The Tiara Was Simply A Formality

My sister—the kind of aunt who pays attention to detail—sent a Valentine’s Day box to my children last week. She took the time to write a separate, personal note to each of my four kids, and filled the box to the brim with novelty candies. But the centerpiece of the package brought squeals of delight from my daughter, and groans from my sons: a tiara! A most glorious plastic silver tiara, sparkled and oh-so-regal, complete with the little comb-tooth ends so that the tiara may adhere firmly to the princess’s delicately coiffed hair. I watched as my daughter, on a rare occasion of both breathlessness and speechlessness, placed the tiara immediately on her head.

The Princess, crowned Queen—after a lifetime of waiting to take the throne.

I have to hand it to my boys, who until recently, lived in a very cloistered environment where all things were Star Wars, Legos, and trucks. They did not have to deal with anything Barbie or girly. So, when the princess was born two years ago, it literally turned their lives upside down.

But this was too much. The tiara seemed to empower her even more, and she boldly began pointing to each brother, barking her commands. “Milk!” she screamed. “Now!”

My eldest looked at me, slightly amused. He gave me a look as if to say, “Is she serious?”

One by one, heads shaking, and eyes rolled heavenward, they left the room. The Queen shouted at them for a while until she sensed they were not coming back to her empire. She lost interest. In a brief moment of generosity, she turned to me and placed the tiara on my head. I worried that my huge Mommy-sized noggin would snap the thing in half, but she insisted. “Watch, Mommy,” she told me, very seriously. And out in the center of the area rug, she raised her hands above her head and twirled. As all queens do. I imitated her, and she seemed satisfied. All queens need their lady in waiting, after all. But as soon as my first queen lesson was over, my daughter reclaimed what was rightfully hers, and stuck the tiara back on her head. I noticed that instead of resting gracefully on top, she prefers to jam it across her forehead, perhaps to lessen the chance of some jealous underling stealing it from her royal head.

I sigh. Who will this little queen become? But I have no time to ponder that right now. The pointer finger is directed firmly in my face.

“Milk, Mommy. Now!”

Will Hold Babies at Funerals

I was at Susan’s house when she got the call. Susan is a fellow “Chaos Embracer,” a devoted Mommy who, for all intents and purposes, stays at home. But she is a professional musician, and her warm mezzo soprano is in demand for weddings and funerals. “Yes,” I hear her say to the person on the other end of the phone. “I can sing on Saturday.”

I know how she feels. It is winter, and since Nolan’s debut into the world, her life has centered around feeding schedules and diaper changes. She smiles adoringly at her baby boy, but I can see she is excited about the prospect of leaving the house on Saturday. Sometimes Mommies want to be recognized for their other gifts, too.

When Saturday morning arrives, it’s been determined that I will be the designated baby holder. I arrive at Susan’s doorstep, two coffees in hand, and we drive together into the city to the massive St. John Cantius church. Everything about the church is behemoth, from the heavy oak doors with wrought iron trim to the heavy light fixtures in the vestibule. I am not Catholic, and seeing the sanctuary nearly takes my breath away: morning sunlight streams through the huge glass windows and makes the intricately painted cathedral ceiling almost appear as if it’s glowing. There are too many carvings and painting and sculptures to possibly absorb, but the overall effect is magnificent. Even better when Susan begins rehearsing with Father Scott, a pleasant man who plays the pipe organ with ease and sincerity. No amplification is needed; Susan’s voice floats effortlessly throughout the church. She, like Father Scott, is well versed in the favorite sacred songs often sung at funerals.

But my job is the sweet babe, who has just had a filling meal and is resting comfortably in my arms. I am afraid that he will stir during the music, or at the sound of the priests praying, but these are the sounds that are already in this baby’s prenatal memory. He settles into my shoulder, only moving occasionally to adjust his head, or stretch a tiny fist.

The funny thing is, Susan thinks I’m doing her a favor. I guess I am. I understand how a Mommy sometimes loses her identity a bit when she is caring for a newborn. All the baby’s wants and needs come first, as it should be. But the Mommy needs these little windows of opportunity, to remind her that she was somebody in her own right before she became somebody’s Mommy. I am here to help her be that person, and to know, for an hour, that someone else will tend to baby’s needs.

But my reasons for being here a really more selfish. The intoxicating smell of baby, or more specifically, baby head, is just too sweet to pass up. Holding Nolan feels like putting on a rediscovered custom-fitted glove. The instinct to hold the baby, rock the baby, kiss the sweet peach fuzz at the hairline, to hum a soft, low tune in his ear is so strong that nothing will get in the way. Now that my babies are no longer infants, I finally understand what is so special about this fleeting stage of infancy. As Susan’s voice sweetly mourns the loss of a parishioner in this beautiful church, another life is here, warm and sweet and innocent and just getting started. And all I can do is breathe it in.

A-B-C Read to Me

My five year-old has done something amazing and beyond belief this month. He is reading. Somehow, he went from knowing his ABC’s to suddenly being able to look at those letters and decode words. Even though his two brothers before him have learned to read, this is still a miracle to me. Not long ago, he began haltingly pointing to each letter and painstakingly sounding them out, then slowly, with my help, mashing the sounds together to create a word. This week, a switch has been flipped. The letters have become words, the words are sentences, and the sentences are a story. Best of all, he knows that he is doing something amazing. He’s walking with extra swagger.

Last night, as I was reading to my older sons (we are currently engrossed in Mary Amato’s hilarious book, Snarf Attack, Underfoodle, and the Secret of Life: The Riot Brothers Tell All), the five year-old wandered into the room where we were reading and politely, but pointedly cleared his throat.

We stopped reading and looked at him.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he said very formally, “but I want you to hear something.”

From behind his back, he whips out a beginning reader booklet, photocopied by his kindergarten teacher. It is all of four pages long. He clears his throat again.

I see the nine year-old brother rolling his eyes. He is anxious to continue Snarf Attack and does not like this unplanned intermission. I cast him a glare, and he catches my meaning: Don’t ruin this moment for your brother. His eyes unroll.

Five year-old clears his throat one last time and begins.

“I see a fan for me. Look at the little fan ...”

We listen attentively. When he is finished, we clap appreciatively. Nine year-old is feigning politeness; my applause comes with a definite welling up of tears and a leap in my heart. My baby is reading. A whole new world of possibilities have opened up to him. He’s earned a huge piece of independence, and it can never be taken away from him.

The new reader, satisfied with his public reading, takes a deep bow. “Thank you,” he grins. And just like that, he turns on his heel and is gone. The momentous occasion is over, and it is time to return to the zany antics of the Riot Brothers.

Down the hall, I hear my youngest son swagger into the room where my husband is, playing with our daughter. “Dad,” says our young reader, “I want you to hear something …”

One Is Not Always a Lonely Number

This morning, I am enjoying my first real alone time in thirteen years. Since becoming a stay at home parent when my first child was born, any time “alone” has come about by freak accidents (all the children napping at the same time, for instance) or by begging and bribing a friend to take my children to their house so I could get something done, like meet a deadline, or go to a doctor’s appointment.

This morning, for the first time ever, all four of my children are in school. At the same time.

Granted, this will only happen two mornings a week for me. My son just started morning kindergarten, and my daughter just goes twice weekly to a 2 year-old preschool. But quite honestly, I don’t know if I could handle any more aloneness for the time being. I’m going to have to ease into this slowly.

Most luxurious for me has been sipping my morning coffee, brewed in a French press coffee pot, doused with Vanilla Spiced Rum creamer. Every sip has been piping hot. Nobody needed their nose wiped or diaper changed while I was drinking it. I sat, and sipped.

The first hour of my alone time, admittedly, was spent doing some practical, utilitarian tasks. I’ve balanced our checkbook, I’ve updated a website that I’m in charge of. I’ve marked down some important dates on our family calendar, and I’ve filled out a form that was needed for my son’s school.

Hour two is all about me. I’m doing my favorite thing, which is putting words to a page, and then, folks, I’m going to take my piping hot coffee to the couch, put my feet up, and I’m going to read a book. A book that doesn’t have pictures. And I might get a whole chapter read (maybe two!) without interruptions.

Oh yes, I could definitely get used to this.

Don't Let the Bed Bugs Bite

When it comes to bedtime, I’ve failed miserably as a parent. I am embarrassed to say that all four of my children, from infancy onwards, just never quite get to bed at a decent hour. My mommy friends tell me their kids go to bed at reasonable hours, like 7:30 pm. To add insult to injury, they usually tell me that once soundly tucked in bed, they remain there for 12 to 13 hours until they wake the next morning, refreshed.

My children obviously had a secret meeting in which they all agreed to keep Mommy and Daddy awake for as long as possible. Our first child was the worst, mostly because my husband and I were living a bit like hippies, working a bunch of part-time jobs, my husband going to school. It was a regular occurrence that he and I would be up late, typing up articles, transcribing interview tapes or editing a newsletter (me), or writing a paper or studying musical scores (him). Our little boy, only one or two at the time, would just stay up late with us, often past midnight, playing with blocks. It seemed to make sense that we were all on the strange schedule together.

That was my excuse then. Now, I don’t really have one.

The kids no longer stay up past midnight, but they DO stay up late. For instance, my 5 year old is often the one who reminds my husband and me that our favorite show is on -- at 10 pm. Does that make us bad parents?

But it gets worse. Our kids often fall asleep in our bed. I know, I know. I’ve read all the parenting books, and they all say that’s a big no-no. The little ones, teeth brushed and jammies on, climb into our bed and snuggle in between me and Daddy. We read stories, we sing songs, we talk about our days.

The truth is, I don’t want it any other way. My oldest is a teenager now. He is growing up, doesn’t need snuggles from his parents like the old days. I know that this stage won’t last forever. And I also know enough now to forget about the inconvenience, the fact that it’s a bad parenting technique. I love little kiddoes in footy pajamas, nuzzling up next to me and whispering, “Good night, Mama. I love you.”

I love the fact that I can lift them up, heavy with sleep, and smell their hair and feel their even breathing against my neck just before I lay them in their own bed and tuck the covers tightly around them.

Good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the bed bugs bite.

H1N1 (A Poetic Reflection on Swine Flu)

Babies coughing

trouble sleeping

needing cuddles

moaning, weeping

Juice at midnight

up at dawn

laundry’s whirring

Daddy’s gone

Games tomorrow

books today

Soup and crackers

prayers to say

H1N1

Achy, dripping

hacking, then some

tea for sipping

House a mess

the fever stays

Hold on, dears

Just a few more days.

When It Comes to Nagging Your Kids, Try Opera

I’m not even sure when it started, this habit of using the Opera Voice to nag our children, but it’s become a mainstay in our household. My husband and I are musical, but we don’t have opera on our iPods. I remember going to operas as a child, and there’s just no arguing with a soprano, who, arms outstretched, is proclaiming her undying love for her man. Nobody says, “Yes, but what does she really mean?” There’s something so definitive about opera. You never heard Luciano Pavarotti sing, “I’m not sure,” or “Let me get back to you on that.” Opera stars know what they want, and they’re willing to crack the chandeliers to attain it.

And face it, parenting is a miracle wrapped up in a whole lot of mundane. The day-to-day stuff includes a lot of “Hey! Stop picking your nose!” (repeat 50 times) or “Quit smacking your brother!” (repeat 72 times) or even, “Go back and flush! (repeat every day, for the rest of their childhood). The parent tires of saying it just as much as the kids tire of hearing it; they start to tune out. I’ve definitely been weary of hearing myself saying these things.

That’s where opera comes in. Even if you’ve never attended an opera in your life, you might be familiar with the British rock band Queen and their 1975 rock opera hit, “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

"I see a little silhouetto of a man

Scaramouch, Scaramouch, will you do the Fandango?

Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening ..."

And then later:

"Mamma mia, mamma mia, mamma mia let me go!"

I often sing this little excerpt while cooking dinner. My children know that it is a happy Opera Voice; Mommy is simply reliving her childhood and no action is required. I don’t even know what these words mean, but I remember them. They are burned into my brain. And therein, perhaps, lies the magic of opera.

The higher the Opera Voice, the more serious the infraction: a mellow, alto means just a gentle nag, something like, “Please make your bed-o! I’m not the maid-o!” But when I take a deep breath and pull out all the stops, the Opera Voice can climb to screeching heights. This is reserved for directions that have been previously ignored, like “If you don’t take the garbage out NOW, I’m going to scream-ah and take away the Wii-ah!!”

I’d like to come up with some in-depth analysis of why Opera Voice is effective when parenting. I might suggest that the high timbre of the singing catches their attention, while expressing urgency; or maybe our brains are wired to hear music more readily than plain talking. But that would be just silly. I think, for me, the Opera Voice is a wonderful tool to remind my kids that their Mom is just this side of loony. That if they were to push me far enough, I would have the capacity to embarrass them beyond compare. Sure, up until now the Opera Voice is reserved for the privacy of our own home. But if called upon, I could scare up a vibrato as wide as the frozen foods aisle, or sing a chorus that reaches the length of the soccer field.

You think I wouldn’t be crazy enough to use Opera Voice in front of the neighbors?

Try me.

Chocolate Beet Cake (Don't Knock It Till You've Tried It)

1-3/4 cups all-purpose flour

1-1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 can (15 oz.) whole or quartered beets, drained (reserve liquid)

1-1/4 cups granulated sugar

1 cup vegetable oil

1/2 cup juice from beets

3 large eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

4 squares (1 ounce each) unsweetened chocolate, melted

1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease a 9 x 13-inch baking pan.

In medium bowl, measure flour, baking soda, and salt. Whisk to combine. Set aside.

Puree drained beets in a food processor or heavy-duty blender. Scrape into a large bowl. Add sugar, vegetable oil, and 1/2 cup reserved beet juice to the pureed beets and mix on medium speed until combined. Add eggs and vanilla extract, blending until completely incorporated.

Add flour mixture to the beet mixture. Using medium speed, mix until combined, at least two minutes, scraping down sides often. Add melted unsweetened chocolate and mix until combined.

Pour into baking pan. Distribute chocolate chips evenly over the top of the batter. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes or until toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Do not over-bake or it will become dry. Let cool to room temperature.

Yield: 36 to 48 servings, depending on cut size

Sneaky Cooking

Parenting breeds sneakiness. As soon as those little darlings come into your life, you begin relying on all your wiles, all your most clever schemes, in order to trick them into doing what’s best for them, in the interest of allowing them to retain their dignity and independence.

Being a sneak in my family is mostly centered around food. My veggie-phobic kids have a discerning taste for all things processed, junky, and sugary. While my husband and I enjoy whole grains and organic fruits and veggies, our kids are just fine with macaroni and cheese from a box and meat, meat, meat. So early on, we realized that if we were going to get our picky kids to eat something good for them, they’d have to think they were eating something bad for them. And so began the endless search for recipes that allow healthy things to be slipped in alongside the junk.

My food processor is my main weapon in my arsenal for sneaky cooking. Take any fruit or vegetable, blend that puppy into submission, and suddenly, you’ve got something that even the pickiest eater can’t even recognize. I think my first attempt at tricking the children had to be meatloaf; admittedly, an obvious choice, with its ground beef mystery-meat reputation, made legendary by lunch ladies in cafeterias everywhere. My meatloaf usually contains whole grain bread crumbs, and finely chopped mushroom, carrot and sometimes even zucchini. And my kids eat it up, dipping it boldly in ketchup, happily chewing away, not noticing my sneaky grin.

Next came smoothies, another great way of sneaking fruits into the kids’ diet. My kids would never dream of eating a regular banana, but stick it in a blender with some milk, ice, honey and peanut butter and call it a “Power Shake,” and suddenly, they’re gulping it down with reckless abandon.

Moms like Jessica Seinfeld encourage us in our sneakiness with books like “Deceptively Delicious.” In her book, Seinfeld details her sneaky scheme of cooking for her picky eaters by integrating a variety of vegetable purees into her recipes. The fact that her book reached the top of best seller lists shows that she struck a chord: Moms everywhere struggle with their picky eaters.

Perhaps the most brilliant recipe I’ve come across is for Chocolate Beet Cake. Yes, you read that right. Beets, those huge, beautiful veggies with their deep red-purple color and their sweet flavor. I love them, and could eat them like candy. My kids? Highly suspicious. Maybe it was the year our garden produced a bumper crop of beets that made me think of doing an internet search for beet recipes. What could I possibly sneak them into? This rich, chocolatey cake recipe has become a staple in our household, and the kids have never once asked me why I always seem to bake it when they’re not around. All I know is that they love it. But if I want them to continue to love it, I have to hold myself back from offering them a second piece of cake. After all my hard work, I wouldn’t want them to become suspicious.

Fresh As a Baby's Bottom

It seems appropriate that just as I'm about to sit down to write my first post, my daughter, who is 1-1/2, has decided to take off her clothes.

Since she is my fourth child, I know better than to wonder why she wants to remove her clothes. As a child, the removal of clothes is something similar to adults scratching their head; it starts with a subconscious urge, then a conscious nagging, and before you've had a chance to analyze why you're scratching, or which hand should execute the scratch, you've ... well, you've already done it. And so here stands my daughter, completely naked, after yanking, tugging and wrestling out of her pink footed pajamas first, then her diaper. She smiles at me as if to say, "Didn't I do a great thing?" She is cradling her baby doll, who is also completely naked.

As she turns to leave the room, I get an unabashed view of her baby bottom. As this is my first post, I'd like to wax philosophical about how the art of blogging makes me unsure, makes me feel naked and exposed; how I'm stepping as a child into a world yet unknown to me. But that would be self-indulgent.

Besides, I'm the Mommy. If there's a diaper-less baby in the house, there's a good chance I'm going to need a mop soon.