Eating the Broccoli

March 23, 2012 / roughwighting / 19 Comments

I love broccoli and fresh green beans. I love cauliflower and Brussel sprouts, artichokes and corn, asparagus and spinach. Especially spinach.

But I didn’t always. Remember when you were a kid, and your parents made you eat those obnoxious green stringy horrid disgusting things called “vegetables”?

Why did we hate them so much? I remember plopping my peas into my glass of milk (whole milk, back in the day before the choices of non-fat or low fat) in order to hide them. Drip. Drop. Drip. One pea at a time. Thinking I’d get away with it. But my parents also made me finish my glass of milk every night. And surprise! A half dozen round peas lay in the bottom of my glass like tiny drowned smarmy green mice. My tears and histrionics drowned out the parental order: eat those mice or ‘NO DESSERT!’

When did I learn to appreciate the finer aspects of the green goodies that help us stay lean and mean like a well-oiled machine (wasn’t there an ad somewhere, sometime, like this for say, asparagus? If not, should have been.)

I can’t remember eating spinach enthusiastically until I was pregnant with my first child. Then, I couldn’t get enough of it. I’d stroll down the grocery aisles surreptitiously, sneaking into the freezer section, piling boxes of frozen spinach one at a time, looking right and left to make sure no one saw. After all, who eats spinach voraciously like a wolf attacking red meat?

I’d rush home and start a small saucepan of boiling water, dropping in that iced square of green stringy stuff, timing the steaming impatiently, sighing with satisfaction as I gorged on the delicious delicacy with pure delight.

Some say my body craved iron; I say I just finally learned to let go of my prejudices and discover the goodness of vegetables.

Aldous Huxley once wrote: “The charm of history…consists in the fact that, from age to age, nothing changes and yet everything is quite different.” Same with broccoli and childhood. My grandchildren are now squirming through the difficulties of eating their vegetables. Sophie, 3 ½ years old, shows her quiet resolve to make it through this ordeal with good cheer as she “eats the broccoli.”

Check out her secret here, and then go eat your vegetables!

BACK TO SQUARE ONE

March 15, 2012 / roughwighting / 20 Comments

Baby Pam

Today’s my birthday. A big one. I’m not big on birthdays. They make me think too much. Let’s go back and observe…

I’m 6 years old. I look out my bedroom window for answers. Who am I? What the heck am I doing here? Where’d I come from?

The clouds and the sky and the next-door neighbor’s dog, barking at their front door, give me no answers.

Who am I?

Now I’m 13. I look out with the same questions, same bedroom window. I concentrate on the trees with deep intensity. The leaves turn florescent blue, the tree bark purple, the sky pink and sparkly. The answer is there – I can almost see it, feel it. My arm extends, hand reaching, reaching, but comes back empty.

At 19, I stare out that bedroom window, anxious to say goodbye to my parents’ view of life. I understand everything now. I’ve read Joyce and Woolf, Kierkegaard and Bonheoffer, Freud and Erickson.

I know all the answers…. Don’t I?

2nd baby, no time for questions

At 33 I don’t care who I am, where I came from, or what I’m doing. I’m too busy making babies, nursing babies, loving babies, and caring for my family. I’m too tired to ask any questions, much less search for answers.

Where'd the time go?

I look out the window now at 48 and wonder where my babies have gone. Off to college and their own quests.

The quiet is unnerving. What should do I do now? The swaying trees are whispering, whispering, but I can’t hear what they’re saying.

Grandbaby 5, born March 1, 2012

And here, now, I’ve arrived to this new number on the aging chart. I dare stare out another window at hummingbirds whirring, flowers swaying, the sun winking, as I wonder: Who am I? Where did I come from? Where am I going?

BACK TO SQUARE ONE

LOST & FOUND

March 9, 2012 / roughwighting / 9 Comments

How many items have you lost in your lifetime? Too many to count on two hands, I bet. How about in just a year? Eyeglasses, socks, mittens, scarves, yoga mats, reservations, friends (hopefully not!), shoes, books – oh dear, the list can go on and on.

But how many of you can say you lost a car?

I raise my hand.

A week ago I wrote about the day I saved my son-in-law’s butt. No, not really, but I did come to his rescue, babysitting early in the morning so he could go to work. What I didn’t relate was the rest of the story.

“You have to be back here by noon,” I had admonished as I comforted the baby and said goodbye to Dan at 7:40 a.m.. “I can’t miss my 12:45 doctor’s appointment.”

I admit, I worried that Dan would forget. He could get lost in his job while reading reams of detailed court cases and lawsuits and …but no, he entered the door at 11:58 a.m. with a smile and a long verbal paragraph of thanks for helping him out.

I left him and my little grandbaby feeling happy, useful, relaxed, and…five blocks later, confused. Where’d I park my car? I was sure it was here, although on this part of the city, all the narrow old streets looked the same.

I walked up and down Revere Street, then Pearl, and even Brown. No car.

I returned to Revere, noting that no cars were parked on the street side where I thought I’d left mine. Suspicious now, I walked 10 yards to the closest sign.

“Street Cleaning

9 a.m. – 3:00 p.m.

3rd Thursdays every month”

No.

Couldn’t be.

What day was it? I checked my phone calendar as I began to race back to my daughter’s townhome. Not only was it Thursday, it was the third Thursday of the month.

S H I T!

I called Dan. Before he got out a perplexed “Hi,” I told him my dilemma.

“Take my car!” he responded immediately. “I’ll find yours!”

As I ran up their brick stairs, the front door opened and keys dangled from Dan’s fingers. I grabbed them and flew to his ginormous florescent blue Toyota SUV.

I don’t remember how I drove that truck across the Charles River and 30 miles further, but I got to my doctor’s appointment on time.

And Dan found my towed car in a nasty city lot, rescued it with a $125 ransom payment, brought it back to me the next day.

As we exchanged cars I thought: I lost a car but I found another reason why I’m glad my daughter married this guy!

Mother-in-Law

March 2, 2012 / roughwighting / 14 Comments

He begged me to help, so I crawled out of my warm suburban bed at 6 a.m. to drive the 45-minute trip to the other side of the universe – Boston.

“The baby’s sick,” my son-in-law explained to me during the early morning call with a voice as desperate as a new father’s can be. “Neither of us can miss another day of work, and I have an 8 a.m. court case. Please, Madre, can you help?”

Since the birth of my granddaughter, I had changed from “Pam,” to “Madre,” and I was still coping with my new image. But I hopped into my car and joined the commuters in the bumper-to-bumper early morning traffic.

“I am grandmother, hear me roar,” I exclaimed to myself as I walked the five frigid blocks from the car through the narrow city streets to the tiny townhome. My empathy and desire to help was unlimited until I knocked on the locked door three times with no response.

With frozen fingers I pushed buttons on my cell phone and called my daughter, who was already half way to her teaching job.

“Your husband is not answering the doorbell!” I shouted in a sweet grandmotherly voice.

“Oh,” she replied, honking simultaneously at some crazy Boston driver. “He probably fell back asleep. Pound on the door, or try his cell phone.”

“WHAT?” I screamed. She hung up, so I pounded to no avail. Then I blew on my fingers so I could press the cell phone buttons to call him.

Twice.

No answer.

My Madre-ness was receding into pure unadulterated bitch. I checked my watch. 7:15. What happened to the important court case?

I hit the doorbell with my now numb digit and didn’t release. Finally, the dog barked, and son-in-law opened the door, bleary-eyed and yawning, wearing beat-up shorts he had obviously just pulled on.

“Oh!” he said.

The baby began to cry from her crib.

“Thank god you’re here!”

I smiled like a saint. I decided I’d just guaranteed no bad mother-in-law jokes from him, ever.

(Note: My son-in-law is on my list of top favorite people. He’s a great husband and a fantastic father of two now. Also, he never reads my blog! :+)

No RE-lax at LAX

February 24, 2012 / roughwighting / 1 Comment

When I first enter the LAX (Los Angeles Airport) terminal I’m immediately bombarded with a mass of humanity. Where did everyone come from? Well, literally, from Hong Kong and Chicago, Honolulu and New York, Singapore and … but I digress.

Besides the fact that thousands of men, women, children and babies are strewn throughout the airport like fish trying to swim upstream, I note that no one looks (dare I say it without sounding extremely naïve?)…. friendly.

My man and I escape to hopefully more amiable rooms at the Admiral’s Club, where those with American Airline points (and a club membership) can get away from the general riff raff and re-lax in peace. Sure enough, the men and women here scowl silently. Their heads are lowered to their cell phones or I-Pads or laptops. I search for long minutes to find someone talking to someone else.

Wait – out of the 50 or so people sitting on leather chairs and couches and tall café stools, I do see half a dozen conversing. On their phones. To someone not in the same room as they.

Okay, perhaps I’m being too cynical. Somebody must be smiling. Somewhere.

My tired eyes (our flight was over 5 hours) scan the room and the bar, where a 10-year-old kid carries a glass of red wine to some adult not nearby. An attractive mid-20s woman, wearing a tight red sweater, tighter black leggings, and stiletto-heeled black boots, seemingly talks to herself as she munches on pretzels. I presume she’s wearing a little earpiece in her diamond-studded ears. Many important-looking men carry worry-lines between their eyebrows like a badge of honor.

I quietly scoot two rooms away to the “Ladies Room.” A few nice-looking woman (Hollywood stars, perhaps? though I don’t recognize anyone) primp in front of the mirror. After washing my hands, I search for the paper towels. Oh, there they are, above the box labeled ‘Disposable Needles.’

WHAT?

I want to escape this Alice- in-Wonderland hole, frantically waving to my guy that’s it’s time for us to leave. His quizzical expression makes me laugh until I see the 10-year-old kid sipping from the red glass of wine.

I grab my spouse’s hand and catch a beautiful beam from the janitor, a tiny man with gleaming teeth, as he washes the glass exit doors.

There.

A Smile.

One person knows how to RE-LAX in LAX.

I’m flying out of there before I get stuck in the rabbit hole called LA.