I warned my husband when his mother moved in.
I warned him well in advance, actually. I warned him when he was on the phone with the cable company, fulfilling his mother’s only request when she came to live with us last Spring. She wanted cable. We’d never had it before. Or a new TV for that matter.
I told him this whole situation was not in his best interest. He would have to compete for my attention. With the Food Network.
Confession really does wonders for the soul: I could watch cooking shows. all. day. long. I am not addicted to many things. Actually, my addictions have souls and names. Except for the Food Network. (Unless their chefs count…)
Worse than being addicted to cooking shows myself, I have passed my addiction on to my offspring. My children each have their favorite Food Network productions. It was fun, at first. It was more than amusing to hear my 3-year-old little man ask, “What are the basket’s mystery ingredients tonight?” when I opened the pantry to start dinner. And, yes, I laughed when he announced “Let’s see whose dish is on the chopping block!” when I presented him his dinner plate one evening. Or his detailed, Brooklyn-accented critiques of chicken soup, “is there cilantro in here? It’s kinda flavory and fresh.”
The Food Network isn’t a bad influence on my children, either. I don’t mind that while her peers discuss the tween installations on the Disney channel, my daughter is fraught with anticipation, hoping that Anne Burrell or Alex Guarnaschelli will overtake Geoffrey Zakarian in the Next Iron Chef. (Sorry, baby, Zakarian won. Have I broken the news to her yet? No.) But I am beginning to see the signs of over-saturation. Very important, serious themes are being bungled up with vocabulary that has recently expanded to include a culinary lexicon. I will provide you with an example momentarily.
Meanwhile, speaking of serious themes, my daughter asked me a serious, very pointed question not too long ago. When she was three, our first son passed away, as an infant. As she grows in maturity and understanding, her questions about his death also grow in depth and complexity. She approached me with the latest wonderings; “Mommy, what did you and Daddy do with my baby brother’s body? Does he have a grave?”
Phew. Pause button. Where’s your father? Deep breath.
“At the time, I was an emotional mother. I didn’t want any land to own him. I didn’t want him to disintegrate. I still don’t like when anyone visits my children without me. Those are the reasons I didn’t want to bury him. His body was cremated. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, Mommy. What are you going to do with me?”
“God willing, I won’t have to make that decision. Most people choose what they want for themselves and write it down or let a family member know. Your word is as good as done. Some day, you’ll make that important decision and your loved ones around you will honor it.”
“Can we change the subject?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Done. Phew. Tough chat #3,458, over.
Our home is at times a truly hilarious place to be. Gut-wrenchingly funny, to be exact.
Other times, it’s a painfully real place to be. Heart-wrenchingly sad, to be exact.
Who says you can’t achieve true balance??
One evening after Cupcake Wars and my own personal Chopped experience, (making dinner for three judges who are related to me, with whatever I have left in my own “fridge” and “pantry” is much harder than the Food Network version) we decided to go for our usual post-dinner stroll. This time it was a long night-hike on an arroyo trail in the mountain behind our home. It was a lovely evening. The moon lit our path, as did the flashlights my children were holding/fighting over/using as swords to fight the mountain lions/using to light the path/shining in my eyes. (Your family, too?)
I was holding my lovely girl’s hand, in a trance from the syncopation of the desert trail rocks under our feet. The baby was asleep in a wrap around me, the esposo and the little man were up ahead “protecting” us with their flashlights. We were having a moment. It was bliss. I won’t ever forget it. She broke the silence. She had obviously been using this time for some deep thinking.
“Mom.”
“mmHmm?”
“I’ve decided.”
For a moment, I wondered if we had started a conversation that I’d forgotten about. Nope.
“Hmm?”
“I’ve decided, Mom. I’ve made my decision.”
“Okay.”
This could be about anything! Will it be fashion design, surfing, veterinary school, midwifery or a rock band called the Jesus Singers? Will her bridesmaids be wearing turquoise or navy blue? Will she be living in San Diego or New York when she leaves me? A shower or a bath with her brothers when we get home? Decaf Chai or Chamomile before bed? Really. You have no idea. The possibilities for a decision-making 8-year-old girl are endless.
“You know, what we were talking about a while back? I’ve decided.”
“Are you going to share this decision with me?”
“Yes. I have to. My word is as good as done.”
Ahh…now I know.
“Mom. I’ve decided. I want to be caramelized.”
Um.
“When I die. I do not want to be buried. I want to be caramelized. Please.?!”
.
At this moment I would love to tell you that I solemnly maintained composure and assured her that her wishes would be respected.
I would love to say that I nodded a mature, motherly understanding and made a mental note regarding a future vocabulary lesson.
But, that would be lying. We like to be truth-tellers in our family.
.
I busted out laughing. Totally. Could not stop. I laughed and sang out a hoot and a holler of a response. My smile couldn’t have stretched wider and as I kept laughing, my lovely started to giggle and chuckle as well, caught with the laugh contagion. She didn’t know what she had said that had made me laugh, but she couldn’t stop throwing her head back and giving it a good guffaw.
“What’s so funny, Momma?”
“Caramelized, baby?”
“Oh!! Like an onion?? No!! I mean… Cremated. I meant, cremated! I want to be cremated!”
This is one of those times when your child is shouting something that, taken out of context, would sound ridiculous and embarrassing and would cause complete strangers to pause a moment to let the “crazy family” pass by on the trail. Thank God we had the trail to ourselves. I looked around, though, just to make sure.
“Okay, love. I hear you. I understand. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Sure, Momma. That was really funny.”
“Yes, it was. Thanks for making me laugh. And, lovey?”
“Yes?”
“No Food Network for a bit, yeah?”
“Sure, Momma. Phew, I’d better be careful. You might have thrown me into a hot pan with butter!”
TheFronteraMama 