October 1st, I-Hop, and Cottage Cheese Pancakes

As always, since 2012, on October 1st - I took my children to I-Hop.  It's a bit difficult, explaining to the host, that we did not come to eat.  We came seeking out an elderly person or couple - for whom we could buy dinner.

I-Hop was one of my grandma's favorite places - and probably one of the last places we sat with her, all together in our extended family.  So, my children and I go to I-Hop each year looking for someone to buy a meal for.

Sometimes we tell them we'd like to buy their dinner, and sometimes - like tonight - we just do it anonymously.  If I do speak to the person, I always tell them - though we are buying their meal in honor of my grandmother, they are far too young for her.  :)  Tonight, our gift was anonymous, but we told our story three times - to the host, to the chef, and to the server.

Ah, grandma!  I came home and made gf pancakes and (non gf) waffles for my children... and cottage cheese pancakes (a gram-ma-ma specialty) for myself.  I must admit - I made the cottage cheese pancakes gluten free, and as soon as I noticed that they became a bit rubbery as they cooled off - I quickly gobbled them up - slathered with jelly the way a cottage cheese pancake is supposed to be eaten.  All 24 or so of them.  Yep.

I crave the wisdom of my grandmother and wish I'd had the energy for more and deeper conversation.  What did she think as a young mother raising three boys?  How did she feel as a young widow, living so long without my Poppy Harold and waiting anxiously to 'join' him again?  What was life like?

To me - she was my grandma.  Always happy.  Always giving.  Always watching.  Always loving us.  

What was it like when she finally had to stop working?  When she realized she wouldn't travel anymore?  What did she think about?  Wish for?  Dream of?

Grandma always said it straight.  "Lisa-luh, looks like you put on a few pounds."   Aw!  If grandma said it, it was probably true. 

In some ways, it seems such a short time ago and, in other ways, it seems like she's been gone for so long.  Every year, I have to sit and think about how many years my grandma has been gone from this world.  

I reach for messages.  Guiding wisdom about my life.  Inspiration to move forward and stay positive.  Answers to unknown questions.  Miraculous insights.  Whenever I ask, I am given - a heart rock.  My mom?  A blooming flower in a plant that hasn't bloomed in years... or ever.

I can't believe it is the end of another October 1st.

I'm not ready.

I didn't say enough.

I want more time.

To reflect.

To be.

To love.

The Anticipation is the Worst Part

I had to wait until spring break when my husband was home with me. I carefully mentioned it once, weeks before so the knowledge of it would be buried before we had to go. I dodged the question "what are we doing today?" As long as I possibly could. 

My intention is not to lie about it but to avoid disclosing it until I had to. If that disclosure could occur in the parking lot - the better it'd be. 

But it happened beforehand. Anxiety rose - his and mine. He says no. He refuses to go. He says "I'm not doing it".  I stay patient. I say we have to do it. I try to disengage. Luckily, I had him showered and ready to go - the must do's before playing on the computer on this morning. It seemed like a normal parental request but - truly - it was my ploy. Get him ready and keep him preoccupied. 

The time had come to go. Voices had to raise and demands had to be made. There was almost a chase around the house. But I took his hand and led him to the car and he came - all the while saying he's not doing it. 

The blood draw. You'd think it were life or death and he assumed death. He doesn't like to learn about the body. He doesn't like needles. Really, doesn't like needles. 

Last time, it took me holding him on my lap and three others holding him in addition to the technician. "Im not ready," he says. "Give me a minute. I want to go second."

I learned last time that a minute would extend as long as he could make it. That time, about 40 minutes. And he still wasn't ready. 

This time, I was ready. I brought my man power. I informed them at check in that we had a very reluctant child. Electronics were brought into the waiting room. I had his music and ear buds in my bag. I even did EFT tapping to calm him (tapping on myself) while he was absorbed in a video game. 

Finally, it was time. Thirty minutes of waiting even with an appointment!  As we pulled him in, he reminded us that he didn't want to do this. I sat down to hold him in the chair and quickly relinquished that spot to David. We battled more of wait, I'm not ready; and I want to go second before we - four of us - finally had him secure. David - holding him in a bear hug, legs wrapping his lower half and arms wrapping his unpoked arm. I helped hold that arm and his head which I turned away from the poke. The third person held his poking arm and the fourth did the draw. 

Once the stick was in, the saga continued. He screamed - really? Was he in pain? Or freaked out? He cried. He did not like it and the tension and refusal to breathe made it harder and slower. 

And then it was over. Well, kind of. He didn't like the bandage. Nor would he move his arm for the next 30 minutes. 

We told the techs we were going for a drink and they asked if we could bring them back something. I told them we'd deliver some "coffee" in a few minutes. 

The anxiety. The anticipation. It's the worst. For both of us. 

Birthdays, Einstein, and Flashcards

All year long, I have dutifully signed my daughter's homework packet to indicate that she had completed her weekly tasks.  Only last night did I realize that I had stopped reading the assignments long ago… and only last night did I realize that she was not participating in her homework assignments fully and completely. 

She was picking and choosing, as we all do.  In life, in religion, perhaps, that is okay.  In second grade schoolwork? Not so much. Practicing math facts is an important stepping stone to future levels of math.  Recording reading time in a daily log helps teachers, librarians, and parents figure out what kind of books said child likes to read - helps ensure that said child actually finishes a book and - for the teachers - shows that there is daily reading taking place - another important stepping stone to… everything else in life.

Child number four is now the first pink-ii to own flashcards - something I have avoided and spoken out against quite adamantly. I don't believe in flashcards.  Einstein didn't use flashcards (good book)  (no, seriously - a great book).  We found other ways with the boys, but girl wanted flashcards so girl got flashcards.  We didn't even make them.  It's so much easier to learn when they are shiny and laminated and all written in the same font. 

Picking and choosing is a part of life.  We pick and choose our battles.  We pick and choose what really matters.  And, sometimes, our preferences take a back seat to the choices that are best suited to our children. 

There are 310 days until my next birthday, and I am looking forward to it.  On my birthday, I can relax from motherhood.  Well, at least I could this year.  My mother in law took our children for the night.  I didn't have to make dinner, or tuck into bed, or entertain, or break up fights.  Not only that, I didn't have to answer the "Mom, where is my…";  "Mom, he is bothering me…";  or  "Mom, can I have a… " that normally pelt me at least 3 million, one hundred and ninety nine thousand, six hundred and seventy two times a day.  Literally.  I counted once.

I got to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted and not have to return home to a messy, destroyed-by-children house.  That was happiness.  I'm still working on how to carry that into searching for flashcards, and helping with projects when it's past my bedtime, and telling children to do something for a third time before it even registers a response, and responding to grunts and groans when I announce it's shower time, and, I'm sure the picture is clear and needs no further clarification.

Two nights ago, I looked at boy-entering-middle-school-and-better-work-on-time-management-or-homework-will-be-a-bear as I ran the glue gun when he told me to and ONLY when he told me to.  (This required 17 minutes between glue-ings for him to sit and think and measure and cut and assess) - but I looked at him and I allowed it to warm my heart and melt my frustration.  I took a deep breath and began to appreciate that we were having this moment.  Then I checked email, Facebook, and Pinterest while I waited the 17-minutes for the next moment I was to appreciate.

310 days.

Then again, there are 142 until Father's Day.  And, Father's Day is Mother's Day.  Another story for another time.

"feels like some kind of ride but it’s turning out just to be life going absolutely perfectly…" (Brian Andreas story people)

I know why the boy who hates his sister is here to hate his sister. His role is much like that of a Zen master. He is here to remind me to pay attention to each moment. And, a simple moment really stands out when you have the boy who hates his sister in your family. When there is a tender moment between boy and sister, it melts your heart down to the core. It warms your soul such that nothing in the world can be bad. It shows you that moments happen all the time and you merely need to open your eyes to them.

It helps one be a mindful mommy and it draws one toward living a mindful life.

Striving in parenthood. It is hard to avoid. It is hard not to beat yourself up, second guess all of your parenting decisions, to examine and re-examine your parenting "skills". The practice of mindfulness tells us to let go of the striving and to be right here, right now.

I want my children to listen to me.
I want them to stop what they are doing and do what I ask them to do.
I want them to do it immediately.
I do not like asking a second or a third time.

I do not get involved in my children's homework.
I believe it is their responsibility.
I don't do their art projects or help them with their reports.
I don't tell them how to do it even though I may have a different idea or think they should do it differently.
I never made them put the eyes or the legs in the correct place.
I never interfere with their art. Ever.

Isn't living their own lives another expression of the art within them?

I want my children to develop inner wisdom. Pride. Self-reliance. Confidence. I want them to have a solid identity.

I want them to listen. Dare I say to be perfect?

So, really, it's about me. I step in stomping when they don't listen or when the house is a mess because their things are not put away or when I realize they've been on the computer all day.

Because I haven't lived up to my own expectations. I feel - not out of control but not in control. My vision is not playing out the way I'd like it to. My (ideal) vision is not playing out. I like things done my way - don't my children know that (she says with a twinkle in her eye).  

And, then, I pause. And, I remind myself about what really matters. And, I'm proud to have a (messy) house because it shows that my children are busy making memories.  

They step up to the plate when I need them to.  They clean up their rooms when "it's necessary".  They help out around the house. 

They are also kind to others.  They make good choices most of the time.  They enjoy the moment, whatever that moment is. That is what I want - for my children to live. To embrace.  To be inspired. To feel joy.  Loved.  At ease.

Mindful children….. who look down when they leave the bathroom and take their dirty clothes to the hamper without my mindful reminder.

"This is a special bike that’s not very good at listening to excuses, so it takes you exactly where you really want to go & if you kick & scream it makes you pedal harder & go up steeper hills until you’re too out of breath to complain & after awhile, if you’re lucky, you start to see that it doesn’t really matter if you laugh or cry, because it just wants to ride like the wind…" (Brian Andreas  story people)

The Notion of Supermom, the Absence of a Child, and Baking Bread

I have been trying to write an article (for BellaOnline) on the ludicrous concept of Supermom. It is somewhat paradoxical by nature - after all, aren't most moms super moms?  Simply due to the fact that they feed their children (however unhealthily), keep their homes clean (with a very loose definition of clean), and get their children back and forth to all their 'necessary' appointments (well, sometimes we miss a year's well check and sometimes gymnastics is suddenly cancelled when we can't figure out how to get there and get everything else done, and we often skip showering, and sometimes we eat ice cream or cereal or both for dinner…).

But, really, doesn't just being a mom make you "super" in nature? We stretch ourselves in ways we never imagined we could. We do more in a day than we ever thought humanly possible.  We survive temper tantrums and all night vomiting, teen rebelliousness and children who "hate"us.

At the same time, all this super magnificence is frequently overstated and overrated. We've stretched the definition to encompass a schedule that never has any openings. We're not super unless we're doing it all - and what is doing it all? Well, that depends on who you are and how you define it. But, we feel more powerful when we tell others how engaged we are. Our definition and self-worth is defined by how many colorful boxes fill up our iCalendars.

Is this really the definition of super we want to believe in?

In the middle of writing about Supermom syndrome, one of my children has left for a three-day field trip. He boarded a bus at 11:30 PM on a Tuesday and does not return until early evening on Friday. One child down, and the house is incredibly different. The dishwasher - with only one less child - fills up much more slowly. My 'things to do' list is shorter. With only one less child, time and space have opened up where I never dreamed they could . One child. One self-sufficient child who doesn't need me to walk him to school or help him with homework or do much of anything for him. And, yet…

His absence is noted in every minute and in my every action. And, that brings me to the baking of bread. My field tripping son also happens to be a wheat and yeast allergic child. He wants me to make challah using the recipe I make his weekly loaf of bread with. "Ok, I will", I tell him, "but, first, I want to try one more recipe."

And, I try yet another GF challah recipe. First I try it with yeast and then I try it with my "yeast substitute" of lemon juice and baking soda. It's a science, this baking bread thing, and science was not my strong suit. But, I keep trying. So, this week - I am trying a "regular" challah recipe substituting GF flour for the regular flour.

It's not that simple - because, like I said above, baking bread is a scientific process and there are a few other things to consider. Not to mention - I've decided to also try to lower the sugar content of this challah while preserving the sweetness that my family enjoys on Shabbat. I will be swapping the refined sugar for agave and honey.

My first attempt at a gluten-free, low glycemic challah.  Hopefully, I'll get this down and then can focus on veganizing it and bringing it to HaMotzi (right now, it is not made with oat or spelt flour).  My goal here is to see if I can duplicate my standard challah recipe with GF flour.

Recipe
2 1/4 cups warm water*
1 1/2 T yeast
dash of coconut sugar

40 ounces of Bob's Red Mill One for One GF Flour
1 T salt
1 egg
1/2 cup oil (used a canola, coconut, olive oil mix)
a little less than 2/3 cup agave
1/4 cup honey

In a small bowl, put the warm water - the yeast - and a dash of coconut sugar. Stir and let it proof for about ten minutes.

In another bowl, mix the eggs - oil - agave - and honey.

Finally, in a large bowl - weigh 40 ounces of GF flour. Add 1 T of salt. Mix the egg mixture into the flour mixture. When the yeast has proofed, add the yeast mixture to the bowl as well. Mix and attempt to knead. The dough is very different. *I had to add additional water to get my dough working. This was a risk because using the agave meant that I should lower the amount of liquid used (which is why I'm not adjusting the amount of water above but am noting that you will probably have to add more water).

Once the dough is thoroughly mixed, it does come together in a dense ball.  For this test, I took half of my dough and decided to see if it would rise.  I put it in a glass bowl, covered with plastic wrap and a towel, and left it to rise under my kitchen island lights which always provide a perfect warming area for rising dough. With the rest of the bread dough, I used my silicone mini challah pans - scooping the dough 3/4 of the way full (in case it rises and to keep the challot small since even these small loaves are too big for the few GF eaters in the family).  I am baked them for 40 minutes in a 325 degree convection oven**. The reason I put some in the oven without allowing them to rise is that the agave changes the chemical reactions of the ingredients and may not withstand rising.  But, I wanted to test a rise, so I also left some to rise. 

** Because of the agave, you are also supposed to lower the oven temperature because the agave will cause the edges to brown more quickly.

To sum up, I decided to bake bread for the child who is content with the bread recipe we already use. Is that being super or is that kind of un-super? I have messed up my kitchen, ignored the laundry and the cleaning of the house, haven't made my bed yet or completed the phone calls that have been sitting on my to-do list all week….  hmmm.  Supermom, super mom, or just splendidly in the moment of motherhood?

And, the bread?  It's a no-go. And,  I already know which recipe I'm going to try next.

"You can do anything but not everything."  - David Allen

"I see all these moms who can do everything and then I think…. I should have them do some stuff for me." someecards.com

"If you think my hands are full, you should see my heart." found on Pinterest

An Oldie But A Goodie

Just had to review this again….

Ilan and the Blue Paint Pen (life with two boys)

I left to go the grocery store tonight.  The bath was ready, and my husband – David – was bathing the boys while I was gone.  When I returned a short time later, I noticed blue lines on the floor going from the garage door through our family room and into the bathroom where the boys were.  “What’s this blue stuff?” I asked as I walked into the bathroom, “Where’s Ilan?  And, why isn’t he in the tub?”

Aaron was in the tub.  The tub was very full and David did not want to leave Aaron alone (seeing as how we’d already had one scare that night as Aaron had choked on a chicken bone, I understood his concern about not experiencing a near drowning).  Ilan, he told me, would not come into the bathroom.  He was in Aaron’s bed (stealing Aaron’s pacifiers). 

The blue lines, which I soon discovered to be from a blue paint pen Ilan had taken off my desk, COVERED the floor in the boys' bedroom, went down the hallway from their room back into the family room, around and under the kitchen table, through the front hallway and into my office.  Two rooms of carpeting and several of tile were now carefully outlined in blue paint lines.

It was a long night.  Ilan thought he was drawing a street (around the entire house).  He also made some beautiful “I’s” – his best yet, but I have no record of them for his baby book as they were on my office walls.  And, thanks to Grandma Bunny (my mom), whom I called immediately, my husband and I offered a calm, rational and logical consequence (instead of canceling his fourth birthday party, asking him to pay for new carpeting or grounding him from the car until his 18^th birthday).  We woke Ilan up (he was fast asleep before I put this whole puzzle together) and asked him to help us clean the blue paint lines off the tile floors (we did the carpet ourselves since it required more than just a sponge and some water).  Ilan did not have pens, crayons, markers or paints in his possession for quite awhile after that.

The lesson I learned?  Don’t leave my husband home to give the boys a bath.  Send him to the store instead. 

I'm Sorry

For every time I yelled, please forgive me. 
If I raised my voice to teach a lesson, forgive me once.
If I yelled from anger, forgive me a million times. 

If I made you feel like a bad kid, forgive me.
If my words were mean, forgive me. 
If my actions were misleading, forgive me.
If my words cut through you, please forgive me.
If I was not helpful, supportive, or kind, please, forgive me.

If I forgot to tell you how much I love you, forgive me.
If you ever felt unloved, unwanted, or unneeded - please forgive me.

Because I love you as deeply as the depths go. And I want you as hard as I possibly could. And I need you more than any mother has ever needed her child before.

If I ever didn't give you something that you needed, please forgive me.
If there was attention you needed and I didn't give it to you, please forgive me.
If you yearned for my support and I didn't provide it, forgive me.
If there was a toy you needed so badly you would die, well - you're not dead so you must not have needed it.

If I ever neglected to show you my overflowing love,
the immense joy I receive from your presence in my life,
the pride I hold because of the amazing human being who you are...
please forgive me.

If I ever looked past you, said "Give me a minute", or put my own needs before your own - please forgive me. Except for the times that I really needed to take care of mySelf. In those cases, please understand.

Everything I do, I do because of you. You keep me going and make life worth the while. You bring delight and joy, learning and lessons, and allow me to love a little bit deeper each and every day.

You challenge me to grow and be a better person every day. I have a lot of growing left to do. You make me want to strive toward perfection. I am - as of yet - an imperfect human mommy. 

I thank you.
I love you.
You fill my life. 

Please forgive me for all that needs to be forgiven.