Eat This: Nutmeg Lemon Glazed Carrots

What is your favorite holiday side dish? It doesn’t feel like Thanksgiving  to me without Nutmeg Lemon Glazed Carrots. The tangy flavor of the carrots makes them delicious with mashed potatoes or yams and they’re quick and easy to make.

Ingredients

• 2 cups carrots peeled and sliced in 1/4″ rounds
• 2 tablespoons butter (I’m thinking of trying Earth Balance this year)
• 1 1/2 tsps carrot juice or boiling water
• 1 tbsp fresh lemon juice
• 1/4 tsp nutmeg
  

Directions

Boil or steam carrots until al dente and save 1 1/2 tsps of carrot water. In small saucepan, mix together carrot water, butter, lemon juice, and nutmeg. Cook on low heat until butter is melted. Pour glaze over cooked carrots and stir until carrots are coated.

Starting Preschool

Cavanaugh is starting school next week and I am teeter-tottering between tears and anxiety, while telling myself that worry is a time-waster, that I can’t predict what will happen. Still,  the tears and fears, the jittery feeling that means I can’t sit still nor get anything done, the ridiculousness.

I realize it is a luxury to even have to answer the question of when to start a child in school. Rather than having to time it around maternity leave or my going back to work, we have gotten to wait until we thought Cavanaugh would be ready. But that doesn’t mean this is easy.

First, we had to figure out what kind of school we might want for him: Waldorf, Montessori, Reggio-Emilia. Did we want structure or imaginative play? How did we feel about him going every single day? Would morning or afternoon be preferable? How many days a week? Could we afford it? How would school affect bedtime? Did he have to be potty trained? What were their discipline policies? When his name finally came up on the waiting list, would he be ready?

The truth is, we don’t actually know about most of it. Maybe he’ll love being around a bunch of kids (though he never has). Maybe he’ll like the structure of a daily routine (which varies wildly around our house). Maybe he’ll be so tired from school that he’ll go to bed earlier or sleep longer the next morning (and I won’t constantly be saying, “I know it’s light outside but it is not time to wake up).

But I’m afraid he won’t play with the other kids or they’ll be mean to him. Maybe he’ll get the swine flu or pink eye. He will feel abandoned, he will cry for me, I will miss him.

When Mike and I went to visit the school initially, we both loved it. But right before I walked into what would be Cavanaugh’s classroom, I started sobbing. I’d felt the tears catch in my throat as we walked through the gate, before we’d toured the campus. I knew this would be the place I would leave him. And even though he’s been doing it all along, school feels like the first step to his growing up and going, to his having a life away from me.

And here I am, spending a lot of time on maybe if. I don’t know. I won’t know. And maybe it will suck or he’ll grow to like it, or he’ll run into the classroom on the first day and tell me to go away so he can play. Maybe.

In the meantime. we need to buy a raincoat and boots, mittens, and pick extra sets of clothes that he’ll keep in his cubby at school. Maybe we’ll go to the library and try to find some books about starting school.

Any of you that have already started your kids in preschool have an advice about how to get him (and me) ready for next Tuesday?

What to Do After Motherhood

Whether you’re a stay-at-home mom or are working outside of the house and coming home to take care of kids, it’s easy to lose yourself. My friend Estelle wrote a great article on how she’s finding her identity again after five years home with her kids. Check it out here.

Birthday Soundtrack

When we were kids, my friend Amrita and my younger sister Tanya wanted life to be like a musical, people randomly bursting into song. They crooned made-up lyrics to accompany our mundane activities. I can still picture my sister singing into a key and doing a leap into Amrita’s outstretched arms, both of them with t-shirts pulled down over their shoulders a la Flashdance. It drove me crazy. But it planted a seed of desire in me. I want a soundtrack, for gardening, grocery shopping, anything.

My friend Courtney knows this as she has been the recipient of my Mama, nap, and various other playlists. Her second child was due last week. She was hoping for a VBAC but knew she might end up having a c-section so she asked me if I could make c-section length CD she could have just in case. Cavanaugh was also born by c-section and the only CD I had in the car was a gift from a friend: Martha Stewart’s Baby Sleepytime CD, so that’s what we took into the O.R. I remember “Blackbird” as the song that was playing but my husband says it was “Close to You.” Either way, I would have liked a little more choice in the matter. Courtney had my choices with her and Orion was born November 13th while they listened to “Happy Birthday” by Stevie Wonder.

I hope all of you will get to enjoy these songs outside an O.R., but just in case, I’ve got you covered.

1. Beautiful Day by U2
2. Happy Birthday by Sufjan Stevens
3. Beautiful Boy by John Lennon
4. Brighter Than Sunshine by Aqualung
5. Happy Birthday by Stevie Wonder
6. Celebration by Kool and the Gang
7. Birthday by The Beatles
8. Happy Birthday by Altered Images
9. Close to You by the Carpenters (oh, how I wish someone good would record a less floofy version of this song)
10. Welcome to This World by Renee & Jeremy (only song specifically for a child)

If you click here you can get to the whole list at once.

I realize there are a lot of other birthday songs, but not ones you’d want to play for a birth or a celebration. If you’re depressed and want to drink away the day you were born, this is probably not your soundtrack. Since I knew Courtney was having a boy, I’ve got “Beautiful Boy” in here, but if you’ve got any suggestions for birthday songs specific to females or any other celebratory birthday songs I should add to this list, add them to the comments section.

Born Into the Present Moment

Cavanaugh turned three yesterday. As I’ve done every year since his birth, I spent the week leading up to the actual day recalling what I was doing and thinking, and who I even was, right before he was born. All of that anticipation about what our lives would be like was the beginning of my mindfulness practice. I grew up in Taos, New Mexico, where my parents moved in 1969 to study with a guru. So I grew up with the “be here now” philosophy but never did managed it. Instead I felt bad that I couldn’t manage to live in the present moment, couldn’t meditate, and honestly couldn’t even sit still.

Five weeks before I had Cavanaugh, I was put on bedrest with pre-eclampsia. It was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I couldn’t run around, drive, madly nest my house into the perfect baby haven; I couldn’t even sit up. I was supposed to lie on my left side all day and night, and because it was for my son’s safety I managed what had been previously impossible; I stayed still. For some, this might have been a perfect time to ruminate or imagine, but anytime I started to try to picture what Cavanaugh would be like, who my new mama self would be, or what parenthood would mean for my marriage or my life in general, I couldn’t do it. My previously (over)active imagination just stopped. The still small voice inside me told me that I had no way of knowing and I shouldn’t try. I should be in my body, be in this moment, live the last days of pre-parenthood as they were happening rather than filling them with fantasies of what might happen next.

That pull to be right here right now is still a constant, though more often it’s my toddler’s small voice asking me to give him some attention, to play.  He knows when I’m not with him even when I’m sitting beside him. What he’s really asking for is that I be here in my mind as well as my body. He tells me he doesn’t like my wandering mind, whether he’s actually saying that or doing something to get my attention, like pouring a cup of water on the floor. This is my spiritual practice, my call to what is right in front of me. I can still get caught up in telling myself stories about what’s going to happen, but anytime I just stop to be in the moment, the pull to stay there is so strong that I am learning how to do it, how to live in this present moment.

So what of the present moment? After 35 years of thinking about the past or predicting the future, I live most of my days looking at the dried playdoh or rice grains in the carpet, walking outside to feel the weather so we can make plans for the day, and just being wherever I am. But the week of Cavanaugh’s birth sends me back to these same days last year, and the year before, and the year before that. Who was he? Who was I? What were either of us capable of doing at the time? I enjoy remembering, but I’m loving who he is right now, how he’s begun saying “yes” instead of “yeah” and sounds so proper doing it, how when he’s delirious or very excited he shakes his head in a quick “no” motion over and over as he runs full speed, or how when he’s drawing or playing with his trucks and builders he gets so focused that he narrates what he’s doing or his little tongue sticks from the side of his mouth in utter concentration. That boy is right here, right now, no past or future projections. He has a lot to teach me and I am a lifelong learner.

The Bath Battle

How often does your child take a bath? Mine takes one about every two – three weeks. No, I did not mistype “weeks” for “days”. I mean it. He goes a loooong time without a bath. I wipe his bottom thoroughly many times a day. If he’s got sticky stuff on his face, dirt on his legs, or paint on his arms, he gets a sponge bath. So that really happens almost daily, so he’s not really dirty per se. I know I have to give him a bath when he starts to smell a little or when my chin starts breaking out from his hair rubbing against it as I carry him.

It used to be that we could give Cavanauagh a bath every day or three and he was happy to play with his ducks or boats then get his body soaped off, but if we were trying to wash his hair, he wanted out. I tried everything I could think of and anyone else’s suggestions to counter his fear of water in his eyes. I put a washcloth over his eyes. He didn’t like not being able to see. I gave him a washcloth to put over his own eyes. He wouldn’t hold it there so water would drip to his eyes. I tried getting him to tip his head back. but inevitably, he’d return to upright just in time for the water to drip down his forehead. Ugh! I recently read the suggestion that I should laminate a picture and tape it to the ceiling so he could see it as he washed his hair. I’ll probably do that because we need variety to counter resistance in this house. I even talked to Cavanaugh about how brave he’d been after he did let me wash and rinse his hair. For months afterward, as he was getting out of the bath, he would remind me that he had been brave. As I’d wrap him in his hoodie towel, I responded each time with, “Yes you were. You felt scared but you did it anyway. That is brave.”

The point came when Cavanaugh associated baths with hair washing and so he didn’t want to go in them at all.  Even if he was allowed to go a few baths with no wet hair, he was resistant to the bath each time because we might want to wash his hair. I began to picture my boy as the teenager who wouldn’t shower: the body odor, the battles. I kept hoping he would outgrow his resistance or fear. When he’d get water in his eyes in the swimming pool or sprinklers it didn’t phase him at all. I tried reasoning with my two year old. That didn’t work.

Then my friend Lisa offered me the bath tip to rival all bath tips. She suggested that I just not fill the tub so much. That way he could lie down and control how his hair got wet. He loves it. He often wants me to cup the back of his head as he lies down so that he doesn’t slip. He will sometimes request that I keep it cradling him but once he can feel his hair floating, I can usually slip my hand from beneath him.  He will look up towards the faucets and that helps get the top of his head wet. I can even cup my palm to pour water on the parts that aren’t soaked. He’ll sit up, let me lather him up, then he’ll lie back down.

So why are the baths still so infrequent? We have over two years of resistance. It’s a habit. He thinks he doesn’t want to take a bath though once he’s in there, he has a pretty good time. And I forget to even offer I am so used to a son who doesn’t bathe. We’re both working on it.

How does your child like the bath? Will s/he take showers? We’re not even close to those yet. Please share your tips and terrors. Happy bathing!

I Miss Cigarettes

I know I’m not supposed to say it, much less want them, but I miss cigarettes. I miss the smell of them on my fingers, a cigarette with my morning coffee or after a big meal. As absolutely ridiculous as it sounds, I miss how they helped me to just sit down, take a minute, and breathe. Yes, I realize that all that breathing entailed inhaling carcinogens, that cigarettes are stupid and deadly and expensive, but they were for a time when the only person I was really responsible for was myself. If I did something dumb or dangerous, the only person I endangered was me.

Now, I’m conscious of changing my eating habits so my son doesn’t grow up craving the same kind of comfort foods I do, mac and cheese, ice cream, French bread with butter, high fat, high cholesterol, or sugar. What I feed him will shape his tastes, his cravings. What he watches me eat or drink gains admittance into his world whether I let him eat it or not. And the same goes for exercise. I don’t want him to grow up thinking it’s a chore, a means to lose weight because of above-mentioned comfort foods. I want it to be a fun part of his life: soccer, skiing, and walking so he can learn to work with a team (boy, do I wish I were better at that), get an adrenaline rush while being in nature, and have a method of relaxing  and taking care of his body that fits into his everyday life, that isn’t some add-on because it’s good for him.

Now, I wear my seat belt, only drive five or ten miles over the speed limit, and for a big thrill, I go out with a friend and maybe have two margaritas.  This is the definition of growing up, right? Putting the wild times behind us so that people don’t even know who we used to be or what we’ve done or gone through? What’s gotten me thinking about this is that I had three separate conversations with mamas last week, all of whom initiated the topic of who they’d been before motherhood. Every single one of them said they didn’t feel like they fit in with the other mamas because of what their pasts had been like. I commiserate a little. Mostly, I say that I think people, almost every one of us, has stories that, if shared, would be met with a chorus of me-too’s and “let-me-tell-you-about-the-time-I…”.

The reality for most of us is that this sane, conscientious, responsible role we’re playing now that we’re parents is not who we’ve always been, and isn’t exactly even who we are now. The shame of it is a bunch of people feeling lonely or like outsiders because no one’s talking about the past that formed them. They’re busy with potty-training and searching for pre-schools. As am I. But I’ll tell you when the diaper’s off and the poop comes rolling down the sweat pants leg and my toddler’s crying for me to “get it out,” you know what would really help some days? A cigarette break. A spur of the moment road trip with a carful of buddies who are also happy to blow off whatever they were supposed to do for the next few days. A mosh pit. I miss it. Some days, I miss that old life a lot.

How Was Halloween? Spooktacular!

Eeyore and Tigger have been waging a war in my brain since I was a teenager. Sometimes, the glass is not only half empty, it’s knocked over. So when I started thinking I had outsourced Halloween, I heard the low slow tones of Eeyore telling me it was all ruined and I should just go back to bed. But when you have a toddler, you can’t sleep 15 hours a day, so Eeyore gets reasoned with more often these days. Tigger gives him a pep talk. They hash it out. And if I’m in a pretty good frame of mind, the debate roars on and I can just watch it floating across my mind as I notice what’s actually happening in the present moment: my nearly-three year old asking for toast and tea for breakfast, the crunch of dried playdoh and rice under the coffee tale. A little bit of mindfulness and well I at least notice where we need to vacuum.

So I spent last week’s Stay-at-Home Monday cleaning the upstairs and the rest of the week cleaning downstairs. Just so you know, if you clean ahead of time, you can do random things on party day like finishing a landscaping project. I bought mulch, bagged compost and sand, and put most of the finishing touches on a garden expansion. I did not stress Cavanaugh out with any new vest fittings. Mike had his fantasy basketball draft and though he’d worked until 3 a.m., he left again at 10 in the morning, and didn’t get back till 3:30. If it had been one of our regular party days, I would have been bouncing around like Tigger trying to get things done, but our to do list was short. Bean in crock-pot, check. Rice in steamer, check. Spray the lawn with garlic mosquito repellant, check. I took a shower. I didn’t dress in a costume. I didn’t even feel bad about it.

Our friends began arriving with one delicious vegetarian dish after another, kids dressed as kittens, angels, and witches. They ran around the yard. Everyone got to eat and chat while the costumed toddlers roamed from playhouse to tool table, book shelf to plastic slide. No pressure. If there had been stress, it would have been because I made it all up. Cavanaugh had even fallen asleep at 6:30 on Friday after the party at his future preschool and a trip to Target for popcorn and caramels. He transferred from the car to the bed. When he woke up three hours later, he said, “I want attention from you.” I changed his diaper, put his pajamas on him, gave him a sip of water and he lay down and went back to sleep. When does that ever happen?

The second greatest part was letting myself off the hook. I didn’t even make the caramel red chile popcorn balls. I decided to take a shower instead. Cavanaugh wasn’t pressured to run all over town or keep himself entertained while I scrambled to get the party together. The small still voice in my head reminded me that the people coming over were friends and they didn’t care if I’d washed the tempera paint off the front porch or that I hadn’t hung the pumpkins Cavanaugh and Nena had painted. They just wanted good company and a place for all our kids to play.

And the greatest part? Trick-or-treating. Cavanaugh’s buddy Sebastian was also dressed as a fireman and they rode around the neighborhood in the cardboard box firetruck Cavanaugh made a few weeks ago. They shared with a ballerina, a dog, a ghost, and a tiger. A stream of fast little feet ran to the doors and soon learned that if the front porch light is off, no one’s bringing any candy.

Cavanaugh would get to the front door and keep standing there after he’d been given candy. He’d reach back in the bowl. He’d try to go into the house. He’d try for third helpings. I’d remind him each time that he could take the treat, say “Thank you” or “Happy Halloween” and go to the next house for more candy. Was he listening? No. Did I care? No.

The crew had dwindled by the time we got back to our house. But we had a small core contingent that came in to share their candy. Nathaniel repeatedly dipped his tootsie pop into his cup of water before taking the next lick. Freya spread her goodies all over the loveseat so she could see her take. Annika wanted Freya’s candy more than her own. And Cavanaugh? He ate candy until he started throwing it away himself. I used my friend Courtney’s policy and explained that candy was only for eating on Halloween so when he went to sleep all the candy was going away. He would unwrap a piece or have me unwrap it for him, take a nibble and try to feed it to me. When I said I didn’t want anymore, he’d throw the uneaten parts into the trash. He ate enough candy that he didn’t want anymore. He crawled up into my lap with his pink leopard and cuddled it while his friends got ready to go home. We went upstairs and brushed teeth and almost immediately fell asleep. No tummy aches or puking. No sugar rush and delirium.

All of it was better than I could have imagined. Especially while we were trick or treating. I just kept looking at this crowd of people, our friends and partners in parenting, and felt so lucky to have such a supportive community. It was heart-opening to watch the kids crowd together and try to reach the doorbells, delve into their plastic pumpkins for shiny bits of candy, and even trip then jump back up again to run to the next house because they were so caught up in this new fun thing. Halloween was definitely reclaimed at our house.

What was the highlight of your Halloween?

Outsourcing Halloween

Do you ever get so excited about something that your vision just about ruins the reality?

I got last minute inspiration for how to make a firefighter vest for Cavanaugh after debating whether to buy a $35 raincoat and have him dressed as a firefighter anytime the sky opened up. I did not like that option, nor any of the costumes we saw at thrift stores, Target, or online. We made a trip to Joanne Fabric for red, yellow, and black felt and big black buttons. I was feeling crafty and proud of myself for breaking through my Halloween-block.

The fabric store was hard. It followed too many errands and Cavanaugh was delirious, wanting to run the aisles and put his hands on everything. He was so excited to be getting his costume that he wasn’t listening to my options: you can walk next to me or I will have to carry you. He ran. I picked him up. He wriggled out of my arms. I finally grabbed the back of his collar because I couldn’t reach any other part of him. Not the best shopping trip ever.

So the next day, as I held the felt up against him to try to figure out how to make up a pattern and get everything attached while listening to my voices say I can’t even cut a straight line, I decided to plow through, make a practice vest if I needed to. I used the glue gun, figured out how to overlap the sides so I could add buttons. Cavanaugh’s nanny arrived and I showed her what we’d been doing. She started to baste the shoulders to make them tighter but I realized I didn’t want to share the project. I was excited to do it “all by myself,” as Cavanaugh would say.

When I sat down at my computer to print out coloring pages of pumpkins and bats, I glanced at my email and found a message from a friend I was supposed to meet for lunch two minutes before. Aaah! I called her and said I was on my way. I told Nena that Cavanaugh could go to the Halloween party at his future preschool in his hat, red shirt, and firefighter jeans and I’d finish the costume that night. I asked if they might like to cut out some orange construction paper into pumpkins. Then I ran out the door.

When I returned from lunch, she’d finished the vest. They had cut out pumpkins, painted stems, and drawn faces on them. I saw the “little ghosties” my friend Kira had made and Mike and Cavanaugh had hung up that morning and felt like I’d outsourced Halloween. Imagining looking at Halloween pictures of Cavanaugh years later in the vest costume his nanny had made, which didn’t look like I would have done it, I wanted to cry. Instead I took Cavanaugh to the Halloween party and considered making a second vest by myself.

On Saturday morning, as Mike and I talked about what needed to get done to prep for the party, I told him about the vest, the ghosts, my newfound determination to like Halloween and how everyone else was doing it instead of me. He said it sounded like I was snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. And I was. Instead of being grateful that I had so many people to help or that Cavanaugh had a costume and was super-excited, I was feeling sorry for myself, grieving my vision of being super Halloween mom. Friday afternoon, I might as well have been eating wet cigarettes in the dark, as our friend Genevieve used to say.

My husband’s perspective helped me realize I don’t have to have that old childhood reaction: it’s just messed up and there’s nothing I can do about it so I’ll feel depressed. Instead, I was grateful that the house was clean, the decorations and costumes were done. It meant I could use the day to finish a landscaping project rather than scrambling around all day with party prep. How was the party? Spooktacular. More on that tomorrow.

Do you find yourself having expectations that interfere with your being able to see the good things in front of you because they don’t look like you’d planned?

Reclaiming Halloween

Halloween has been my least favorite day of the year for about 20 years now, which is a shame because I loved it as a child. I lived in a small valley 20 miles outside of Taos, New Mexico that maybe had a population of 500. I knew everyone up and down my road. We trick-or-treated at each other’s houses, but that was just the precursor.

At the only crossroad in the valley, Eric Vom Dorp, who is over six feet tall, hunched in his long black witch’s dress, his pointy hat adding another foot or so to cackling crone. He had a huge cauldron of homemade apple cider, which we drank on the hayride to the community center. There we bobbed for apples, did cakewalks and walked through the haunted house, the highlights of which were “brains,” a bowl of cold spaghetti to run your fingers through, and “spiders” dangling things that tickled against my face and sent a shiver up my spine. After the community center, a bunch of us kids would go back to my house and eat our candy while we watched Halloween movies. We carried the tradition into high school, sitting in the dark and jumping as Freddy Krueger’s nightmares invaded our playroom. Truly, Halloween was about getting to hang out with a bunch of people I loved, getting sugared up, and looking up at a sky slathered with stars, reminding us how big the night was and what imaginary scary things were out there while we all huddled together, happy and safe.

Then I went to college and the first Halloween party I attended was a six-kegger or so full of wasted strangers in togas and terrifying masks. I suffocate in social anxiety at parties populated by people I don’t know. Not being able to tell who anyone was made it even worse. If I was convinced (read: strong-armed) into attending a Halloween party, I obsessed over the costume, feeling inept because I can barely figure out what to wear on a regular day and my costumes growing up were whatever plastic thing my mom could find at TG&Y or Piggly Wiggly.

Before I had Cavanaugh, I had gotten to the point where I would pretend I wasn’t home on Halloween. I’d lock the door, turn off all the lights, and watch TV on a low volume so no one would know I was home. Some kids would ring the bell anyway. I’d hear their hopeful voices on the stoop and feel guilty and lame and lonely.

Now I have a kid. He doesn’t really understand what Halloween is yet. But I want him to. I took him to a park party on the day of and borrowed his friend Aidan’s apron so he’d have something to wear. I topped it with a pumpkin hat my sister sent in the mail. Feeling the pressure to be festive, I donned an apron after Mike put his on too. That night we watched It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown and trick-or-treated with our neighbors who also have small children. It was fine, but no memory maker. I was phoning it in.

Now, Cavanaugh’s starting to understand Halloween a little. I want it to be full of community and fun, not scary mean things or getting sick on candy. So when I walked the costume aisles at Target, I felt sad at the prospect of more store-bought holidays. I dreaded the end of this month and felt inept all over again because I hang out with a bunch of crafty mamas who can actually sew their kids’ costumes.

And then I started asking myself if this is it, if for the rest of my life Halloween will be automatically miserable, if I’m going to fake it for my son or pass on my loathing to him so he can hate it too. But I just can’t stand that. I’m not going to do it. Instead, we’re hosting a potluck party. I’m making Cavanaugh a homemade firefighter costume. And I’m debuting my red chile caramel popcorn balls. This is the year I’m reclaiming Halloween. I’ll let you know how it goes.

I’d love to hear about your own Halloween traditions from childhood and beyond. What do you do with your kids to make Halloween special? And how do you deal with the whole candy issue?