handle some of the load, and he got the funniest look on his face. I wish you guys could have seen it!

So my sainted mother is at my house this week and in my non-tennis moments, we are enjoying rambling around together. Do you know what she does? She fills in the check register in the back of her checkbook with every debit and withdrawal. Isn't that something? Maybe others are still doing this too, but when I saw her pull out her checkbook and make a careful entry, I felt like I did the time I went to Monticello and saw the automated pen machine that Jefferson devised so he could write two letters at the same time.

Another generational thing that I enjoyed: We parked at the grocery store, right next to the cart return where I always park. My mom took a cart out of the cart corral and pushed it toward the store. I said, "You know, they have those inside for us to use." And she said, "I always get a buggy from the parking lot and bring it in." I was like, is that you doing them a little favor? And she said that it was, and that she thought people her age all did that. And she pointed across the lot and sure enough, another mom-aged lady was making her way to the store entrance, pushing her own empty car.

Is this a thing people do?

That's your crash course in Anthropology of My Mom for the day.

I'm going to blog much more in May. I declare it to be so.
xoxo

Moonshine and Magnolia

Her: "It'll be like Abbey Road but in Sylva."  Me: !!!

Mountain house reading.

Dolled up.

Happy New Year to you! And you. And to you, little blog.

We were up at the mountain house in western NC for the weekend leading up to New Year's Eve.  Man, the stuff the happens up there. It really is a different place.

One case in point: Mom and Dad returned from the little bookstore one afternoon and reported that they'd seen a guy--a kinda militia-looking dude with a crewcut and a Krav Maga t-shirt on--buying multiple copies of A Witches' Bible. He said they were gifts for the members of his coven, and that that night was a special celebration for them. Then he said the German name for it, which sounded to their ears like "Frauyellen," but I'm sure that's not how you spell it, and it meant that it was a night to "celebrate the women."

He said they were all going down to the lake, and that they would wash the women's feet by the light of the moon.

I actually thought that sounded delightful. I mean, probably chilly. But I just thought, there is stuff you could be into that makes way, WAY less sense to me than that. Like golf, or the Tea Party. Sure, he is not the person that I would have thought would be up in that, but carry on people. Carry right on, good mountain folk.

.....

Another case: On the afternoon of New Year's Eve, Dad cozened Matt, my brother Dave, and me into going with him on his usual walk around the mountain. We've done this lots of times, and it's more for fitness than nature contemplation, as it involves about 50 minutes of briskly climbing steep hills. So, okay, but on this day he said he had added a section on a forest track that extended it to about three miles and just over an hour. We were game, so we set out.

A little ways in, we ran across some neighbors from down the way, friends of mom and dad's who may or may not have a small-batch home distillery for spiritous liquors. I cannot say for sure, in case there are any revenuers reading this, or perhaps Boss Hogg. We exchanged the pleasantries of the season and complimented him on a recent batch of his work that we had sampled. Then we went on our way again.

We headed into the new portion of the walk, and I kept saying, "I mean, where ARE we?" It was just parts of that mountain I ain't never seen before. There are just a handful of houses on the whole side of the mountain, but somehow this was like, really truly the back side of nowhere. And it also seemed like more than three miles. As we climbed a hill, me thinking we would crest it and see Shangri-la, who should reappear but the crafty neighbor, coming the other way. I was like, how did he get here? We left him way back there and, I don't know, is he a leprechaun?

He hailed us, we stopped, and he handed my dad a mason jar filled with almond liqueur that he'd made. He had gone home to fetch it and set out to meet us again. I still don't know exactly how he knew where we'd be, but probably leprechaun powers. But yeah, mason jar of hooch. That's some mountain hospitality. We opened it and all sampled it, and it did fortify us for the walk home.

Which turned out to be much longer than three miles, Dad having misundercalculated, and was in fact closer to eleventy-nine thousand miles. But it the walk hadn't been so long, we might not have come upon the mason jar of booze.

....

So we did that little hike and then the youngsters among us left our children with mom and dad and got gussied up and went to Asheville for some New Year's revelry, where I danced for two hours basically sober, then we saw the New Year in, and came home and hot tubbed the New Year in some more, and I went to bed and was awakened by Laura coming down with a stomach flu, which I then proceeded to get, and was sick in bed all of January 1 but it's all okay now.

And that's the rest of the story.

What are you up to? Did you have a nice Christmas? I bet you did. xoxox

Just Try Not To Look Weird

Do I not have any puffier clothing in which to be photographed?

We are back home in Atlanta tonight, somewhat grudgingly. It was such a good relaxed time up in the mountains, I kind of didn't want to leave. I mean, it's basically ideal--I'm almost embarrassed--because whenever we're up there with a grandparent, we're minimally responsible for the custodial care of our children. Grandparents are up early, they're making breakfast, they're dispensing pearls of wisdom. Everyone is happy and I can keep to my preferred sleep hours, 2-10am.

6:15 is gonna come early tomorrow morning.

This morning before we all went our separate ways, I herded the family outside for Andy to take our picture. I need something to put on Christmas cards. When we had first awakened this morning, I said to Matt, "I need to get a picture for Christmas cards," and he goes, "We don't have a picture?" And I'm like, no. And he's all, I don't believe you? And I'm like, it's complicated but just put on pants. I mean, Reader, is there anything less rewarding than explaining to a man why you need a certain picture of the family at a certain time in a certain way? But we got some good shots, and then tonight I was messing with different xmas card layouts, and I showed one to Matt, and he goes, "Well I look like a sad troll, but sure." So I picked a different picture even though I looked fractionally hotter in the sad troll one. Compromise!

Lots going on this week. A couple get-togethers with friends, for which I need to bring food, and a tennis match, for which I need to bring food. And several things I'm forgetting right now. And tomorrow Hank has to bring a Christmas stocking and "24 like items" to school. I think the teacher is giving them little goodies every day in December? I have a bunch of Smencils to send, which used to be cool. In 2011 they were the new silly bandz. Don't know if they still are.

Good luck with your reentry. Right now I must to bed. Sad trombone!

Shopping Small

Nichol's House Antiques in Sylva, NC, where more is more.

Betty with wildlife

Today we went in different directions. Matt took the kids to see Wreck-it Ralph, their second viewing, and Betty and I drifted down to Sylva's Main Street to stimulate the local economy. Actually I spent zero dollars, but I offered crucial moral support as Betty navigated through the purchase of a set of coasters, a dish cloth, and a vintage lace tablecloth. We were digging through an entire sideboard full of table linens, with the proprietress helping us, and we kept finding things that were pretty but not quite right. Of one, a little oblong linen piece with french knot embroidery, I said, "Betty, you could put this on your piano." Betty thought and said, "There is a fine line between pretty and little old lady." Then she and the other lady laughed and high fived each other in generational solidarity.

This store is set up in an old house, with each room containing its proper things: bed linens in the bedroom, more masculine stuff in the study, etc. Lots to wander around and look at, and I always appreciate their maximalist approach to Christmas decorating. There is a unified sensibility to the place that makes it feel almost like someone's actual house.

I was sort of looking for things for my nieces, but I don't think that tween girls have the proper appreciation for a punch bowl resting on a pedestal made of antlers.

I blame Taylor Swift?

We remain here in the Thanksgiving mountain citadel. All of the leftovers are almost gone, so we might have to move on soon. You? 

  

Constitutional

At Deep Creek.

We didn't do much today and we didn't start that until after lunch. It was gray and wintry-looking here, without actually being very chilly. Matt and the kids and I headed to Deep Creek, our favorite summer tubing spot, to walk in the woods. I like this time of year for a hike; with no leaves you can see so far through the woods. You can see the shapes of the ridge tops and hills. When we got down to the river, we kept marveling at how different it all looked with bare trees. Or different-yet-familiar, like it had been remodeled. Let's just open up this space here and get some more light in.

As I snapped this picture, Hank was reaching into his pocket for a little bag of skittles he'd saved from the movie the other day and brought along. We laughed remembering that the last time he'd walked this trail, he was about two-and-a-half, and he'd had candy in his hand then too. It was February, and he'd been given a little Snoopy Valentine that contained exactly three pieces of chocolate. Even though he was a toddler, he made the journey carrying that heart box in his hand, and he rationed the candy as he went. While we all stood around with no snack and no candy, he would pause, sit carefully down on the ground, and have a chocolate. He had one at the beginning, one in the middle, and one at the end. I remember that he was so little, he was still wearing a one-piece outfit that snapped up the legs. He was potty-trained then, but just barely, and I remember several breaks to "go pee pee like a bear." Today he said he remembered that day, but I think he just remembers our recitations of it.

As we walked today, the kids wanted to do riddles and puzzles, so we dredged up every one we could think of. Laura solved the Riddle of the Sphinx but was completely stumped by, "What state is tall in the middle and round on both ends?"

Then there was leftover-eating and hot tubbing. Another highlight: I took the pie tin containing the last piece of pumpkin pie into the sun room with Betty, closed the door to children, and and had a long catch-up session on the entire extended family. As we talked, I finished my piece and ate every remaining morsel of pie, mashing the crumbs with my index finger. When I was fully up to speed on all goings-on, the plate was clean. All's right with the world, but we are sad to see that pie go.

What is up in your domestic citadel? Are you still in holiday isolation? I have not even bought anything online. Asceticism! xoxo

Group Pics

Ma and me. My hair has gotten long all the sudden?

The weekend is demanding enough without having to read a bunch of words. So I will give you a few pictures instead. We had a really good day rambling around my brother's new place, and later I'll have to tell you about how this haunting of the little church across the road and the local Bigfoot is like Totally A Thing all around here. But Saturday night is no time for narrative.

Gabe clambering.

Laura bouncing.

Kate and Dave have a tall, pretty living room. Love.

Kitchen conversation.

Gorgeous and warm here today.

Dudes al fresco.

Don't know where the baby was for this shot.

My sister-in-law is like a 33rd-level Wizard of Lunch. We came back from a walk and she'd put the baby down for a nap and prepared a huge meal. Which we ate gratefully. The End. I hope you had pleasant and satisfying times today. xoxo

Whoops, Mama Forgot

This morning was grandparent shift change at my house. My parents had come to see the Thursday night Little Mermaid show and were now passing the baton to Matt's mom Betty, who was booked for tonight's show. But this morning they were all here, which meant I did not get up to take Hank to the bus stop, or to feed Laura breakfast and watch the Today Show with her. I slept through all of that and it was delightful. And the thing about having those three grandparents in the house is that when I wake up, the coffee is already made. And it is strong.

So, long about nine I was sitting on the couch working on that first cup of coffee. I opened my email on my phone to see a note from Hank's teacher. It said, "Hi! If you are getting this email, it means your child doesn't have his book report and book character costume on today. If you can get it up to school, he or she will still have a chance to present," etc.

Um, whut? Book character who? CRAP.

Then I remembered, back before Halloween we had gotten a thing sent home about having the kids do little book presentations while dressed as a character. I had put it in a stack of Very Important Papers on my kitchen counter and then highlighted the stack by placing some Target coupons and a gourd on top of it. No chance I could forget to look back through that stack! I mean, the gourd and all!

But then Laura's play started and I sort of haven't retained any other information about this week.

(It's funny, because this kind of little mommy project was one of the things that prompted me to start this blog back in the day. I felt that I was always being called upon to do ridiculous, laborious, or immediately-forgotten tasks related to modern suburban parenting, and I wanted something to serve as a memorial. So here we are!)

Betty and I were planning to go eat lunch with Hank, which he loves, because when someone comes to eat with you, you get to sit up on the stage and lord over all the people down below. So I emailed his teacher back that I would bring his costume and his report up to school at lunch, so sorry, don't know how it could have slipped my mind.

But there was no costume and no book report. I went into my mind palace and surveyed the landscape, and my spirit eye alit upon a book Hank had recently brought home from the book fair. And I thought, "This is a basically perfect thing for that kid. And it will be dead easy."

Capt. Underpants

 I told the assembled grandparents about this problem and about the need to come up with a Captain Underpants costume immediately. I knew that with the combined brainpower and centuries of living in that room, we could crack this case. My father said, "Why, I have several pairs of white underwear within easy reach." He had already packed his things into the car, bless him, but he went out and retrieved his brightest whitest pair. I knew Matt's closet wasn't a good place to look because I've been converting him over to those boxer briefs, in dark colors, but is that more than you wanted to know?

Anyway, Dad handed me the briefs and pronounced them "nearly new." Then I spied a big square of red felt in the toy box, and quick as a flash, I was cutting it into a scalloped facsimile of the Captain's cape.

Then it was just a matter of swinging by the Subway to procure Hank's promised meatball sub and milk. I was feeling a little super-heroic at that point. I had the underwear, and the sub! Handling all the things!

When Betty and I reached the school, we rounded the corner and saw Hank's teachers. They made the rueful face that adults use to communicate to each other that a child is upset. Then, in mouthed whispers, his teacher told me that Hank had been sad when he got to school and realized he was supposed to be in costume. She said he didn't cry but he was on the verge, and that she had tried to reassure him that I would come and fix him up. When we sat down in the lunchroom and I pulled the book, underwear, and cape out of my purse, the poor little guy looked so relieved. He said, "Sweet, Mom!"

Over lunch, we filled in the book report template together. He remembered everything about the story in great detail. Then I helped him into the underpants, using my hair elastic to tighten them in the back, and tied the cape around his neck.

HE LOVED HIMSELF SO MUCH. Y'all, it was just beyond. And then as his class got up to empty their trays, he descended the stage steps in front of them and basked in their attention. It was a hit with the kindergarteners, of course, and all the teachers cracked up. Betty and I left, high-fiving each other. It made me feel good to see him restored to full confidence and cheer.

I was surprised there were no other Captain Underpantses in attendance. I mean, so easy! And big white underwear just gets laughs. I think it's a transcultural phenomenon.

When we met him at the bus stop later that afternoon, I said, "Where are the underpants?" And he goes, "Well, when we went out on the playground for recess, some big kids were laughing, so I took them off and hid them in my pocket." All right, sounds reasonable. You gotta know your audience. What kills in kindergarten might not play with the second graders.

So Mama forgot but she fixed it and it was okay.

I Just Almost Jinxed This Whole Thing

Settling in.

My parents came into town this afternoon and are watching the election returns with me. Earlier my mom and I were in the grocery store getting provisions, and we espied a sale on ice cream sandwiches. I never buy this stuff, but I said to mom, "Maybe we could have them later as a celebration." Then, just now, watching all the red and blue fill in the map, I said, "I could really go for one of those ice cream bars." My dad looked over and goes, "HEY! Nobody cracks a Klondike bar until they call Ohio."

Okay!

It was a rainy and blustery day. The kids were home--election day is a school holiday here--and we all slept in a bit. Then I voted with no waiting at all, then I worked out with Pretty Neighbor. Then I went to Laura's dress rehearsal for the Little Mermaid in case I needed to help with makeup, but there was a squadron of high school girls handling it. Then I went home and snapped some pictures of the game company boys as they packed up and left for their new office. Then I watched over six children who arrived at my house to play with Hank. I did all of this with a feeling of nervous excitement. I mostly stayed off the internet and away from all the rampant chatter-about-nothing going on there.

Last night I realized that maybe we've been talking about the election a bit too much around here, because when I mentioned going to vote, Hank sighed and said, "I am so stressed out." I was like, why buddy? He said, "I just really want Barack Obama to win." I told him that I believed it was all going to be okay. And I said, "You know bud, whoever wins this election, your life is going to be just the same the next day." And he mumbled, so sadly, "No, it'll be different in like a million ways." And he said it with such sad resignation! It made me think he knows something I don't! Kids, man. I can actually remember that feeling--having a dawning awareness of world affairs and feeling totally small and shaky in the face of it.

Aaaannnd....just called Ohio. Klondike bars all around, and my love to you, whatever your leanings.
xoxox

Well, July.

Sometimes that happens. You're talking with a friend, you pause to look down at your sandwich for a moment. You might be saying, "Well seriously, I don't know, yeah, I know, totally! Do you want this pickle?" And then you look up and your friend is gone and doesn't blog for a full month. You look back down at your pickle. Its juice is soaking your potato chips. This happens sometimes.

Amy and I both, by unspoken accord, took an unannounced summer breaky from blogging. Then, as she has already revealed, we were the recipients of a snippy email from our dad earlier this week:

Saturday will be one full month since either of you has blogged. In recognition of that landmark date there will be no cake and cocktails on the deck at the Briar Patch. Please make no plans to attend. Love, Dad

He has such a way about him.

In response to this, Amy hastened to post an update, but I reacted to this epistle with the stony silence that makes me so beloved in the family. When I want to ignore something, I can ignore it thirteen ways to Sunday. Shhh! I was resting!

How are y'all? You look good! I mean some of you literally look good and I am sure of this because I've gotten together with two bloggers in the last month, Jenni and Aimee. So, meeting and greeting, swimming and sunning, sweating and swatting. Summer ramped up and with it came an increase in activities for every member of the family. On one hand, I feel like a ton has happened, and then again, if you asked me, "What have you been up to?" I could with truthfulness say, "Nothing much." So it will probably take me a couple of weeks to tell you about the nothing much. I mean, you know how I do.

Tonight I'm in North Carolina at the mountain house. Tomorrow at dark o'clock we're heading up to DC to spend the 4th with Dave and Katie and Baby Gabriel. It will be moist and steamy and patriotic and we can't wait. I'll be checking in. I swear! Don't look like that.

The other morning, Hank announced, "Mom, I've grown my first patch of man hair." I asked him to show me this man hair and then he couldn't locate the man hair, but insisted that "It's on my tenders." I mean, that could have been a whole three-paragraph blog post right there. You're so sorry you missed it!

If you're on the road for the holiday (not you, Aussies and Canadians but Happy Belated Canada Day), travel safely. I kiss your face.

They Came Back

Dad, 50 pounds lighter since December; kids inherit his old pants.

My mom and dad were in Australia forever but now they are back and badder than ever. We went up to the mountain house on Friday night to see them, not having enjoyed our preview of their deaths. Guess who else was there? Baby nephew guy, Gabriel!

A happier baby there is not.

Gabriel brought his parents too. We didn't do much. A little eating, a little hiking. I noted with happiness that Katie has completely blossomed into motherhood, and I listened to my brother tell me the plot of the first 250 pages of The Brothers Karamazov. In case there is a quiz. And Dave played the guitar and we also entertained the baby.

Did you guys get to see the Super Moon? It really was a super moon! Even if it did take 4-evah to clear the ridge behind the house, not becoming visible to us until 11:30pm, when Hank had given up and gone to sleep on the couch. We had a great view of it with Laura's Astroscan telescope, and we stayed for a good long look. Laura and I kept trying to put our phone cameras up to the eyepiece of the telescope, which did not really work.

Oh, also, the whole family dived into this pit of facebook crazy--one of those terrible political threads where you argue with people you don't know in real life and it just goes downhill fast, fast, fast. I just can't even. It is really not like us to do this. Everybody was mad, I took to drink, and my mother had to shut the whole thing down by quoting scripture. It was like that.

Aussie beach glass

Mom brought this beach glass home from the beach in Kiama. She also brought me a zillion tea towels and another jacket that says "Australia." Oy oy oy!

We had to leave early this morning so I could get down to Atlanta in time for my tennis playoff match. The bummer-ish way this works is that the two teams play until one team has won three matches. For me playing in line 4, this meant that we were 4-3 in our first set and then my team finished losing the first three matches and we had to retire. Like, our match was over right there. We shook hands and left the court. And there had been ugliness in one of the matches over someone reaching over the net and a lot of other hysterical lady business. I am glad I got to play even a little, but I left the mountains early for that noise?

Oh well. Did you have a good weekend? Whatcha doing?

xoxo

PS: Sherlock on PBS tonight.

The Mudville Nine

Put me in, Coach. After I finish my Sprite.

We took the kids to a minor league baseball game tonight, the Chattanooga Lookouts. Go Looks! It was fun. It might have been even more fun if the Looks were better at playing baseball. They lost to the Tennessee Smokies 0-1. But as Laura observed, "Well, it isn't the major leagues, after all." The kids were excited to be there nonetheless. They've never been to a baseball game. I know!

A minor league game is just good entertainment. None of the seats costs very much, you can see the action really well, there are snacks and beer, and the people-watching is unparalleled. As Matt would say, there was one of everybody there.

One of my favorite people was a woman sitting in our assigned seats when we got there. We had tickets for actual specific seats, and there was a couple and a child in them. I did the thing you do of, "Oh, let's compare tickets." Because 99.999% of the time, one of you is mistaken about your section/row/seat/basic orientation in the universe. But this lovely, when I wanted to see her ticket, huffed and said, "Like I don't know how to read."

Pert!

But I didn't even react because she was extending her ticket to me as she spoke, and I wasn't about to get into a slapfight with someone who was already missing teeth. I just wanted to see her ticket. And she spoke the truth! They had tickets for those seats and so did we. Ours we bought online and theirs were from the box office. We summoned the usher, who confirmed this duplication. Then he suggested we sit in some empty seats a few rows forward, which I thought was just kicking the can down the road, but whatevs, it isn't the major leagues, after all. We plunked down and it all turned out fine.

L has new Easter shoes, courtesy of her grandmother.

It was a fun, cheap outing, I'd love to come back on a summer night and do it again. It is a minor miracle that I did not eat a hot dog or something worse. I did have a light beer and that was all. I felt practically ascetic. There were fireworks after the game, which made the kids feel like they'd had a big night out.

Oh, and Betty, who has a sharp eye for social comedy, drew my attention to this scene.

Poor baby doll.

She said, "Here's a sign that someone is not from the absolute top shelf of society." And she pointed to the baby doll that had been lying in a puddle of beer all night. "You wouldn't let that happen," she said.

Indeed.

A fun night out in Mudville. Happy Easter Weekend y'all! xoxo

Where's My Plain Brown Wrapper?

So the other week I read an article in the NYT about that Fifty Shades of Grey erotic novel and how it was climbing up the charts. The title of the piece says that it "Sets American Women Abuzz," which made me giggle and giggle to myself.

I was like, "Well, okay, I'll download it and read it and see what all the fuss is about."

Then I realized that if I downloaded it and read it on the Kindle app on my iphone, as I do lots of quick reads, it would also show up in the carousel on Laura's new Kindle Fire. I could go and delete it from her virtual bookshelf, but every time I opened it on another device, her Kindle would helpfully sync and put it front and center again.

21st-century parenting. It is really something. 

I decided to skip it, figuring that the author probably hadn't thought of any new ways to do it. Plus I'm still blushing from that dildo party I went to.

So I was glad when Aimee read it and reviewed it on her blog yesterday. And here's another good take on it from the NYT too. It says the appeal of the book is not in the dirty bits but in the Cinderella element, and I think that's prolly right.

What are you doing? I'm in Chattanooga with the kids, staying with Betty, Matt's mom. Matt will come after work tomorrow and we'll have Easter here.

Stand still long enough and Grandmommy will put lotion on you.

Today we just lounged around and took the kids swimming at the YMCA. Exactly the amount of nothing I wanted to do for Spring Break. It is great having somebody else to love on these kids while I blog, read old magazines, and sleep 'til 10:30.

Girl Gone Wild.

Hope you're having fun! xoxo

Permissive

This morning I saw a piece on Jezebel about how parents in Park Slope, Brooklyn are backing a ban on ice cream trucks at their local park because their kids see the trucks and want ice cream. Then the parents say no because of childhood obesity and stuff and then the children cry and everything is ruined. So the solution that some parents, at least, are agitating for is to ban ice cream sales at the playground.

You should go read the piece. Jezebel's take is that banning ice cream trucks is redonk and that these parents need to man the eff up and deal with the kids' whining and wheedling, that it's a parent's job to "deny them, again and again, until they grow up to be people the rest of us can tolerate being around." I have an affinity for this view, which is expressed in Jezebel's signature style. I mean, yes, just because a child gets mad and cries does not mean that there is some problem needing a solution.

But what I thought as I was reading it, though, was, "Geez, buy them an ice cream." Not every day, and NEVER after a fit has been pitched or whining is underway. But lord, that's the time and place for sweets. It's what I think of as a high-impact treat. Lots of bang for the buck. Spend your sugar allowance on ice cream at the park and not fruit loops for breakfast every single day or some other crap loaded with HFCS.

While I was in my active weight loss mode, I formulated a rule for myself (guided by Michael Pollan's Food Rules, which I highly recommend). I wouldn't eat what I thought of as "meaningless bread." You know, bread eaten for no reason and for no occasion, just gluteny carbs. But at someone's birthday party, I would have a piece of cake. Just make it matter. Make it an honest treat that means something.

And ice cream at the park is making it matter.

What do you think?

The other, deeper aspect of this that troubles me is the idea that it's normal for your kids to totally fall apart when they don't get what they want. I swear, after the age of two, this is not the case. They need to be more resilient than that. Part of the trick of this is that you've taught them that whining will never, never work, but for Matt and me, it's also that they DO get what they want a lot. They don't feel that life is an endless series of no's, which means that when the answer is no, you can point to all the yesses, and they know more yesses are in the future.

When my kid got excited about the ice cream truck and asked for a treat, I would say, "Okay." And make it a big occasion! "Yay, ice cream! Which one are you going to get?" Then, later at the grocery store, I would say, "No, you don't need that free cookie they give out at the bakery. You had ice cream, remember?" End of story. 

I think the word "permissive" has taken on some slightly negative freight. But I guess our parenting style is basically permissive. I mean, we have core principles and values about what we think is important, but we lean toward saying yes a lot of the time. When one of our kids does complain about not getting/doing something, we're like, "Dude. Listen to yourself! You don't have a leg to stand on here."

Look for my forthcoming book, Dude, Listen to Yourself: Tactful and Respectful Communications with Children.

I wonder if some of these crying Park Slope kids feel that they are in a pitched battle with their parents over every indulgence, so every bit of anything they think they want has to be Custer's Last Stand, and both parties are stressed out over it.

I mean, we all grew up asking for candy in the checkout line at the store, right? I don't remember our parents being too bothered about saying no. In fact, TRUE STORY: Once when I was four or five, I asked for a little plastic suitcase of candy at the cash register at Ben Franklin. My dad said no, but I picked one up and opened it anyway. He took it from me, paid for it, and then poured the candy in the garbage outside the store. So you know him as the kind and loving Camp Papa in my comments, but he is also the Pourer-Out of Candy. THAT HAPPENED. 

But Other People Have Needs Too

I just got off the phone with my parents, who never call me lately because they are busy with their own affairs, and it's like, my sister has cancer now so suddenly she's all anyone can talk about. If you don't have cancer? Back of the line.

I was calling to say that we four are going up to their mountain house for the long weekend, and might we see them sometime? And they were all, no, we're meeting your brother in Huntsville for this and that, blah blah, and no, you are not on our itinerary.

And I was like, "It's not as good being at the mountain house when there are no grandparents to get up with the kids." And they were like, "Uh huh, oh, and also the hot tub needs cleaning so you might want to take care of that."

Then I asked if they had figured out their plans for when to go to Australia to be with Amy and help out with her family now that her surgery is scheduled for this week. Oh, well, yes, they had gotten tickets last Thursday, hadn't I heard? They're leaving at the end of this month and staying seven weeks.

Seven! Weeks! Spanning a period when I thought that yours truly might have need of their domestic services for times when Matt or I are traveling. One weekend in particular, they will be gone and Matt's mother is busy and I'm going to a conference for four days. I guess the children will have to be cared for by their father? These retired "active adults" kill me. Get a job!

I sputtered. "Well, I'm glad that you guys are going to be able to go and stay so long. Of course I'm glad. It's just that I'm going to miss you."

Dad said, "Well, think of these seven weeks as a preview of our deaths."

Got it.

So you can see why he is so in demand at sick beds and in the homes of the ailing all over the globe. Sunshine, just constant sunshine. Coming at you, Amy.

Errands

I just got back from taking the kids up the road towards the mountain house, where they will spend the weekend with my parents. I met my dad at the halfway point. Or, in one version of the story that could be told, I drove fifteen miles past the meeting point and had to turn around and come back.

My version of the story is more complex. It has to do with Demorest, GA, the planned rendezvous point, being not very well marked coming from the south, and my thinking I was somehow passing through Cornelia when I was passing through both towns, somehow, and then I was introducing Hank and Laura to Tenacious D and I wasn't as super duper alert to the signage as I might have been, though I will say that sign was in a weird place, like way up over the road instead of off to the right where I was looking.

I called my dad as I was approaching Cornelia. "Okay, I'm almost to Cornelia. Is Demorest a lot past that?" (Here you might be thinking, "Becky, don't you make this trip, from your house to the mountain house, all the time?" Yes, yes I do, but it's remarkably hard to remember what comes after what except that the Goats on the Roof are just before Clayton, and some ways before that is a Subway/gas station with the World's Dirtiest Bathroom, and there's a Chick-fil-A in Clayton (closed Sunday), and somewhere past Franklin there's that Walmart we went in that one time to buy Legos. That's my mental map of the route.)

So when I called Dad he said, "Yes, Demorest is up the road past Cornelia, I'm in Tallulah Gorge right now, and I'll be at the spot in fifteen minutes." Cool, okay, I rang off and motored right along until all of a sudden I found myself in Tallulah Gorge. I figured that space had somehow twisted itself, mobius-fashion, and I had wound up on the far side of the meeting point without ever going through the meeting point.

It was with genuine bewilderment that I called him again and said, "What just happened? I am in Tallulah somehow. I am not sure what to do." Dad drew on the patience and clarity that he honed during his thirty years as an educator. "Uh, turn around? Go the other way," he explained. Then he gave a series of instructions involving mile markers and an Arby's, and I got the car pointed in the other direction and found him.

Sometimes I just like to go driving around Georgia.

On the way home, by myself, in the afterglow of a jamocha milkshake, I was thinking about that phrase, "the Sandwich Generation," for people who find themselves being caregivers for older parents while still having kids at home. It's related, I guess, both to the trends of aged folks living longer and to people waiting until later to start their families. For some reason it came to my mind, and I thought how I feel like I'm in a sandwich too, only it's a good sandwich that makes my life easy. I have these children I love and am enjoying bringing up, and yet I still feel as nurtured by my own parents as I did when I was a little girl. It's a happy sandwich and I am grateful for it.

I came home to Matt, both of us ready to commence our childless weekend, and before we could, one of his artists was leaving and broke his car key. So Matt is right now driving him home while I wait. Artists, man. Seriously, they can barely keep their shit together. This is the guy who got his car stuck in our front yard one time. Jeebus. I don't know what it is.

Not really artists, jk! You know I love you!

But that errand gave me a chance to pop in and say Happy Friday to you guys.

I hope you get yourself into a good sandwich this weekend.

xoxo

I Actually Think Mondays Are Fine

This morning, while Hank was in preschool, I was sitting on the couch in my sun room drinking coffee and watching Novak Djokovic in the Australian Open. Yes, I hear you saying, "Becky, you work too hard. You need to slow down and take some time for yourself. You can't do anything for your family if you don't take care of yourself first." I agree with you, I do. But all that tennis is not going to watch itself.

It was pouring rain. I had just spied Hank's fuzzy crocs lying outside by the trampoline, absorbing twenty times their weight in water. I thought about going to fetch them. Then I had some other idea--can't remember but it didn't involve going out in the rain so I pursued that train of thought.

The game company boys appeared one by one. I greeted them and they trouped downstairs to their basement lair.

Matt appeared and I made him an omelette. He took it downstairs.

It's just a blog about nothin'.

Then I cleaned the kitchen, all while squinting and peering across to the TV screen. Please someone get busy doing the academic work on the spectacle that is the male tennis player's body in current celebrity sports culture. The tension between their much-vaunted machismo and the dwelling upon their fragile, injury-prone physiques. Those accumulated minutes and even hours of extreme slow-motion close ups. I mean, I think we know what they all look like naked. Juan Martin del Potro, call me.

(OMG, I just looked him up and he's only 23. Sorry Juan, stay in school, sonny! But I also just learned that he is 6'6", holy cats. So many feelings!)

Then I did bring in Hank's crocs.

Then I laundered things, and folded the things, all while watching the playing of the tennis. Then my phone made its little twinkling noise and I saw this text from my mother, "ETA: 2:30, rain is terrible." I was like, "Huh?" Then I realized that despite knowing that my parents were passing through town and stopping by my house, despite having talked to them about it the night before and having reminded the kids about it, I managed to forget it entirely in the time it took to brew a pot of coffee.

Then Lleyton Hewitt managed to take Djokovic to a fourth set, and I was like, "Guys, I have to go get Hank." But Djokovic won just in time and I wheeled the minivan over there through the rain. Hank got into the car chattering to his teacher about his grandparents coming by. So he remembered.

Then, back at home, I hauled the vacuum cleaner up the stairs and hoovered around. Then I did the downstairs, while making Hank fully a dozen PB&J sandwiches. Laura came in complaining about my not having met her at the bus stop to drive her the fifty yards to our front door. I offered her a shot of Toughen-Up. It wasn't actually raining anymore, geez.

Then she brandished a speech she has written for an oratory contest. The mandated topic for everyone is How Optimism Helps Me Overcome Obstacles. Laura writing a speech about optimism is like hearing what a bird thinks about feathers. She read it to me in the kitchen. It had some good moments and was written in her natural voice. I was surprised, though, that among her anecdotes, she mentioned my treatment for breast cancer, and said that my hair fell out and that I "wore a wig for a few weeks." A few weeks! I wonder if that seven months seems like a few weeks to her.

Then Mom and Dad did appear, bringing a dining room chair of mine they'd fixed and a huge bag of broccoli from our friend's farm. They stayed for just a little while; I couldn't get them to spend the night, they wanted to get up to the mountains to pursue their own selfish desires. Plus they left with my boxed series of The Wire on DVD.

Oh! But they didn't leave without my extracting their promise to take the kids to North Carolina this weekend, while Matt and I stay home and pursue OUR selfish desires.

Then I ate some sardines and avocado, then parented a bit more, then I went and worked out with Pretty Neighbor, and then I came home and it was time for Taco Night. After the last of Matt's guys left, I opened the door to the basement stairs and hollered, "TACO TOWN!"

Then we ate a bunch of food and then Matt and I lovingly logged it in our calorie-counting website together. I mean, we're still fun, right?

Then Matt wrestled the kids and I lay down with Hank for a few minutes. Then I had a cup of coffee with a tablespoon of unsweetened cocoa powder in it.

That is literally just what I did today. It was very ordinary, so what better place to relive it than here in my blog? It comprises my world. It was also a good day. As my sister would say, I didn't even have to use my AK.

Hey, look up at the top of my page on the left. Beth made me a couple of facebook/twitter buttons. So you can click on the facebook one and "like" SubMat on facebook! I mean, if you like me like that. Then you will never, ever miss any news of the tennis-watching, sardine-eating variety.

You have my love,
B

En famille

A few snaps from Thanksgiving Day.

Hank showing Uncle Larry his scrapbook.

You know she's engrossed when she doesn't look at the camera.

Aunt Sande

Matt and Betty

Betty gave me a piece of Roseville for an early birthday.

Betty and Andy

Are you still afield or are you back in place? We got home tonight, pleasantly surprised by the not-crazy traffic. Though I do think the billboards on I-75 between Chattanooga and Atlanta are some of the tackiest in the world. Besides advertisements for various massages, "massage services," and massage-oriented truck stops, one giant billboard simply said, "Hell is real!" against a background of flames. Uh, thanks for that important message.

I loved seeing the 'Nooga folks, but I'm glad we're back tonight. I need a day to do laundry and gear up for a busy week. Or, alternately, I need a day to ignore laundry and watch tennis. Whichevah.

I hope you have a renewing Sunday. Hell is real!

No it's not.

xoxo
b