Category Archives: The Domestic Front

Transplant

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A pot of flowers doesn’t seem like much. It can’t begin to compensate for the loss of rose beds, lemon trees, azaleas just coming into their glory. But at least it’s something to greet my in-laws the day they’ll cram what they can from sixty years of marriage into two tiny rooms in their new retirement home.

My husband’s parents have never much cared about material things; flowers are the one indulgence they allow themselves. A pale yellow Cecil Bruner rose foams over the entry of the Craftsman bungalow they are about to leave behind. Bluebells, daisies, holly—every season’s bounty—grace the coffee table in their living room. Now the vases, furniture, and garden tools have all been donated to charity. My father-in-law, who disapproves of brooding as a foolish waste of time, has banished all misgivings about their imminent uprooting. Still, he confessed to me a few days earlier that he felt a pang as his prized roses started to leaf out. He will want a bit of dirt to fuss over.

At the nursery, I select lemon-yellow ranunculus, blue pansies, white impatiens, and a single periwinkle to spill over the edge of a big ceramic planter the color of cream. The rich black potting soil tumbles from bag to bowl. I carefully ease the flowers out of their plastic cubes and transplant them into the readied dirt, adding soil to fill in the empty spaces. I give the pot a gentle soaking. It looks perfect.

I arrive at the retirement home an hour before the movers and my in-laws are due. Yellow caution tape, the kind used in crime scenes, blocks the path to the 4- by 6-foot concrete pad we charitably call a patio. Perhaps the dismantling of a long life is indeed a crime, but I am too rushed to appreciate the symbolism.

I inquire at the front desk about the obstruction.

“Which unit are your in-laws moving into?” asks the receptionist.

“It’s on the end, overlooking the swamp,” I say.

“We don’t call it a swamp,” she admonishes before explaining that the path is cordoned off due to high tide warnings. “We say ‘marsh.’”

Since my in-laws refer to their fellow residents as “inmates,” I imagine them bristling at the euphemisms, if not the rising waters, about to engulf them. They may be old, but they’re nobody’s fools.

Swamp or marsh, it is clear that no senior citizens will be allowed to wander off into a flood zone, so I resign myself to a treacherous detour. Bracing against the weight of the pot, I gingerly pick my way across soggy hillocks toward the patio. A few more steps and I’ll be home free on the solid concrete.

As I bend to put the pot in place, it slips out of my arms. I watch helplessly, unable to reverse the inexorable crash. Dirt and ceramic shards are everywhere. The flowers I had so tenderly transplanted now lay crushed under two cubic feet of soil.

I pull the biggest shard from the rubble, frantically combing through the dirt with my bare hands. The sweet blue faces of the pansies emerge, and here is the tattered head of the ranunculus. One after another I toss the survivors onto the shard. It is a cool, overcast day; with enough soil clinging to their roots, perhaps the flowers will pull through.

But I cannot yet tend to the shocked transplants. I still have a “Welcome” banner to install, a mess to clean up.

I shake the dirt off my jeans and sneakers as best I can, and struggle to unlock the front door. My in-laws are zealously tidy; their new home, with all the charm of a chain motel, at least makes up in spotlessness what it lacks in character. Or at least it did before I tracked in dirt. Now the traces of my good intentions are ground into the carpet.

I affix the “Welcome” banner to the blank walls. Fishing a crumpled tissue out of my pocket, I blot up the mess as much as possible before finally turning my attention to the drooping plants.

Bare handed, I scoop up some of the soil from the patio into the plastic nursery pots, sweep the rest into the grass with the side of my foot, then head home with my load of distressed flowers and dirt.

There I find an old terra cotta pot, slightly battered, with a patina of dirt and mildew. Filling it almost to the brim with the salvaged potting soil, I carefully transplant each bedraggled flower, once again troweling in dirt around the edges, gently misting off stray soil before giving everything a good drink. The blossoms are wilted from their ordeal, but are starting to perk up a little.

I hope they’ll take root in their new home.

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I wrote this four years ago when my in-laws made their big move. They’ve taken root just fine, as has my father-in-law’s garden! 

Out with the Old, In with the . . . ?

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January 2015 calendarBefore the fresh start to the New Year started going a bit stale, I got a jump on things during the lull between Christmas and January 1. With no more presents to wrap, holiday feasts to prepare, and most of my clients out of town, I had plenty of time. Most of it I spent hiking in the glorious crisp weather we had following the deluges that brought green to the parched hills and a brief fantasy that our drought might be over. (It isn’t, but what’s the point of New Year’s if not hoping for things that will soon fail to materialize?)

When I wasn’t hiking, I was unsubscribing. Not quite ready to tackle the actual clutter in closets and drawers I’d resolved to conquer, I could at least take a stab at virtual clutter. How satisfying to hunt down the microscopic click here from all the defeated congressional candidates we’d supported who were now sending holiday greetings while asking for more money. And kudos to the Sierra Club, which uses a big font for Unsubscribe—not so worthy of praise that it kept me from clicking, but still, I appreciate their thoughtfulness. The ever-persistent requests for $3,$5, $10, ANYTHING, PLEASE, WE’RE SO DESPERATE!!! from the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee, like the mosquito that whines in the night, were harder to get rid of, but for the moment there’s no more buzz in my ear. Sorry, Nancy Pelosi. Bernie Sanders I kept on board, just in case.

Since I felt so good about purging emails, I moved on to purging my stacks of unread New York Reviews collecting dust on my night stand.  Vowing to be ruthless, I decided beforehand to stop only for articles about “The Serial.” Since the New York Review is too high-falutin to traffic in the most popular podcast ever, I was able to make short work of my tall pile, though I did pause for a few essays, including Michael Chabon’s  short paean to Oakland, before remembering why I had never made it through Kavalier and Clay or The Yiddish Policemen’s Union. More successful at drawing me in was an article on the theory of broken windows policing—perfect for the New Year, since it’s another hopeful idea that hasn’t panned out too well. I passed on “What Happened to the Arab Spring?,” “Is There an Answer to Syria?,” and “Did Patrick Modiano Deserve It?” I guess I will never know, nor will I ever know who Patrick Modiano even is.

“Oh no!” my husband cried in dismay when I told him with relish of my purge, of my disloyalty to intellect and knowledge. But disregarding the opinion of others is one resolution that has gained traction over the years. My NYR-free nightstand has meant I am almost caught up on New Yorkers. And I finally began Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, which I have been magically thinking about reading for years.

Then there’s my favorite ritual of honoring the change in the calendar: packing away all the holiday ornaments and tossing the Christmas tree over the balcony.

Of course, now that I’ve unsubscribed from 2014, the question remains: What do I want to subscribe to in 2015?

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How about you? What do you want to unsubscribe from and subscribe to this year?

Storm

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Heavy rainThe storm of the decade was predicted this week. Since the last three years of the decade have brought severe drought, it seemed both a low bar and cause for great excitement.

Although ignoring the apocalypse of climate disruption that is already upon us, we all got busy preparing for the apocalypse of wind and rain about to hit. Sandbags were filled, flashlight batteries checked, schools canceled, and many told to stay home from work. My husband was not among them—since he works in communications for a power company, he was told to report to the emergency center at 4:00 a.m. until the storm was over. So he booked a hotel in the city a block from his work and kissed me goodbye. My boss, who is me, also frowned upon my staying home, as time off = money lost. Still, my boss is sensible, and agreed to play the storm by ear.

Meanwhile, I brought the plants inside from the balcony, stashed the plastic patio furniture in the garage, printed out stuff I needed to review in case we lost power, and charged my cell phone. I even remembered to take the wreath off the front door.

All that was left was to indulge my secret storm fantasy: Which is that the storm of the decade would make it clear that I should stay home from work. We would lose power, forcing me to stay off the Internet. This meant that until darkness fell, I would tackle projects that somehow never get done—sorting through boxes of photos, cleaning closets, creating separate, labeled files from stacks of important papers. Then, in an act of supreme self-sacrifice, I would launch a salvage operation by eating all the Haagen Dazs in the freezer before it melted. I went to bed prepared for the worst, hoping for the best (which, according to some interpretations, was the same thing).

Anxious text messages from our daughters in Brooklyn and Barcelona kept dinging me awake: DON’T DRIVE TO BERKELEY!!! STAY SAFE. LOOK OUT FOR FALLING TREES AND LANDSLIDES, AND DON’T DRIVE! Their alarm was fortunate, as I might have otherwise slept through the total absence of wind and pitter-pattering rain drops. My daughters’ concern reminded me of being alerted to the dangers of the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake by my mother, watching news reports 3,000 miles away while I sat working undisturbed with my clients as the building gently swayed. 

By morning, it had begun to rain a little, so I set out for my daily latte and walk, donning rain boots, rain pants, and my husband’s surplus rain poncho. First stop was Barton’s Bagels, to buy a bag of day-olds, but the shelf was empty. Apparently bagels were a popular item to stockpile the day before so parents who were losing their minds could feed their cooped-up kids something for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Wishing to stockpile calories burned for the Haagen Dazs frenzy that might hopefully possibly still come, I did my usual uphill walk, deterred only slightly by guys cutting up a downed tree, which they would not let me skirt. Then it was time to drive across the bay for work, a commute that was far better than usual since so many people stayed home. Parking was also much better than usual. At the end of a long day, I drove home, again in record time.

I heated up some soup for dinner. The Haagen Dazs was saved, as was my holiday weight-management plan. And that’s my report on the Apocalypse Formerly Known as Rain.

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Californians who don’t remember what that wet stuff is–how’d you are in the storm?

 

Out of the Box

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Recipes spilling out on counterMy daughter Ally says I’m a hoarder. She may have a point. As I search the cupboards for a spanakopita recipe gone missing, hundreds of loose clippings cascade to the floor.

Not one is from my mother. She’s bequeathed many wonderful things, but heirloom recipes and a deft hand in the kitchen are not among them. What tumbled from my mother’s cupboards were boxes of Cheez-Its and Ring-Dings. Mostly they brought private relief from the black hole of suburban housewifery. But every afternoon when I came home from school, my mother shared her stash while I shared the ins and outs of the day. I loved licking the salty orange dust from my fingertips and how the glazed chocolate shell yielded to the cake’s soft interior.

Since my mother’s cooking skills were limited to sprinkling onion soup mix atop a cheap cut of beef, most of my childhood meals came from a box. We had almost no cookbooks. Just an ancient Fannie Farmer and a pristine Mastering the Art of French Cooking, the latter a gift from my father laden with hope and rebuke. One prized paperback summed up my mother’s culinary philosophy: Peg Bracken’s I Hate to Cook Book.

But I loved to cook, or at least to experiment, and my mother loved to indulge my whims. Perhaps hoping to someday palm off the task of feeding us night after unending night, she never minded the spills on the counter or the mess of bowls in the sink. My first made-from-scratch cake had the heft and taste of a hockey puck. Yet my mother and I delighted in the rainbow frosting magically created from just four squeeze bottles of food coloring. By high school, I had graduated to fancy-dress dinner parties for my friends featuring Boeuf Bourguignon. Julia Child was at last put to good use. Still mastering the art of baking, I also served an inedible Apple Harvest Cake as cloying as marshmallow fluff.

I have been collecting recipes ever since, and am renowned for my cakes–chocolate-espresso tortes, lemon bundts that pucker the mouth into permanent ecstasy, an apple-walnut cake that lays to rest the ghastly sweet ghost of its predecessor.

My daughter and I have continued the ritual of sharing gossip and snacks in the kitchen, with one crucial difference. From the time Ally could stand, she’s been folding wet ingredients into dry, absorbing my preference for food made from scratch. Once she even pulverized Cheez-Its, reconstituted the crumbs with water, and baked the soggy mass in a quest for home-baked goodness. When Ally left for college, I hand-copied her favorite recipes into a scrapbook. Like my mother, I enjoy the fruits of my encouragement, and of Ally’s labor: she gladly cooks for us every time she’s home.

Ally has a lot of recipes to choose from: The Joy of Cooking competes for shelf space with whole volumes dedicated to soup, chicken, pasta, chocolate, every world cuisine and passing food fad. Weight Watchers and vegetarian cookbooks stand ready in case I ever follow through on my good intentions.

But the books are nothing compared to big manila envelopes stuffed with recipes culled from magazines, newspapers, and the mothers of ex-boyfriends. So I’ve hired my daughter, who’s looking to earn some extra cash between college and a real job, to tame the mess. True to her generation, Ally seeks a technological fix.

“Haven’t you heard of the internet?” she asks.

I have. But online browsing can’t compete with sitting down surrounded by stacks of books and clippings to plan a dinner party, a week’s menus, or how to use the odds and ends at the back of the fridge.

Ally is right, though: It’s gotten out of hand. So I set her up with scissors, double-stick tape, and notebooks to organize my recipes, most of which I’ve never tried. Like every hoarder, I hold out hope that someday I’ll put everything to use.

“When are you ever going to make Buche de Noel with Meringue Mushrooms?” Ally inquires.

I swear that this year will be different from Christmases past. But Ally lacks faith that my plans for show-stopper desserts will no longer fall victim to last-minute wrapping. Nor does she appreciate the value of multiples. Otherwise, she wouldn’t bother asking, “Do you really need another recipe for dal?”

Hmmm. Letting go is hard, but I suppose not. One for the “Discard” pile.

“How many different kinds of chocolate cake do you plan to bake?” Ally persists.

All of them. Chocolate has its own special “Keep” pile.

Now I get why hoarders go psychotic when well-intentioned relatives trick them into leaving the house, then move in with dumpsters. Since Ally clearly cannot be trusted with sorting, I must discern my own treasure from trash.

Sifting through 40 years’ worth of recipes is like an archeological dig. Excavating the layers uncovers a civilization once heedless of time and cholesterol—1 cup heavy cream, ½ pound grated cheddar, ½ pound ham, just to make a noodle casserole. Or Duck Gallantine, which involves boning a duck and rendering fat for many hours. I have rendered a lot of fat in my life, and most of it is on my hips. I prefer a faster route, via scrumptious chocolate layer bars.

The dig also reveals an era of unexecuted dinner parties that would have led to insurrection by Downton Abbey’s kitchen staff: Roast Saddle of Veal with Mushroom Sauce for 12; Ham Braised in Port with Brown-Sugar Crust for 20. My early browsing exposes a period of sheer fantasy: enough time and money, matching china and crystal, and a couple of Masterpiece cooks on loan from BBC.

This by-gone epoch is overlaid by the reality of young family life, with lots of hidden-vegetable recipes. Next comes the modern era of chicken every which way and grains previously known only to ancient Incas.

Finally I am ready to turn over the clippings that have escaped the recycling bin. Ally sets to work as I hover nearby to make sure she doesn’t jettison my multiple cheesecake recipes.

Now we are cooking! In no time at all, Ally has brought order from chaos. She is also salivating. “Let’s make Portobello Bourguignon!” she exclaims, echoing my youthful pick with a vegetarian version sure to win over Julia Child.

And so we do, working side by side, peeling, chopping, sharing the ins and outs of the day. I imagine my mother, Ring Ding in one hand, saluting us with a box of Cheez-Its in the other.

(Originally published in skirt! Magazine)

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What are your family’s food and cooking traditions? How do you organize your recipes? Any favorites you’d care to share? (I’ve cheated and found some links for some of the drool-worthy ones I mention, but of course they are missing my tweaks and all the stains on the page. And alas, I could not find Tart’s chocolate-espresso torte recipe, so you will have to come paw through my tattered index cards.)

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Getting Out the Vote

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Absentee BallotsMy husband and I are political junkies—or at least we were until we had to stop following the news to preserve our mental health. Still, we consider voting a duty, not a privilege. So when our eldest daughter turned 18 in 2006, I wrapped her birthday presents in voter registration forms.

Even then, back in the days when hope was ascendant and our fervor less dampened, voting was complicated. For Emma’s first election, we sat down together at the dining room table piled high with Voter Guides, newspaper clippings and endorsements, and a small forest’s worth of glossy political ads. The lesson commenced.

“It’s pretty impossible to be well informed about all the issues and candidates,” I instructed. “So one strategy is to follow the recommendations of people you trust. Or compare all the editorial endorsements of various newspapers and average them out.”

“Then there’s plenty of well-intended but poorly drafted initiatives. You have to decide what message you want to send or whether to vote purely on the merits. It’s perfectly reasonable to vote your ideals, but it’s also a good strategy to vote pragmatically. Sometimes, to be honest, I vote against whoever is using the most FULL CAPS in the voter information pamphlet—never trust someone who only knows how to shout.”

“This is really depressing,” sighed Emma, staring at hundreds of blank bubbles on her vote-by-mail ballot.

When our daughter Ally turned 18 three years later, she was less interested in my voter education drill. In fact, she registered in her college town, beyond the reach of my knowledge of local issues. Still, a mother can dream of eternal influence, so I sent Ally my trusted friend’s carefully researched election recommendations on statewide and federal choices.  I assumed she’d be thankful for my guidance.

Wrong again.

“I really don’t appreciate you sending me that,” declared Ally. “I’m trying to be my own person.”

I apologized immediately, adding how proud I was that she was following the issues and figuring things out for herself.

“How are you staying informed?” I ventured.

Ally replied, “I’m just going to vote according to this mailer I got from the Democratic Party.”

So much for Ally’s declaration of independence.

Always the child who suffered most from Post-Traumatic-Dinner-Table-Political-Rants, Ally has now removed herself even farther from our impassioned discussions and maternal interference, to Barcelona. So Jerry Brown and the Democrats will have to make do without her vote.

Emma, though, wanted me to send her mail-in ballot to Brooklyn, where she’s been temporarily sojourning as a starving artist. I am happy to report that she’s been calling for election advice.

Trouble is, now that hope has curdled, I have been shirking my civic responsibilities by being less well-informed. Of course I’ll vote, but I hadn’t quite gotten around to the research phase. So I suggested a couple of sources to check out, then gave the only reliable advice I could:

“Remember, the ballot must ARRIVE by the end of election day, not just be postmarked. So be sure to mail it in time. And please–let us know what you find out, so you can tell us how to vote.”

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What is your method of being an informed voter? How have you talked to your kids about politics and voting? Do they follow your lead? 

 

From Boyhood to Adulthood, Time Passes

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Hourglass

“We happen upon ourselves when nothing much happens to us, and we are transformed in the process.”  (Anthony Lane’s review of Boyhood in The New Yorker, July 21, 2014)

In Richard Linklater’s wonderful film, Boyhood, we see a boy and his family grow up throughout 12 years of real rather than simulated aging. Time itself is one of the lead actors. Toward the end of the film, the boy, Mason, talks with a young woman he meets on his first day of college. “Seize the moment,” they conclude about the adage, has it backwards. Actually, “the moment seizes you.”

Every one of Boyhood’s ­­164 minutes seized me through its assemblage of ordinary moments that constitute life. At my urging, my 23- and 26-year-old daughters went to see the film. They liked it, but both said it was more for middle-aged people than young ones. This strikes me as true, but why?

Perhaps a fundamental difference between how my daughters and I perceived the film stems from the fundamental difference between how children and adults perceive time. For kids, time passes slowly, excruciatingly or deliciously so. Adults, on the other hand, want to stop if not reverse the clock. They have a consciousness of aging that children lack. Linklater simultaneously captures a child’s moment-by-moment experience and the palpable nostalgic ache of adulthood. Longing for what is lost to time itself adds an extra dimension for the viewer old enough to have moved midway through time’s trajectory.

During one of Boyhood’s earliest scenes, Mason’s mother hands him a can of paint and asks him to cover up stray marks in preparation for moving. Mason whites out the lines on the door jamb marking his and his sister’s heights—measurements that are a yearly ritual for any family. We don’t know how six-year-old Mason experiences the moment. Perhaps he is eager to complete a task for his beleaguered mother, perhaps he’s annoyed that his sister chats on the phone while he works, perhaps he’s sad about the friends he’s about to leave behind. But surely the child feels the disruption of the present moment, not retrospective longing as his paintbrush obliterates the record of growth spurts.

Such nostalgia is the purview of adult viewers, if not Mason’s mother, who is mostly too harried and pragmatic to feel its pull until she is on the brink of the empty nest. That’s when time’s passage wallops her. As she despairingly imagines it, everything’s over in the blink of an eye,

For much of the time Linklater was writing and filming, “Always Now” was his working title. But the film might also be called “Looking Backward.” Again, it’s the difference in perspective between young and old, and between the young and old viewer. One unfolds to new possibilities while the other feels the sharp poignancy of what is already gone.

Maybe that’s why when young people get married, “Sunrise, Sunset” makes it onto the band’s playlist not for the newlyweds, but for their parents. And why Boyhood makes it onto my, but not my daughters’, all-time-favorites list.

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How has your perspective on time changed with age? And if you’ve seen Boyhood, what did you think of it? If you have kids who saw it, what did they think?

 

Invasion of the Childhood Snatchers

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Kids in tent with laptopWhile perusing the newspaper and sipping a latte at my favorite coffeehouse the other day, I was aghast to come across a full-page Comcast ad. (Thanks to the miracle of iPhones and picmonkey.com, you can view the image above.) As you can see, it shows two kids in a tent, glued to a glowing laptop screen. The bold heading floating in the night sky reads:

WHAT’S POSSIBLE WHEN WI-FI IS IN MORE PLACES?

Hovering like some creepy cyber miasma just above the tent are the words:

FRONT ROW IN THE BACKYARD

What is wrong with this picture?

Let me be clear. First, I am not a fan of camping, and have been known to long for creature comforts (like beds, let alone wi-fi) when forced to spend time in a tent. Second, I am not above the judicious use of TV, DVDs, and other more modern forms of screen bribery when raising children, particularly before dinner during what a friend refers to as the Suicide Hour. Many a meal has appeared on the table, and many a death has been prevented, thanks to Mother’s Little Electronic Helpers.

But seriously, Comcast’s invasion of childhood strikes even me as going a bit too far. Kids should be out traipsing around the woods looking for ET, not streaming him or his Despicable cousins on a laptop while hermetically zipped inside of a tent.

So I have only this to say to despicable Comcast:

WHY? FIE!

The Vote for Independence

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UK and Scottish flags

I was alarmed when I learned that 16- and 17-year-olds were allowed to vote in Scotland’s bid for independence. What might happen if complicated economic and social issues were fanned with the flames of developmental yearnings? Extending the franchise to such young people seemed as dubious as introducing Ayn Rand to resentful teenage boys. After all, what adolescent chafing for freedom doesn’t want to be the self-determining hero who defies the influence of the state?

It might be unwise to superimpose youthful reading follies or one’s own household experience onto geopolitical affairs. The Scottish independence movement rests on an uneasy history and understandable grievances about economic and social policies that favor the rich and southern countries at the expense of the North.

Still, I couldn’t help but think of my own children’s strivings for independence over the years: The two-year-old who insisted on negotiating a steep flight of stairs by herself, chanting, “Self! Self!” with every step. Perpetual refrains of, “You’re not the boss of me!” Then the heavy artillery of adolescence: “Stop treating me like a kid!” “It’s so unfair!” “I can’t wait to get out of here!”

Is it really that far from my house to the blended Houses of Stuart and Hanover? Let’s drop in on a typical family meeting as it might have been unfolding recently at Balmoral Castle. We join parents David and Elizabeth (aka Queenie) as they sit down for a serious talk with their teenager, Scot:

David: Scotty, your mother and I want to talk with you about this petition for emancipation you’ve filed.

Scot: Stop calling me Scotty. I’ve told you a million times I prefer Scot. Besides, what’s there to talk about? I’ve had it with you, and I’m leaving.

Queenie: Is this about our taking all those pound notes from your billfold without asking?

Scot: It’s so unfair.  You treat me like a serf. I’m outta here.”

David: Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t possibly make it on your own!

Scot: Sure I can! In fact, I’ll be better off without you.

Queenie (crying a little): How could you do this to us after all we’ve done for you? I’m tired of you blaming us for everything!

David (shouting as Scot gets up from the table): We’ll cut off your allowance! If you walk through that door, there’s no coming back!

Scot slams out of the room.

David (turning to console his weeping wife): There, there, dear. It’s just a bluff. Scotty will calm down and be back in time for dinner.

In the ensuing weeks, Scot is more resolute than ever. He hangs out with friends, eliciting sympathy and offers of supper and a spare bed from their mothers, who have never much liked those imperious snobs, David and Elizabeth.

We rejoin Scot’s parents as they argue over whether to double down on tough love, or reach out to their wayward child. 

Queenie: Perhaps we’ve been too harsh . . .

David: Nonsense! We can’t give in to these antics!

Elizabeth: Maybe we could grant a little bit more independence . . . a later curfew, more control over his money . . . I don’t want to lose him.

David (sighing as he reaches for the phone): Scotty, er . . . Scot . . . It’s me, Dad. Listen, your mother and I want you to know we miss you. We love you very much and wish you’d come back. Can we talk?

A few hours later, Scot strolls through the front door.

Scot: Now that I’ve got your attention . . .

Or something like that . . .

Now the ballots have been counted. Scotland, despite the youth vote, has decided to stick with the parental unit. Perhaps the realities of going it alone registered; perhaps gaining concessions, more autonomy, and a later curfew were sufficient. With high-fives for democracy all around, the UK and Scotland are still one big, happy, dysfunctional family.

Which may be about as good as it gets for reasonable households and countries everywhere.

Muse on Strike

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On Strike signSince everything is copy, we writers appropriate everything—conversations with friends and colleagues, snippets from eavesdropping, news, movies, domestic and geopolitical dramas. Sometimes this habit of appropriation tempts us into being inappropriate.

Mothers who write, especially those who find their children to be a reliable Muse, face even greater challenges. Such as, “How do I mine all this rich material without leading to (a) lawsuits; (b) children needing to be in therapy all their lives; or (c) children writing another Mommie Dearest, assuming they’ve benefited from all that therapy and have inherited a knack for writing and retribution?

Caution is the watchword, at least once your child learns to read. Just as adorable nude shots of your toddler must be removed from photo albums before dating commences, so, too, must the experience you co-opt not be too embarrassing or revealing. Remember, just as some zealous Walgreen’s clerk might misconstrue your innocent pictures and report you to the child pornography hotline, so, too, may your writing land you in trouble.

Long ago I acquired a fig leaf of maternal decency by asking my daughters how they felt about my writing. Emma said, “I don’t care what you write as long as I don’t have to read it.” Ally, always the go-getter, said, “I don’t care what you write as long as I get a cut.”

I took that as full license. Exercised with great sensitivity and familiarity with libel laws, of course!

Recently, though, Emma remarked, “I read somewhere that you should never write about your children.”

A better mother might have responded, “Oh? Tell me more.” Or, “How are you feeling about my writing (which you never read) these days?” Or even, God forbid, “OK, I’ll stop.”

Instead I cried indignantly, “You’re changing the terms!”

Looks like it might be time to renegotiate the contract with my disgruntled muse before she walks out on me altogether.

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How do you handle writing about your kids? And what’s it been like to read about yourself in someone else’s writing?

Dinosaur Extinction

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Dinosaur plateThe plate is at the top of the stairs, where we put stuff we’re ready to donate.

“That’s odd,” I think to myself. But things have ended up in stranger places when my husband unloads the dishwasher. Jonathan forgives my never remembering how to use the flash drive, and I forgive his never knowing where anything goes.

I put the plate back in the cupboard. Jonathan takes it out again.

“Do we really need this anymore?” he sighs.

“Yes! ”  I reply, a little too adamantly.

“See if you can move it somewhere else. It’s in the way.”

Smiling dinosaurs in bright colors chase each other around the plate’s rim. Three separate compartments enforce the First Commandment of Children’s Food: Thou Shalt Not Touch. Smooth melamine ridges segregate the applesauce from the mac and cheese. Suspicious interlopers like spinach are safely sequestered in their own tiny corral. The brave toddler who stomachs the two-bite portion is rewarded by uncovering twin baby triceratops frolicking with their delighted mom. She, no doubt, is also encouraging her offspring’s herbivorous adventures.

My wary toddlers are now 23 and 26. They favor fusion foods and can be trusted with dishes that shatter.

Still, I need this plate. The dinosaur era is one of the sweeter pleasures of parenting. What other passions appeal to both sexes, all ages, inspire awe, and transform a trip to the museum from torture into an adventure? Besides, I have packed so much away in packing my children off to adulthood; I’m not yet ready to say goodbye to the little green creature hatching out of its eggshell. Maybe our grandchildren will eat from this plate someday, discerning T-rexes from brontosauruses as they diddle with their vegetables.

My husband’s ready, though. He wants to clear out the cupboards to make room for what the children’s needs have obscured. What might we assemble together without all the clutter?

With one last fond sigh, I put the plate on the donate pile.