All About Mom

Willem's classroom's Mother's Day celebration was yesterday. He'd been looking forward to it for weeks, telling Shaun about it at bedtime over and over. I was expecting to get a manicure like I did from Nels when he was in first grade, but apparently they've revised the program since then. I can't imagine why.

All of the moms showed up at eleven, forming clumps and milling about awkwardly until the kids came in from recess. Our students gave us a (very congested) tour of the classroom before seating us at their desks and serving us muffins and fruit, accompanied by the big surprise: back-rubs. Willem was super excited about it, but when he asked "Can I stop now?" and I said yes, I'm not sure which one of us was more relieved.

After we ate, the kids showed us their "get the wiggles out" dance and recited a poem and sang a song. The song was "Put a Little Love in Your Heart," which I thought was a weird choice. I can't imagine any group of people less in need of that admonishment than a group of mothers being sung to by their six or seven year-old children.

The best activity came at the end. Portraits of the moms lined the back wall, and each mom was supposed to guess which picture her child had drawn of her. Each drawing was accompanied by an info sheet, so you'd think it would be easy to figure out. Not necessarily.

ALL ABOUT MOM

Let me tell you about my mom.

My mom is 42 years old.

I'm 40.

She likes to watch cooking shows.

Haven't watched one since we got rid of cable TV well over a year ago.

The best thing she cooks is chickin pot pie.

Marie Callender's.

Her favorite food is salad.

No.

Her favorite thing to do to relax is sleep.

Can't be any more relaxed than asleep.

We like to hug together.

Very sweet. Weirdly put.

She is really good at cooking cornbread.

Again, Marie Callender's.

As you can see, my mom is special because she loves me.

Yes. Exactly right.

How Sweet It Was

I've always been a dessert person. And while I never would have turned down ice cream or candy when I was a kid, what I really loved were baked goods. Our family dinners reflected the constraints of our era (the eighties) and budget (lots of mouths to feed), but on the rare occasions when we had dessert, Mom went all-out.

Carrot cake, fresh strawberry pie, cheesecake and lemon meringue pie, all made from scratch, spoiled me for store-bought desserts forever. Mom was the designated dessert-bringer to all of our family gatherings, and, once I moved out, I brought dessert places whenever I could. It was always well-received.

But lately, I feel like I'm losing it. Recipes that I love and that turn out perfectly the first time around (like this Rhubarb and Raspberry Crostata) crash and burn on the second try. Nothing tastes quite as good as I remember it tasting. The Salty Chocolate Chunk Cookies I made this week turned out like this:

Yes, I've checked my oven temperature. I think I've just lost my touch. I've started bringing salads to potlucks.

And yet, every once in a while, I'm surprised. My boys have less finicky dessert palates than I do, and they always want those frosted sugar cookies from the grocery store. I have to say, they do have a strange appeal. So, when I saw a recipe for homemade Soft Frosted Vanilla Sugar Cookies, I decided I had to try it.

Wow. They are borderline too sweet, but they are so good. Everyone who tried them (except Shaun, of course) made a noise of appreciation upon taking their first bite. They're even good without the frosting, which is really saying something coming from me. The cookies did spread out more than they were supposed to (I only took a picture of the most successful ones), and I haven't tried making them a second time yet, but I will get to it eventually. In the meantime, I'm ready to shed my identity as a person who always brings a good dessert to a meal and work on being a person it's nice to be around, no matter what my culinary contribution. 

And while my kids always appreciate homemade treats, nothing I've made myself has elicited a comment like the one I overheard Willem making to Nels:

"When Mom bought Oreos, it seemed to change my life."

"How?"

"I don't know...it's hard to explain. It made it better."

Passing It On

I don't say much about writing much on this blog, even though it's one of my favorite things to think and read about. Until I earn the right to talk about writing by actually writing more than I think and read about writing, you won't see much about it here.

I have to make an exception in this case, though, to tell you about my friend Christi Krug's new book. Without her encouragement, I may not have mustered up the courage to write and share anything beyond this blog.

When I first moved to Washington, I took a Clark College community education class from Christi. The class was called Wildfire Writing, and, as the name suggested to me, it was a little more touchy-feely than I am comfortable with. But I am so glad that I stuck with it.

Some people are going to write no matter what. I am not one of those people. I am insecure and fearful. I will never be able to silence my vociferous inner critic, but at least Christi's class helped me distract it long enough to get some words on the page.

I enjoyed the first section of the class so much that I went on to the second, and then continued on with a smaller group after that. That group eventually petered out, but after a few years I went back and took Wildfire Writing again. It turns out that that negative voice in my head is nothing but persistent.

Now Christi has written the book Burn Wild, which includes much of what she teaches in the class and more. (You can buy it here.) The book is a smorgasbord of exercises, prompts, inspiration, anecdotes, and reflections. It's not a "craft" book, if that's what you need. It won't be for everyone. (It's kind of touchy-feely like the class.) But it is full of wonderful ideas and encouragement, and in its pages you will get to know one of the most gentle and generous people I know.

I received a copy of the book to review, but I thought it would be fun to buy one myself and give it away to someone who, like me, has struggled to be creative. I don't have a very big readership here, but if you are a new-ish writer and would like the book for yourself (or would like to give it to a new-ish writer that you care about), just say so in the comments before Monday at noon. I'll pick a person at random (if there's more than one!) and update the post on Monday with the winner.

Here's another helpful review in case you want to know more. I should also mention that this book totally destroyed my preconceived notions about self-publishing. Its quality in every aspect is equal to that of any traditionally published book. I didn't even know such a thing was possible. The fact that Christi put together such an amazing team just makes me respect her that much more.

In the chapter "Small Things" Christi writes this: 

Instead of being famous, as I once thought I needed to be, I have found a sphere of influence where I can help and encourage.

I love that. I hope to find that with my writing too.

That Ought to Do It

Willem has always gone happily to sleep at night until recently, when he started saying he was scared and asking to leave his lamp on. It took me a few weeks to worm the truth out of him:  he'd picked up a spooky joke book at the school library and gotten creeped out by one of the illustrations.

We let him have the extra light for a few nights. We tried talking it out. We prayed together. None of it seemed to help, and, after a few months, I lost my initial sympathy and patience. By then, the nightly discussion of his fears had taken on the flavor of a token ritual. It always took place at least five minutes after he had been tucked into bed with hugs and prayers.

"Mom, I'm scared. IS THERE ANYTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT?"

"No, there isn't. Good night."

It's gone this way for what seems like ages, so I was pleasantly surprised last night when I put Willem to bed and the conversation took a new turn.

"Mom, do you know what I do when I'm feeling scared?"

"No, I don't." Do tell.

"I think of ponies skating on lollipops. Well, not a bunch of lollipops. Just one. It's purple." Then he grimaced. "Do you think that's too girly?"

It wasn't the skating ponies or the lollipops he was worried about, just the color purple. He's been getting some (not unexpected) flak at school for carrying an orchid and lavender-colored lunch box that he picked out himself.

"No, I think it's just right."

And I do.

Eye Update

Waiting for my appointment with the neuro-opthalmologist made me feel like a kid anticipating the arrival of Christmas. I started the referral process in December, and it wasn't until two weeks ago Friday that the big day finally arrived.

(If you are wondering what the heck I am talking about, see this post.)

Shaun dropped me off at the OHSU Center for Health and Healing before heading over to his office for a few hours. (These days he usually works from home on Fridays.) I had twenty minutes to kill, so I sat in the spacious lobby and drank a cup of tea. I didn't feel nervous, but my heartbeat begged to differ, its insistent pounding impervious even to the aural Valium that is "The Girl From Ipanema."

The doctor's office had mailed me a giant packet once my appointment was booked, full of dire warnings about the consequences of lateness and the necessity of procuring all of one's pertinent records. (I had to request charts, images, and test results from the three different doctors I'd already seen.) I'm sure they overstate the case because some people are flaky. I of course took it all very seriously, filling out and mailing in every form, and bringing along everything I was asked to. I'm not sure they'd ever seen anyone so eager to see a doctor. The woman who checked me in actually made fun of me. 

"My, my, somebody's prepared."

And then I met the doctor, and I finally got to tell my story to someone who specializes in brains and eyes. When she assured me that a brain or nerve problem would not present itself the way my symptoms do, I believed her. 

Fortunately the MRI I'd had previously had gotten great pictures of my eyes along with my brain. The doctor pulled them up and we looked at them together. She pointed out all of the muscles that control my eyes and eyelids, which was fascinating. Then she started scrolling through all of the images. There were lots of them. By the time we got to one that looked just like the aliens in Mars Attacks! I was starting to turn a little green. Looking at so many pictures of my brain was giving me an existential mini-crisis.

"Oh, have you had enough?" asked the doctor, who was thoroughly enjoying herself. "Oh, but come on. Look at this!" And then she showed me a view of the inside of my head that looked like a scrunched up dwarf face. "Isn't it cute?" she said. And then, my friends, she giggled.

A few minutes of lively conversation and good times later, I realized that this was all going to end as I mostly hoped/partly feared it would. My eye muscles get weak when I exercise. There are lots of things that cause weak eye muscles, some of them very serious. I don't have any of those things. There is no explanation for why it happens in my case, but it's not indicative of any other problem, so I can certainly live with that.

The doctor said it's possible that it may just go away. But even if it doesn't, it's not that bad. My vision returns to normal (or normal-ish) within a few minutes if I stop and rest. And the severity varies, so sometimes I can take a walk without being bothered by it at all. It's just a nuisance, not a hardship. 

Basically, it's unusual to have this happen at this point in life without being caused by something that needs attention, and we wanted to rule those things out, and now we have. So, good! Very, very good! I forgot to ask if the doctor thinks exercises will help in my case, but I will do that at my follow-up appointment.

We celebrated the end of our long road with lunch at Little Bird Bistro. I was feeling relieved but deflated. 

It was nothing a glass of wine and a massive charcuterie board couldn't fix.

New Year's Day

Here is the first cup of coffee on the morning of the first day of the new year. This is the Platonic ideal right here.

Before we hit the road to drive home, we got to visit Amanda's studio and see her latest work before it was shipped off to be exhibited at the Olson Gallery at Bethel University.

If you've ever wished for a space of your own in which to be creative, let me tell you--Amanda is living the dream.

You can see all of the pieces in "The Life of Perished Things" here, and do go take a look. That painting behind Willem is 8 by 14 feet, and it is spectacular.

It was extra fun for me to get to see all this, as I was with Amanda when she shot some of the video for the project, and I have happy memories of that weekend trip.

Willem looked around for about five minutes before he just couldn't stand it any more. "I NEED A PENCIL. AND SOME PAPER!" 

When someone else sees what you've made and gets the urge to make something himself, well, that's just about the best compliment ever.

The boys were supplied with nicer pencils and paper than they usually have, and then we went home. 

New Year's Eve

On the morning of New Year's Eve, I realized I was outright sick, the kind of sick that would have kept me home in bed if I'd been home and not in Idaho. So I made myself absolutely useless and napped all day while our friends cooked and cooked and cooked. And I prayed fervently that my sinus infection would not prevent me from being able to taste and enjoy my dinner. The Hamiltons cook a mean dinner.

The medicinal properties of a snuggle with a cat who does not normally take to strangers cannot be overstated.

I changed out of my pajamas when the festivities drew nigh.

I just love this picture. That's Willem with his head in his hands and Andrew with the twinkle in his eye.

My prayers were answered! Our epic dinner started with this cheese plate, and I tasted and enjoyed every bite.

Creamy wild mushroom soup. Mmm.

Here are the short ribs in progress. I need more short ribs in my life.

The younger kids needed sleep at some point, but Nels our night owl was allowed to stay up late with the grown-ups, which is his very favorite thing. Dear Amanda let him help with dessert and put him to work in the kitchen. As you can see, he was pretty jazzed to be entrusted with the stirring of the the creme anglaise.

Hello, apple tart.

Here's Nels doing his "I got to stay up late with the grown-ups" dance. I love that dance.

What a time we had, ringing in a brand spanking

sparkly 

new year.