Into Temptation

I am easily influenced.

Example One: I had a few moments to myself on Saturday, so I indulged myself but catching up on this week’s America’s Next Top Model. (Don’t judge me.) I have nothing in common with any of these contestants, given that they are tall, thin, (almost all) beautiful, and attention seeking – nothing except a fascination for stilettos. Dude! That photo shoot with the gowns and the hotdogs – they had some slamming shoes. So, under the guise of I’m going to go out and run some errands and, yeah, I’ll go ahead and pick up dinner, I grabbed my keys and dashed out of the house.

And ended up at the Shoe Warehouse. As you knew I would.

In my defense, they were waiting for me on the clearance rack, waaaay at the back of the store, and if I were not meant to have them, they wouldn’t have been my size and 30% off, now would they?

And, really, who doesn’t need a new pair of purple patent leather pumps with lovely purple roses on the toes? (Put your hand down, you’re just in denial.)

Behold.

Example Two, Top Chef: Just Desserts. Guilt and sugar-topped sugar confections go hand in hand, so I felt the double whammy of (1) having bought such ridiculously frivolous (but fabulous) footwear, and (2) not making a chocolate cake as I had planned for Sunday dinner.

I lasted through two commercial breaks. The third found me rummaging through my cabinets, hoisting down my trusty Fannie Farmer cookbook, and whipping up a batch of crepes.

Strawberry and Nutella crepes, to be exact. Like my foremother, Eve, I managed to yank Rev off of his Weight Watchers wagon and into temptation as I presented the still-warm, gooey goodness on a plate. The kids could not stop hugging me. Scooby insisted that I should go on a cooking show.

Exaggeration, maybe. But there’s something very glamorous, even sexy, about chocolate, strawberries, and high heeled shoes.

America’s Next Top Chef Model, Mom Edition. I’m so there.

The Circle Of Life

And here is my lesson for the day.

Scooby: Lions eat caramels. But when the lion dies, it lies down on the ground and becomes the grass and the water. Then the caramels eat the lions.

Me: Caramels?

Scooby: Yeah.

Me (thinking, Camels, maybe? No, that can’t be right): What . . . what do caramels look like?

Scooby (using patented Are you kidding me with this? look): They are brown and they have four legs and they run really fast.

Me: Um, gazelles?

Scooby: Yeah, gazelles! They eat the lion when it turns into grass!

Ah, second grade. That brief moment when you know everything about everything, and everything you know is slightly wrong.

Oh, and by the way, Doodle’s drop-off was exactly on time today. Scooby’s was only (!) fifteen minutes late. Guess the squeaky wheel gets the grease, even on big yellow school buses.

On The Warpath

I am on the warpath. Worse than that, I am two paces behind Rev. While I can occasionally be understanding about the myriad little screw-ups that populate everyone’s days, Rev has a streak of impatience a mile wide. If you are incompetent – and, worse, if you show no signs of caring that you are incompetent – well, you might as well change your name to Chicken Caesar Salad, because Rev will eat you for lunch. He is a lawyer by training, a corporate litigator, which means that he can slice you and dice you without ever raising his voice. And he’s a minister, so he’ll do it without swearing or breaking either any Commandments or The Golden Rule.

I, on the other hand, have no problem indicating through words (I majored in English and so am a walking thesaurus) and tone (hi: litigator!) just how much contempt I have for my hapless victim and all of his or her ancestors. If you’ve pushed me hard enough to get me to Go There, well, abandon all hope because the gloves come off pretty fast.

Normally, one of us is able to talk the other down off the ledge. Not today. Right now, both of us are looking at the Line That Was Crossed in our rear-view mirror. What has us heated up is the inability of the School Bus System to get our children home from school timely. By “timely,” I mean, before I get home from work.

Here’s the deal. Both Scooby and Doodle go to schools that dismiss at approximately 3:30. Doodle’s school is just under a mile away, an easy twenty-five minute walk, but far enough that he qualifies for bus transportation. Scooby’s school is much farther away. Rather than have the babysitter chase across the city to pick up the kids, we decided that this year she would simply meet the buses at the assigned stops near the house. Theoretically, the kids would get home within ten minutes of each other, at around 4:15. (Yes, folks, that means that it should take Doodle exactly the same amount of time (45 minutes) to ride home as it does Scooby, even though his school is a five minute drive away.)

I say should because, in reality, Doodle’s bus has never been on time. Some days it’s been five or ten minutes late – that’s to be expected in the first days of school. But for the past week or so, his bus has been, on average, an hour and a half late. Scooby’s has been late less often, but on days when they don’t get it right, she’s close to two hours late. Today, her bus pulled up at 6:10 PM.

Doodle’s school sends out an “all call”: Good afternoon, parents. We just want to let you know that if your child rides Bus Number X, it has been delayed, followed at some point by, Good afternoon, parents. We just want to let you know that Bus Number X has just left the school. This is delivered by the school secretary in a voice so chipper that it makes you want to crawl through the phone and punch her in the face. Worse, the calls go to your home phone – so you don’t get them because you are at the bus stop waiting vainly for the kid’s bus to come around the corner. Scooby’s school doesn’t even call.

This afternoon, for example, the babysitter arrived at Scooby’s bus stop (since Scooby’s only seven, meeting her bus is the priority; Doodle is old enough to walk up the street by himself) at 3:50, on the off chance that the bus might be early. She finally called me on my cell as I got on the train to come home – at 5:20. I arrived at the bus stop before Scooby’s bus even got there. Doodle’s bus beat me there by about five minutes.

Today’s The Bus Is Delayed call was delivered by Doodle’s principal, who recited the number for the transportation department and invited parents to call and complain.

Complain? Oh, honey, we’re past the complaint stage. We are on the warpath. Tomorrow, we will work our way up the chain of command, gathering names, until we get to the Mayor’s Chief of Staff, whom Rev knows personally and works with often, and the School Superintendent. That should take approximately two hours and twenty minutes. About the time that it took for the children to get home today.

It’s on.

Yeesh. Rusty.

It is a beautiful, crisp autumn day. Tried to make paella from scratch and from memory. Ick.

I didn’t even make the kids finish their dinner. They looked so relieved when they left the table.

I guess I’ll have some humble pie for dessert.

Visions of Comfort Foods Dancing In My Head

Fall is imminent. Yeah, today it was 84 degrees and we’re sleeping with the windows open tonight, but in two days, the temperature will drop to the low seventies, upper sixties and stay there for a while before it slides inexorably into cold-as-a-witch’s-youknowwhat territory for the next four months. And guess what that means.

Yes. Dusting off those cookbooks and getting back into comfort foods – the stuff I started off this blog with nine months ago. No more “it’s too hot to cook; here’s some cereal” nights. We’re talking soups and stews and crockpot goodies. Tomorrow is one of my faves: eight-hour slow-cooked ribs, finished off in a smokin’ hot oven for about fifteen minutes, just long enough to carmelize the barbecue sauce. I’m not allowed to make those on any night when Rev has a meeting or class. There are never any leftovers for him.

I’m looking forward to the first really cold, crisp autumn evening, when I can try out my new chunky tomato soup recipe, served with homemade croutons or a splurg-y panini with prosciuto and Brie. Oh! And turkey chili (again, handy crockpot) with sweet, buttery cornbread. Maybe some homemade pizza (we can certainly stand to give the takeout chain a rest). I think I have the fixings for paella.

I can tell I’ll be having some nice dreams tonight.

If At First You Don't Succeed

The night before the first day of school has always been stressful for me. Even as a child, I was torn between watching the network premieres of primetime shows (those that came on before 9:00, anyway) and going to bed straight after dinner to get as much sleep as possible. I obsessed over every notebook and pencil, and laid out my new clothes like little flat people on the foot of my bed. I wanted everything to be perfect.

Not much has changed in thirty or so years.

Last night, I arranged and re-arranged all of the gear required by my elementary scholars. I sat them down, one at a time, and ran through the inventory with them, so they knew how much of the stuff on the supply list I’d gathered. We went over the bus rules (keep your hands inside; stay in your seat; no fooling around; obey the driver; cross in front of the bus). The babysitter would be meeting them at their bus stops up the street, not picking up from school, a change this year that Doodle and Scooby were both very excited about. I tucked the bus notices in their backpacks and made their lunches.

Then I got to nagging Boy about putting his clothes out for the morning. His movements are glacial once you can cajole him out of the bed, and for reasons unknown to me, high school starts at 7:20 AM. (That’s counterintuitive to me. The little kids bounce out of bed at the crack of dawn; they should go to school earlier than the teenager, who only achieves full consciousness sometime after noon.) I didn’t even want to contemplate being late on The First Day of High School – or getting pulled over by a cop as I sped up the Parkway. We were all buzzing; Doodle especially was channeling his inner Tigger, literally running around in circles. I thought we’d all be up, vibrating, the whole night.

We all slept like rocks. Five-thirty came early.

Having no confidence in first day’s chaotic bus schedule, I drove Boy to school. He chattered all the way there (even as I tried to concentrate through the downpour), betraying his anxiety. I said, “So, I’ll be praying for you all day.” I expected him to roll his eyes at my motherly concern. Instead, he said quietly, “Can you start right now?”

I read somewhere, a long time ago, that having a child is like walking around for the rest of your life with your heart outside your body. You bet I prayed as I watched my six-foot-one heart climb the stairs into high school.

It didn’t go as planned. While the little kids spent their day meeting new friends, learning how to spell their new teachers’ names, and riding the school buses, Boy spent his outside the principal’s office (his class assignment schedule was blank), and waiting two hours for the bus that would bring him home. Disappointed and tired, he skipped dinner and went to bed at 7:00 PM.

All of the planning, shopping, list-making, and imagining could not make this First Day Of High School go well for Boy. That makes me sad. But tomorrow, we’ll get up with the sun, do our usual tug of war over whether he’s really going to wear that shirt or whether or not he’ll eat some breakfast, and we’ll try again. I will give him the “clean slate” pep talk, reassure him that today is the first day of the rest of his life, and send him prayerfully off again.

Maybe tomorrow he’ll have the First Day Of School experience that his brother and sister had today, full of possibilities and newness and excitement. I hope so.

We’ll keep trying until we get it right.

Change Of Plans

So the whale watch excursion didn’t happen. I took my own advice, put down the list, and let Rev make the arrangements. Only, he didn’t. Instead, he chose a tour company brochure at random as we headed out the door, and spent a while going in the wrong direction, thanks to the confused GPS (the “witch-in-a-box”). Despite his driving like Bruce Wayne, we squealed into the dock’s parking lot at 1:32, just in time to see the boat – crammed with tourists – sail away.

I seethed all the way back to the house, silently. Just like that, I was back to my control-freak self. If it had been me, if I hadn’t relinquished the planning, I’d have pinpointed our destination on the map, made reservations, left the house earlier. I was angry, and disappointed; this was the one thing I’d really wanted to do this week. As soon as the car rolled to a stop, I jumped out and walked toward the harbor, cussing to myself like those angry, crazy homeless people you see on the streets of big cities.

Something told me to check out the Visitor’s Center, where I found a brochure for a pirate ship tour, a 1 ½ hour excursion just along the coastline. I called up to the house and invited Rev to bring the kids down at a quarter to three (fifteen minutes early – I’m no dummy) and treated myself to a quick lunch.

The kids loved the trip. The captain was personable and let each of them hoist a sail and steer the ship while he told stories of New England’s piratical beginnings. The sea was pretty choppy, making the one and half hours feel like the first four months of my last pregnancy. In the end, if I’m being honest, it was a better day than I had expected; I still got to gaze out at the water and let my body be still (only partly because of queasiness). Each kid got special attention from the three-man crew. We all learned a little history. I got some great pictures.

It’s uncomfortable, even maddening, to have to ditch my to-do list, even if it’s to do something else equally fun. It leaves me unsettled. I like my world orderly, all my ducks in a row. I have to remind myself that my kids are pretty flexible; if they’re doing something different, they’re probably having fun. I’ve asked them several times over the last couple of days: did you guys have fun on vacation? Each time, they’ve responded with unfeigned enthusiasm.

So what if we lost two days because of the storm? Who cares if we only got to the beach twice? And, you know what? Those majestic whales will still be there a month from now, or next May, or next summer. This vacation wasn’t exactly how I had planned it, but it was definitely a success. I have the pictures, the smiles, and the hugs to prove it. Nice house, beautiful setting, fun activities. We had a good (if not completely relaxing) time, and that’s what’s important, right?

Of course it is. That is the lesson from this year’s vacation.

(I’ve already started the list for next year’s trip.)

Be Still, My Soul

I’m wound pretty tightly most days. I am the multi-tasker of multi-taskers. If I were a computer, I’d have three or four windows open at all times, clicking among the tabs, constantly refreshing pages. Driving down the street, I’m thinking about what’s going to happen when I get to my destination, whether there is a less congested route I could be taking to get me there faster, and what each of the children is doing at that moment. I have three to-do lists going at any one time: my bound notebook, my computer task list, and the random piece of paper or envelope I use when I can’t find the other two.

I plan stuff out weeks in advance (“proper preparation prevents piss-poor performance”), and then obsess over every detail until each event arrives. I mention my plans to Rev from time to time, but since I recognize this obsessive behavior for what it is, I keep most of the dialogue locked up in my head.

You would think vacation would be different, wouldn’t you?

We are, at the moment, in a quaint little town on the North Shore. We can walk to the little artist community/harbor/beach in a little under ten minutes. We’ve done some touristy things, indulged our junk food cravings, and window shopped the myriad of knick-knacky things. We swam, a little –the water of the North Atlantic is cold, especially after a tropical storm.

Yet, on Monday, as I drove up with Scooby, I worked myself into a lather because I got frustratingly lost trying to get to the correct road. On Tuesday, I paced the tiny local beach, returning work voicemails about stuff that wasn’t urgent and could certainly have waited until after Labor Day. Wednesday, as I sat on a different beach, listening to my iPod and looking out at the eternal ocean, I managed to clear half of my mind of clutter. The other half was filled with plans for Thursday, when I would return home with Boy to attend his freshman orientation at his high school. (Yes, he successfully completed summer school and got promoted – thank you, God.)

On Thursday, I tried to keep it together as we crawled down the highway, stalled by road work for fifteen miles, frantic that we’d be late for the school meeting. (Calm down, you dummy. It’s a school meeting, with its twin constants of never starting on time and pointless repetition.) I obsessed about what Rev and the kids were doing (touring the Pirate Museum and having a fine time), and where I was going to meet them that afternoon. Power-strolling through the art museum, I kept one eye on the magnificently carved treasures brought back from the Orient by seafarers, and one on the clock, counting down until closing time.

In the background of all of this vacation anxiety was the constant hum of what are we going to do for dinner; what’s the plan for cleaning up the place on Saturday before we leave so I can get my security deposit back; when am I going to find time to get the rest of the school shopping done (where’s that LIST?); what are we going to do with Doodle in the hour before school starts . . . .

I feel like the Billy Crystal character in City Slickers, being pulled along the ground as he holds on for dear life to a stampeding cow: Wait! Wait! I’m on vacation!

This is our last full day at the beach house. We’ll pack tonight and eat as much of the leftover food as we can. Tomorrow, we’ll clean up and pack up and load up to head back home. It’s an hour away, and we have all day to get there. It’s Labor Day weekend, so maybe I’ll catch a back-to-school sale (and cross something significant off of my to-do list).

But in a little bit, we’re going to pack up the kids and go on a whale watch. My goal today, the only thing on my list of things to do, is to think about the open sea and sky. I want to watch the awe and wonder on the kids’ faces as they watch some of those majestic animals diving up into the air and slapping the water in triumph. I want to be in the moment, not thinking about what I need to do tomorrow or what I should have done yesterday. It’ll be an act of will, that’s for sure. Relaxation is not something that comes naturally. I’m not good at it.

The songwriter said: Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know/His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.

I have twenty-four more hours of vacation. I’m going to try to relax, and let tomorrow take care of itself.