Once you're out of limbo - that odd and occasionally cathartic period between separation and divorce, which in my case lasted an excruciating 469 days - well, you're supposed to be done. Divorced and fairly angst-free. You indulge in occasional conversations with the ex that run along the lines of, "Hey, can we trade weekends this month," and "Dude, sorry I forgot to pack pants for the five-year-old." But that's it. Free and clear and living your own life, footloose and ex-free.
Except it doesn't work that way.
And it's not even about the kids. Because once you get into a routine, you can handle the kids. Most of the time.
No, it's about the money.
You'd think it would be easy. Shared marital assets? Sell them and split the proceeds. Or divvy them up fair and square. Shared debt? You can't sell it. So you do your best to divvy. You each take responsibility for your own bits and pieces and write it all down on paper, neatly notarized and approved by the judge.
Except the banks disagree. Once you co-sign something that isn't a mortgage and therefore can't be settled and sold, you are apparently co-signed for life. Or at least for the life of the loan. Which means that even if your divorce decree states: "Do you, Mr. Ex-Husband, take this debt, to love, honor and cherish till death do you part?" and he completely agrees that yes, he will take that debt, the bank says, "Uh, no way man. That debt's still married to your ex-wife."
Your debt ties you to your ex as much as your children do. You brought it into the world together, so you share responsibility for it until it's fully grown and able to live on its own. Until then, it gets to eat you out of house and home and keep you from getting the great, low-rate refi you so richly deserve.
I just hope I don't have to send the damn thing to college.
Lesson learned: Mind your money, honey.
Showing posts with label limbo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label limbo. Show all posts
August 21, 2010
June 30, 2010
Wait, Is It Really July? Well, Almost ...
I came here today intending to blog about frittatas. That's right. Frittatas, and all their eggy goodness.
This post, sadly, is not about frittatas.
On the way to my blog, I got distracted by my friend the Diva. She posted her mid-year resolutions.
I like that idea. See, I did do the New Year's resolution thing. I kept them simple. And I did not make them public, because my resolution track record pretty much sucks.
For reference, here they are: my 2010 New Year's Resolutions, nearly seven months late.
So I like the idea of a whole new set of resolutions, a set of mid-year, hey-what-the-heck-is-it-really-July resolutions, that I might possibly be able to accomplish.
Here they are.
This post, sadly, is not about frittatas.
On the way to my blog, I got distracted by my friend the Diva. She posted her mid-year resolutions.
I like that idea. See, I did do the New Year's resolution thing. I kept them simple. And I did not make them public, because my resolution track record pretty much sucks.
For reference, here they are: my 2010 New Year's Resolutions, nearly seven months late.
- Read
- Sleep
- Move
So I like the idea of a whole new set of resolutions, a set of mid-year, hey-what-the-heck-is-it-really-July resolutions, that I might possibly be able to accomplish.
Here they are.
- Finish the half gallon of Breyer's rocky road ice cream currently melting in my lap. Very doable, particularly as a half gallon container now holds a mere 1.5 quarts. (When exactly did that happen?)
- Learn to say "yes." Ironic, since I spent my year plus in limbo learning how to say "no." Now I'm really good at no and realizing that I need a few more yesses in my life. I'm not talking about "Yes, I'll manage the whole soccer league," or "Yes, I'll make 84 cupcakes for tomorrow's bake sale." I'm talking about "Yes, sweetie, I'd love to play Polly Pockets with you," and "Of course you can have a hug," and "Sure I can read Wacky Wednesday 18 more times today." These are important yesses.
- Find a sugar daddy who wants to buy me a brand new and completely bug-free house and send all three of my super-smart kids to college. (But only if I can keep dating my San Francisco-bound sweetie.)
- Set a new family record by blowing up six - yes, I said six - bottles of Diet Coke with Mentos. This is hands-down my kids' favorite activity of the summer. Yeah, I know, six isn't really that many - particularly when compared with this YouTube classic - but since the kids usually get just the one bottle apiece, six is a big, big deal.
- Write that frittata post. I even took pictures folks. Yes, pictures.
January 4, 2010
Kissing 2009 Good-Bye
It's a new year. A new me. A whole new name. Well, an old name, but since I haven't used it in 13+ years, it feels new. New "About Me," over there on the right, too. Kinda had to change it now that I've officially left the limboverse between separation and divorce and entered single motherhood.
Felt all that merited a new template, too. Old one was nice and green. This one is not green, but it's far easier to read, and that's considerably more important. I wish I had the time and the talent to make my own beautiful green blog layout. I don't.
And so, a new year. I'm tickled pink to have kissed 2009 good-bye. Much crap in 2009. Much. Crap.
Lots of joy too, though. And since I'm a rose-colored glasses kind of gal, I thought it best to wrap up the year with a Done List of the good stuff.
In the past year, I have ...
Felt all that merited a new template, too. Old one was nice and green. This one is not green, but it's far easier to read, and that's considerably more important. I wish I had the time and the talent to make my own beautiful green blog layout. I don't.
And so, a new year. I'm tickled pink to have kissed 2009 good-bye. Much crap in 2009. Much. Crap.
Lots of joy too, though. And since I'm a rose-colored glasses kind of gal, I thought it best to wrap up the year with a Done List of the good stuff.
In the past year, I have ...
- Introduced my kids to 35 members of my immediate and extended family, all of whom love them to pieces just because they were born.
- Hugged my dad. In person even.
- Successfully baked cakes from scratch. Martha Stewart's Cupcakes is my new kitchen bible, and trust me, the yellow buttermilk cupcakes with fluffy vanilla frosting will put you in a cupcake coma. Pure joy.
- Rediscovered old friends and made some new ones. These friends? They're the kind who, once you've met them, you wonder how you ever thought your life was whole without them.
- Found The Best Side Dish ever - Cauliflower Goat Cheese Gratin, at Bobby Flay's Bar Americain in New York. If you go there, order five servings of cauliflower and a Cosmo. It's all you need.
- Saw Wicked. Lately, my diva's been singing "Defying Gravity" ... and she's doing it well.
Saw the most beautiful place on earth: Paradise on Mount Rainier in August.- Learned several important lessons, one of which I'm currently ignoring (that would be Lesson 3: Get Some Sleep, Stupid)
- Rescued one sorely damaged and dearly treasured cast iron fry pan from kitchen fire. Elbow grease and bacon brought it back. So nice to have an excuse to cook lots and lots of bacon.
- Made 57 blog posts. People actually read them. Awesome.
- Got my kids through an insane number of transitions. Separation. Divorce. Middle school. Preschool. New au pairs. Old au pairs. And realized that, after a full year of change, they are happy. Really, truly, genuinely happy.
- And, of course, made it through Limbo. That's the big one, really.
December 30, 2009
469
Word came today. On Monday, December 28, our final judgment became official - with the right names this time.
Which means that after 469 days ...
67 weeks ...
11,256 hours ...
675,360 minutes ...
40,521,600 seconds ...
I'm not in limbo anymore.
Good news. Good, destressing, forward-moving, happy-making news.
Happy New Year. I think I'll sleep now.
Which means that after 469 days ...
67 weeks ...
11,256 hours ...
675,360 minutes ...
40,521,600 seconds ...
I'm not in limbo anymore.
Good news. Good, destressing, forward-moving, happy-making news.
Happy New Year. I think I'll sleep now.
December 27, 2009
Veggie Girl vs. The Fish
I know, I know, I just posted yesterday. But can I just tell you how much my diva rocks?
My beautiful diva has recently decided that there is no food that is not worth trying at least once. She's tried cauliflower, cooked carrots, brussels sprouts. She loved them all. Yes, even the brussels sprouts. That's how awesome she is.
Well, this girl today tried salmon for the first time. Rubbed gently with butter, baked at 450, with a lemon squeezed over the top when it came out of the oven.
She was eager to try it. Seriously. Eager.
Before she took a single bite, though, do you know what she did? She very politely asked to be excused. Then she walked over to the little bulletin board next to the fridge, pulled down my list of ocean-friendly fish, and read, word for complicated word, about the ocean-friendliness of our Alaskan salmon.
"That all means it's good, right, Mom?"
I hugged her on the spot.
Days in limbo: 468. Days of loving my daughter: 2,889. She wins :-)
My beautiful diva has recently decided that there is no food that is not worth trying at least once. She's tried cauliflower, cooked carrots, brussels sprouts. She loved them all. Yes, even the brussels sprouts. That's how awesome she is.
Well, this girl today tried salmon for the first time. Rubbed gently with butter, baked at 450, with a lemon squeezed over the top when it came out of the oven.
She was eager to try it. Seriously. Eager.
Before she took a single bite, though, do you know what she did? She very politely asked to be excused. Then she walked over to the little bulletin board next to the fridge, pulled down my list of ocean-friendly fish, and read, word for complicated word, about the ocean-friendliness of our Alaskan salmon.
"That all means it's good, right, Mom?"
I hugged her on the spot.
Days in limbo: 468. Days of loving my daughter: 2,889. She wins :-)
Smiling Eyes
Today marks 467 days in limbo.
It's also the day after Christmas.
The kids and I, we had an awesome Christmas morning full of magic and hugs and a ginormous holiday breakfast, with pretty much everyone's favorites - pancakes for the diva, fruit smoothies for my redhead, and a truckload of sausage and bacon for my protein-starved Aspie. Then, the three of them went cheerfully off with their dad for dinner. They're staying with him through the weekend, so I am sitting here quietly, appreciating the lights on the tree and the chance to sleep in.
This is my second single-parent Christmas, so I'm a little more used to coping on my own. While we didn't get our tree up until Christmas Eve - I'm blaming the East Coast blizzard for that - I did manage a few other things. We baked cookies, including my favorite eggnog cookies. I ordered holiday cards and got them in the mail before the New Year. (That's a personal best, by the way - I once sent out Christmas cards with hearts and shamrocks on the envelopes.)
And, after a few years off, I made calendars.
These are photo calendars, a kind of year in review that I have made, on occasion, for my family. Most of these folks are pretty far away, so the calendars were a nice way to bring the kids into their day-to-day. I'd take the best pictures of my kids from the past year and put them in, month by month, with each month capturing the kids from exactly a year before.
And so, I built my calendars. January, and my diva's 7th birthday. April, with the cherry blossoms in Washington, DC. Our trip to Seattle last July and August. Snow in December.
And I saw something.
Last January, the kids were pensive, sad, with smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes. February, March, it's more of the same.
By summer, though, you start to see a change. A twinkle, sometimes. A real smile or two. And by fall, it's crystal clear. The kids are not just smiling. They're happy. Really, really happy.
And I'd never have noticed if I hadn't laid all the pictures out like that, chronologically.
This level of change, with the separation, and soon (I hope!) the divorce - it's not easy, even if it's for the best. But I'm so so proud of these little people. They've come through it. They held hands and they hugged each other and they got through it.
And they're happy. Really, really happy.
Know what? I am too.
So here. Have an eggnog cookie on me :-)
Eggnog Cookies*
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground nutmeg (even better if it's freshly grated)
1 1/4 cups white sugar
3/4 cups butter, softened
1/2 cup eggnog
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 large egg yolks
1 tbs ground nutmeg
Preheat oven to 300 F. In a medium mixing bowl, combine flour, baking powder, cinnamon and nutmeg. Mix well with a wire whisk and set aside. In a large bowl, cream sugar and butter with an electric mixer to form a grainy paste. Add eggnog, vanilla and egg yolks and beat at medium speed until smooth. Add the flour mixture and beat at low speed until just combined. Do not overmix. Drop by rounded teaspoonfuls onto ungreased baking sheets (parchment paper helps), 1 inch apart. Sprinkle lightly with nutmeg. Bake for 23-25 minutes or until bottoms turn light brown. Transfer to cool, flat surface immediately with a spatula.
* Thank you, Mrs. Fields!
It's also the day after Christmas.
The kids and I, we had an awesome Christmas morning full of magic and hugs and a ginormous holiday breakfast, with pretty much everyone's favorites - pancakes for the diva, fruit smoothies for my redhead, and a truckload of sausage and bacon for my protein-starved Aspie. Then, the three of them went cheerfully off with their dad for dinner. They're staying with him through the weekend, so I am sitting here quietly, appreciating the lights on the tree and the chance to sleep in.
This is my second single-parent Christmas, so I'm a little more used to coping on my own. While we didn't get our tree up until Christmas Eve - I'm blaming the East Coast blizzard for that - I did manage a few other things. We baked cookies, including my favorite eggnog cookies. I ordered holiday cards and got them in the mail before the New Year. (That's a personal best, by the way - I once sent out Christmas cards with hearts and shamrocks on the envelopes.)
And, after a few years off, I made calendars.
These are photo calendars, a kind of year in review that I have made, on occasion, for my family. Most of these folks are pretty far away, so the calendars were a nice way to bring the kids into their day-to-day. I'd take the best pictures of my kids from the past year and put them in, month by month, with each month capturing the kids from exactly a year before.
And so, I built my calendars. January, and my diva's 7th birthday. April, with the cherry blossoms in Washington, DC. Our trip to Seattle last July and August. Snow in December.
And I saw something.
Last January, the kids were pensive, sad, with smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes. February, March, it's more of the same.
By summer, though, you start to see a change. A twinkle, sometimes. A real smile or two. And by fall, it's crystal clear. The kids are not just smiling. They're happy. Really, really happy.
And I'd never have noticed if I hadn't laid all the pictures out like that, chronologically.
This level of change, with the separation, and soon (I hope!) the divorce - it's not easy, even if it's for the best. But I'm so so proud of these little people. They've come through it. They held hands and they hugged each other and they got through it.
And they're happy. Really, really happy.
Know what? I am too.
So here. Have an eggnog cookie on me :-)
Eggnog Cookies*
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground nutmeg (even better if it's freshly grated)
1 1/4 cups white sugar
3/4 cups butter, softened
1/2 cup eggnog
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 large egg yolks
1 tbs ground nutmeg
Preheat oven to 300 F. In a medium mixing bowl, combine flour, baking powder, cinnamon and nutmeg. Mix well with a wire whisk and set aside. In a large bowl, cream sugar and butter with an electric mixer to form a grainy paste. Add eggnog, vanilla and egg yolks and beat at medium speed until smooth. Add the flour mixture and beat at low speed until just combined. Do not overmix. Drop by rounded teaspoonfuls onto ungreased baking sheets (parchment paper helps), 1 inch apart. Sprinkle lightly with nutmeg. Bake for 23-25 minutes or until bottoms turn light brown. Transfer to cool, flat surface immediately with a spatula.
* Thank you, Mrs. Fields!
December 20, 2009
Snowed In
I've got insomnia. Or, as my sister calls it, can'tgotobednia. She's noted - quite accurately - that real insomnia means you lie awake all night. That's not my problem. I'd sleep, if I went to bed. I just don't go to bed.
This weekend, I found a cure.
It was a Not My Weekend (as in, the nearly ex has the kids and I have a bit of me time). And it started poorly, with my redhead screaming in terror about having to go to dad's house. Apparently the zombies who can't drive live at dad's house. So he was dragged out to the car clutching his blankie and screaming blue murder.
Cue big ole stressed out mushy mom tears. And a stressed out mom, for the record, is a mom who can't sleep.
But I had plans to meet an old friend for a festive holiday dinner. So I ignored the stress, put on my new favorite dress (it's amazing what a good dress can do for a girl's mood) and headed out - to a whole other state, in fact - to meet my friend at The Best Restaurant Ever.
We walked in for an amazingly good meal of coq au vin, with cocoa in the vin (which sounds a bit scary but it's really rich and spectacular), polished off with decadent coconut cake.
We walked out into the start of "snopocalypse." The Great Blizzard of 2009. Snow everywhere. Slippy, slidy, really not drivable snow.
My friend graciously offered me a place to stay. I accepted.
And I slept. Soundly. All night long.
Woke up at 9:30. Looked at the 8 inches of snow on the ground. Went back sleep.
Woke up at 1:00. Looked at the 12 inches of snow on the ground. Made pancakes. Sat down to watch the Tar Heels. Fell asleep before they lost.
Woke up for dinner. My friend lives mere blocks from an Irish pub that believes a blizzard is a silly reason to shut its doors. So we braved the elements and about 2 feet of snow for beef stew and Black and Tans, then headed back to watch The Best Star Wars Movie Ever.
I fell asleep right after Yoda lifted Luke's X-wing out of the swamp on Dagobah and woke up just in time for the credits.
My friend asked me if I'd have trouble sleeping that night after sleeping all day.
Nope. Slept like a rock.
I woke up, at last, at 10:30 this morning.
Blizzards are stress. It took us nearly 3 hours of heavy lifting to dig out. On the long drive home, I saw more than 10 cars spun into snow drifts and each other. My own town - boonie burg that it is - hasn't yet been plowed. At all. Schools in our area are closed tomorrow, two full days after the snowfall.
But I'm relaxed. I'm happy. Because I slept. I slept and slept and slept.
Apparently, snow cures can'tgotobednia.
Is it wrong to hope for a blizzard every day?
PS: Today marks day 461 in limbo ... and counting
This weekend, I found a cure.
It was a Not My Weekend (as in, the nearly ex has the kids and I have a bit of me time). And it started poorly, with my redhead screaming in terror about having to go to dad's house. Apparently the zombies who can't drive live at dad's house. So he was dragged out to the car clutching his blankie and screaming blue murder.
Cue big ole stressed out mushy mom tears. And a stressed out mom, for the record, is a mom who can't sleep.
But I had plans to meet an old friend for a festive holiday dinner. So I ignored the stress, put on my new favorite dress (it's amazing what a good dress can do for a girl's mood) and headed out - to a whole other state, in fact - to meet my friend at The Best Restaurant Ever.
We walked in for an amazingly good meal of coq au vin, with cocoa in the vin (which sounds a bit scary but it's really rich and spectacular), polished off with decadent coconut cake.
We walked out into the start of "snopocalypse." The Great Blizzard of 2009. Snow everywhere. Slippy, slidy, really not drivable snow.
My friend graciously offered me a place to stay. I accepted.
And I slept. Soundly. All night long.
Woke up at 9:30. Looked at the 8 inches of snow on the ground. Went back sleep.
Woke up at 1:00. Looked at the 12 inches of snow on the ground. Made pancakes. Sat down to watch the Tar Heels. Fell asleep before they lost.
Woke up for dinner. My friend lives mere blocks from an Irish pub that believes a blizzard is a silly reason to shut its doors. So we braved the elements and about 2 feet of snow for beef stew and Black and Tans, then headed back to watch The Best Star Wars Movie Ever.
I fell asleep right after Yoda lifted Luke's X-wing out of the swamp on Dagobah and woke up just in time for the credits.
My friend asked me if I'd have trouble sleeping that night after sleeping all day.
Nope. Slept like a rock.
I woke up, at last, at 10:30 this morning.
Blizzards are stress. It took us nearly 3 hours of heavy lifting to dig out. On the long drive home, I saw more than 10 cars spun into snow drifts and each other. My own town - boonie burg that it is - hasn't yet been plowed. At all. Schools in our area are closed tomorrow, two full days after the snowfall.
But I'm relaxed. I'm happy. Because I slept. I slept and slept and slept.
Apparently, snow cures can'tgotobednia.
Is it wrong to hope for a blizzard every day?
PS: Today marks day 461 in limbo ... and counting
December 11, 2009
Limbo Rock
I was supposed to be done this week. Out of Limbo. Into the world. Actually and finally divorced. Unmarried. Single. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
Not gonna happen.
See, it goes like this. We go see the Examiner. She takes 15 minutes of her incredibly valuable time to ask embarrassing and deeply personal questions. She writes up an opinion. She sends it to my lawyer, who has me review it. Oops! I say. This examiner, she's misspelled the family name. Everywhere. So we tell her. She files the papers. We get the final judgment.
She never fixed the name.
Seriously? How on earth does that happen? Did she not like my check? Can she not read?
Now some other poor couple is walking around divorced. They don't even know it. And I've got to wait another 30 days while the papers are refiled and reofficialized.
30 days.
Cue heartfelt and fairly graphic cussing.
The nearly ex and I separated on September 15, 2008 (and not a moment sooner, despite opinions to the contrary). I've been sitting in limbo, waiting, for 451 days. Yes, I'm sure. I counted.
So, really, what's another 30?
I baked a big ol' pan of brownies. If I have to wait, I'm having chocolate.
Not gonna happen.
See, it goes like this. We go see the Examiner. She takes 15 minutes of her incredibly valuable time to ask embarrassing and deeply personal questions. She writes up an opinion. She sends it to my lawyer, who has me review it. Oops! I say. This examiner, she's misspelled the family name. Everywhere. So we tell her. She files the papers. We get the final judgment.
She never fixed the name.
Seriously? How on earth does that happen? Did she not like my check? Can she not read?
Now some other poor couple is walking around divorced. They don't even know it. And I've got to wait another 30 days while the papers are refiled and reofficialized.
30 days.
Cue heartfelt and fairly graphic cussing.
The nearly ex and I separated on September 15, 2008 (and not a moment sooner, despite opinions to the contrary). I've been sitting in limbo, waiting, for 451 days. Yes, I'm sure. I counted.
So, really, what's another 30?
I baked a big ol' pan of brownies. If I have to wait, I'm having chocolate.
November 13, 2009
Cheesecake and Cosmos
My nearly ex and I, we are officially counting down to the end of life in limbo.
Yesterday, we got all dolled up and went to the office of an Examiner - basically, a lawyer who gets to be queen for the day. A dear friend came, too, to serve as a witness. The Examiner and my own lawyer asked us a series of yes or no questions, some of which were disturbingly intimate because apparently the state we live in feels a need to be absolutely certain that you are not even remotely inclined to reconcile, even by accident.
They don't make divorce easy in this state. Not by a long shot.
But that was it. A quick and generally painless 15 minutes, and then we were done. And a pretty cheery 15 minutes it was, too. The nearly ex and I were in good spirits, I think just out of relief that the long road back to singledom is nearly done. In the next two weeks, the Examiner's report will go in front of an actual judge, who will sign off on things and issue the final decree. And then limbo is over.
Oh, and I get my old name back. This is a good thing. I liked my old name.
All that was cause for celebration. To be clear - you're not celebrating the end of the marriage, when you toast to this stuff. Because that's a sad thing, even if it's a right thing. What you're celebrating is the end of the process. The end of limbo. And the start of something new.
So you need something that does both. You need to comfort the little sad bit and celebrate the happy bit.
While the nearly ex headed off to watch the kids (it being his night and all), my friend and I drove out in the pouring rain and found The Cheesecake Factory, home to the perfect balance of comfort and joy. There was cheesecake - pumpkin cheesecake, and oh that's yummy stuff. And cosmos, you know, for the joy. Well, she had a mojito. But the cosmopolitan, that was mine, and yes, it made me happy.
Interesting day. A little happy. A little sad. More happy than sad.
And now, we wait.
'Cause, you know, we haven't done enough of that.
Yesterday, we got all dolled up and went to the office of an Examiner - basically, a lawyer who gets to be queen for the day. A dear friend came, too, to serve as a witness. The Examiner and my own lawyer asked us a series of yes or no questions, some of which were disturbingly intimate because apparently the state we live in feels a need to be absolutely certain that you are not even remotely inclined to reconcile, even by accident.
They don't make divorce easy in this state. Not by a long shot.
But that was it. A quick and generally painless 15 minutes, and then we were done. And a pretty cheery 15 minutes it was, too. The nearly ex and I were in good spirits, I think just out of relief that the long road back to singledom is nearly done. In the next two weeks, the Examiner's report will go in front of an actual judge, who will sign off on things and issue the final decree. And then limbo is over.
Oh, and I get my old name back. This is a good thing. I liked my old name.
All that was cause for celebration. To be clear - you're not celebrating the end of the marriage, when you toast to this stuff. Because that's a sad thing, even if it's a right thing. What you're celebrating is the end of the process. The end of limbo. And the start of something new.
So you need something that does both. You need to comfort the little sad bit and celebrate the happy bit.
While the nearly ex headed off to watch the kids (it being his night and all), my friend and I drove out in the pouring rain and found The Cheesecake Factory, home to the perfect balance of comfort and joy. There was cheesecake - pumpkin cheesecake, and oh that's yummy stuff. And cosmos, you know, for the joy. Well, she had a mojito. But the cosmopolitan, that was mine, and yes, it made me happy.
Interesting day. A little happy. A little sad. More happy than sad.
And now, we wait.
'Cause, you know, we haven't done enough of that.
September 17, 2009
Where's the Food, Reprise
Tonight I talked to my dad. My dad reads my blog. He is a FAN, and I do mean that in all caps. It's a good thing. It's what dads are supposed to be.
He did have one criticism though. "Where's the food?" he asked. "Don't forget you're writing about food."
I reminded him that this is meant to be about family. Food's just a filter. I am not a foodie; I'm a mom. What's more, I'm a nearly single, working mom of three, one of whom has Asperger's Syndrome, and I'm feeling my way through the mandatory period between separation and divorce more commonly known as Limbo. That means stress, joy, lessons learned, lots of time with the kids, time spent without them, finding new friends, finding myself ... and a whole host of other things.
It also means food. For me anyway. Because, well, it's one of the few things you really can't live without. And also because I used to have time to cook.
Yeah, I so don't do that anymore.
Anyway, I checked, and yes, indeed, there is food in each of my last three posts.
My most recent post was about - forgive me - vomit. And it was about toaster waffles, chicken quesadillas and ice cream. It was also about blueberries - at least it was for me. Be grateful I did not share that part.
That was, by the way, my second post about vomit. I hope not to write too many more.
The one before that was about learning to ask for help. This is a valuable life lesson, and one you learn the hard way in Limbo because if you don't ask for help, generally, you don't get any, and trust me there is little to no chance you'll manage Limbo without it. This, too, was about food - namely chicken, potatoes, wheatberries and cabbage. Oh, and brownies. I am all about the chocolate.
And the one before that? It was about my thrilling yogurt-and-Oreos dinner and the Petri dishes school makes out of our kids.
See? Food everywhere.
Tonight, one day after the anniversary of my first (and I hope only) year in Limbo, my not-yet-ex and I signed our separation agreement. Not much food in that. Just a feeling that the tunnel is nearing its light, and that you don't much want to cook. So I warmed up a can of refried beans, doused it in salsa and tomatoes, then melted low-fat cheddar over the top. I ate in front of the TV.
Ah, freedom.
He did have one criticism though. "Where's the food?" he asked. "Don't forget you're writing about food."
I reminded him that this is meant to be about family. Food's just a filter. I am not a foodie; I'm a mom. What's more, I'm a nearly single, working mom of three, one of whom has Asperger's Syndrome, and I'm feeling my way through the mandatory period between separation and divorce more commonly known as Limbo. That means stress, joy, lessons learned, lots of time with the kids, time spent without them, finding new friends, finding myself ... and a whole host of other things.
It also means food. For me anyway. Because, well, it's one of the few things you really can't live without. And also because I used to have time to cook.
Yeah, I so don't do that anymore.
Anyway, I checked, and yes, indeed, there is food in each of my last three posts.
My most recent post was about - forgive me - vomit. And it was about toaster waffles, chicken quesadillas and ice cream. It was also about blueberries - at least it was for me. Be grateful I did not share that part.
That was, by the way, my second post about vomit. I hope not to write too many more.
The one before that was about learning to ask for help. This is a valuable life lesson, and one you learn the hard way in Limbo because if you don't ask for help, generally, you don't get any, and trust me there is little to no chance you'll manage Limbo without it. This, too, was about food - namely chicken, potatoes, wheatberries and cabbage. Oh, and brownies. I am all about the chocolate.
And the one before that? It was about my thrilling yogurt-and-Oreos dinner and the Petri dishes school makes out of our kids.
See? Food everywhere.
Tonight, one day after the anniversary of my first (and I hope only) year in Limbo, my not-yet-ex and I signed our separation agreement. Not much food in that. Just a feeling that the tunnel is nearing its light, and that you don't much want to cook. So I warmed up a can of refried beans, doused it in salsa and tomatoes, then melted low-fat cheddar over the top. I ate in front of the TV.
Ah, freedom.
September 8, 2009
The Top Bunk
My beloved Aspie skipped his breakfast this morning. Unusual, because breakfast was toaster waffles, and he loves toaster waffles.
Did alarm bells go off? Nope.
He called from school with a headache. He sometimes does that to get out of a stressful class, and the nurse said he was chipper and chatty. Still, no alarm bells.
He skipped his dinner too. This time it was chicken quesadillas, which have been his favorite food since he was, oh, two. See, they make them at Friendly's, which is also home to ice cream. Quesadillas and ice cream: that's his dream team of dinners. It ranks right up there with hot dogs and mac & cheese.
He was a little green around the gills, too. Alarm bells? Not a one. He'd been playing soccer, and sometimes his meds make him a bit heat strokey. So I gave him a big ol' cup of water and sent him off to read the comics.
Took everyone upstairs for a bath before bed. My Aspie was pale as a ghost. His head hurt. His tummy hurt. Hmmm, I thought. Poor kid is exhausted. So I sent him to bed. In the top bunk.
And that's when he started throwing up. Hey, look, alarm bells! A little late though.
So there I was in the middle of a big huge gross mess made infinitely worse by the fact that it all started on the top bunk. I've got a shaky kid. I've got two freaked out siblings. And then the phone rings. It's my not-yet-ex, calling with some changes to our separation agreement. Not a good time, I say, and hey, betcha wanna come help. Ha ha.
He dropped everything and did just that.
Fifteen minutes later, he was there. He read and sang with our younger two while I mopped vomit off the walls and disinfected the carpet. He tucked them in and saw them off to sleep. He cuddled with our Aspie until he stopped shaking and was ready at last for bed.
And then he went home.
It's easy to complain about the soon-to-be-ex. If you didn't have ammunition - both of you - you wouldn't be headed for divorce, right?
It's the being there that's hard.
And the being there? Well, I think my Aspie put it best. When his dad walked in the door he said, "Mom, this means he likes me!"
Yes, it does.
Did alarm bells go off? Nope.
He called from school with a headache. He sometimes does that to get out of a stressful class, and the nurse said he was chipper and chatty. Still, no alarm bells.
He skipped his dinner too. This time it was chicken quesadillas, which have been his favorite food since he was, oh, two. See, they make them at Friendly's, which is also home to ice cream. Quesadillas and ice cream: that's his dream team of dinners. It ranks right up there with hot dogs and mac & cheese.
He was a little green around the gills, too. Alarm bells? Not a one. He'd been playing soccer, and sometimes his meds make him a bit heat strokey. So I gave him a big ol' cup of water and sent him off to read the comics.
Took everyone upstairs for a bath before bed. My Aspie was pale as a ghost. His head hurt. His tummy hurt. Hmmm, I thought. Poor kid is exhausted. So I sent him to bed. In the top bunk.
And that's when he started throwing up. Hey, look, alarm bells! A little late though.
So there I was in the middle of a big huge gross mess made infinitely worse by the fact that it all started on the top bunk. I've got a shaky kid. I've got two freaked out siblings. And then the phone rings. It's my not-yet-ex, calling with some changes to our separation agreement. Not a good time, I say, and hey, betcha wanna come help. Ha ha.
He dropped everything and did just that.
Fifteen minutes later, he was there. He read and sang with our younger two while I mopped vomit off the walls and disinfected the carpet. He tucked them in and saw them off to sleep. He cuddled with our Aspie until he stopped shaking and was ready at last for bed.
And then he went home.
It's easy to complain about the soon-to-be-ex. If you didn't have ammunition - both of you - you wouldn't be headed for divorce, right?
It's the being there that's hard.
And the being there? Well, I think my Aspie put it best. When his dad walked in the door he said, "Mom, this means he likes me!"
Yes, it does.
July 28, 2009
Wine & Pie
The Land of Limbo belongs exclusively to the separated-but-not-quite-divorced. And it is a strange, strange place. One of the strangest things about it is that you firmly believe you're stuck there all by your lonesome. This is ironic, because you know for a fact there's at least one other resident - that being the person to whom you are now not-yet-unmarried. Not that you want to talk with him about it, even under the most amicable of circumstances.
Which is how we come to wine and pie. And yes, there's a recipe in here ... two actually. Keep reading. We'll get to them. ("What?" you gasp. "She's talking about food? I totally forgot she did that.")
I am fortunate enough to have a large number of friends who love me to pieces and have been looking for an excuse to show it. One of these friends, when he saw me heading off into Limbo Land, realized he had two other friends who were living there too. He introduced us to each other. And now the three of us are also friends, tied together by the strangeness of our circumstances and by the fact that we happen to like each other. Our kids like each other, too. Coolness all around.
Last weekend, we got together with two other Limbo Land residents for an evening of wine, pie, and catharsis.
It was not all about the dessert. We kicked off the evening with a MiddleSouthEasternAsian smorgasbord that included homemade tahini hummus, spicy chick pea masala, green salad with feta, and a fragrant cinnamon beef and chicken and rice dish. There was also a big mess of tabouleh made with such dedication and commitment that every single leaf of parsley and mint was chopped by hand. I know this because I did all that chopping myself and my forearms still ache ... yes I own a food processor ... clearly I was not in my right mind. The tabouleh could have used a good bit more lemon. But it wasn't bad, considering I was winging the recipe from memory because the dog ate my recipe cards. That, however, is a story for another day. Tabouleh recipe is below (and if you can figure out what it was missing - I suspect it was more than just the lemon - please share).
All that food? It was just the appetizer. The whole point of the evening was wine and pie. You put those two things together and you have something magical. Hence the catharsis. Give anyone enough sugar and alcohol and they'll have epiphanies they didn't even know they needed.
For me, pie comes once a year at Thanksgiving. I make an apple crunch pie that I found in an issue of Family Circle waaaaay back in the mid-1990s and have made every year since. It's the only pie I make.
In honor of wine and pie night, though, I ventured outside of my apple-y comfort zone and made a strawberry-rhubarb pie. With fresh rhubarb. I've eyed it at the grocery store countless times and never done a damn thing with it. But it's good stuff, that rhubarb. Pretty and pink and tart. Recipe is below.
My pie was served side-by-side with our hostess's Hershey Bar pie, a decadent mash-up of almond Hershey bars, marshmallows (I think?), Cool Whip and two other ingredients that I really wish I could remember right now. Even my kids liked that one. And they think pie is for sissies.
Gotta tell you - it's worth living in Limbo Land just for the food.
Recipes:
The Dog Ate My Tabouleh
Strawberry Rhubarb Pie (The Cheater's Version)
Which is how we come to wine and pie. And yes, there's a recipe in here ... two actually. Keep reading. We'll get to them. ("What?" you gasp. "She's talking about food? I totally forgot she did that.")
I am fortunate enough to have a large number of friends who love me to pieces and have been looking for an excuse to show it. One of these friends, when he saw me heading off into Limbo Land, realized he had two other friends who were living there too. He introduced us to each other. And now the three of us are also friends, tied together by the strangeness of our circumstances and by the fact that we happen to like each other. Our kids like each other, too. Coolness all around.
Last weekend, we got together with two other Limbo Land residents for an evening of wine, pie, and catharsis.
It was not all about the dessert. We kicked off the evening with a MiddleSouthEasternAsian smorgasbord that included homemade tahini hummus, spicy chick pea masala, green salad with feta, and a fragrant cinnamon beef and chicken and rice dish. There was also a big mess of tabouleh made with such dedication and commitment that every single leaf of parsley and mint was chopped by hand. I know this because I did all that chopping myself and my forearms still ache ... yes I own a food processor ... clearly I was not in my right mind. The tabouleh could have used a good bit more lemon. But it wasn't bad, considering I was winging the recipe from memory because the dog ate my recipe cards. That, however, is a story for another day. Tabouleh recipe is below (and if you can figure out what it was missing - I suspect it was more than just the lemon - please share).
All that food? It was just the appetizer. The whole point of the evening was wine and pie. You put those two things together and you have something magical. Hence the catharsis. Give anyone enough sugar and alcohol and they'll have epiphanies they didn't even know they needed.
For me, pie comes once a year at Thanksgiving. I make an apple crunch pie that I found in an issue of Family Circle waaaaay back in the mid-1990s and have made every year since. It's the only pie I make.
In honor of wine and pie night, though, I ventured outside of my apple-y comfort zone and made a strawberry-rhubarb pie. With fresh rhubarb. I've eyed it at the grocery store countless times and never done a damn thing with it. But it's good stuff, that rhubarb. Pretty and pink and tart. Recipe is below.
My pie was served side-by-side with our hostess's Hershey Bar pie, a decadent mash-up of almond Hershey bars, marshmallows (I think?), Cool Whip and two other ingredients that I really wish I could remember right now. Even my kids liked that one. And they think pie is for sissies.
Gotta tell you - it's worth living in Limbo Land just for the food.
Recipes:
The Dog Ate My Tabouleh
- 1 cup bulgur
- 4 cloves garlic, minced
- 1/4 c olive oil
- 1 bunch of scallions, green parts and all, thinly sliced
- 2 bunches of parsley, chopped fine (take my advice and use the food processor)
- 2 packs of mint (about 1/2 c when chopped - hey, if you drop it in the food processor with the parsley, you'll really be cooking!)
- 1 seedless English cucumber, peeled (mostly) and diced
- 4-6 tomatoes with actual flavor, seeded and diced
- The juice of 4 lemons. I only had 2. Use 4. Or more. Lemon is good.
- Salt & pepper to taste
Strawberry Rhubarb Pie (The Cheater's Version)
- 4 c trimmed rhubarb, sliced about 1/2 inch thick (about 1 1/2 lbs if you're buying it fresh - though frozen will do)
- 1 lb (16 oz) strawberries, hulled and cut in half (my diva cut the strawberries - girl's got mad skills with a paring knife)
- 1/2 c packed brown sugar
- 1/2 c granulated sugar
- 1/4 c cornstarch (though I'm thinking tapioca might work better)
- 1 tsp ground cinnamon
- 1/4 tsp vanilla
- 1/4 tsp salt
- One refrigerated Pillsbury pie crust (that's the cheating part - if you want to go whole hog, find a good two-crust recipe and make it instead)
- 1 large egg yolk beaten with 1 tsp water
June 16, 2009
One Crazy Summer
A friend reminded me today that I need to get back to the meat and potatoes of this blog ... Get it? Meat and potatoes? Since this blog is meant to be, at least a little bit, about food.
I do love food. Thing is, though, I'm really not a foodie. So mostly this is about family and the ever-changing nature of life in limbo, viewed through the window of a few happy meals (not Happy Meals, but actual happy meals) - hence, the rosemary-colored glasses.
Problem is, I'm not cooking. Or even consuming much beyond coffee, Cheerios and the occasional nectarine. I'm far too busy managing the insanity of my first summer in a single-parent household.
The most obvious problem is the logistical nightmare that is getting everyone from Point A to Point B. See, I signed the kids up for track and field, sponsored by the local rec league. It's cheap, it's something to do, and it gets the kids out of the house and moving. It's also three evenings a week. Combine that with Boy Scouts and swimming, free movies and play dates, mom's busy job and our one-and-only car ... well, let's just say that an iPhone with a nice scheduling app might come in handy. (Mostly because I'm drooling over the new iPhones. I buy the hype and believe an iPhone will change my life. But that's beside the point.)
The bigger issue? Summer means far, far less time for me.
It sounds horribly selfish, doesn't it? But here's the thing. Remember lesson number one? You've got to make time for you. I've made a commitment here.
Well, I looked at my schedule today and realized that, outside of a solo weekend trip to Connecticut ('cause that one really is - almost - all about me), every single weekend between now and mid-August has been spoken for by someone else. And September is starting to fill up, too.
A lot of this is incredibly good stuff that I'm truly and deeply excited about: a first-ever family reunion to celebrate my dad's 70th birthday, visits from our adored former au pairs, and a whole two weeks in the Pacific Northwest with the kids. And in September not one but two reunions - one for high school (25 years - egad!) and one for a group of close friends from college.
That's all good, and I'm over the moon about it. I really am. It's my kids and my family, and it's old friends, and these are far and away the most important things in my universe.
But part of me still thinks summer is a time for easy evenings in the backyard with good friends, a glass of wine, and something grilled & yummy to nibble on. Laughter and crickets and conversation, sprinkled with a little time on your own, a good book and a knitting bag full of yarn. Unscheduled. Unhurried. Peaceful.
That part of me is a little cranky right now.
I know the peace is in there, in this overplanned summer. And I'll find it, in the friends, in the family, and even in my loud, crazy, beautiful kids. And I will find some time for me.
Right now, though, I'll spend some time wallowing in the cranky. I'm glad it's there. Because this bit of crank? It means I've finally learned my lesson.
I do love food. Thing is, though, I'm really not a foodie. So mostly this is about family and the ever-changing nature of life in limbo, viewed through the window of a few happy meals (not Happy Meals, but actual happy meals) - hence, the rosemary-colored glasses.
Problem is, I'm not cooking. Or even consuming much beyond coffee, Cheerios and the occasional nectarine. I'm far too busy managing the insanity of my first summer in a single-parent household.
The most obvious problem is the logistical nightmare that is getting everyone from Point A to Point B. See, I signed the kids up for track and field, sponsored by the local rec league. It's cheap, it's something to do, and it gets the kids out of the house and moving. It's also three evenings a week. Combine that with Boy Scouts and swimming, free movies and play dates, mom's busy job and our one-and-only car ... well, let's just say that an iPhone with a nice scheduling app might come in handy. (Mostly because I'm drooling over the new iPhones. I buy the hype and believe an iPhone will change my life. But that's beside the point.)
The bigger issue? Summer means far, far less time for me.
It sounds horribly selfish, doesn't it? But here's the thing. Remember lesson number one? You've got to make time for you. I've made a commitment here.
Well, I looked at my schedule today and realized that, outside of a solo weekend trip to Connecticut ('cause that one really is - almost - all about me), every single weekend between now and mid-August has been spoken for by someone else. And September is starting to fill up, too.
A lot of this is incredibly good stuff that I'm truly and deeply excited about: a first-ever family reunion to celebrate my dad's 70th birthday, visits from our adored former au pairs, and a whole two weeks in the Pacific Northwest with the kids. And in September not one but two reunions - one for high school (25 years - egad!) and one for a group of close friends from college.
That's all good, and I'm over the moon about it. I really am. It's my kids and my family, and it's old friends, and these are far and away the most important things in my universe.
But part of me still thinks summer is a time for easy evenings in the backyard with good friends, a glass of wine, and something grilled & yummy to nibble on. Laughter and crickets and conversation, sprinkled with a little time on your own, a good book and a knitting bag full of yarn. Unscheduled. Unhurried. Peaceful.
That part of me is a little cranky right now.
I know the peace is in there, in this overplanned summer. And I'll find it, in the friends, in the family, and even in my loud, crazy, beautiful kids. And I will find some time for me.
Right now, though, I'll spend some time wallowing in the cranky. I'm glad it's there. Because this bit of crank? It means I've finally learned my lesson.
June 14, 2009
Cool Links: Divorce Cakes
Was totally not going to blog today. At all. Doing too much of it lately. But I found this link in the "Cake Wrecks" area on Facebook. The concept is utterly brilliant, and I had to share. Just disappointed these creative cakers came up with the idea of divorce cakes before I did.
Don't know how to do this in any kind of cool way without pulling someone else's copyrighted images into my blog. So it's straight-up links today. Visit the Sun-Sentinel's photogallery ... it's only five photos but they are gorgeous and funny and worth two minutes of your time. Additional handful of images available on the site of the bakery, Elite Cake Creations, in Pembroke Pines, Florida.
I should not be enjoying these nearly as much as I am.
Don't know how to do this in any kind of cool way without pulling someone else's copyrighted images into my blog. So it's straight-up links today. Visit the Sun-Sentinel's photogallery ... it's only five photos but they are gorgeous and funny and worth two minutes of your time. Additional handful of images available on the site of the bakery, Elite Cake Creations, in Pembroke Pines, Florida.
I should not be enjoying these nearly as much as I am.
June 11, 2009
Musical Youth
I used to like real music.
This is a revelation, because the last 20 years have turned me into a soccer mom. I know this because iTunes keeps trying to sell me something called the Soccer Mom Mix. It's embarrassing - I do have some musical pride. But it is, sadly, true. My iPod draws rather predictably from American Idol and the soundtrack to Grey's Anatomy, with a handful of tunes picked out by my kids. Soccer mom, to a T.
But it wasn't always this way. In the early '80s, I spent my summers hanging out at embassies in small, over-populated Asian nations with expat kids from all over the world. We danced our feet raw on the weekends. Met a lot of new music that way - especially British music. Developed a taste for punk, new wave, synthpop - a half-step before the stuff really hit in the States. The Clash, Bronski Beat, Yaz, Squeeze, Elvis Costello, Depeche Mode. Even the older, post-punky U2. I've got all these and more on vinyl somewhere in my basement.
I love my iPod. But I do miss my vinyl.
Tonight I went to a Psychedelic Furs concert. Had to be prodded into going. Was very worried that I liked them, back in the day, just because they were British and sorta punky and that was my thing. Figured that my new soccer-mom ears would hate them.
Not so. Apparently I had some taste. Many people - generally those who didn't live through it - think of the '80s and hear Wham! and Whitney Houston in their heads. But there was, in fact, good music back then. And these guys were among those making it. There is no official Furs web site ... but "Ghost In You" on YouTube is one of their more recognizable tunes (slightly dated, with the heavy synthesizer, but still so pretty, and the lyrics resonate for me at the moment).
Now, forgive me if I've gotten some of the terms and timelines wrong. It's been a looooong time since I paid any attention to this stuff, and we all know that babies eat brain cells.
Which actually brings me to my point: another one of those lessons learned in limbo (see "Call Me Couscous" for the first one).
Lesson 2: Remember who you are. Or were.
I lost my music to my kids and the chaos of life and a not-yet-ex who was, quite simply, more into music than I was. I tended to follow his tastes rather than form my own.
My music was just a little tiny bit of my soul. But it was mine, and if you give up enough little tiny bits, you find you've lost a great, big bit somewhere along the way.
It is, fortunately, never too late to get it back.
I know, I forgot the food. Again. It's there - we had dinner at the venue - onion rings with a spicy jalapeno mayo, a fair-to-middlin' entree salad, and a flavorful, richly brewed stout with a hint of vanilla. But the music, and the lesson, were far more important.
This is a revelation, because the last 20 years have turned me into a soccer mom. I know this because iTunes keeps trying to sell me something called the Soccer Mom Mix. It's embarrassing - I do have some musical pride. But it is, sadly, true. My iPod draws rather predictably from American Idol and the soundtrack to Grey's Anatomy, with a handful of tunes picked out by my kids. Soccer mom, to a T.
But it wasn't always this way. In the early '80s, I spent my summers hanging out at embassies in small, over-populated Asian nations with expat kids from all over the world. We danced our feet raw on the weekends. Met a lot of new music that way - especially British music. Developed a taste for punk, new wave, synthpop - a half-step before the stuff really hit in the States. The Clash, Bronski Beat, Yaz, Squeeze, Elvis Costello, Depeche Mode. Even the older, post-punky U2. I've got all these and more on vinyl somewhere in my basement.
I love my iPod. But I do miss my vinyl.
Tonight I went to a Psychedelic Furs concert. Had to be prodded into going. Was very worried that I liked them, back in the day, just because they were British and sorta punky and that was my thing. Figured that my new soccer-mom ears would hate them.
Not so. Apparently I had some taste. Many people - generally those who didn't live through it - think of the '80s and hear Wham! and Whitney Houston in their heads. But there was, in fact, good music back then. And these guys were among those making it. There is no official Furs web site ... but "Ghost In You" on YouTube is one of their more recognizable tunes (slightly dated, with the heavy synthesizer, but still so pretty, and the lyrics resonate for me at the moment).
Now, forgive me if I've gotten some of the terms and timelines wrong. It's been a looooong time since I paid any attention to this stuff, and we all know that babies eat brain cells.
Which actually brings me to my point: another one of those lessons learned in limbo (see "Call Me Couscous" for the first one).
Lesson 2: Remember who you are. Or were.
I lost my music to my kids and the chaos of life and a not-yet-ex who was, quite simply, more into music than I was. I tended to follow his tastes rather than form my own.
My music was just a little tiny bit of my soul. But it was mine, and if you give up enough little tiny bits, you find you've lost a great, big bit somewhere along the way.
It is, fortunately, never too late to get it back.
I know, I forgot the food. Again. It's there - we had dinner at the venue - onion rings with a spicy jalapeno mayo, a fair-to-middlin' entree salad, and a flavorful, richly brewed stout with a hint of vanilla. But the music, and the lesson, were far more important.
May 11, 2009
The Best Way to Burn Waffles
This life in limbo, it's a bit like a roller coaster. One where you can't quite see the track, so every up and every down comes at you at 125 mph with no warning. All you know is that you're hurtling through space with your feet dangling in mid-air, and you haven't the foggiest idea what is going to happen next.
I hate roller coasters.
So, this morning, I overcooked the waffles. The toaster waffles. Yes, that's right. I burned Eggos. Bet you didn't even know that was possible.
This after probably my worst Mother's Day ever.
It started off well. My not-yet-ex brought the kids to me late enough in the day that I had a nice sleep, and even better, he was armed with eight doughnuts and a carefully selected DVD all wrapped up in pretty paper. And my kids, they showered me with thoughtful gifts they'd made in school.
Then, all hell broke loose.
It was the doughnuts that did it. There was one pink one with sprinkles, and everyone wanted it. The battle for it began as soon as the gift-giving ended. For the entire rest of the day, they showered me with screaming tantrums, constant arguments, and lots of "No!" My Aspie had not had his meds, so he was spinning through the house like a top, into everything, pushing at everyone, not able to settle. My unnaturally strong three-year-old up-ended - and broke - the coffee table. Everyone was a screaming, whining, horrific mess.
Then, at dinner, as a cap to this oh-so-lovely day, I dropped a full two quarts of iced tea all over my kitchen. Splatters on every cabinet, under the fridge, inside the fridge. I used up 7 dishtowels cleaning it up. And I burst into tears, right there in the kitchen.
My kids did not even look up from the table. But I could hear their conversation.
My diva: "Um, is mom crying?"
My Aspie: "I don't know."
My diva: "I really think she's crying."
My Aspie: "Why is she crying?"
My diva: "I don't know. Maybe we should cheer her up?"
My Aspie: "Oh, yeah! Let's tell her a story!"
... and then the three of them launched into a massive screaming battle over who would get to tell the story, who would be in the story, and how it would end.
That is when I finally gave up. Trundled them off to bed immediately and hunted down the ibuprofen.
I think they remembered though. So, this morning, they met me with hugs and kisses and gifts of gorgeous drawings that "use up the whole page." I got a warm and sweaty matchbox car from a warm and sweaty little hand, and a sweet "Mommy, play with me!" from my three-year-old. My daughter wrote a song for me, then let me do her hair and didn't say "ouch" even once. And my Aspie gave me no complaints - not one - when I reminded him to finish his homework.
All that, followed by a three-part chorus of, "I love you! You're the best mommy ever!"
Mother's Day, take two.
So I burned the waffles. Too busy with the hugs and the kisses to get them out of the toaster oven. And my beautiful, smart, loving children? They ate them. Every bite.
I hate roller coasters.
So, this morning, I overcooked the waffles. The toaster waffles. Yes, that's right. I burned Eggos. Bet you didn't even know that was possible.
This after probably my worst Mother's Day ever.
It started off well. My not-yet-ex brought the kids to me late enough in the day that I had a nice sleep, and even better, he was armed with eight doughnuts and a carefully selected DVD all wrapped up in pretty paper. And my kids, they showered me with thoughtful gifts they'd made in school.
Then, all hell broke loose.
It was the doughnuts that did it. There was one pink one with sprinkles, and everyone wanted it. The battle for it began as soon as the gift-giving ended. For the entire rest of the day, they showered me with screaming tantrums, constant arguments, and lots of "No!" My Aspie had not had his meds, so he was spinning through the house like a top, into everything, pushing at everyone, not able to settle. My unnaturally strong three-year-old up-ended - and broke - the coffee table. Everyone was a screaming, whining, horrific mess.
Then, at dinner, as a cap to this oh-so-lovely day, I dropped a full two quarts of iced tea all over my kitchen. Splatters on every cabinet, under the fridge, inside the fridge. I used up 7 dishtowels cleaning it up. And I burst into tears, right there in the kitchen.
My kids did not even look up from the table. But I could hear their conversation.
My diva: "Um, is mom crying?"
My Aspie: "I don't know."
My diva: "I really think she's crying."
My Aspie: "Why is she crying?"
My diva: "I don't know. Maybe we should cheer her up?"
My Aspie: "Oh, yeah! Let's tell her a story!"
... and then the three of them launched into a massive screaming battle over who would get to tell the story, who would be in the story, and how it would end.
That is when I finally gave up. Trundled them off to bed immediately and hunted down the ibuprofen.
I think they remembered though. So, this morning, they met me with hugs and kisses and gifts of gorgeous drawings that "use up the whole page." I got a warm and sweaty matchbox car from a warm and sweaty little hand, and a sweet "Mommy, play with me!" from my three-year-old. My daughter wrote a song for me, then let me do her hair and didn't say "ouch" even once. And my Aspie gave me no complaints - not one - when I reminded him to finish his homework.
All that, followed by a three-part chorus of, "I love you! You're the best mommy ever!"
Mother's Day, take two.
So I burned the waffles. Too busy with the hugs and the kisses to get them out of the toaster oven. And my beautiful, smart, loving children? They ate them. Every bite.
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