Things to do today...

I wrote this a few weeks ago, and only just realized it never published (after reading it, you'll probably forgive that transgression).

I couldn't think of what to write tonight.  It's not that there's nothing going on in my life.  Quite the opposite, actually.  I have three dozen midterm projects that are flooding my googledocs drive.  I need to being working on my taxes.  There are four books I'm in the middle of reading (My Life As An Experiment, Finding The Space To Lead, On The Road, and Travels With Charley).  My tax return  could really use a jump start.  There are emails I should be answering.  I'm sure there's something decent on television (or at least on my DVR).

But what's most on my mind is the next few months and how the heck I'm going to get through them with my sanity intact.  My husband, Jeff, had arthroscopic shoulder surgery the other day to determine what kind of vicious infection is in the shoulder he had replaced a year ago.  The looming knowledge that for the foreseeable future, I'm going to essentially be operating as a single parent while he recovers, is pushing pretty much everything else to the back of my mind.

We're looking at two more surgeries in the next few months (one to tear out the metal and plastic joint, replace it with some antibiotic-infused cement spacer for a month while he's also on an IV drip of antibiotics, and then a second surgery to put in a shiny new, clean, artificial joint to replace the one that has deteriorated to the point where he can't go more than an hour without a bag of ice on it because of the pain).  I say "we" because when you've been together for almost two decades, and married for over seven years, you're in this thing together, and what affects one spouse affects the whole family.

We had to drive into New York City for the initial surgery (his sixth in the last decade) in a blizzard, the snow beating down on the car, as we watched a driver on the other side of the FDR do a 180 before calmly completing the full circle and continuing on his way.  I had to walk five blocks in four degree weather, the wind literally burning my face with cold, to pick up Jeff's prescriptions while he was in the operating room.  He was sedated, and cheerfully bantering with the nurses, while I loaded up our stuff on my back like a pack mule, braved the cold once again to liberate our car from a parking garage, and whisked him out of the hospital.  I drove home going 10 miles an hour, curving through the streets of Harlem to avoid the accident riddled main highways out of Manhattan, while we talked about the upcoming insanity that will be our lives as he recovers.  

I know what I'm looking at.  Last year, I wrote a blog in the early days of Jeff's recovery, titled Superhero Entourage, about how lucky I was to have such a strong support system, and how that helped me get through the days.  The day after I wrote that blog, I fell down the stairs carrying my 10 month old baby, and sprained my wrist while simultaneously breaking her leg.  It was the single worst day of my parenting life.  Knowing that you are the cause of pain to your child, knowing you're doing everything you can to hold it together, and simply not being able to is hard.  It's even harder to admit when you are used to being Supergirl.

And I think that's where I am now.  I'm realizing how difficult it is to do everything, be everything. At least I have a husband who consistently tells me he appreciates me, kids who give the best hugs in the world, and family and friends who are willing to come over to help (and help me get a much needed nap here and there) to get us all through.

That said, I kept a couple of lists going over the last week and a half, of what I do in an average day.  I started getting tired just reading them.  This is one- and it is one long paragraph, which I like from a Kerouac-ean, train of consciousness standpoint, even if it is a little dizziness inducing:

Wake up, eat instant oatmeal while driving to work, lead class discussion on Walt Whitman's "Song Of Myself", help students break down Emerson's essay on Education, discuss finer points of Walden with students, conference with students about improving their writing, answer emails during lunch, pick up daughter at preschool, run to Stop & Shop, make mac and cheese lunch for kids, grab yogurt for self, grab yogurt for children who now want Yoplait only, clean yogurt out of child's hair due to daughter trying to feed herself combined with a lack of proficiency with a spoon, situate children with Legos, begin grading final memoir stories from nonfiction creative writing class, read "Monster's Inc." book that suddenly must be read NOW, re-situate children with trains, answer emails for my company, create ice pack for husband, clean up ice dropped on floor, clean up remnants from children's lunch* 
(*use dogs for part of this), change little daughter's diaper, go through mail, pay bills, help situate big daughter on the potty with dry erase marker and book on letters, clean kitchen, stop little daughter from climbing onto fish tank, help big daughter walk potty to toilet for flushing, stop dog from trying to lick what big daughter spilled while walking potty to the toilet for flushing, clean mess, wash hands, take marker from little daughter, figure out that Magic Eraser does indeed erase marker from walls, clean up ice that melted all over husband/couch, change little one's diaper again, get back to those emails, make orange juice sippy cup, replace orange juice with apple juice at request of offended drinker, saute vegetables, boil pasta, stick stuffed chicken breast in oven, make bread (thank higher power for bread machine invention), each handful of chocolate chips, post workshops for company while children climb husband like little King Kongs on the Empire State Building, eat dinner as a family, give children baths because of tomato sauce on hands, in hair/ears/noses (I have no idea...), regulate Shamu-like splashing, dress children in pajamas, wash dishes while children and husband have impromptu jam session on harmonicas and piano, build Lego house for Lego bunny, make another ice pack for husband (shoulder irritated while playing piano), play tag with children, rub boo boo on big daughter's head (from running into wall), climb through pop up VW bus tent, climb through castle tent, read book, read another book, find original lamby stuffed animal, read third book, tuck little daughter in bed and kiss her goodnight, put big daughter in night time pull ups, tuck big daughter into bed, turn on fish tank light, turn off fish tank light per her request, retrieve her cup of apple juice, turn fish light back on, also per her request, kiss big daughter goodnight, finish emails, check Facebook, get another ice pack for husband, read chapter in my book, turn on Daily Show, drift to sleep during Colbert Report.

See, I need that nap.

For Heather

My hair whipped into my eyes, slashing through them and making them tear.  My arms were covered in goosebumps, and I huddled closer to the other purple-clad warriors in their sleeveless satin uniforms. It was cold, it was windy, and I was blissfully enjoying every second of it, watching one of my oldest friends embracing her husband (her hair perfectly coiffed in a hairsprayed updo that a tornado wasn't moving).

This past weekend was one of reminiscing, romancing, and reconnecting.  I spent much of the weeks leading up to it composing a scrapbook of memories for the bride.  I collected pages from her wedding party, her high school friends, her college friends, and even her high school prom date, before adding in the ones from myself.  Pouring over pages and pages of my own scrapbooks, I wove together a friendship that started in girl scouts, ebbed through the tumultuous outcast middle school years, and into high school, college, and beyond.

Glancing through the photographs, I had flashbacks.

To girl scouts, Troop 49, sitting cross legged in the basement on an worn fabric couch, eating cookies and apple juice while formulating plans for the completion of patches.

To 8th grade, when we were "so popular", we managed to get a room for just the two of us on our trip to Washington, DC, when everyone else was in groups of four.

To high school, belting out songs from The Indigo Girls and Rent, nursing broken hearts through music, and dreaming of the day we'd walk down the aisle with the great love(s) of our lives.

To graduation on a boat, her sitting with me while I cried at the end of a chapter of my life on a metal staircase, when she looked out at the lights of New York reflecting in the choppy black water, and pulled me onto the dance floor, pushing me to my future.

To college, when my heart was destroyed twice, and she held my hand through both.

To when my dad died, and she showed up at 12:30 AM with a half eaten bag of Oreos, and a bottle of Diet Coke, choking through her tears "I didn't know what to do, so I brought these."

To after I grew up, when I needed to escape, and she drove through 3000 miles with me, laughing through the car breaking down, talking me through a panic attack in Nevada, and hugging me and telling me I was brave in California.

To my wedding, dancing and laughing as we twirled around the dance floor.

To when my daughter was born, and she held her for the first time, saying "You MADE this!" in awe and delight.
To the Indigo Girls concert in our 30s, dancing and singing up a storm while the glow of her iphone lit up the world, drinking in every note and reminding me what it was to be young.

To her engagement, when I stood in an aquarium store and squealed, jumping up and down as the fish made a beeline to the backs of their tanks

And now to her wedding- when I couldn't hold back the tears as she was escorted down the aisle by her parents, a perfect smile on her face.  And I couldn't hold back the pride and the smile of knowing that we had finally made it.  To the next great adventure, the next great gab session, the next of everything.

Wales

Wales: The story of the place we never went to, despite drunken willpower, several hours of trying, and a failed attempt to speak English with a Welsh man.

"We are not going to Wales."

Simple declarative statements work best with drunks. Direct, difficult to misinterpret, even under the influence of several foreign and domestic ales. I am an expert at these statements, having been a sober person my entire life, and having spent much of my late teens and twenties as the only dry anchor in a sea full of friends family, and a future husband with a fondness for drink.  While often met with some initial forms of defiance, these gentle, yet firm, phrases have helped keep me from going along with ideas that I knew were not in the best interest of the proposing party, or myself.  

Which is why, midway through our trip to England's Warwickshire countryside, I assumed my statement would end talk of such shenanigans, and lead to a relatively early bedtime, as there were castles I was looking forward to exploring in the morning.

"We are not going to Wales."

"But KRIS-ten," Jeff whined, embracing his inner child, "I've never BEEN to Wales".

"And we will go.  But not at 6 o'clock, not when it's foggy, and not when you two are too drunk to even remember the trip".

Jeff was sitting on the floor, and Dave was perched on the folded out Murphy bed.  We were in a timeshare in the middle of Shakespeare country.  From the outside, it resembled an old English castle, all antique stones fringed in moss.  When we pulled up, I pictured Jane Austen and horse drawn carriages lining the gravel driveway centuries ago.  

Inside,  though, it was more Motel 8 than Windsor Castle.  The faded green carpet had been matted down by tourists over the years, and the furniture was shellacked particle board.  Tired floral patterns covered the comforter and chairs, and the kitchen, with its electric stovetop with the crooked burners, had long since seen its heyday.  But for me, my boyfriend Jeff, and his friend Dave, who was visiting for a few days, it was a step up from the accommodations we had experienced on prior trips- which ranged from tents to hostels to the back of an old ambulance with several other people.

"Kris, I would just like to say, I appreciate you taking care of Jeff and me, and looking out for our best interests," Dave intoned, ever the mediator.  His shaggy blonde hair smacked his bulbous nose as he nodded his head in agreement with my stance.  He was almost 6'5", and his feet were hanging over the edge of the bed while his back rested against the wall.  

"Thank you Dave.  Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go back to read-"

"That said," Dave interrupted, "I do think it would be a spectacular adventure to head west and see what the great home that spawned Princess Diana is all about.  And have a drink there." He smiled and leaned his lanky frame back against the wall.

"Really?  You really want to drive three hours to find a Welsh Pub? And Diana wasn't spawned by Wales, she married the PRINCE of Wales..." I started to explain before-

"YES!"  Jeff interrupted, his eyes shining at the thought of an authentic Welsh pub.  He jumped off the floor and extended his hands to the ceiling, drumming on it with his fingers.  "We could get Guiness there."

"You can get Guiness at the bar a hundred feet away.  "

"But this would be WELSH Guiness"

"Technically, it's all Irish," Dave interjected.

"Whose side are you on?" Jeff asked, turing towards his friend.

Dave paused, contemplating.  "See, this is the thing," he said, raising an eyebrow and pointing his index finger at Jeff.  "How often do you have the chance to just drive to a completely different country?"

"Any time I want to drive to Canada."

"Yes, but this isn't Canada.  This is Wales.  They speak Welsh.  It's a whole other language,"  Dave countered.

"They speak English too.  And by the way, some Canadians speak French."

"The Quebecois,"  Jeff chimed in from his spot by the door.

"This is true,"  Dave's logic was threatening to break through his drunken delirium.  "But the Welsh speak English with such a thick accent it ALWAYS sounds like a different language.  I can prove it too."

"How?" I asked

"By trying to hold a conversation with someone in Wales,"  Jeff said, leaning back and trying to give me puppy dog eyes.  "Please can we go?"

"I promise, we'll behave," Dave chimed in.

Leaning over towards Dave, Jeff whispered, "I can't make that promise".

I looked at them, knowing this was true.  Just a day earlier, I had to drag them out of Warwickshire Castle's "torture chamber" room after they were caught playing with the  mail armor and a couble of rusty swords.

"No.  Not going to happen.  We are not going to Wales."

"Seriously, Kristen."  Jeff seemed to sober up for a moment, realizing he had one shot at this.  "It's another country.  We could even stop off to see those ruins you wanted to see outside of Cardiff.  How often do you have the chance to drive to WALES?"

"No.  The final answer is no."

* * * 

"Are we there yet?"

"No".

Giggling emenated from the back seat, and I swore they sounded like a couple of adolescent girls.  I'd made them promise we would stop off at the Roman Ampitheatre in Caerleon in the south of Wales before heading into Cardiff to find a bar.  The ampitheatre was associated with the story of King Arthur, and I figured if I was driving to Wales to find the boys Guiness, the least they could do was check out the ruins for me.

We pulled into the town a little before nine, and it was dark enough that we couldn't see more than about a hundred feet in front of us.  The fog and the drizzle didn't help much either.  We parked on a narrow street, lined on one side with stone apartment buildings and on the other with a wrought iron fence.   We proceeded to wander about in the glow of the streetlights, our feet making squishing noises at they traipsed up and down the sidewalks.  Finally, I spotted a sign in the shape of an arrow, with the words "Roman Ampatheater".  

"Down the end of there is the Roman ampitheater".  I pointed with my hand while Dave, who had been taking a picture of Jeff standing in front of a very British looking phone booth, turned towards me.  "So… so let's go that way."

I shook my head.  "We're getting the car first."

"The car?!"  Jeff and Dave exchanged a look that two year olds about to throw a tantrum are familiar with.  

Dave quickened his pace and turned towards me.  "It's not even raining.  Must be Thursday."

I frowned and wrinkled my brow.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  Thursday?  This was my own damn fault for bringing two guys that had polished off a number of English brews, as well as

a

$2 fermented cider gallon that had come in a plastic milk carton on the way there.

"'Scuse me.  Which way do we go to go to the Roman ampitheater?"

I turned to see Jeff striking up a conversation with a kindly old man who was attempting to get into his ground floor apartment.  He had the look of a high school physics professor, small in stature with white hair and wire rimmed spectacles.  He seemed rather amused by the question, and the two giants standing over him.

"I believe it's down there. It's very dark now," he said matter of factly, pointing the same way as my arrow sign.

"Yea yea," Jeff agreed, nodding his head and looking like the dark and placement of the ruins were everyday facts he was well aware of.  "Is it still open?"

"Yea no, it's still open yes," the gentleman replied, shaking his head.

"Okay"

"Excellent".

It was at that point I wondered which of these men had been drinking more.

"Yea, it's right down there, about hundred yards or so down there," the old man repeated.  

Jeff began to ask "Since we're already parked this way, do we have to turn-

"I'm the oldest inhabitant, yea?" The professor had become distracted by Dave who was taking a photo of the interaction with his camera

"Uh.. yes." Dave replied, and the man grinned

A woman of about sixty appeared in the doorway, continuing Jeff's train of thought on parking and driving.  "It's a one way system."

"So it's a right, a right and a right?" Jeff responded

"Where are you now?" The old man had turned back to Jeff

"We're uh… right over there."

All four looked towards where I was standing with the car.  

"Well, you can walk down there, can't you?"

"Is it- is it walkable?" Jeff asked.

"I think we should walk there, right?  We shouldn't drive there." Dave had made up his mind.

"Yea, yea" The glint of the streetlamp bounced off his glasses as the man's head bopped up and down.

"Alright.  Alright.  We'll get our friend to come walk with us then-" Dave started.

"KRISTEN!" Jeff shouted  

Dave joined in, and a chorus of "KRISTEN!  We're walking!" bounced around me off the raindrops.  

Epilogue: 

We never found those ruins.  Well, we sort of did, but they were closed(there was a large iron gate with that exact message blocking our path after we walked over half a mile in the fog and rain to find it).  What we did end up doing was finding Cardiff, and more specifically, a little hole in the wall bar in Cardiff.  We spent our time there watching two locals play pool, and conversing (poorly) with the bartender, who probably liked us a lot better after we left and he had his silence, and a generous tip.  We also took in a soccer game on the television, and snuggled up with the house English Bulldog, Cleo.  I may or may not have agreed to marry one of the pool players.  

And on the way back to our place in England, somewhere past a Nottingham sign, I joined Dave in climbing the remains of a random castle to take pictures with the "Please Don't Climb Wall" plaque at the top (I was promised a castle and ruins, and I can at least say they delivered).

Hallmark Day

We call Valentine's Day "Hallmark Day" in our family. Before you think my husband horribly unromantic, let me explain his theory.

His view is that he should show me EVERY day how much he loves me, and that it shouldn't be limited to a one-off on the fourteenth of February. His parents raised him like this. I appreciate the thought, and his parents have been married for a very long time, so I can see how this works.

 I also realize that when we were first dating (albeit as teens), he did celebrate with the obligatory flowers, chocolates, and occasional gift (mainly stuffed animals).  He also, about seven and a half years ago, orchestrated the most romantic proposal I've ever heard of, involving slow dancing on a giant boulder in Santa Barbara while the tide came in, the sun set, and our song played on a boom box straight out of Say Anything.

That said, we're now married for over six years, and together for close to 19  (even with the prerequisite high school and college break ups).  That's a lot longer than most 35 year old married couples, because most people our age weren't dating when they were 16.

A while ago, I'd  read a comment a teen had posted that ended up on the Huffington Post, one that stated “My love life will never be satisfactory until someone runs through an airport to stop me from getting on a flight.”  I cringed.  I think because the longer we are in a relationship, the further away we get from moments like this- and we think just how deluded we once were. I've discerned that eventually, you realize that the fairy tale whirlwind romance of the movies needs something a little more substantial behind it to survive in the real world.

I've lived through this drama.  The "do you love me/don't you love me" that inherently goes with young romance.  When you thought drama was the only way to make someone feel something for you, when you thought you had to fight to test each other, when you thought passion could only come from anger or fear or secrecy.

I've seen my friends, over the last few decades, struggle through break ups and make ups, the constant merry go round of emotion of lust and extreme like, and possibly even love, that involves gigantic gestures and declarations.  I've seen the movies, the ones that end with music swelling, lights dimming, and well-timed kisses, after mistrust issues, cheating, misunderstandings, mistaken identity, etc., and thought, "what on earth are they going to have to talk about once they settle in"?  

Because settling in is what happens.  You get comfortable with each other.  You know each other's quirks.  You can finish sentences and quotes, because you've seen all the same movies, share the same stories, and have probably been living together for quite some time.  And yes, at times, it may seem like "the grass is greener".  But think about it for more than a few hours, and you'll probably realize it's not, and  And that's where the fun starts.

What I've learned over the years is that that passion needs to remain.  You have to get a little thrill every now and then when the person you chose (and importantly the one who chose you, over everyone else in the world) walks into the room.  And I'm not just talking about on a rare date night, when you're getting ready to go out and they're all done up.  I'm talking about when you look up from your Facebook page, or your work, or that book you're reading, and notice that that handsome guy reading Library Lilly to your daughters for the 825th time is pretty damn cute. 

It's that while an airport run is nice and all, those little moments throughout your life, the "mundane" ones, are the ones that reaffirm faith in love. It's at 6:30 in the morning, when the baby is awake, and your spouse went to put them down so you could get some extra sleep.  It's that when they come back, you curl up next to them, and they wrap their arm around you to wordlessly express, we're in this together.

It's that you know how to make him laugh- REALLY laugh- because you know what makes him tick.  And not just in the funny moments.  But in the hard ones, when that laugh is so needed because everything else is just too difficult, and you need that salvation of giggles.

It's in the difficult moments, too.  I've told friends that relationships shouldn't be hard, and gotten weird looks, and seen comments all over the place that "relationships are hard work."  I call BS.  RELATIONSHIPS shouldn't be work.  There should be a camaraderie of friendship first, of fun, of wanting to spend time together.  Yes, there will be difficult moments in life.  But those should come from outside forces (health, jobs, friendships, family even), NOT from within your relationship.  Sometimes, those difficult moments are the ones that make you realize how simple and easy your relationship is.

In my experience, it's that after your baby is born, and you're lying in a hospital bed terrified because they rushed her out of the OR, and you know something isn't right with you, when  he comes back and cries with you that she's finally out of the woods, and holds your hand knowing you're not yet.  It's that he's the one who hands you your first born, hours after you thought you'd hold her for the first time, and you swear you're not going anywhere because these people are your life.  

It's sitting in a waiting room for 14 hours while he has his 7th shoulder surgery, heart pounding waiting for the doctor to say he's okay.  It's driving through a blizzard to be at his bedside in the hospital, so that he's not alone.  It's sitting at a table after he's back at your house- the one you picked out and fought for together- carefully washing his arm around the picc line that's in there so that his antibiotics can go in daily, and applying the new dressing.

It's taking road trips, and sitting in non-awkward silence, and telling stories about your childhoods and memories.  It's seeing or hearing something, and not wanting to wait to tell your spouse about it, because you already know their reaction, and can't wait to see it. It's about playing the card in Cards Against Humanity that you KNOW is going to make him laugh, so that you can win.

And it's about knowing that if you asked him to run through an airport for you, he probably would.  But you don't ever want to be separated long enough to cause him to have to.  

Waffle Mornings With My Daughter

I hope you remember this...

Standing on a Sunday morning on a wooden chair in the kitchen, your bare feet pumping up and down as you excitedly go up on tip toe.  Your eager high pitched voice, saying "Mommy, we're making waffles!" as I carefully avoid knocking over the dozens of individually packaged apple sauces from their storing place as I pull down the red Aunt Jemima box from the cabinet above our heads.

"What do we do first?" I ask, sure you will know the answer.

"Wash our hands!" you recite, happily reaching for the faucet as I guide your chair to a more manageable distance from the sink (several instances of cleaning a wet floor have led me to this decision)

"Very good," I say, pumping the silver soap dispenser, and placing the shiny clear gel into your hands.

"Rub rub rub," we say in unison, as we work the soap through our fingers.  The sun is starting to peek through the clouds, and pour in through the window, hitting the bamboo plant and the orchidless orchid on its way to highlight the bubbles we're forming.

"Now rinse," I instruct, as you reach your hands- which can barely stretch to the pouring water- into the the stream.

I grab for the paper towels as I count down, knowing that if you leave your hands under the water for too long, you'll become fixated on keeping them in there, and it will be a battle to get you to separate from it.  You have a stubborn streak and then some.  "3...2...(towel in hand)...1- Off!"

On "off" you reach with all your might, your little feet straining to push yourself to reach the silver handle and turn it straight up.

"I did it!" you say, as I hand you the towel and you dry yourself off.  I'm still in awe that you are growing up so fast, that the little person, who I used to balance on the counter/my hip while you squirmed away from the water (or reached and tried to douse yourself, depending on your mood) is now standing before, drying her hands like a little lady straight out of an Emily Post instructional.

"Yes you did!  Now, let's measure the mix." I pull your chair away from the sink now, positioning you in front of the open counter space, where the box, an egg, and the milk sit next to a measuring cup and a spoon.

You dutifully pick up the silver measuring cup, your hands both clasped around the black wooden handle, holding it at enough of an angle that I have to straighten it out with one hand, as I pour the powder with the other.  We spill a bit, dusting the speckled granite with white powder, before you dump the rest of the contents into the plastic tupperware bowl.

"Excellent job, my little chef" I smile, and you beam with pride.  "Now the milk," and again, you repeat holding the cup while I dispense the ingredient into it with careful precision, delighting in the milk-fall you create as you pour it into the bowl.

"Now the eggy!" you say, and I think of how cute it is, this toddler language of yours involving "eggys" and "ogum" (yogurt) and other such things.  I pick up the cage-free hen egg, and you ask, wonder in your voice, "Is it from Aunty Coley's farm?"

I answer honestly, "No, it's from a different chicken.  But we'll get eggies from Aunty Coley next time she comes to visit, how's that?"

You're not really phased by this, just nodding your head, yes, that's a good idea, and placing your hands over mine while I crack it on the side of the bowl.  Your hands are so tiny still, chubby with youth and perfectly formed, better filled out miniatures of my own.  I can feel you pulling on my knuckles as I separate the shell from the yolk and white, and they drop into the bowl with a plop!

"Mommy, I want to stir," you declare, picking up the spoon and sticking it directly into the egg yolk, so that the yellow spills out and begins to infiltrate the rest of the batter.

"Hit the road Jack, and don't you come back no more no more no more no more," you sing, echoing one of the songs your daddy's band was playing the day before at rehearsal.

"Hit the road, Jack, and don't you come back no more," I respond, picking up the oil and pouring two tablespoons full into the batter to ensure that it doesn't stick to the waffle iron.

You move the spoon in rhythm with the song, making rotations in the bowl as you merge dry with liquid until everything is coagulating into a lumpy mush.

"Mommy, I'm done," you state proudly, handing me the spoon, and then immediately setting about to make designs in the spilled powder still on the counter.  I briefly flash to finger painting, and wonder where I could put an easel for you, to encourage your artistic desire to use multi media (Pancake mix!  Paints!  Dog hair!) and think of the museums you could display your work in.


I turn back to our concoction, stirring it a couple of times for good measure (careful to do this so you can't see, lest you think I'm belittling your work), and open the steaming waffle iron to pour in the mix.  It emits a hiss as it hits the black grates, weaving its way over the edges like water spilling out of a canal.

I close the top, watching briefly as steam escapes out the sides, and begin the autopilot clean up of throwing out the egg shells and placing the cooking supplies in the dishwasher (along with last night's dinner dishes).

As I finish clearing the counter, you grow tired of your latest artistic endeavor, offering "You can lift me down now, please."

I oblige, placing you on the floor as you take off running for the train set in the other room.  I pick up a sponge, and wipe your expressionist batter work into the farmhouse sink (giving a quick thought of thanks to the previous owner of our house for having the foresight to install such a fantastic, undermount, easy to clean vessel into her kitchen).  I then commence wiping down the rest of the countertops, removing anything stuck on with swift circles of the grainy side of the sponge, and enjoying the relative quiet in the early morning.

The orange light turns off on the waffle iron, and I carefully remove the waffles with a fork, liberating them from the grate's grasp and immediately placing them on a plate for dissection.  I call out, "Riley, do you want me to cut your waffles?"

Your response is an emphatic "Into rectangles, please!", and I set about to do this with surgical precision.  I open the refrigerator door and place the freshly diced meal on the bottom shelf, knowing you don't like things too hot, and call you to the table.

You sprint in, sliding a bit on the floor, and pull yourself up onto the chair, literally, with your hands gripping it tightly as you use the decorative wooden pieces as footholds.

I retrieve your waffles, and my own, and pour the syrup onto your plate, careful to avoid touching the waffles, so that you can dip them as you wish.

Your smile as I place your in front of you, saying "Thank-you mommy!"  I watch your eyes light up as you pick up a rectangle with your fork, dip it delicately in syrup, and then move it to your mouth, dripping shiny brown droplets onto your red nightgown.  "Mmm... these are delicious," you manage through a mouth full of food.

"Yes, angel," I smile, picking up my own fork.  "You did an fabulous job of making them."

I hope you remember this- the morning spent, just you and me, cooking breakfast together before all the "to dos" on my to do list come crushing down on me, and I have to push some of them to the top of my priority list.  I hope you remember that I spend these mornings, like my mom did with me, making you giggle, and instilling pride in your and your abilities.  I hope this makes up for all the mornings when I'm at work and I can't help you make breakfast because I'm already in the middle of teaching someone else's children to be confident, and proud, and free-thinking.  I hope you grow up loving waffle mornings as much as I did, and knowing how much you are loved.