Mommy's Pen

A writer's notes on family

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Archives for January 2011

The Italian Gave Me My Instructions

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At quarter to five, I opened the door to aftercare and Nora spotted me. She immediately started shaking her head, “I don’t want to go! I just started playing! I just finished my snack!”

“She’s been eating since three o’clock!” Her teacher said, in awe.

“You know what Miss Erin calls her, don’t you? The Italian.” She’s into slow food.

I walked over to Nora, who was playing in a sand pail, ignoring me.

“Hey kiddo, I know you want to play for a few minutes, so let’s make a deal. You can play while I go potty, and then when I come back in, we’ll go home okay?”

“Okay, but I really want to play.”

“I know, I’ll be so slow, okay?”

“Go poop!”

“I’ll try.”

“So much!”

“Okay, kiddo. Alright.”

She Didn’t Get it From Me

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When I was a kid, the list of what I would eat was a short one:
  •  scrambled eggs
  • Kraft macaroni and cheese
  • Kraft singles
  • white bread
  • Cheetos
  • hot dogs
  • Oscar Meyer Bologna
  • frosting

No amount of parental cajoling or threatening could expand my palette.  I could sit at the table for hours and wait out my dad’s plate finishing commands.   My parents were busy people.  At least my preferences meant they didn’t have to cook.   

If you asked me what my favorite food was I would have said, “Cheese.” I would have meant Kraft singles.  I ate so much cheese as a kid, my big brother nick-named me “Rodent.” 

 Fast forward to today.  Nora will eat almost anything.  She once asked me to add capers to her lasagna.   

I just asked her what her favorite food was and she replied, “Um, all the foods.” 

Here she is eating a smoked oyster.

 Here is a list of what she won’t eat:  

  •  Mushrooms
  • Things people tell her are spicy (if you don’t tell her, she doesn’t notice a moderate amount of spice)

The list used to be longer, but I recently convinced her to give peanut butter another chance.  Likewise avocado.   

 One thing she does have in common with me is her penchant for eating quickly, and with gusto…    


(I swear, I did not coach her on how to eat it, I just told her when to start eating.  The technique is her own invention.  And it needed to be captured on video.  Yes it did.)  

So, she’s off to a much better nutritional start than I had.  But, we may need to work on the table manners between now and the time she starts dating.

A Penchant for Relocation Appears to be Genetic

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Ben lay in bed with Nora.  It was the guest bedroom of my in-law’s house during Christmas break.  Outside, the ground was blanketed with fresh snow. They were having the type of intimate chat you have with a toddler at bedtime. 

“You know, kiddo, when you’re a grown-up, we’ll still be friends.  Just call me anytime and I’ll come over and help you work on projects and stuff,” he said.

“Well you’re going to have to take a few airplanes to get to my house because I’m going to live in Minnesota,” she retorted.

Yes, Minnesota: where she is showered with gifts and affection every moment, walks about with Christmas cookies in each hand and goes sledding amongst snow-tipped trees.

Sigh.

How could Portland possibly compete?

The Pin

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Ben Hates This Pin

I love this pin.  Not only was it given to me by a dear friend, it represents my style perfectly: vintage, in shades of brown and gold.  It looks fantastic on my brown coat. 

With this pin on my lapel, everyone thinks I am put together.  They don’t know I have a whole in my pocket that’s been there for two years.  They don’t notice my dirty hair, or the dog hair on my pants.  Or that I’m wearing house shoes.  People on the elevator, in the street and at the grocery store say things like, “My, what a beautiful pin!” and “That’s a great pin, is it vintage?” and “Where’d you get that gorgeous pin?”

And this is why Ben hates it.  Because every woman, from twenty something hipsters to Grandmas in teddy bear sweaters comments on it.  And if there’s one thing Ben doesn’t appreciate, it’s the attention of total strangers. 

But I love it, because it means I can wear slippers to the grocery store.

Flocking Together

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When I got my first two chickens, one of the first things that struck me was how closely they stuck to one another.  They drank at the same time, ate at the same time, scratched around within inches of each other.  It was like they thought they were the same bird.

Ginger and Estelle as Pullets

 One day I was watching their inter-dependence with fascination and suddenly realized the parallel.  There was a little blond child lacing herself with my legs while I stood there.  She never lets me get too far away, her security is dependent on my proximity.  

Unlike chickens, which are flock animals, there will come a time when Nora will not want to be by my side every second, and that is as it should be.  But for now, we’re acting like one bird — and it’s beautiful.