Prepping For A Dinner Party: 2 Year Old Godzilla Edition

The scribblings of a mad woman/ wannabe foodie mom

On the last Saturday before I had to return to work from winter holidays, we decided to invite our whole family over for a “fresh feast”.  We had recently bought a juicer after watching a frightening documentary on weight gain and processed foods (knowledge we already had, but paired with some foggy new year’s resolutions and packaged in a really convincing way, this documentary scared/ inspired us into trying to be healthier - at least for a little while).  The fresh feast was totally vegetarian (except for a small salmon filet for those not willing to go “all the way” with our idea).  The recipes were all from a vegan chef’s website and require a lot of preparation.

My husband was working all day and so I was alone with Charlie.  This is usually a pleasure, but on a day when shopping, cleaning, planning, cooking prep and actual cooking is required for a large group, entertaining a 2 year old can be extremely daunting.  I know, there were plenty of (and still are) women who can manage this day in and day out (an image of a 1950s octopi-supermom with 15 arms in a gingham apron comes to mind).  But I don’t do oversized family calendars and coloured sticky notes.  I’m not that person.  When cooking, I don’t have mise en place and I don’t keep a hot soapy sink ready to plunk in dirty dishes as I cook.  I don’t have a garbage bowl ready for keeping my work space clean.  Well, not normally.  

Having to manage Charlie (or atleast keep him out of trouble) while I prepped was a big task.  I needed a game plan.    I reminded myself to be positive, upbeat and oozing joy the entire time, else Charlie would sense my true stress levels and be B-A-D (we're talking: sneak into the bathroom and squeeze out all mommy's expensive-ish shampoo onto the tile floor or throw tin cans down the wooden stairs = previous behaviours which will go down in the books as maniacal).

Here are some activities that I successfully did which kept him occupied, happy and maybe interested him in one day being the next Tyler Florence.  I only burned the candied nuts on the first attempt! I call that a job well done!

• Get out play food and a variety of stuffed animals and allow charlie to use “grown up” and safe kitchen utensils to make them a “fresh feast” or “brunch” (pronounced “fesh feest” and “bunch”).

• Pull up a chair to the counter and allow your kid to be your sous chef minus the sharp knives, microplanes, food processors, and cheese graters. (Charlie was an excellent radish picker, scrubber and passer).

• Teach him to repeat the following phrases:

• Mmm! This is delicious white bean dip!
• Wowza! Have you been slaving over a hot stove all day to make this risotto? I can tell!
• Is that Tamari in the dressing? It gives it a real whole-mouth feeling!

• Cave and let him sit at my feet while I chopped playing ABC Food and Toca Kitchen on my iPhone.

• Let him wear oven mitts, apron and any other kitchen apparel while pretending to do pantry inventory.

• Let him pour dry pasta into a variety of bowls (that you’ll mark - DON’T EAT - EVER! in a ziplock bag afterwards for re-use) and use the swiffer and dustpan after to clean up.  Stepping on dry pasta is a little like DIY reflexology.

Motor Skill Maniac

 where you end up when you can only crawl backward.

When Charlie started crawling, he crawled backwards.  He just wouldn’t go forward and would end up in precarious places as he had no clue as to where he was crawling.  I, having a tendency to worry, overanalyze and catastrophize, decided there was something wrong, developmentally, and that this was likely an indicator of a learning disability to come.  “Who crawls backwards?” I worried aloud, hoping someone with experience would hear and reassure me that they knew of plenty of well-adjusted adults who began their journey’s crawling backward.  Then, at a dinner party, a professor of English told me that researchers had made a link between crawling and the ability to read.  “Great!” I thought, “He’ll be dyslexic for sure.”

Now a great forwards walker, runner and marcher (Ants Go Marching is a perennial favourite in our house) Charlie has recently started cutting a rug whenever he hears a song he likes.  He’s got the moves like Jagger! Surprisingly (I never thought a son of Elaine would be so on-beat and limber!)  And most recently he has taken to side stepping down the hallway, both right and left.  Its like he’s on an invisible tightrope and is sneaking around somewhere trying not to be seen.  Its adorable.

I always thought of Charlie as more adept in the fine motor department.  He doesn’t get into things head first. He doesn’t climb or do physically strenuous things that might involve an element of danger.  He’ll hang back and watch the other carefree children “discover” and will then decide if he should take part.  In an effort to balance him out and move him away from puzzles, picnics and scribbling, we bought a plastic baseball bat and ball, a small foam football and Grandma bought a bowling set.  Charlie loves hacking at the ball with his bat the way a lumberjack schools a fallen tree.  Swinging it is not and hand-eye coordination is not really established, but he has time to enter Shoeless Joe Jackson territory, I mean he is after all only 2.  We’re working on rolling a ball, kicking a ball (alas, there is no bending it like Beckham).  He can’t jump up and down yet, but he can squat and crouch like a champ.  I’m not following a gross motor skill checklist from a baby book, but I feel like being able to throw, catch, kick and roll a ball are pretty important things for a toddler to learn and practice.  I’m not Walter Gretzky, but it would be great if Charlie had a hat trick under his belt by JK.  Thankfully it seems like I’m not the only one who wants their kids to hone their physicality either.

Enter B2Ten whose tagline is “Dare to Be Great”. They are an elite group of business people whose goal it is to support and develop Olympic level athletes.  Its in their best interest (and ours, as proud, medal-loving Canadians!) to make sure their pool of potential isn’t dwindling, but growing.  The group’s focus is on what they call "physical literacy" and it is their goal that it will catch on with moms (even non-sporty ones like me!)  You see, moms are the key holders, who, in a few minutes a day, can teach toddlers the basic elements of movement and co-ordination that will result in them being more confident when they try physical games, sports, for the first time, rather than giving up early because they are not comfortable with the basic skills. Now, I’m not saying that Charlie needs to be center on the podium by the time he’s 18, but I’d like at least a little league medal or two and if I could, would like to help him avoid that awful feeling of being picked last for a team.  Check out their PSA-style advertisement here.   If it doesn’t give you goosebumps and motivate you to turn your TV off and go outside to run and play with your kid, I don’t know what will!  As a teacher, I know how the curriculum stresses Daily Physical Activity (DPA) in schools and how moving and being active isn’t just reserved for Gym time.  Kids (a lot of them kinesthetic learners) learn best when they’re moving - especially boys.  I’ve seen more kids than I can count on one hand be in a situation with ample reaction time and still get hit in the face with a red rubber dodge ball and I ask you, did these kids’ parents ever play catch with them?  

One and Done

spoiled? lonely? the only way for an only child?

My son just turned 2 and already the questions about when I’m going to have another have already started.  They are harmless questions, their askers mean well and some (basically strangers) are just making conversation (in line at the store mostly).  For me, I don’t know how to field this question.  I don’t have a short and sweet answer that’s canned and ready to deliver when the moment arises.  If I’m asked, first I issue a rather awkward pause, and then I start in on this long winded, philosophical answer about the meaning of life and the mother and child bonding process and who I am as a meaningful member of society.  I think that this response is effective in that it tends to throw people off the scent of the answer they were looking for (and maybe even forget their question entirely).  

Do people not realize what a loaded questions this is? I mean, what if my husband and I were trying (unsuccessfully?) what if I had a hard pregnancy (oh wait, I did!) and postpartum (oh wait, I had that too).  What if I find it hard to rally the patience for just one let alone two children?   Nobody thinks about these things - they just ask.  They raise one eyebrow, suggestively, and say “Time for baby number 2?” Like a waitress desperate for a big tip, encouraging me to order another Amaretto Sour.  

I know that people have this stereotype about only child syndrome or that I should try it again because now that I know what to expect (even though every conception / pregnancy / birth and postpartum story is different) I might be able to handle it all better and, this time, enjoy myself.  I do consider these things when deciding for myself.  My husband and I discuss these things too. And money and lifestyle and careers and family.  Funny how we never discussed these things in detail before they happened.

Family members hint all the time about going out for a night on the town with my husband so that we can produce another heir to the throne.  Or a princess sister for our little prince.  “His eyelashes are so long, Michelle, think about if you had a girl!”  I do get baby flutters now and then when I hold my baby niece or see cute (not crying, screaming babies) at play group.  But they are momentary flutters that go away rather quickly.  It so hard.  I never thought that I would feel this way.  My absolute favourite game growing up was playing with my dolls or playing “house” and I was always, always the mommy with my babies.  I love kids, I’m a teacher for goodness sakes.  But motherhood is different.  A friend of mine has a young son - a bit older than Charlie - and she is expecting twins.  What if that happens to me? I don’t mean to make it sound like getting hit by a car.  I shouldn’t refer to it as “happening to me” like its a tragedy.  I know others who’ve have had baby number 2 turn out to be baby number 2 and 3 and while some look at it as a blessing (and it is one, of course) it doesn’t always present itself clearly as a blessing until they are in school full time and you can enjoy them in small doses.  

Am I a terrible person for admitting all this?  I don’t know.  One and done is looking like it might be our family story, not by necessity, but by choice.  I wonder if I should make a decision tree and concept map my way to a decision?  Am I over-analyzing it?  I’m so on the fence its not even funny.  I guess its a pretty privileged place to perch.

Mean Cowboy

cartoon-cowboy-johnny_automatic via OpenClipArt

Today, for the first time since I’ve been a mom, my inner mama bear emerged. I took Charlie to play group (what we call going to an Ontario Early Years Center during drop-in hours.)  As I’ve mentioned before, we are working on sharing and taking turns, but Charlie is still uneasy when kids appear interested in ‘Tah-yee’s toys’ (anything he is playing with at a given time).  However, the same does not apply if Charlie wants to play with something that another child is using or enjoying.  Hypocrisy reigns.  Charlie will take the item away from them with no awareness of the hurt feelings that may occur until you point it out after the fact (which I always try to do).  

Lately, Charlie has been into cowboys.  This fact will be relevant in a few sentences.  Today is Halloween and most of the moms who brought their kids to playgroup had their acts together enough to a) remember and b) dress up not only their child, but also themselves.  I forgot all of these things.  In fact, I think I forgot it was even October.  Anyway, a cowboy about aged 3 showed up at playgroup today.  Charlie was entranced.  He started following the boy around and wanted to play with him, and with anything the boy was playing with.  I coasted nearby as I sensed that John Wayne was not that impressed with his new stalker.  “Charlie, give him some space.” and “No, I don’t think he’s quite finished with that ________ (fill in the blank)” were phrases often used.  At one point, Charlie was standing within breath-smelling distance from the boy's face and the boy flat out shoved Charlie to the ground and yelled “Go away!”  Well Charlie immediately got up and ran to me bawling hysterically.  The boy’s mother was equally mortified and apologized making cowboy hug Charlie and say he was sorry.  Not 3 minutes after reluctantly accepting a hug from the assailant, Charlie was attempting to play with cowboy again. (He's either got short-term memory problems or he's got the forgiveness of a saint I figured)  “Let’s go play with somebody else” I said loudly for the mother to hear (an attempt to not-so-subtly let her know that her bully kid should not be allowed in public among innocent, angelic children.)  After all, that IS why there is heaven and hell, right? To keep good people safe from bad people?  All right.  I may be going slightly overboard and in a few years, nay months, Charlie might be going through the same phase.  Even though Charlie accepted cowboy's apology licktey-split, I had a harder time doing so.

Anyway, about 30 minutes later, Charlie was attempting to be the other half of the see-saw that cowboy was rocking.  I could see trouble brewing so I hovered closer.  I guess he was galloping off onto the sunset on old trusty and Charlie hadn’t realized because when Charlie had one leg lifted in the air to straddle the see saw, cowboy got off and ran toward Charlie (I swear he was foaming at the mouth).  He shoved Charlie (half the boy’s size) down again (right in front of me) and cowboy’s mom (let’s call her cow-woman) did NOTHING! I was appalled. I scooped up Charlie and kissed him. Loudly I said.  “Oh dear! That’s not nice! I don’t think so buckshot!  Charlie - Don’t play with that boy.  That cowboy is a mean cowboy and he is in a bad mood today.  He isn’t nice.  Its not nice to shove people.  Tell him No! Please don’t shove me!”  

For the rest of the time we were there Charlie approached the cowboy and repeated my sage advice right to the boy’s face: “No! Peese do not shove me peese.” and he pointed at him with a sneer.  I think the boy and his mom got the message after the 16th time hearing it. 

Cake Fear

When my son was about to turn one I got pretty obsessed with party planning.  I wanted his fete to be just that, something people referred to other than “birthday” because it was so darn smashing.  Something that would go down in the annals of family history.  A party not to be forgotten.  To prepare, I bought overpriced paper streamers and balloons in a variety of shades of blue and created a nice menu of classy nibblies for the adults with accompanying kid versions of many dishes.  I even bought palatable wine.  But the cherry on top was that I actually designed my very own, very unique birthday cake.  The vision was to make the cake entirely out of cupcakes, which, when placed side by side, would comprise a life-like fire engine.  The vision was awe-inspiring.  This would be an award winning cake.  Guests would fawn over it.  “Its too amazing to eat!” they would say.  I might even get a feature in the local paper, real calendar-worthy firemen would come to my house to try the cupcakes...(okay fine, but daydreaming is allowed to be far-fetched!)   I guess I’ve been indoctrinated by Ace of Cakes and Cake Boss.  All the boutique cupcakeries opening up in the neighbourhood haven’t helped either.  They needed to be epic.

That morning, as my fresh cupcakes cooled (mistake #1 = runny icing), I began to create bright red icing.  Fire-engine red.   A culinary endeavour not for amateurs - my kitchen looked like Dexter and his dark passenger had been by for a visit.  I don’t like fondant and so I decided to take white icing (homemade) and 2 bottles of red food colouring and hope for the best.  After 1 whole bottle of Red dye was mixing with the icing I began to sweat.  As I added more drops, I saw the icing transform like a colour wheel.  Ballet slipper, Pepto Bismol, cream soda and then, what would be the final shade.  Not the desired shade either. My fire truck was fuchsia.  I was mortified and time was ticking.  Guests would be arriving shortly.  Who the heck knew that it would require more than 2 full bottles of red food colouring to make white icing red?  I tasted the icing and my tongue instantly went numb.  More food colouring? Probably not safe.  What to do?  I opted to change my fire truck to something pinker, and was left with no other choice than to create a giant pig from the cupcakes.  A stuck pig at that.  My memorable first birthday party was beginning to look like a John Waters film.  As guests arrived and caught sight of the garish focal point of the table, they giggled.  I had to explain the entire ordeal to all of them, and it became a funny, memorable party, not due to its “Martha Stewart” perfection, but because of its homemade, quirky pizazz.  This year I will get a Dairy Queen ice cream cake.  Stress-free and delicious.

deranged pigs make a party more memorable

Patience Is A Virtue

Charlie Shake: 2 parts odds and ends, 1 part mom-patience

There are times when I question the hypocrisy of my never-ending patience for the children I teach and my serious lack of patience for my own 2-year old son.  Is it because he is my progeny that I expect him to be compliant and obey my commands at all times?  Is it because I get paid (or will when I get a job) to be patient with the children I teach? I don’t think so.  Why is it that I get so flustered when he goes limp noodle and throws a tantrum or when he decides to take all the tampons out of the box in the bathroom and line them up down the hallway like railroad ties?  Why is it that I can’t smile and shrug when I notice he’s taken every piece of folded laundry out of the basket and strewn them across the room?  Why do I blow a fuse when he puts all his scrambled eggs inside his glass of apple juice when I turn my back for two seconds?  I think I need a reality check.  At times like these, I think: he’s healthy.  I’m healthy.  He’s curious, learning, experimenting, testing the boundaries.  These are all really good things.  Why should I care that he’s a Tasmanian devil leaving ripped, dismantled, wrinkled and wrecked things in his wake?  

I suppose it is because I find myself unable to catch up with the messes that present themselves in every corner of my house and instead of laughing about it, I let it put me in a crabby mood.  Today for example, there are puzzles everywhere.  The dishes need to be emptied out of the dishwasher for the next load of crusty ones to go in.  Charlie’s clothes are all over the place and he’s removed the entire contents of my pantry and put two items per kitchen floor tile like a grocery store checkerboard.  When I open the lazy susan to find my coasters, can opener, plastic cling wrap and a pair of socks inside my empty juice pitcher, I feel my shoulders hunch tighter.  Maybe I do need that Eucalyptis roll-on anti stress stick I was given.  If only I could find it.  As I empty the contents of the pitcher to put the items back in their respective places, Charlie comes around the corner protesting wildly.  “No, mama.  Benda.”  He takes the items, returns them inside the pitcher and puts on the lid.  Suddenly he begins to make a blender whirring sound.  “See? Benda.”  Mr. Messy is a genius.

Welcome!

life is sweeter when you see it through fresh eyes

there are few things in this life that make you stop and really smile (at least, there are if you’re like me, a despite-my-best-intentions glass-is-half-empty sort of gal).  i’m talking about the kind of smile that comes over you, where your whole body takes part in a complete feeling of joy.  not just a “heh, cute!” moment, like what happens when you see a kitten or a small kid trying to learn how to ride a bike, but one where your heart beats softer (even melts a little) and your mouth pulls at your whole face.  You grin so big and so hard that the skin behind your ears moves and stretches and that fleeting “oh I should probably stop smiling like a goon because I’m going to get wrinkles” thought never even enters your mind.  I’m talking about that peaceful, lovely, tingly, whole-body kind of joy (and no, this is not a blog inspired by fifty shades of grey, I’m not talking about orgasmic ecstasy).  feeling the joy has been rare for me lately as I’ve been completing (another) university degree, this time to become a teacher. I worked my butt off and now there are no jobs, yadda yadda sob story.  Enough of that.  What kept me afloat this whole time was the fact that I had a family to (try really hard to) prioritize and come home to each night.  I want to chronicle the joyous moments here because death is long and what comes before it is relatively minute.

I should stop and mention that I’ve got my act together enough to be writing this while my son is napping, a load of laundry is on and one is drying and I’m letting homemade banana bread cool on a wire rack in my adjacent kitchen.  I’ve got this whole Martha Stewart thing going on today and the birds are chirping and I swiffered (I made it a verb!) and my friend visited me from the metropolis to the ‘burbs and brought me a vase of perfect ruby and yellow tulips, so due to all these wonderful sensory things all aligning I guess I can attempt to channel a less sexy version of Carrie Bradshaw and start this mom blog that all of my girlfriends have been urging me to do.

Back to joy.  I was, and am, able to get my joy where I can, in small doses during those nice moments that happen when I’m with my son, when I drop him off at Grandma’s house in the morning on the way to school and when I pick him up at the day’s end, when I spend those last 3 or 4 hours with him before he goes “nigh-night”.   It can be little things like having him suddenly hug or cuddle me for no apparent reason.  Or his clinginess to me - why is he shadowing me and why can I not close the door for 2 seconds to go pee without an operatic wailing ensuing?  There are some truly magical moments that pole-vault way beyond “moments fit for baby book entries” that make life, well, just sweeter.  Like witnessing my son reveal a skill that had been latent or lurking somewhere inside; one that I had not a clue he possessed.  Watching a skill debut like mimicking my exact intonation and expression when I say ‘uh-oh’ or his rather impressive ability to blow bubbles in his milk. I nearly fell over from shock when I saw him screw and unscrew the lid on a jar. I guess “my son” is a tad informal and cold.  the kid I’m referring to is my 18 month old son Charlie.  He’s pretty marvellous.  As I hope I can reveal in future entries.

You might be wondering, "what's with the title of her blog?" Well, last May we moved into our first house and the thing that has made the most difference to me is our garbage disposal in our kitchen sink.  Especially having a baby, being able to throw nearly anything down there lickety-split and have it out of my life is AMAZING.  Plus I use it as a metaphor, if you don't like it or don't need it, get rid of it!  I've been working really hard at trying to live with less, need less and trying to be happy with less.  I've also been trying to unload emotional baggage and get focused on the new me, a mom.  This, coupled with an addiction to Hoarders, has made me really embrace my garburator.  Its my motto, "out with the old, in with the new".