We passed a lemonade stand while driving this afternoon. I heard Liam utter a disappointed sound in the backseat.
"What?" I said, sure that he would begin some whine about why can't we have a lemonade stand, that it's not fair that those boys get to have one, and so on and so on. Instead, he surprised me.
"I wanted to buy some lemonade," he said.
As quickly as the word "no" regularly rolls off my tongue, I said, "okay," and pulled into a driveway to turn the car around.
Liam looked at me stunned. "Really?" he said.
"Sure, why not?"
The truth is, I could give him a hundred reasons why not and he knows it. Lately I have been the queen of no. Sometimes when I utter the word, it's like an out of body experience. I watch it happening and I don't even know how to stop myself.
Another time. Not today. Stop begging. No more whining. Drop it. Quit.
This is the problem with life in the land of no: The word has lost its impact and a dozen other admonishments need to be uttered - in an ever-escalating tone - in order to reinforce the fact that no means no. But, does it?
For me, it usually means it's not convenient or I don't like it or "perfect" kids don't do that. Or it's just a reflex.
Some days I do my writing work on the second floor of the library, near the balcony that overlooks the large print stacks. Almost every time I'm there, a mother chastises her child in the stacks, usually for being too loud or silly or for whining or begging. This is the dark side of the library - kids are just designed to disobey its rules and trying to reign them in is a losing battle. No one ends up happy.
Last week I saw a woman using the computer to search for a book. Her child was next to her and kept hopping out into the aisle. The mom was preoccupied but she must have sensed that the noise and activity level was escalating to an embarrassing level.
"Stop it!" she hissed. "Get over here, right now."
The child obeyed for a moment and then jumped out again. The mom yanked the child into the stacks. "I've had it," she whispered. "I am so sick of you!"
Being a mom, I could understand where she was coming from, but watching the scenario from above, it broke my heart. The boy was giggling and looking for a fun way to pass a few boring minutes waiting for mom. By the end, he was in tears. And his mom was so occupied with appearances and agenda, she never even saw him - his creativity, his energy, his joy. Instead, she did what came easiest and used her fifty ways - including a real zinger - to say no.
I wondered if she would feel bad later. If she would wish that she had just dropped the search and said, "Let's go to the park and run." If she would be sorry she hadn't let go of all the reasons to say no and just said yes.
I know I think these things in the aftermath of no. Which is why, today, when Liam gave me that bewildered look as soon as I said yes, I realized that I need to find a new queendom. From what I hear, kids don't whine as much in the land of yes. They are happier, more satisfied and, surprise, more obedient.
Liam purchased his lemonade this afternoon. He proudly hopped out of the car and did it on his own. As we drove home, I asked him how it tasted. He said it was kind of warm and sour but he liked it. Considering we left the land of no to buy that drink, I'm guessing he really liked it.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
cooking with keen-wah
A couple nights ago at about 5 p.m., I thought the old dreaded "what am I going to make for dinner?" thought. You know the one that quickly morphs into the "where could we eat out tonight?" thought? Since we're trying not to eat out and since I had a fridge full of fresh vegetables that weren't going to cook themselves, I decided I better come up with something quick. There was always that three month old box of Quinoa in the cupboard.
Seriously, when people say they like quinoa do you think, huh? And then think, I better try it. And then think, maybe another day.
Well, today's the day, friends. Get that box of quinoa out of the cupboard. Thanks to a little inspiration from my urban gardener friend Monica, I whipped up a Quinoa dish that was yum-o. It's trendy and healthy and easy. And it tastes really good. You'll think you went out to eat after all. Especially if you have a nice husband to clean up all the dishes.
Quinoa Lettuce Wraps
1 cup quinoa, cooked (and chilled if you have time)
2 cups diced veggies (I used green onion, cauliflower, zucchini, corn cut off the cob, beets and carrots, all raw except the corn and beets)
Vinegar and oil dressing
Big lettuce leaves (we used romaine)
Feta (optional)
Kalamata olives (optional)
Toss together the quinoa, the veggies and the dressing. Our dressing was equal parts olive oil, apple cider vinegar and honey. This is a dressing my grandma always made and I use it all the time for salads. A basic balsamic vinegar/olive oil combo would work well, too. Also, I liked adding feta and olives. Dishwashing husband, not so much. Then, once you're finished arguing about which way is better, make a lettuce wrap and eat.
p.s. If you can get your kids to eat this, please let me know how you bribed them. It may have been the red version of quinoa I used peppered with beets. Liam chose to eat a plate of plain old veggies instead, which, I guess, is not so bad.
Seriously, when people say they like quinoa do you think, huh? And then think, I better try it. And then think, maybe another day.
Well, today's the day, friends. Get that box of quinoa out of the cupboard. Thanks to a little inspiration from my urban gardener friend Monica, I whipped up a Quinoa dish that was yum-o. It's trendy and healthy and easy. And it tastes really good. You'll think you went out to eat after all. Especially if you have a nice husband to clean up all the dishes.
Quinoa Lettuce Wraps
1 cup quinoa, cooked (and chilled if you have time)
2 cups diced veggies (I used green onion, cauliflower, zucchini, corn cut off the cob, beets and carrots, all raw except the corn and beets)
Vinegar and oil dressing
Big lettuce leaves (we used romaine)
Feta (optional)
Kalamata olives (optional)
Toss together the quinoa, the veggies and the dressing. Our dressing was equal parts olive oil, apple cider vinegar and honey. This is a dressing my grandma always made and I use it all the time for salads. A basic balsamic vinegar/olive oil combo would work well, too. Also, I liked adding feta and olives. Dishwashing husband, not so much. Then, once you're finished arguing about which way is better, make a lettuce wrap and eat.
p.s. If you can get your kids to eat this, please let me know how you bribed them. It may have been the red version of quinoa I used peppered with beets. Liam chose to eat a plate of plain old veggies instead, which, I guess, is not so bad.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
like I need another distraction
I have succumbed to Twitter. Oh, yes, you can follow me. New jobs are requiring that I tweet for other people, so I figured it was about time I tweet for myself. But adding one more thing like this. . . I may have to give up house cleaning altogether. Any suggestions of people/things I should follow? And please don't say common squirrel. More than 17,000 followers. Weird.
Monday, July 19, 2010
farmer jay, farmer jeff, farmer pete and farmer andrew
I love farmers. Especially those who choose the profession late in life, after sowing their oats in the city, working in an office cubicle and waiting tables at the local Chili's. Probably because they are throwing everything to the wind and picking up a pitchfork without a clue as how to use it, they are endearing and I have a soft spot for them.
For as long as I can remember I have envisioned myself as a farm wife, harvesting crops, baking pies, hanging clothes on the line, running out to chase the chickens that flew the coop. Before I met my husband I was on the way to becoming one. If not the wife, at least the farmer.
I had spent weeks at a time as both farm sitter and writer in residence at a farm in Wisconsin cared for by city transplants, Jay and Donna. I ate up the 30 acres, well-used/art-studio barn, CSA garden, dreamy old farmhouse and company of artistic intellectuals that didn't know much about farming, but did it all the same. They grew food for 40 families, raised lambs and chickens who enjoyed an idyllic life before becoming dinner, ran an artist-in-residence program, hosted a stream of guests every weekend of the summer, hacked at giant thistle, fixed fences, fed a wood-burning furnace, and pieced together an unusual assortment of part-time jobs to pay the mortgage. They decorated their house in farm auction kitsch, watched obscure independent films on an 1970s TV and dreamed up ways to inject a rural agrarian landscape with art and culture. I wanted to be just like them.
Two years in row I farm sat for Jay and Donna during the coldest week of the winter. Wind chills were 20 below and I spent thirty minutes twice a day hacking the ice in the sheep's water trough and the rest of the thirty minute intervals throwing logs on the fire. It was bliss.
One night during a winter farm sitting stint, a truck drove up the long drive and parked. I hesitantly opened the back door for a big man in a cowboy hat. (The two big farm dogs barking at the stranger gave me some comfort, but there wouldn't have been much I could do in the face of real danger since none of the outside doors in the farmhouse actually locked.)
"Well, you're not Donna," bellowed the big man.
"No, I'm staying here, taking care of the farm while they're on vacation," I admitted, thinking it might have been wiser to say that I was a trained assassin and my boyfriend with the gun was in the other room.
But the big man smiled a big smile and stuck out his hand, "I'm neighbor Jeff," he said. "Mind if I come in and sit a spell?" I swear he really said that. How can you not just love farmers?
So I said sure and he came in and sat on a stool and shot the breeze for an hour while I made a fancy farm dinner for myself in the old farmhouse kitchen on kitschy mismatched dishes. There was no point to the visit other than just being neighborly. There was no rush to the preparation other than just to make something nice to eat. It was simple and easy and I was ready to trade my life for ice chopping and fire feeding and shooting the breeze right then and there.
This past Friday, ten years later, I met another farmer. This one raises cattle and sells his grass-fed beef through meet and greets at the homes of friends in suburbia. I instantly loved farmer Pete. I chatted with him about the challenge of farming 120 acres as one who came to farming late in life after leaving a law practice (no wonder I loved him!). I chatted with him about the rural landscape and how quickly cows birth their calves. I had forgotten how much I loved shooting the breeze with a farmer, how much I still longed for a farm life.
But my life took different turns and I'm in love with a British rocker and we live in about the most neighborly of neighborhoods one could imagine. I don't have a farm house or more than 1/4 acre, but we try to implement some of the finer points of farm life, like vegetable gardening, pie baking, thrift store shopping and clothes-line drying. No chickens yet, but some good friends have ventured there, with four hens in a coop in their backyard, and we are cheering them on. The chicken-raising suburban farm wife passes on her Mary Janes Farm magazines. Another friend goes to the flea market with me to support my love of kitsch and farmhouse linens. Another feeds my love of quilts and sewing and all things vintage. Another stops by with a bouquet of chamomile flowers from his yard that he thinks I might like to steep for tea and brings a couple pints of his latest home brew for farmer Andrew.
I still dream sometimes about living on a farm. But when I can get myself to sit a spell and take a look around, I realize that I have the life I've always wanted - the kids running in the yard, the laundry flapping in the breeze, the pie cooling on the counter, the neighbors coming over to shoot the breeze. The rolling hills, the grazing animals, the wildflower gardens out back...if I close my eyes, I can almost see them. And right now, that good enough for me.
For as long as I can remember I have envisioned myself as a farm wife, harvesting crops, baking pies, hanging clothes on the line, running out to chase the chickens that flew the coop. Before I met my husband I was on the way to becoming one. If not the wife, at least the farmer.
I had spent weeks at a time as both farm sitter and writer in residence at a farm in Wisconsin cared for by city transplants, Jay and Donna. I ate up the 30 acres, well-used/art-studio barn, CSA garden, dreamy old farmhouse and company of artistic intellectuals that didn't know much about farming, but did it all the same. They grew food for 40 families, raised lambs and chickens who enjoyed an idyllic life before becoming dinner, ran an artist-in-residence program, hosted a stream of guests every weekend of the summer, hacked at giant thistle, fixed fences, fed a wood-burning furnace, and pieced together an unusual assortment of part-time jobs to pay the mortgage. They decorated their house in farm auction kitsch, watched obscure independent films on an 1970s TV and dreamed up ways to inject a rural agrarian landscape with art and culture. I wanted to be just like them.
Two years in row I farm sat for Jay and Donna during the coldest week of the winter. Wind chills were 20 below and I spent thirty minutes twice a day hacking the ice in the sheep's water trough and the rest of the thirty minute intervals throwing logs on the fire. It was bliss.
One night during a winter farm sitting stint, a truck drove up the long drive and parked. I hesitantly opened the back door for a big man in a cowboy hat. (The two big farm dogs barking at the stranger gave me some comfort, but there wouldn't have been much I could do in the face of real danger since none of the outside doors in the farmhouse actually locked.)
"Well, you're not Donna," bellowed the big man.
"No, I'm staying here, taking care of the farm while they're on vacation," I admitted, thinking it might have been wiser to say that I was a trained assassin and my boyfriend with the gun was in the other room.
But the big man smiled a big smile and stuck out his hand, "I'm neighbor Jeff," he said. "Mind if I come in and sit a spell?" I swear he really said that. How can you not just love farmers?
So I said sure and he came in and sat on a stool and shot the breeze for an hour while I made a fancy farm dinner for myself in the old farmhouse kitchen on kitschy mismatched dishes. There was no point to the visit other than just being neighborly. There was no rush to the preparation other than just to make something nice to eat. It was simple and easy and I was ready to trade my life for ice chopping and fire feeding and shooting the breeze right then and there.
This past Friday, ten years later, I met another farmer. This one raises cattle and sells his grass-fed beef through meet and greets at the homes of friends in suburbia. I instantly loved farmer Pete. I chatted with him about the challenge of farming 120 acres as one who came to farming late in life after leaving a law practice (no wonder I loved him!). I chatted with him about the rural landscape and how quickly cows birth their calves. I had forgotten how much I loved shooting the breeze with a farmer, how much I still longed for a farm life.
But my life took different turns and I'm in love with a British rocker and we live in about the most neighborly of neighborhoods one could imagine. I don't have a farm house or more than 1/4 acre, but we try to implement some of the finer points of farm life, like vegetable gardening, pie baking, thrift store shopping and clothes-line drying. No chickens yet, but some good friends have ventured there, with four hens in a coop in their backyard, and we are cheering them on. The chicken-raising suburban farm wife passes on her Mary Janes Farm magazines. Another friend goes to the flea market with me to support my love of kitsch and farmhouse linens. Another feeds my love of quilts and sewing and all things vintage. Another stops by with a bouquet of chamomile flowers from his yard that he thinks I might like to steep for tea and brings a couple pints of his latest home brew for farmer Andrew.
I still dream sometimes about living on a farm. But when I can get myself to sit a spell and take a look around, I realize that I have the life I've always wanted - the kids running in the yard, the laundry flapping in the breeze, the pie cooling on the counter, the neighbors coming over to shoot the breeze. The rolling hills, the grazing animals, the wildflower gardens out back...if I close my eyes, I can almost see them. And right now, that good enough for me.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
jean skirts 3 and 4
These skirts are on hangers because, alas, they can't all be for me. Sadly, the altered jeans are no longer in my possession, or I'd take different photographs. It's a little hard to tell with the blur and the white backdrop, but they are definitely the coolest thing I've whipped up so far.
Both pairs of jeans were from my sister in law. They were worn out in some hard-to-patch places and she thought I could use the denim for something else. I don't think she was expecting to get a pair back as a skirt. For hers, I reworked a sheer purplish top that had a ruffle down the front. I had to use the sleeves on the sides as the shirt was too narrow. But it worked out perfectly. Underneath, I layered a remnant of pretty white embroidered fabric. Unfortunately, the girl won't be modeling this little bit country little bit rock 'n roll number for a while as she's incubating baby number 3. But at least she's got some something to look forward to.
For the other pair of jeans I layered a yellow t-shirt and a silky top. I love the fancy-casual combo with the denim. This skirt became a birthday gift for a friend who dresses up in Tevas. Just adding a little zing to her regular rotation.
I'm thinking of making this jean doctor thing into a side business - or, at least, my new go-to gift. If you have a favorite pair of jeans that have worn out in all the wrong places, send them over. I'll make you a skirt. I'm serious.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
dear negligent mother,
I admit that I've looked down on you. I mean, really, how could you be so distracted, thoughtless, preoccupied to let your child run unattended across a busy intersection, forget to apply sunscreen to your children on a blistering July afternoon, or not know that your 3 year old was lost at the splash park when you're sitting right there "watching" him?
I'm sure I'd think you deserve the disdain from the teens who collect money at the window and check IDs for residency, the lanky acne boy who checks chlorine levels and closes umbrellas to go home and text his buddy about the crazy mother who let her speech-challenged son go missing and left him to snack on Fritos in the first aid room for 15 minutes before she even went looking. I'd be right there with the other mothers absently holding juice boxes for their toddlers as they pretended not to stare as you emerged from the first aid office holding your little blond boy trying to act like it wasn't such a terrible, awful thing that your baby went missing for 15 minutes and you didn't even know it.
I imagine you must have wanted to explain how there was another little boy in the sandbox, one who looked so like yours, blond, blue swimsuit. That you and your two friends scanned the box every minute or so for the six offspring you let loose to play across the splash park from your lounge chairs in the shade. That more than once your gut told you to stand up and walk closer, but that the park was enclosed, that no one could get lost there.
Now I know the sick, sinking feeling. The disgusted looks from the minimum wage kids who run the place. The pitiful glances from the good mothers who know exactly where their children are playing. And the surreal humiliation of having to explain to the police officer who was called how you lost your son and didn't even know he was missing.
I'm not one to judge anymore. I know how mistakes can happen. How you can let your guard down, lose sight, mistake identity and become the negligent mother. And for your sake, my sake and the sake of dear little Elliott, I won't ever forget it.
I'm sure I'd think you deserve the disdain from the teens who collect money at the window and check IDs for residency, the lanky acne boy who checks chlorine levels and closes umbrellas to go home and text his buddy about the crazy mother who let her speech-challenged son go missing and left him to snack on Fritos in the first aid room for 15 minutes before she even went looking. I'd be right there with the other mothers absently holding juice boxes for their toddlers as they pretended not to stare as you emerged from the first aid office holding your little blond boy trying to act like it wasn't such a terrible, awful thing that your baby went missing for 15 minutes and you didn't even know it.
I imagine you must have wanted to explain how there was another little boy in the sandbox, one who looked so like yours, blond, blue swimsuit. That you and your two friends scanned the box every minute or so for the six offspring you let loose to play across the splash park from your lounge chairs in the shade. That more than once your gut told you to stand up and walk closer, but that the park was enclosed, that no one could get lost there.
Now I know the sick, sinking feeling. The disgusted looks from the minimum wage kids who run the place. The pitiful glances from the good mothers who know exactly where their children are playing. And the surreal humiliation of having to explain to the police officer who was called how you lost your son and didn't even know he was missing.
I'm not one to judge anymore. I know how mistakes can happen. How you can let your guard down, lose sight, mistake identity and become the negligent mother. And for your sake, my sake and the sake of dear little Elliott, I won't ever forget it.
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