Wednesday, July 31, 2013

This Recipe Will Knock Your Buns Off

You don’t have to be an internet genius to know that people like food.  But when you’re in the mood for something scrumptious, online really is the place to go.  Pinterest literally has zillions of recipes for delicious foods that one person has made and that no one else can reproduce.  Your Facebook friends probably post so many recipes for cheesy broccoli/potato/cauliflower/carrot casserole that you could make one every day for five years and never have a repeat.  It’s recipe madness out there, people.  Get into it.

I’d like to share a tasty treat I’ve been feeding my family lately.  I have perfected it, and maybe with few mishaps, you can too!  You don't have to be a gourmet chef to make it, either.  Believe me.  BELIEVE.

Here we go:

Outrageous Hot Dog Bun Garlic Toast

You will need:
An adorable assistant to help.
Cooking's hard, ya'll.

Hot dog buns, any quantity.  Thaw out the ones that have been sitting in your freezer since that one time you overbought for a picnic.  You need the space, and in a few months those buns will develop the taste of freezer burn, and freezer burn is totally gross.  

Garlic salt, or a combination of garlic powder and regular salt, if you ran out of garlic salt from the time you attempted to make spaghetti sauce from scratch.  The kitchen is no place to be rigid.

Butter.  Or margarine, or even Olivio, which OMG tastes just like margarine.

Green sprinkles.  You know – parsley, Italian seasoning, oregano.  The kind that come in a jar.  Stop trying to be fancy, Fancy.

Parmesan cheese.  Again, in a jar.  You buy it in the spaghetti sauce aisle.  Hey, Queen Elizabeth.  You’re making garlic toast using HOT DOG BUNS.  Get off your throne and join reality.  While you're at it, get me a glass of wine from that box over there.

Shredded mozzarella cheese.  From a bag.  If you say anything about fresh mozzarella we are no longer friends.

Ingredients!
Yep, that's all the butter we have.
But don't worry; we also have Olivio.

That’s it, mmkay?  So you’ve got your ingredients.  Next, here’s what you do:

Open up the hot dog buns.  If you’re lucky you will have the good potato rolls that are pre-sliced so you don’t have to dirty a knife.  If you’ve bought unsliced hot dog buns from the bakery, go get your probably gold-encrusted serrated-edge bread knife to slice them.  Who are you - Beyonce?  I’m rolling my eyes as I wait for you to cut your chichi buns.  Hurry up; you’re taking too long!  Spread the insides with butter or butter substitute using a knife or the back of a spoon.  If you want to lick the excess off, do it.  This isn’t Top Chef, people – there's no judging.

Open the buns!
Butter the buns!

Sprinkle the buttered insides with the garlic salt, then the green sprinkles that you’ve picked out.  Use a light sprinkle – nobody likes too much dried seasoning, and these spices will not have enough cooking time for their flavors to open up and meld together.  I love the world meld – it’s like melt and weld, which is exactly how I picture the process happening.

Sprinkles!

Sprinkle with parmesan cheese, and then a light coat of shredded mozzarella.  Take a pinch for yourself because shredded cheese out of the bag is the diggity.

Cheesy!

*Note: You can sweep any extra cheese and sprinkles off the counter to use as additional topping for the buns.  Your counters are clean, right?  Oh well.  Do it anyway.  No one will notice the crumbs from the four Mint Milano cookies you stuffed in your face this morning.

Ready for toasting!

Place the buns on a cookie sheet lined with foil so you don’t have to wash it later, fool!  If you’re only making one or two buns, you can just fold up a piece of foil into a little foil plate and place the bun on top of this.  Make sure your foil is flat so it doesn’t catch your oven, then your hair, then your kitchen, on fire. Insurance doesn’t cover stupidity.  Oh, it does?  My bad.

Foil is also useful when making Halloween costumes.
Anyone can be a robot!  Crafty!

Pop those bad boys in the oven on the highest rack under the broiler set to HI.  Not LO, unless you like waiting for your food, which is for jerks.

Don't be a jerk.  Turn that sucker on HI.

Broiley!

Now, the most important part.  Watch those buns like you did Channing Tatum’s in that one part on Magic Mike.  You know the one I mean.  Do not take your eyes off these buns for anything.  I don’t care if your older child locked your younger one in the toy box again.  Ignore the pleas for help.  The second you take your eyes away from those buns, they will burn up and you will have to start over and you will hate yourself for being such a slacker.  It will take under 5 minutes for the cheese to melt and the edges to brown.  Your child can stand a confined space for 5 minutes, for goodness' sake.  She probably won't even remember, but you will when you have to repeat this whole process because you failed to watch the buns like I told you.  Take them out!  TAKE THEM OUT!

A meal made for a princess.
A sneaky princess who pours herself large glasses of Diet Pepsi
while her mother takes pictures of 
her lunch for blog posts.

Enjoy.  Your labor was worth it, and look – only three more packages of hot dog buns to use up.

Delicious!
Really?  Three MORE packages?
My stomach hurts.

Monday, July 29, 2013

The First Summer

“If you guys want to go on the boardwalk, go ahead.”

My son and his friend looked at me, eyes wide.  I might have seen my twelve-year-old, only a year or so away from dwarfing both my husband and me, pinch himself to see if he was dreaming.  He is a huge child.  I can’t stop looking at him.

“Really?” he asked slowly, not daring to break the spell of my certain flash of insanity, or worse, to find that I am joking.

Really.  These two had been antsy, wandering around the rental condo for the past hour or so.  Dinner was over, and none of the adults were quite ready to brave the sandy post-beach crowd, meandering through pairs of slow-moving grandparents and their smallish grandchildren, carefully passing young families pushing strollers and dragging toddlers, dodging the dive-bombing, ever-hungry seagulls, and being startled by packs of teenagers getting shout-outs from their raucous counterparts.

Take your money and go.  Don’t forget the cell phone!  Check in at seven!  Be back at eight-thirty!  Stay on the boardwalk!  Don’t talk to strangers!  Stick together!  My full protective-mom mode kicked in as I realized that I was allowing my first-born child, my first baby, to go out in a strange public place among hundreds of people we didn’t know.  On his own.  Well, with a friend, but still. 

We have been coming to this boardwalk each year for the past eleven.  He knows it well, knows where our favorite ice cream is located, where the new mini-golf is to be found, that the store that used to sell those huge cupcakes is no longer there, where we got our first hermit crabs that died a week later.  He is not in a strange place.  He has been coming here every year since he was a baby; his memories are well-established.  We know what they are, because we made them happen.

Every year, the memories are orchestrated by the adults, the parents.  We decided what they would see, what they would do, what they would remember.  We shielded them from all else, all the things that we didn’t want them to remember because of their age, the cost, the time involved, our own personal desire (or non-desire) to do them: the water park, para-sailing, deep sea fishing, go-karts, swimming in the ocean without supervision.  We allowed some of these memories to happen as they got older.  They now know how small the go-kart track is, know the peaceful floating ride in front of a parachute tethered to a boat in the ocean.

When the door closed behind my son and his friend, control of his memories shifted.  He would be making his own memories, memories that none of the rest of us would share.  We knew that this was the first summer he wandered independently every day, and that this was the first summer that he met kids his own age in the ocean, on the boardwalk.  On his own.  But they weren't sitting next to us on the beach. I don’t even know their names, where they are from, who their parents are. 

This was the first summer that many of my son’s memories of our beach vacation were solely his to make; I had no say in any of them, had no control of these things that will help make up his life.  These memories are not mine.

This was the first summer that letting go of my son, my first-born child, my first baby, became real to me.


The first summer.


*******




Thursday, July 18, 2013

Five Things

It’s time for Old School Blogging again!  This month, I’ve hooked up with Alison from Writing, Wishing, who is co-hosting with Elaine from the Miss Elaine-ous Life to do yet another list of Get To Know Your Favorite Blogger.  Or, if you’ve stumbled here by accident, get to know me.  Hey!  Nice to meet you! 

Okay, here we go.  I’m an open book.

Five Things I Have A Passion For

Advocacy.  Although this may be a joke to those who know my life (because I don’t advocate for anyone in a formal setting), I feel that being a voice for those who have none (or a limited one) is important.  Children, battered women, elderly, mentally ill – these groups of people are often overlooked or given the leftovers of what our society has to offer.  And it isn’t right.

Organization.  OMG, someone put those loose pictures in an album, STAT!  And did you notice that my Five Things are in alphabetical order?  Sorry to all the disorganized people out there who can't ever find the other sock or bin of summer clothes from last year.  I can.  But organization can kind of consume me which is its own problem.  Wouldn't you rather be okay with not caring that there are still dishes in the sink from last night?  Because right now there's a popcorn bowl in ours and it's kind of making me twitch a little.

Parenting.  You know, like how to tweak it daily so that by the time your kids are eighteen and out of the house, they don’t completely hate you and you are all are alive and in one piece.  This passion began the first night we brought our son home from the hospital and I cried because I had no idea what I was doing, continued throughout potty training and eating and sleeping issues, and is in full force today as we tackle navigating sex, social media and how much time is too much time on Playstation?

Relationships.  I have always loved understanding others’ hearts and minds, and finding out what drives them.    To be frank, I am the quiet, solitary friend – the one that disappears for a while.  I have a high tolerance for being without company.  But when my threshold for alone time is reached, I yearn for interpersonal connections and have been known to send out texts like “GIRLS’ NIGHT!  NOW!”

Writing. I get a little squirrelly when I don’t have time to write.  If I get too busy with life, I compensate for not being able to sit down and write by making lists and filling books of Post-Its with instructions for myself and others.  It’s not quite the same, but on the upside, I never get disorganized.

Five Things I Would Like To Do Before I Die

Write and publish a book, sell a painting, ride in a hot-air balloon, make a short movie, and shred all the papers that are sitting in that big box over there.  In all likelihood, that last one might be the one that doesn't get done.

Five Things I Say A Lot

How are you? 
No.
Oh my. 
Omigosh.
What are you doing?

Omigosh the things I say a lot are so boring and/or annoying.

Five Books And/Or Magazines I Have Read Lately

This is such a joke, because I have been reading Les Misérables on my Kindle for months.  Like, six months.  I am not kidding.  I am 84% of the way through and the day I finish this book, I am throwing a party.  It is toying with my slight OCD tendencies and purposely making me crazy.  I am Une Misérable from reading this book.  Even through this unending torture (who out there is responsible for failing to warn me that Victor Hugo takes forty pages to describe a garden, or a fence post?), the other four things I’ve read recently are the May and June issues of Marie Claire and Vogue magazines.  July’s issues are still waiting. 

Seriously.  Eighty-four percent after six months.

Five Favorite Movies

Lost in Translation.  Who doesn’t want to have a chaste love affair with Bill Murray for a week in a foreign place?  Okay, only me then.

Mary Poppins.  This has become one of those movies that makes me tear up when the music starts playing – from sheer nostalgia.  I watched this on a loop as a kid.  How I wanted to live in that grand house in England – and jump through sidewalk pictures into another world.

Moulin Rouge!  The part where Ewan McGregor smiles as he sings “Your Song" is really the most important moment in the history of cinema.  That’s all.

Schindler’s List.  This movie mesmerized me when it came out.  It still does – I cry the whole way through it, every time.

Terms of Endearment.  Mom and daughter love each other through yelling.  Total tear-jerker.  Why, oh why do I love movies that make me sob uncontrollably?

Five Places I Would Love To Travel To

The Amalfi Coast.  Hawaii.  India.  Northern California.  Rio de Janeiro.  I’m kind of pedestrian in the places I want to see.  I tend to go where I know, and I’ve traveled a little but always to the same places.  I picked India because I’m thinking India of the British Colonial days - I’m a little Hollywood-eyed that way.

Five People I Have Invited To Do This Meme

None.  I’m not sure that anyone would respond, but I’d love for five of the people who read this post to do it, and if you do, please tell me and I will read all about you!  And then I will be your best friend forever.  Which basically means that I will never call you but will quietly yearn for your companionship.  And then send you a mildly bossy text to meet me for margaritas on a Tuesday night.

Grab the button and GO!  If you do, be sure to link up with Alison or Elaine by July 25.

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

I Got a Mammogram

Since I turned 40, I had to have a mammogram.  Like most women, I was in a mild panic-slash-trauma mode about this procedure.  And OMG I am Forty.

I told my husband about my upcoming mammogram, because he is my husband, and one of the only immediate links I have to the rational world.  His response:  “Is it because you are 40?” I then briefly tossed around the idea of him becoming my ex-husband.

He was totally ignorant about this procedure.  He didn’t think that this was a big deal.  He didn't know that women dread having this procedure done.  No woman he knew ever said a word about it to him.  He had no idea that it would be the equivalent of someone firmly squeezing his testicles between two hard flat surfaces for 30 seconds, a few times, in a few different positions.  If you are a man, let’s pause while you let that image sink in a little.

You are in a cold room wearing your shirt but no pants, like a baby.  In the room is another person and a big machine.  The machine has two plates.  One is metal and the other is hard plastic.  The person places your testicles on the metal plate and you have to stand right up against the edges of the plates in an awkward position.  Slowly the plastic plate descends to squeeze your nuts firmly against the metal plate.  You want to pull away.  It hurts – and not in a good way.  The person, having released your testicles to the two firm plates, steps behind you to push some buttons on a computer for thirty seconds and reminds you to breathe.  It is embarrassing and you want to cry but you are ashamed, since you are told by everyone - EVERYONE - that this is for your own good.  This procedure repeats over and over for about half an hour.

If you are my husband, let’s carve out some time to talk about your mother having FIVE sisters, and how did you escape life not knowing about a mammogram?!?!?!?

If you are a woman, let’s do a quick fist bump, tip of the chin, or tequila shot in solidarity.  I’ve got your back, girl.

The looming mammogram appointment made me nervous, so I went online to see what I was in for. 

My favorite description talked about feeling “some pressure” during the procedure, which is the same language they use for when you are *literally* being split in two from a baby’s hard skull as it is being uncontrollably expelled from your body, or when you allow a licensed medical practitioner to insert metal tongs into your hoo-ha to spread it apart as he scrapes your tender insides for a sample of tissue, not unlike any number of alien probing nightmares I’ve had.

My second favorite description talked about how you can’t wear deodorant, powder, or lotion during your mammogram, as they may show up on the x-ray as a “breast problem.”  Obviously my antiperspirant was tested for radiology interference, although I’m sure any regular medical procedures my husband has had don’t qualify for any such limitations.

My third favorite?  This whole part:

“Some women worry that a mammogram will be painful.  Compression of the breast is sometimes uncomfortable.  However, it’s very important, as it allows the breast tissue to spread and flatten.  This ensures a clear view of the breast tissue, and reduces the amount of radiation needed to make an image.  Your breasts will be compressed for only twenty to thirty seconds.  The entire mammogram procedure takes about thirty minutes.”

In other words, it’s going to hurt, ladies.  Suck it up.  This is as good as it gets.

Then

“It is not uncommon for an initial mammogram to have suspicious findings, since there are no previous mammograms to be used for comparison.  Most suspicious findings are benign, and may be nothing more than cysts or spots of dense tissue.  Occasionally, suspicious findings are the results of an unclear image.  An additional mammogram to further evaluate a trouble spot is called a diagnostic mammogram and will focus on the problem area.  In some cases a breast ultrasound may be recommended. You may want to schedule your mammogram during your birthday month.  This is an easy way to remember this important annual screening exam, and a great way to celebrate your good health.”

Yes.  A mildly torturous medical procedure, from start to finish, and then maybe even an equally terrifying follow-up or two, is exactly what I want to give myself for my birthday every year.

My husband is incredulous.  “Why can’t they come up with a better way to do this?” he asks.

I stare at him.  I want to scream.  Why can’t they, indeed.


Mammogram info and video from MD Anderson Cancer Center:


Monday, July 15, 2013

Healthy

I just love summer.  The sun, the warm weather, the people-watching at the beach and the pool – this is my favorite time of year.

But vegetables are by far my favorite part of summer.  I can make a meal out of the bounty that comes from other peoples' and the grocery stores’ gardens.  A salad-holic all year round, my eyes go glassy with the bright, fresh, and crisp offerings that summertime provides. 

My dinner.  Yes, that is hummus, and yes, I am sharing. 
Just so you realize that I’m not a total health nut,
there’s a double G&T just out of the shot. 
I’m not a total wacko.
Who besides me is loving this little baby sweet pepper phase that’s going on right now?  If you haven’t heard about or seen them, let me explain.

The stores are selling these little baby sweet peppers in yellow, orange, and red varieties, just like the best colors of the rainbow.  Serve them at your next dinner party, and it will look like a beautiful nature’s harvest has decamped on your table.  What, you needed more of an explanation than that?  They’re vegetables.  You get them at the store.  Done and done.

Aren't they cute?  I'm going to eat them.

They seem to be actual baby peppers, ripped from their plants at the exact moment of just-ripeness, unlike baby carrots, which are not really babies but are adult carrots beaten into submission by heinous acts of vegetable torture.  Or maybe they’re loaded with chemicals that stunt their growth, like everything we eat these days.  You really can’t get away from chemicals unless you grow your own, unless you live at my house, in which case eating anything that is grown in the yard is sure to lead to a lifetime of disease due to the highway that rolls right behind us, or maybe the layers upon layers of weed-killer that my husband uses to off the approximately ten to twelve dandelions we get each spring.

Seriously, folks.  DO NOT eat anything from my backyard.  And take off your shoes when you come in, mmmkay?

Anyway, I love these little peppers because they are super sweet and crunchy, and you can make a meal out of them.  Just cut off the tops, get rid of the seeds, and look!  You have a little cone!  Like an ice cream cone! That you can fill with oh, I don’t know, hummus, or half a hot dog, or ranch dip!  Or some sort of alcoholic drink, I mean, it’s only a matter of time before someone comes up with an idea that combines these little baby cones with some sort of sweet-pepper friendly shot, right?  Healthy!

 I combined mine with a little bit of roasted red pepper hummus accessorized with celery and green pepper spears.  It was divine, if not gourmet.  If you have a better idea, please share.  I’m not a food blogger, jeez.

Divine!  Not Gourmet!  

*******

The American Baby Sweet Pepper Association did not sponsor me for this review of their most delicious product; all opinions are my own.  I asked to be compensated, and they said that they most certainly do not sponsor bloggers who openly confess to drinking double G&Ts in posts about their product.

Friday, July 12, 2013

Right Now

Right now I have a thousand things to do.  I’m doing one of them.

Right now I have a plan.  It is to do this one thing out of a thousand things.  When I am finished with this one thing, I will do another.  And another, and another.  I will continue working at this list of a thousand things.  It will look like I am getting things done.  I will be, but the list will not end.  For each thing I finish, another one will go on the list.

My husband has five things for me to do.  I haven’t told him my plan, because it has no end.  Plans usually have ends.

He will want me to do these five things, and I will do them.  My list of a thousand things will wait.

Each of my children have seven things for me to do.  I haven’t told them my plan either.

They will want me to do those fourteen things, and I will do them.  My list of a thousand things will wait again.

When I complete these nineteen things for my family, I will pick up where I left off and do one of the thousand things that I have planned to do on my list that has no end.

And things will pile up, and I will fall behind.

But I am only one person, and I can only get one person’s worth of things done.  Right now there are a thousand things that are on my list.  Twenty of them are crossed off.

Tomorrow, I plan to pick up my list and start again.  Twenty things will be added to the list, and tomorrow, like every day, I will have a thousand things to do.

*******



Thursday, July 11, 2013

12 Lines

The front of our house gets hot in the sun and is faded and needs to be updated.  The door will be replaced soon, and the shutters and trim and garage doors are scheduled to be painted.

It looks shabby.  When we moved into the house it was shiny and new.  We only have ourselves to blame for the general dilapidation of the front of our house.  That and twelve years of sun.

I remember when all the neighbors were adding decorative touches to their front doors like door knockers and kick plates and fancy handles.  We were daring and nailed our house numbers right onto our metal door.  Everyone used brass accessories back then.  Now our neighbors are doing away with the brass; it is no longer in style.  Our house numbers are rusty.

In about a week the front of our house will be finished.  We will have a new door and the shutters and garage doors will be another color.  The sun will continue to shine on the front of our house, and in twelve years it will need to be updated again.

I wonder if we will be doing the updating.




*******

This post inspired by:

Mama’s Losin’ It

Prompt #2: Write a post in just 12 lines.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Drive

In June of my 16th year I got my driver’s license.  I couldn’t wait.  We lived kind of far out in the country, and it was a pain to get rides to get together with my friends, who lived near town and all the action.  I wanted to drive; I needed to drive.  And I loved it.

The next few years were spent putting thousands of miles on our car driving back and forth from home to school to the mall to the parties to the nearest city, where we invariably got lost, because along with my driver’s license I had a terrible sense of direction and never paid attention to road names or signs.

When I graduated from high school my friend and I would drive into the wee morning hours, picking a back road and driving it for a while, then another, then another.  We listened to music and talked and solved all of the world’s problems and none of our own.

I moved out west; driving across the country and back was always an adventure.  Once our van was burglarized and I lost all the clothes I had packed for college.  Once my friend and I got stopped in New Mexico by a guy who told us we had a headlight out and guided us to an over-priced garage, surely a scam.  Once I cried because I ate too many Combos and king-sized Kit Kat bars on our road trip and just wanted a steak.  Once my kid brother and I stopped at a motel in Terre Haute, Indiana at one in the morning, the only one with vacancy, only to find a dirty towel on the bathroom door and bugs in the bed.  We got our money back and drove the rest of the way home.  We pulled into our parents’ driveway at 9 am, sleep-deprived zombies.

My dad loves to drive too.  As a kid he drove us everywhere, and not always on the roads.  We would pile into our red station wagon and drive it up and down steep wooded hillsides certainly not meant to be traversed by such an ordinary vehicle.  We’d drive out to towns we’d never heard of, always using the back way.  We crisscrossed our little corner of the state over and over, radio blaring James Taylor and Kansas and America.  We knew all the words. 

My grandmother, in her 80s, loves to drive.  She owned a house in Florida that she and her sister and mother would drive to each February, a two-day drive.  Now the house and her loved ones are gone, and she still drives every day, shopping and returning items and going to the movies and eating at chain restaurants in towns 25 miles away.


Today my children and I drove across the state so they could meet their grandparents for vacation.  I looked forward to the drive.  I loved the time spent in the car with my kids, even though we had to play the quiet game twice.  I drove home singing all the songs I know on the radio, which were a lot.  Each of them marked memories in my life, many of them spent behind the wheel, driving and driving and driving.   

*******


Thursday, July 4, 2013

The Real Independence Day, not that Will Smith movie that still gives me nightmares.

It’s Independence Day, and you know what that means.

It’s the day when our countrymen said “We’ve HAD it!” to overseas control, and finally got a handle on themselves, granting us life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  On this national holiday, we celebrate our freedoms, which include the right to shoot fireworks into the sky, consume disgusting amounts of hot dogs, watch endless parades under the guise of scoring stale tootsie rolls and broken lollipops, and dance like we are teenagers once more, embarrassing everyone present, especially our own children.

Or maybe that last one’s just my husband and me.

Freedom always has a price, people.  Deal with it.

Happy Fourth!!



*******

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Criminal

The first notes of the song rang in my ears, and I turned the volume up.  The windows were down in the car because I still haven’t gotten the AC fixed, and it’s July already.

I knew the words even before she started singing.  The memories surfaced, and even though they aren’t very cheerful, I left the radio where it was.  It’s still a good song, a leftover from my angry twenties.

Those were the days when I sought out music from angsty females who were hurt and who wanted to tell everyone about it, no matter how shocking and ugly.  The pain and I sang along with these women under cover of whatever apartment I lived in at the time, and whatever car was my companion.  That was usually as close as I got to expressing it.

Today I sang along because it’s in my range, and because I know all the words.

I’ve been a bad, bad girl
I've been careless with a delicate man

Next to me, my ten-year-old, full of swagger and sass, interrupted my concentration on the words and the 90’s: “Oh no, she DI’ ‘INT!!”

I laughed.  Oh, yes, she did.

An old song can bring you right back to the memory of a time, usually a memory of who you were at a time.

I am thankful that my girl was there to remind me that I’m not in my angry twenties anymore.



*******

Note: Wondering about the song? Criminal by Fiona Apple.  She's still angry, I think.


Monday, July 1, 2013

Just Good

Every day the tasks are the same.

Cook.

Clean.

Childcare.

So many times I feel taken advantage of.

Used.

Under-valued.

Unappreciated.

And that makes me feel bad.

Defeated.

Dejected.

Depressed.

I never desired the details of this life.  They were not my goals.  When I was young I didn’t say I will work toward a life of managing a household.

I watched a scene in a movie where two moms had a conversation about working outside of the home when their kids got older.  One mom said “I’m just good at this.”  She meant that she was good at being a mom, probably better at that than anything else.  She wasn’t interested in doing anything else.

I thought that was a simple way to view a life.  She wasn’t ashamed; she didn’t feel bad about it.  She didn’t care what anyone else thought about it.  She knew she was a good mom, and she owned it.  I admired her.

But I didn’t want that life.

Somehow I got that life.

There are moments when I feel that I am wasting my life – being just a mom.  And I remember my past work life, however brief.

I am vastly better at being a mom than whatever I was in my past work life.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been doing this longer than I did anything else.  Maybe it’s because I’m older, smarter, and better at everything now than when I was younger.

I still admire that mom in the movie.

And sometimes, when I stop wasting moments of my life feeling depressed, dejected, under-appreciated, and under-valued, I own being a mom and can admit that I’m just good at it, too.


Because I really just am.

*******