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I took requests and cooked up some matzo ball soup for my taters.

Phil’s in New York for work again, another two weeks. I managed, quite nicely, to survive the first two weeks and can’t say that I missed him toward the end. But I can say that this time, day one, when he left Florida for New York, I missed him already.

Nothing specific, not his jokes or the way he’s so active with the children (always rough-housing with them, initiating riding bikes to the playground, whisking them off to the ocean so I can spend an afternoon writing), not his piles of “Important! It’s mess to you, but it’s orderly disorder to me.” Somehow I don’t miss him in the details. I don’t miss his TV, for sure. [And I swear I ADORE life without television during the week, especially because I believe it limits creativity and stunts originality in children. I so much prefer spending our nights playing "make believe."] Though I do miss cooking for him.

No, I miss the gesture, trying to delight him, despite the fact that, unless it involves my garlic bread, I rarely do. Or if I do, I rarely feel as if I have because, let’s face it, he rarely communicates as much. I know when I’ve done something wrong, and this paragraph might be heading there, too–to a place I hadn’t intended to go. Because what I was really trying to say is that I miss my husband. I miss his commentary when he’s forced into my world of girl.  I don’t know the specifics of my miss, only that I feel it.

I guess I’m realizing that I need to be better about appreciating him without reminding myself of another side. To truly allow myself to enjoy him without weighing his less comely qualities. I feel like gently turning my face to look up at me, to tell those eyes, “You know, it is okay to like him.”

He’s staying with his parents. His mother emailed me for meal ideas. What could she cook, she wanted to know, that he might like? I laughed and said, “Good luck with that, lady.” Unless it involves some slab of meat or his own chili recipe, you’re shit out of luck. Aside from garlic bread, I suggested:

Steamed mussels or clams
Any kind of pot pie (nothing w mashed potatoes) as long as there are big chunks of chicken
Macaroni & cheese (he loves it!) w a rotisserie chicken
Any sweet treat like choc chip cookies or brownies
A Marsala mushroom dish of some kind with chicken

Then I emailed her recipes for oven baked risotto and for sea scallops with ginger lime beurre blanc.

Other good things while he’s been gone, things to show for it:

I made sticky rice pudding bars with coconut milk (but I definitely prefer good old sweet sticky rice with mango. Also, I despise shredded coconut because it has the texture of dry chicken, but I could make out with coconut milk. Not often, but I could. Yes, I steam my rice on an oil splatter guard, making cleanup a non-issue.)

Fun birthday gifting to friends (which means I’m wrapping gifts). Though I kind of like taking a personalized handmade card and having them press and fold it into an accordion.

Art. I’ve been drawing more, mindless sketch work. I miss that arts & crafts, your hands full of life, without a care for mistakes. Onward ho!

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Sir Luke surprised me this morning. I wasn’t drilling, just probing, assessing how much these sweet beans know. What do yellow and red make? “Orange,” he said without looking up. Blue and yellow? “Green.” Scoop of vanilla, scoop of chocolate, don’t waste my time, lady. Red and blue. “Yawn.”

Only he said “purple” in lieu of “yawn.” When I asked Abigail the same questions, she looked up at me. Guilty. “I don’t know my colors as well as I should,” she said in a way that kind of broke my heart. It doesn’t matter if she knows them or not, that’s not what hit me. It was that tone of apology. I know how hard that is, to admit—and make no mistake, that’s what it feels like, a huge confession, strung up in a net of shame—what we don’t know, what we’ve done or got wrong. I wonder now, only briefly really, if it’s a learned tone, something she hears in my voice when I speak with Phil. I doubt it, not because the tone isn’t knit into my sentences—it has to be, and even now I can hear it in my own mother’s voice, a voice I can replay from childhood—but because I’ve seen it everywhere for as long as I can remember. The problem is, I associate that apologetic choke of words with “knowing better,” an understanding between right and wrong. I don’t want my children to associate not knowing something with degradation.

I kiss her on the crown of her head, smelling her shampooed hair, a floral clean. Then I crouch to meet her eyes and explain, “Don’t ever feel bad about not knowing something, okay? I don’t know a gazillion million things! Know what you should feel good about? Wanting to learn, asking questions, and being curious. It’s one of the things I love most about you. Never stop asking questions.”

“Mama,” she asks, now smiling and full of sass, “Are we going to learn our colors or what?” Her hands are now on her hips. She is my rainbow.

Vietnamese Cinnamon, a ladel, chili bowls with handles for All You Can Handle Chili, and a book of chili potions.

A Man Gift of Chili without the Chili. Would’ve included dried Ancho if I had more time.

Madeline Minds Her Manners & Madeleine cookies. We’ll be getting our bake on soon.

I don’t care what they say. You can judge a book by its cover. Or at least a gift by its wrap. I actually couldn’t care less what’s inside a package. I love the foreplay of an unopened gift, sitting beneath a pine tree, its silver-blue needles glittering their way down. I adore the build, not just “up to Christmas” but in everything. The planning phase, the infatuation, the idea. I love, and always have loved, the idea more than the outcome, with the exception of my children and chocolate chip cookies.

It’s art. Let me say at least that, too. You have a big event, a date, a reunion, you pen in a hair blowout and a makeup application. Meanwhile, no one gives a shit what you’re wearing, if you chose browns and neutrals over the plummy smoky eye because they’re too concerned with their own impressions. Did anyone notice the bald spot, the weight gain, the fourth husband? And, you know what? Yes, and no. They noticed, but they really don’t care, and neither should you. Still, you’ve got a valid point: sometimes, you enjoy the “getting ready” more than the ready.

I’ve been obsessed lately with makeup. I apply it. Phil tells me I don’t need it, that I’m a beautiful woman without any of it, and wearing it makes people think that I have to wear it, that I’m hiding in it. This, for the record, goes into one ear, and out into a blog, because I don’t give two shades of shadow. Women really don’t dress or success for a man. We may acquiesce, second-guess, and—under the influence of alcohol—undress; nonetheless, come morning, we suppress all that we transgressed. And none of it really mattered much anyhow.

Makeup really isn’t about pretty. It’s art. I love makeup for the effects, for the fashion of it, for the trends and the blends. No, I’m not going to surround one eye with a TRIANGLE of Mongolian Yellow shadow any more than I’m going to sport an asymmetrical bob. But, man, there’s just something to be said for pretty packaging. Last year I went “Crafty Christmas” [think newspaper wrapping, burlap, and ephemera, beneath the tree]:

This year, I’m embracing the Swiss Snow Chalet. Think Nordic and overhanging eaves. Also think, “Red, White, and Paper Bags.”

I’m wrapping everything. One book at a time. I’ve sworn off buying utter crap for Christmas and am only purchasing educational toys, books, and toys emphasizing gross and fine motor skills (from bicycles to Montessori trinomial cubes).

I’m also trying to mostly give gifts tied to a specific experience, so it’s not about “the toy” and it’s more about “the event” and time spent together as a family:

- Something train-related for Lucas, with “tickets” to train museum
- Abigail wants swimming lessons, gymnastic class, and a “heavy duty art class.” That, quote, by the by, best all year. So, why not give hints to each lesson? A bathing suit, leotard, and paint palette.
- Trip to feed the Giraffes at the zoo with a stuffed giraffe or giraffe puzzle.
- Planetarium “tickets” with some solar system type toy
- Tea cups, good for an afternoon of Tea
- Monkeys in a box? Print out a bunch of them? For a day at Monkey Joes [A bouncy house destination]
- Baking Gift – wrap muffin pans or mix, and make it a special baking event just for each of them, one on one
- Fishing & Seashore themed gift (have the books)
- Family Pirate Picnic at Pirate’s Cove (bought a Thomas the Train Pirate’s Cove Pirate Ship)
 

It will all go by too fast. The wrapping paper stuffed into a garbage bag, piles of toys to be put away, a mention of who got to open more gifts than the other (despite it being even), then the cleaning, the company, and thankfully, the wine. I love every sip of it, the dress to unimpress clothes, treat bags filled with homemade cookies, hot mulled alcohol in one version or another, meeting parents, meeting friends, remembering names, forgetting rules and yourself, coming, finding, and going… home.

animal kingdom

Tomorrow Lucas and Abigail star in their school Thanksgiving performance. They’ve been practicing hard, “standing for a really long time.” I’m arriving early to play photographer to a few classes, capturing the preK Native American love, then sitting stage center with a tissue and waterproof mascara. Because, yes, I’ve become this mom. The mom I used to dread. The mom I no longer mind. The sap.

After their performance, we’re whisking them home, then they’ll do as they do each day: they will check the mail. In our mailbox, inside a silken blue bag laced with pixie dust and a shower of glitter, they’ll discover this: The Keys to The Magic Kingdom.

I’d better make sure the cameras are rolling. More pixie surprises will arrive for them enroute. But a surprise to no one but me, apparently, will be the way I SOB at witnessing all of it. Because they’re still at the age where they can believe that Cinderella isn’t some person who went to an upscale Party City for a costume. No, they can believe that this woman before them actually lives here, in the castle… working with a therapist on curbing her incessant need to mop and scrub floors.

We’re staying at the Animal Kingdom Lodge, where I’ll be unloading our bags for a four night stay… unloading costumes and hair glitter, two tiaras, healthy snacks, and Family-Dollar Store Disney gifts that will arrive magically when they awake each morning. It just makes more monetary sense to me to do it this way, to come with our own costume instead of spending a hundred dollars on a fairy dress and hair extensions. More posts obviously to come, and I welcome any ideas on anything Disney World related. This is so so last minute, that we can use all the tips and opinions we can get.