"Eat It!"

     So here’s the thing! And it’s the kind of thing that doesn’t really grate at your nerves until it’s too late and you’ve already been catapulted into the position of wife, mother and “head cook.” Before you know what’s happened you’re thrust into an agonizing daily battle with your husband and children about what they want to eat. What’s more, they actually have the gall to expect, no, demand that we multi-tasking moms waltz into the kitchen, snap open our Martha Stewart inspired recipe box and whip up meals that will delight their picky palates at a moment’s notice! How absurd! How wrong! How incredibly annoying!

     After years of such torment I decided to do a little math (very little) in order to get a handle on how many meals I’ve been required to muster up since I became a Mom. I figure that’s the best place to start because when we got married, while I did cook for my husband, I felt absolutely no obligation to do so. And heaven knows he did not belly up to the kitchen table for the recommended three meals a day. I considered it a ‘wifey’ accomplishment if I managed to dish up at least one meal a day. For the rest we fed our faces at whatever restaurant tickled our fancy. Menus were plentiful and life was good. (Insert sound of screeching brakes here).
     After giving birth, along with all of the mental, physical and chemical changes ravaging my body, I must have been infected with the ‘Uber Mom’ gene. Suddenly I was inexplicably compelled to make three meals a day. I had no idea of the horrors that lay ahead!
     The Uber Mom, meal deal thing got off to a fairly good start because all of the child’s meals came from my bosom. Despite the intense pain and agony I was determined to let the child drain all of the breast milk that I had in me. But as it turned out my glands were poor providers. After a week or so of the breastfeeding debacle my poor son appeared shriveled and malnourished and I was completely frazzled. Finally, to my husband’s relief, my doctor demanded I shut down my meager mammary factory before the boy starved to death.
     Suddenly the sun began to shine. As time went on I was pleased to find that feeding him formula and baby food wasn’t nearly as distressing as I'd thought it would be. I delighted in choosing cute little jars filled with fruit and veggie purees or filling bottles with formula and adding a dash of iron fortified dry cereal here and there. The boy gobbled down my concoctions and I proudly dubbed myself ‘Top Chef’. But alas the good times came to an end when the child along with his father grew tired of the tiny jars of strained peas and pureed apples and demanded regular food. Just like that my chef’s hat along with the pots and pans in my kitchen began to spin out of control.
     By my calculations I’ve cooked 1,095 meals a year since my son was born for a grand total of 15,877.5 meals and counting during the boy’s 14.5 years. The numbers are staggering and you’d think someone would appreciate such a feat. But Nooo! They’re both ungrateful eaters. Always with the question, ‘what’s for dinner?’ As if I woke up with the day’s meal plan pasted on my forehead. I’m also subjected to the constant grumbles, such as, “There’s never anything “good” here to eat,” “Why is the chicken so dry!”, Or “Why do you use ground turkey instead of beef in the spaghetti?” “We hate wheat bread!” And, "Are you trying ANOTHER new recipe?!" Grrrrr and double Grrrr!
     If that isn’t bad enough, once I manage to whip up something that I think will make them happy I’m subjected to extreme scrutiny. First there’s the secret exchange of glances between father and son. One signaling the other to peek into the pots on the stove and scout the meal. The scout quickly sends out a ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ based on the visual. This is followed by the sneaky taste test. When they think my back is turned the boy or his father quickly samples the main dish and relays a hearty thumbs up or thumbs down. If it is a thumbs up they eat with a sigh of relief and I even get a few compliments. But, if it is a thumbs down, I get a string of whiny complaints like ‘You used too much garlic’, ‘It’s too spicy’, or ‘I had a big lunch and wasn’t really hungry’. They choke down a forkful or two and about an hour or so later, father and son are suddenly struck by an overwhelming desire for Taco Bell or Mickey D’s. Grrr! It’s enough to make any multi-tasking mom manic.
     Enough! This vicious unending cycle has led me to only one conclusion--a strike! No longer will I be the victim of their fickle culinary whims. I am done rolling the dice on what to cook for dinner. They can spin the menu wheel and come up with the dinner of their choice. Finally I will have the chance to sit back and mete out overly dramatic critical analysis of each dish. Then I’ll calmly pick up my purse and make my way to my favorite sushi restaurant where I will eat in peace and savor every bite.
(P.S.--My strike lasted for a week and now hubby shares more of the cooking duties and the criticism. But he still absolutely refuses to step foot inside the grocery store!)

Queen of Hugs!

     I am blessed to have been born into a family filled with the most amazing women that God ever put on the planet. Their love, strength and beauty continue to shape my life in immeasurable ways. For instance, I have an older cousin on my mother’s side who is a ‘hugger.’ Cousin Debbie is no ordinary hugger. There is no such thing as a ‘simple embrace’ for her. To me, Cousin Debbie’s hugs have always reigned supreme in my family. Don’t get me wrong, I come from a long line of generous huggers. My mother and grandma could certainly serve up a heartfelt embrace with the best of them. But I’ve always felt Cousin Debbie took hugging to an entirely new level. She hugs with such gusto and passion that it literally takes your breath away. Cousin Debbie is without a doubt my ‘Queen of Hugs.’
     When the Queen wraps someone in her arms it is as if they have absolutely no choice but to surrender to her. Her hugs are not obnoxious or abrasive. They are simply unforgettable. She always hugs tight and she always hugs long.
     When I was a kid the Queen’s need to cling would, at times, catch me off guard and just plain frustrate me. Whether it was a special family gathering or she was just stopping by. Whether I had seen her the day before or hadn’t seen her in a while, her Highnesses’ huge hugs were always filled with the lust for life that radiated from the beauty in her soul. But, being a kid all of that meaning was totally lost on me. I just thought the Queen needed to chill and relax her grip a bit. Surely she knew hugging with such force could injure a small child. Well, if she knew, she did not care because the Queen is no respecter of persons when it comes to hugs. She dishes them out to everyone the same. Me, my brother, my mother, her mother, her aunts, her husband, her children, her sisters, and I would guess even her cherished Rottweilers are not spared from the Queen’s long, snug and breathless hugs. It’s as if she’s determined to take a piece of you away with her from each embrace.
     But here’s the thing, while I may have felt smothered by those hugs as a child I began to feel differently when I became a young woman. Leaving home, going off to college and living on my own gave me a much more realistic view of the world. People and situations weren’t always so pretty. I cherished my independence but for the first time in my life I truly began to realize the importance of having a loving family who had my best interest at heart. My maternal grandmother raised me and my brother after our parents divorced and our mother became ill. My grandmother’s plate was always full with work and taking care of my mother. So, unlike a lot of of my friends, there weren’t many opportunities for family to visit and hang out with me in college on the weekends. I only saw family when I came home for the summer or holiday breaks.
     It was during those visits that I found myself eagerly anticipating our family gatherings and especially a visit with the Queen. I suddenly needed to feel Cousin Debbie wrap me in her well-toned arms, press me into her bosom, rock me from side to side, while rubbing and patting my back and warmly sighing, “Hmmmmm!” Now, instead of wishing the embrace would end, I was honored to give the Queen her due. I held on a little longer and squeezed a little tighter. I needed to fill up on the love and energy that she poured into each embrace and I needed her to know how much I appreciated her love.
     However, it was not until I became a wife and mother that I was able to truly understand what fuels the Queen’s warm hearted hugs. I am blessed to now realize what the Queen must have learned from, her parents, and the rest of our family. It’s really a simple concept. Absolutely nothing is promised. Therefore, no hug is to ever be wasted. The Queen’s hugs, just like the ones I now give to my family and friends, ooze love and support. The Queen’s hugs always told me, “You’re beautiful, you’re special, I’m so glad you’re here.” They whispered, “Do your best, do what is right, don’t give up.” Most of all, the Queen’s hugs comforted me and lifted my spirit shouting, “I love you from the bottom of my heart.” So with every hug that I am blessed to give to another, I do my best to channel Cousin Debbie as my heart sings, “All Hail the Queen of Hugs!”