It must skip a generation

A friend was lamenting the old "what to make for dinner" question on Facebook today.
Boy can I relate.  My children eat about six thing a piece, and not the same six, so dinner can be a real hair ripper.
Add in all of Mark's finickiness and his allergies and sensitivities and you really find yourself running a short order cafe. People, usually the ones without kids, will say "you control what they eat", these people have never had their evening spoiled by a fight with a five year old over dinner.
Maxwell could sometimes be successfully bullied into eating what I demanded he eat, but Freyja would rather die than give in, so you may as well just save your breath and our patience and make her a grilled cheese, not even a grilled cheese, no that would be too mixed up for the Princess and the Pea girl.
She would require cheese on a tiny plate, and a slice of bread, dry, on another.
Oddly enough she will chow down on some hardcore stinky cheese, just as long as it's plain.
Maxwell is a much more adventurous eater than Freyja,  but he has the annoying habit of changing his likes and dislikes with an irrational frequency.
Freyja is rather steadfast in her opinions on food.
My father hates vegetables, or so he says.  He and his sister have both lambasted my poor Grandma Betty's cooking more than once.
I, on the other hand have only the most fond memories of her cooking, and would forgo most restaurant meals for some of her dumplings, or stewed tomatoes, or even green salad, there was just something really nice about the way she put a salad together, that I rarely find anymore.
Growing up, I hated my mother's cooking, which I realize now was more a result of poverty and lack of time, than anything else.
She had a terrible habit of making soup, by putting in way too many things that in my opinion do not go together.  I hate soup as a rule to this day.
If it has corn in it, I will not be eating it, no matter what.  I even offended a co-worker recently by stating innocently enough, that hominy is the ONE, the one thing I will never eat, only to learn that she had chosen the posole for lunch. Rolf once bought be one of those industrial cans of hominy as a joke, and it sits, mocking me in our cupboard, a memory of too much nasty soup.
She also tries to sneak old lettuce in. catsup
You really have to watch her.
She was so pleased when she first went to Belgium, to find that putting lettuce in soup and pureeing it was perfectly normal.
She tried to pass off some old lettuce soup to me just last week.
My mother's mother was also guilty of tying to camouflage old left-overs, but she typically did it with meatloaf, which is somehow less disgusting than limp soup.
My uncle has a revulsion of gravy, for the same reason I hate soup, it is just a stretched out liquid reminder to him that you don't have enough money for a proper meal.  I personally love gravy, but I respect his boundary, despite the fact that he puts ketchup on eggs, which is just wrong.

 Freyja got up early, and we went to the Pearl, as we often do on Saturday mornings.   Today she broke with tradition and had a brioche, which she was only moderately happy with.  Stick with what you know, is my advice.

I sold Maxwell's Playmobile castle on Craigslist, to a man named Klaus, who had a tiny anemic looking five year old.  The five year old was a tiny bit rainmanish in his ability to memorize plans, it seems and informed me that I had some of the rook work on the tower, on upside down.  What can I say? Maxwell and I are idea people, not builders.  We had owned the castle for nine years, and all the while it had been put together incorrectly.

I am also selling off all of those wooden vehicles.   I am running out of space for all this shit, and I need to purge.  It makes Mark nervous when I get rid of the kid's stuff.

I know everyone thinks of me as the hoarding, sentimental fool, which is true, but Mark is at least as bad, if not worse. Together we are a hot mess. If he had his way he would keep every paper that Freyja brings home from school, which is why I have to clean out her backpack everyday and hid things in the recycling bag, away from his line of vision.

Driving that train

 When the cat is away at a meeting, the mouse will build a train out of chairs and cardboard, for her pet tiger Bianca, and Bianca's children Leona, Leontyne, and Leopolda.

The the signage Freyja is working on here says "Bathroom for tigers and lions and all cats". 
She is a practical girl.

Homework marathon

Maxwell had homework in three classes, all due Monday. 

We did some Saturday and a fair bit today. 

I am not a huge help with the science and math, but two of the project included making big collages... thank goodness for arts magnet school! 

I can make a pretty mean collage (HA! Mark! for once I get to be the homework resource!) , so we had a gay old time cutting and pasting, while Freyja ransacked the joint with a friend.

Fairy corner

Now that we have that drumset, the playroom is pretty much filled up, and Freyja is feeling a little displaced.  I told her that I would put together a special space for her, which was a little tricky, since space is pretty much spoken for around here, but this is what I came up with... I think she will be pleased.
I had the canopy from when she was a baby.  It is silk and cost a bloody fortune, I must have been insane when I purchased it.  I had visions of some kind of Zen Waldorf baby, but I had Freyja The Wild, and had to take it down pretty quickly.   I was too lazy to iron it, I hope the wrinkles come out over time.

Oh, goody a drumset!

My mother send a drumset home with Maxwell, without asking if it was ok. 

I have no idea why they thought it was a good idea, but I now have it set up in Freyja's playroom, which is part of our livingroom.

I am not very excited about it.

It is a big drumset.

It could be bigger!  It isn't like as big as say Rush's drummer's kit.

That is what my friend Don said when he came over to set it up.  

I  phoned him the night before, when the pile of cartons had begun to drive me batty after sitting in the corner for over a week. 

Yes, Don is correct.  

It is indeed smaller than a 1980's progressive rock band's drum kit.  

I will give him an A+ for observation.   

Don is a musician, and for him it seems perfectly normal to have a drum kit in your living room. 

He also happens to be one of those repulsively upbeat and cheerful types that insists on seeing the bright side of everything, which is the primary reason I phoned him at 11:00pm and begged for assistance, rather than facing the snarlfest that would surely ensue if Mark and I attempted to put the blasted thing together.  

You should see us try to put up the Christmas tree!  It isn't pretty!

He was the ideal choice, sauntering in almost on time, with his sticky one year old and a bag of groceries, that needed cooling in my fridge. 

He gayly poured the whole crew limeaide and set to work screwing things together, while his baby daughter dragged a suitcase around the living room (she and Don found the suitcase in the basement, where he had gone to fetch ice, from the deep freeze.)

And by cricky, within an hour he had the whole thing assembled, backward, to accommodate our left handed player, despite a little setback, when I made the baby cry, by turning on the vacuum cleaner.  

Bad Vacuum!

She wailed, and demanded to go outside.

In the end, Maxwell was delighted (he got a basic lesson on how to do a rock beat), his friend was impressed that I was able to conjure up a drum assembly team so nicely, and the baby was happy the vacuuming was over at last.  

The Tooth Fairy is pretty lame

Finally, at 6.5 Freyja loses her first tooth!

Headed off to Field day, with a space in her mouth.

Freyja lost her first tooth this week! 
She had been agonizing over the lateness of this process, so it was a very big deal. 

Unfortunately the Tooth Fairy had a real doozy of a cold and sore throat, a broken toe and a giant workload at work and spaced out getting any cash. 

At midnight, the Tooth Fairy sat up in bed and told her husband "we totally blew it", ran downstairs and mined the depths of her tote bag, which serves as a purse and found a bunch of linty pennies and one dime.  She put the ragtag collection into an envelope, and wrote
 To: Freyja
From TF
in bubble letters and left in next to the pillow.

The next morning Freyja was delighted by the envelope with the note and the change.  She asked if she could get a orange bar from Dairy Queen with it, and I said "it is the perfect amount for that."

Everyone loves Buddha

 I got to eat lunch with a group of  ten five and six year olds today at work.

The conversation was lively and animated.

Someone brought up the topic of Buddha, although the exact genesis of the conversation remains a mystery to me.

I am sitting like the Buddha.

Don't make fun of Buddha!! 

Me: Friends, we are not making fun of each other or things that are important to other people, ok?

Who is Buddha? 

Teacher M- is Buddha 

Me: Teacher M is a Buddhist nun, not Buddha. 

What is that? 


Me: a person that greatly admires the wisdom & compassion of Buddha, and devotes her life to practicing how to be more like Buddha.


My dad is a Buddhist. 


Hey! I could tell that because he is BALD like Teacher M! 


Me: Being bald doesn't make you a Buddhist.

Oh. 

My dad's hair just fell out.


Me: sometimes people's hair falls out,  and they are bald, but they are not Buddhist, and sometimes people with lots of hair are. Everyone is different and people admire different things.  When people admire those kinds of things, sometimes they keep it private in their heart, and other times they choose to share it by wearing special colors or hair styles, or other things that show the world what is in their hearts.  It is a matter of personal choice.  Everyone is free to admire and devote his or her heart to what speaks to it, is that clear? 



When I got home, I took my children out for an early, very unhealthful before dinner, dinner, for crinkle cut fries at a very old, old school Chinese cafe, before swimming  & karate  lessons: there happened to be a drawing of Buddha on the children's menu, and it was Deja vu  all over again with Freyja.


Is Buddha Chinese? 

Me: No, he was Indian.

So he had brown skin? 

Me: Yes, at least browner than you and I.

Did Buddha speak English?

Me: Most certainly not. (Bootiful Princess goes to a language magnet school with Chinese and Spanish programs and she is very interested who speaks what and when).

Why do people like him? Is he a god?

Me: No, he is not  exactly god, not in the way we think of G-d but he was a very wise and enlightened person, that people  (including me) really admire.  He had a lot of focus and self control, and compassion, which is hard to come by.


Why is does the dragon on Buddha's kite have his mouth open like that (in the drawing)?  

Me: I dunno.  Maybe the dragon is doing  "lion's breath " yoga pose? 

Freyja gets out of the booth and kneels on the floor  of the filthy old restaurant and demonstrates the pose and the lion's tounge to the  elderly patrons of the cafe.

I think that is what the dragon is doing.  I think the dragon on the kite is doing that to make the Buddha feel happy and powerful.  The Buddha really loves his dragon kite.

Me: That is an excellent guess, you might be right.  Would you believe that your friends at my work were also talking about the Great Buddha today? 

REALLY?

Me: Yes, yes! It is true!

more on Mother's Day

Apparently is it outrageous and cruel to ask your son to
A. brush his hair
B. take a photo with his mother  on Mother's Day

Who knew?

Sunday morning ramble around town

The kitchen eating nook put back together again, all set for Sunday dining.  I love the sun through yellow curtains.  If that doesn't make your morning right, nothing will.  I am forever promoting yellow DIY curtains as a source of mental health.  Freyja woke me up at 6:00am, so we tidied up a bit, got Onkel out of bed and headed downtown to the Pearl Bakery for something to eat.  I was in no mood for bathing,or dressing, or hair brushing.

Not a soul on the street.

I hate photos of myself from this angle, I look very pigfaced.     We arrived a few minutes before they opened, and passed the time chatting up a gal that strolled by in search of pastry for her mother's mother's day breakfast.  I strongly suggested the gibassier. 

Pferd and ente joined us.

the banana bread tastes exactly like my grandmother's, which is excellent.  I have never been able to capture that flavor.

Freyja selected a brioche, and proceeded to pick all the sugar off the top, to "save for later."

Rolf elected to pour a lot of pepper on his roll. 

I love this place, I could live here. the color, the big windows, the pine fixtures.  Perfection.

 

From the Pearl, we headed east to Sheridan to pick up some produce and to kill some time, allowing Mark to sleep in a little, as we often do on Sunday mornings.  The produce guys get up early and are never cranky when Miss F. drives the cart erratically around the super crowded store.  I wish more shop people were this friendly to children.

searching for quinoa and lentils

I made this veggie basket for my mother in law. 
She has come to cooking late, at 71 she is trying her hand at fresh food (thanks to 13 years with a pushy daughter in law!), she even took up an interest in fancy salts, in the bottom of the basket is some pink Himalayan sea salt, and some Hawaiian black salt.  I suppose it is a weird gift.  I don't like to give flowers, unless the person is a flower person, otherwise it just feels like something that will wilt and die and need to be thrown away.  
I sent my mother a card.  
I phoned her too, on second thought, in case the card was too minimalistic. 
She just returned from Prague, I had no idea.  We don't really talk, it is is strange, to phone and have someone say "I just got home from Prague" How lovely for you, I guess . 
The notion of mother's day is sort of weird. 
I miss my grandmother and I don't really know what to do with a whole day devoted to something that makes me uncomfortable. 
I am not close to my parents, they have other people that they chose to be close to, it is all very polite, but often awkward.  
I hope that there is never a time when I am in Eastern Europe and my children don't know it.   
I hope very sincerely to have a relationship with them that keeps us knowing which continent we all are on, all the time.

  

I told my family not to buy anything for me.  I have too much stuff and I feel overwhelmed by gifts most of the time.   I find it difficult to accept gifts or holidays.  They make me nervous.  I don't like being the center of attention.  I like to be the center.  The center of organization, but not have the light shined on me directly.  Freyja and Mark found this Grover needle point at Goodwill and they thought it wouldn't be too overwhelming and they were right.   I love it.

My son is being relentlessly mean spirited and caustic toward me, which makes me wonder if I really am some kind of terrible person, or he is just an insufferable brat.  He has always been such a sweet child, I don't know where this is coming from.
Today, Out of spite, I made him make his own breakfast AND wash his own bowl.  I will show him how mean I really am!

onto the next day

We had a nice time last night which only amplifies the sadness I have in losing the one work friend I have.  I haven't been very successful in making new friends in the past decade or so, so losing one feels hard.

Both children have playdates over, which gives me an opportunity to write a little and catch up on laundry. The basement seems to be where I end up, often.  Business and pleasure.

I should make a better effort to be more upbeat here. 

One friend said recently, "you are such a different person in person, you laugh much more than you would think from your writing" another commented that I don't smile often, which is true. 

I don't like to smile in photos, I feel like my mouth is too large and muppety.

I frequently fret about my lack of   writerlyness and the mundane nature of my life.

When I got up (late for me at 9:00) this morning Mark told me that he hadn't been able to get the boys to eat anything.
I told him I would make some grilled cheese (in my family we always called them toasted cheese) sandwiches, surely no twelve year old boy would be resistant to the siren song of grilled cheese.

As we worked together pulling the sandwiches together, Mark said
" the key to grilled cheese is a hot pan."

I said "really? We are talking about grilled cheese? That is what we are doing, having a long an involved conversation about a fried sandwich?", but I was happy for my family, my hot pan and my not very conversational husband, just the same. 

Fake smile

no smile. I look a lot like my paternal grandfather.  That is where the muppet mouth and the big head come from I think.

real smile

waiting for our guests to arrive

Ripley trying to cash in on dropped party food.

Goofy girls