Where My Mind Wanders

Wasn't it just last week I was waxing eloquently about how I seem incapable of finding a simple answer for my children's distress?

I clearly have a short memory.

Last night, while Jeff was away for business, I managed to get the kids in bed and thumb through an Oprah Magazine (don't judge; I had already read the Economist) and pass into peaceful sleep around 10:00 p.m. Good thing I got some snoozing in early because at 3:00 a.m. there were peals of pain coming from Sadie's room. I went into her room and she had tears streaming down her face and sobs heaving out of her little body. I asked all the pertinent questions: What's wrong? What happened? Who hurt you? Did you have a bad dream? Do you hate me? Are you mad at me for reading such a dumb magazine before bed?

She just sat there sobbing and I held her feeling big and strong and motherly. When she calmed down, I told her that I would tuck her back into bed and get her cozy so she could go back to sleep. Sadie was agreeable to this. And it worked.

Until 4:00 a.m. when she started screaming my name again. Luckily, I was still awake and have reflexes like a lynx. I dashed to her room and went through my battery of questions. Again. (Is it any wonder why this kid might have night terrors?) I finally grabbed her teddy bear and took unprecedented action: I brought her to bed with me. It was going on 5:00 a.m. and I just wanted to be able to lay down and comfort her.

She seemed relatively unfazed by coming to my bed with me, though she was confused about where Jeff was. She fell asleep around 5:00 a.m. and I followed shortly. Turns out, Sadie snores a bit, and I should probably look into that. At 5:45 a.m., Sadie was standing on the bed, crying and taking off her pajamas. We settled again. At 6:30 she was up again telling me she was stuck because the sheet was under her leg and she couldn't free it.

At some point I started wondering if she was having a mental breakdown. (WHO's having a mental breakdown?) Then I wondered if it was because she had a piece of birthday cake at her friend's house yesterday. Maybe she's hysterical because something BAD happened to her. Bad, like horrible and nearly unspeakable. Maybe when she goes on the playdates with Sabrina there are BAD people lurking or "working from home" and someone hurt her. Then, I get all Mama Bear and think maybe I will kill someone if he/she hurts my kids.

Do you think I wondered if she had a stomachache? I don't think I really did. I jumped right to emotional scars and potential molestation. I had the world so scary and so hostile by 6:00 a.m., I almost called the nanny to tell her not to come. When I get worked up like that I think there is no one anywhere I can trust with my children so we'll have to home school and never let them out of my sight.

Because there's nothing about that scenario that would be abusive?

Right.

Breathing, I remember that I have to trust because there is no other way. I can't do this myself and I can't educate my kids and give them any kind of life BY MYSELF. That's not how it's meant to be.

At 7:50 I decided to get Sadie dressed and just see how acting normally would affect the situation. Something made me ask her one more time if anything hurt: her stomach? Her head? Her throat?

"Yes, Mommy, my ear hurts. Really bad."

Mmmmmmmmmm. An ear infection. It's a huge relief that it's something we can fix with medicine and not something scary and inchoate like abuse. It's an ear infection. That's her problem. The bigger and unanswered question: What the hell is mine?

Seriously.

I would blog and tell you all about the B.O.B. war that Jeff and I had (and all about how I won), but I have so much sugar coursing through my veins that I can't stay upright long enough to detail the contest. Seriously, I may never eat sugar again.


But I did win and when my blood sugar levels regulate back to normal, I will give the play by play with pictures and video.

And I may never ever eat B.O.B. again.

Top Chef Beef

I love Bravo's Top Chef. I love almost everything about it; I am even growing to love Tom Colicchio's soul patch and Padma's provocative outfits. It's one of the few shows that I have watched every single season, so it's in my television pantheon with the likes of The Gilmore Girls, 30 Rock, and Little House on the Prairie. Clearly, I am a woman who knows good TV.

I can't stop thinking about this week's episode of Restaurant Wars, a staple of the Top Chef competition. About mid-way through the season, the challenge is for two teams to create a restaurant and serve 100 people 3 courses, which even I know is daunting and I have never done anything with a restaurant except eat in it. This season brought a punchy little twist to the contest: it pitted the female chefs against the male chefs. Of course, most of the chefs referred to it as "girls versus boys," but whatever, they are chefs and not the gender-language police.

The male chefs competed first and there was the inevitable frenzy and frenetic energy as they tried to meet the demands of the audacious challenge. There was some confusion and a little emotional heat for the men as they tried to work with their serving staff and figure out who was supposed to be the "expediter" of the evening. Mostly, however, the men got along. There was sweet, hard-working Paul who was doing what Tom characterized as "too much," as he helped out a little bit on every dish. There was Chris J. from Moto doing his wacky, far-out rendition of cracker jacks with peanut butter noodles. He didn't do much, but he was surely pleasant and didn't distract from the team's goals. Ed was hoofing it as the placid yet "with it" front-of-the-house greeter who also was responsible for one dish. And, of course, there was Ty-Lor, who also had his head fully in the game without losing his manners or his cool. They did well. They seemed like a chummy bunch. After their meal was over, we saw them each beating themselves up for their shortcomings, both culinary and managerially. But they all seem like nice people. Who wouldn't want to see these guys succeed for all their humility and comraderie and basic kindness?

The next night it was the ladies' turn. Prior to any prep, the editing showed that the women seemed destined to forfeit any success to the men because they were too busy being bitchy and sniping at one another. The scene of the women shopping in the grocery store was particularly cringe-worthy as Sarah scolded Beverly and Grayson rolled her eyes. There was footage of the men sagely predicting that the women's team would self-implode because of their dysfunctional dynamic. And all this was before the actual service at their restaurant even started. The tempers were hotter than high-noon on a Texas August day. Lindsay, as front of the house, appeared distracted and almost unmotivated when on the restaurant floor. When she stepped back into the kitchen, however, she had plenty of energy to share her thoughts on how pissed she was that Beverly was "f---ing" up her dish. Sarah, appearing incensed that Lindsay would bring her foul energy into the kitchen, told Lindsay that if she couldn't handle the heat in the front of the restaurant, she would take over for her. And so it went. Grayson yelled that the poor timing of the service was screwing up her dessert and mentioned in passing to Lindsay that maybe her dish was "f---ed" up because Lindsay chose the wrong cooking method. But for Grayson's honest feedback to Lindsay, it would feel like the women's team is fully prepared and willing to scapegoat Beverly all the way to the finals.

So this is the women's team.

It's oh so bitchy.

It's oh so uncooperative and mean-girlish and snarky.

Does Bravo want me to think that all of these women are about to get their period? Or, even worse, does Bravo want me to think that this is just how women are? This is what successful women look like: bitchy, uncooperative, self-destructive messes-- most especially when working with other women. Maybe it's not about editing at all (yea, right, it's reality TV), but maybe this is exactly what the dynamic is like, but I, a student of my culture, have been taught to think that this kind group dynamic is both (1) essentially female and (2) essentially negative or counter-productive.

The way that the show was editing led me to believe that the viewer was supposed to be rooting for those chummy, good-hearted guys; I was also supposed to be hoping for the demise of the women's team because each contestant seems despicable or petty or incompetent.

Guess what? The women won. They had the better food "hands down." For all their unflattering interpersonal skills, those ladies can cook. And, in this particular instance, those 4 ladies can cook better than the 4 men against whom they were pitted. But, I have to work hard to remember their skills: Beverly is not just a meek, sensitive, oddball; she continues to win challenges and wow the judges with (mostly Asian (Korean)) food. Same with Sarah. I can't say I want to hang out with her or necessarily be her BFF, but I want to eat her food. Two episodes ago she made stuffed cabbage seem appealing and she won the challenge. Grayson seems immature and a little untamed, but she's putting out food that Emeril and Tom and Padma like. Lindsay is a bit of an unknown, though she has an impressive pedigree and a quiet sense of confidence.

I am troubled by the fact that it's way easier to remember that they women are a bunch of bitches, than it is to remember that they cook fantastic food. When I think about the men, I think they seem warm and friendly and imagine if I am ever in Kentucky I will stop by Ed's restaurant (even though he's sometimes a real dick).

Yes, I know I am expecting TV to elevate me in ways that it's surely not meant to, especially reality TV. If I am looking for utopia, I should crack open a book or get off my couch and go build one. Those are valid points. And true, the male contestants have had their chances to look like doofuses (see Chris Jones or Chef Malibu). I guess it's when the stated concept invokes a "gender war" I can't help but think about how success is constructed and destructed and how the message of female competence is buried under layers of behavioral "problems," like bitchiness and back-biting.

Bits O' Brickle

What do you get when you mix 2 Type-A people who watch a little too much Food Network programming? You get me and Jeff who are having a cooking competition this weekend that is 1/3 Throwdown with Bobby Flay, 1/3 Iron Chef (America), and 1/3 Top Chef.

Here's how it's going to be: We have a secret ingredient that we must incorporate into our dish. the ingredient is Bits O' Brickle, which my family has revered for years. We shamed Jeff roundly when he didn't know what the hell we were talking about when we had a lively discussion about B.O.B.'s merits in front of him. It's essentially crushed up Heath bar, but in a sportier guise and with a nickname to boot. That's the Iron Chef part.

Since B.O.B. lends itself to sweet applications exclusively, we will both be making a dessert. It just so happens that our good friend Frank is having a birthday this weekend. In honor of Frank's birthday, Jeff and I are both going to create a dish using B.O.B., which Frank and his wife, Joyce, will judge without knowing which dish belongs to me and which belongs to Jeff. That's the Throwdown part.

In the course of making this dish, we can do any prep we want prior to Sunday evening at 5:30 p.m., when we will leave for Frank's birthday dinner. When we come back to Kitchen Stadium, we will have 13 minutes to prepare and plate Frank's dessert. We must make 2 servings. Frank and Joyce will score our desserts based on three categories: (1) Taste, (2) presentation, and (3) originality.

And, check back here for videos of my victory lap and tips on how to best bring out the natural flavors of B.O.B. I am going to win this competition, and I am going to crush Jeff like a Heath Bar headed for the brickle bag.

It's probably true what they say about me: I need a job.

School

I have been hearing for years that finding a school in the city is quite a process. The time has come: that process is now ours. We are shin-deep in interviews and playdates and tours of schools for Sadie. Today Sadie had her first playdate at a school. We all agreed (meaning Jeff and I) that Jeff should be the parent to accompany Sadie to her playdates, which are basically 45 minutes of play for Sadie with other prospective students in a room with the teachers who are checking to be sure that Sadie is school-ready.

We decided to send Jeff for several reasons. First, these playdates can be something fun and special for Sadie and Jeff to do together. They will have a little routine, which may be comforting to Sadie. Second, I am honestly afraid I will go a little psycho. Not big and ugly psycho, but I am worried I will get distracted by comparing myself to other people or cry and hold on to Sadie's Crocs while she's trying to go play. I am pretty sure they don't let your kids in if you refuse to let them go for a playdate without reenacting a scene from Steele Magnolias. Third, it gives Jeff a chance to check on the school and the other parents without having his information filtered through me. I think we have a great system. I did my part and bought Sadie a cute little outfit for her playdates and talked them up to her as fun "opportunities" to play with new toys and see other children. (Subtext: and get away from your mother, who probably drives you crazy!).

I also read her some important books from the Western canon last night, such as John Stuart Mill's "On Liberty," and Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises." She really loves Hemingway's spare style and jaded world view. I haven't mentioned to Sadie that Hemingway shot himself and was rabidly alcoholic, but she's emotionally precocious and will find out soon enough.

I may or may not have promised her an iPad if she, in turn, promised not to bite any of the other students or teachers. This next few months could prove expensive if Sadie keeps up her ends of the bargains, since we have 4 more playdates to go.

I am 99% sure that Sadie is school-ready. Me, on the other hand, may need some more maturing.

Sink Your Teeth Into This

It never fails. Simon will start to be fussy, then really fussy, and then four-letter-word fussy. I initially think he's just having a bad day, then I wonder if I have crushed his spirit with my neurotic ways, and then I doubt the existence of God. At some point during this three-day cycle maybe it occurs to me to check for fever or new teeth or both. Unfortunately, I am usually too wrapped up in worrying about poor Simon's disintegrating psyche to think of something as prosaic as a tooth.

Really?

This has happened 8 times. And yesterday, we completed the ninth cycle. Simon's fussiness started on Saturday when he screamed all through breakfast. And lunch. And then dinner. That was a really fun day. He nursed a lot more, which is mostly great, except I am now only nursing on one side (the right) so it's all a little sore these days. Sunday Simon was amping up his cries and misery. Everything seemed to make him seize up with apoplectic, wild-eyed cries. Maybe I stuck my finger in his mouth looking for a culprit, but he wasn't really sending me vibes that he would welcome my digits in his little mouth.

Finally, yesterday after more of the same I stuck my finger in my mouth with purpose: I am looking for the source of the pain. I found it. Dear Simon is getting his incisor, and he's not happy. He's still spending 95% of his waking time screaming at all of us to make the pain stop, but now that I know it's a tooth, I can take it. About 15 minutes after finding the tooth, I realized I was in the greatest mood in days. I found myself feeling buoyant and optimistic for more than 2 minutes at a time. I literally stopped what I was doing in the kitchen (cooking, believe it or not) and had to remind myself that I didn't win a shopping spree at Nordstroms or win a guest spot on Dancing With the Stars. No, I just found out the source of my son's agony (and mine, to be honest) and was basking in the knowledge that it was all temporary. He would, soon enough, go back to sleeping peacefully, smiling all the time and enjoying his meals.

On some level I must know that these little episodes won't last forever. Right? I am not stupid or amnesiac. But, so much of parenting is flying blind that it's so nice to get some proof-- I could see and feel the white tip of Simon's tooth-- that the unpleasant spell will truly come and go. I wish I didn't need the "ocular proof" but I do. So while teething sucks for everyone, especially Simon, it does have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Plus, more teeth means he's this much closer to eating real food and leaving that disgusting, gelatinous baby food where it belongs: on the baby food aisle in the grocery store.

The more we play together the happier we'll be

When I see Sadie and Simon playing together happily (or at least side by side), I feel happy they are so close in age and so far they are also pretty nice to each other. Although Simon does have a blue bruise on his cheek where he "fell" after coming in contact with Sadie's hands. She had the phone; he wanted it; now he's got a bruise.
I am thinking these two may be hinting they would like to start a little family band a la the Partridge Family. I, of course, will be on the keyboard and Jeff will play the oboe. We'll have to start shopping for good gigs. What will we call ourselves?
Simon is voting for keeping it simple and calling the band: "The Mama and the Papa and the Two Kids." Coming to a juke box near you.