 |
Neurotic &
Negligent
by Kirsten Cheskey
Anything Less, 7/30/07
Down
the Dark Hallway, 3/06/07
An Experiment in Vegetarianism,
11/05/06
The idea (or The Half
Assed Vegetarian)
Sunday (or The
Prepared Vegetarian)
Monday (or The Cheating
Vegetarian)
Tuesday (or The
Sad Vegetarian)
Wednesday (or The
Excited Vegetarian)
Thursday (or The
Addicted Vegetarian)
Friday (or The
Drunk Vegetarian)
Saturday (or The
Desperate Vegetarian)
Are We There Yet? 2006, 7/21/06
Prologue - A Million
Little Pieces... of Spree
Part one - The trip starts... kind of
Part
two - Through the cities
Part
three - An open letter to a jackass
Part
four - The rodeo truth
The Most
Beautiful Song, 6/26/06
It Used to Be Mine, 5/13/06
The Luck of the German (A St.
Patrick's Day Miracle), 3/17/06
The Eternal, Maternal Sigh, 12/05/05
Are We There Yet
- 2005, 9/03/05
The Magic I
Have Left, 5/29/05
Showers of
Happiness, 5/28/05
Kindergarten and Cookies, 2/10/05
Fish Tales, 1/15/05
I'm No Snow
White, 11/25/04
I Love Grumps,
9/22/04
Boys Are Scary, 9/03/04
The
Question, 8/19/04
Are We There Yet?, 7/28/04
The Sardine Game, 7/06/04
My
Dog Killed a Chicken Today...A Poem, 5/26/04
The Bike Thing, 4/20/04
The Princess Diaries...Entry
Three, 4/18/04
The Princess Diaries...Entry
Two, 4/10/04
The Princess Diaries...Entry
One, 4/01/04
To Reduce
the Risk of Serious Injury..., 2/22/04
The Bath...or why I love showers,
2/11/04
Ivehadmephyll, 1/27/04
It's
Christmas Time in the City, 12/15/03
Here's what you do...or how to
get a 2-year old to bed, 10/22/03
Pray for Me, 10/13/03
Family Fun Night, 9/05/03
Four
Shots and a Urine Sample, 7/09/03
The Cookie
Judgment, 6/20/03
King of the
Road Rage, 5/05/03
Breakfast
or 20 Questions, 4/03/03 |
|
Anything Less, 7/30/07 |
He needed to run and today was the
perfect day for it. This man (we’ll call him Carter) woke up knowing
that he’d be going for ten miles. Anything less was unacceptable.
His family at home would be fixing their breakfast now. But he
laughed at breakfast. He scoffed at lazing around and reading the
paper on this most beautiful of mornings.
He was going to run. Some would say that, baby, he was born to run.
Around him blossomed the sounds of nature. Birds called with early
morning chatter and ducks made their way into the water in search of
a morning meal. The river he would run along poured over rocks;
babbling at parts, rushing at others. The gravel underfoot crunched
as he made his way to the path.
Thank God he had his iPod.
And so he ran… and ran… and ran some more. The park was filling now.
He passed bikers, other runners, people walking at a fast clip and
some strolling along with their families. But he paid them no mind.
He was in the zone, focused on the finish. You didn’t acknowledge
other people when you had the sweetness of Snoop Dogg pounding in
your ears, that’s fo shizzle.
Around the eight mile mark, Carter had to stop. His shirt, soaked
with sweat, was weighing him down, slowing him down. He took it off,
wrung it out and dropped it into the cold water of the river. As the
ducks quacked, “Gee, thanks, prick. Our breakfast needed some salt.”
– he wrung out the shirt again and let the chilly water fall over
him, cooling him down for this last leg of his run.
And then he continued, shirt in hand, to the finish. He did it.
He walked a bit further to cool down and now he nodded to
passers-by. Now he took in the sounds of nature. Now he smiled at
the families who were pointing and laughing at the ducks. And if
they gave him strange looks, he figured it was because he was kind
of a mess; shirtless and very wet with steam pumping off him like
fog lifting from the moors.
When his breathing evened out, he walked back to his car. He drove
home feeling a sense of accomplishment, a heady knowledge that he’d
put his body to the test and had come out victorious. By the time he
reached home, his thoughts had turned to breakfast While visions of
eggs over-easy and fifteen grain toast danced in his head, he
emerged from his car.
Then something caught his eye.
And in a flash, Carter’s entire morning was ruined.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
She sat at her desk and figured it was a perfect day to write. It
had been months since she (we’ll call her Kirsten) had been moved to
write anything but today, as the sun shone, as the birds called, as
her children played in the backyard, she was sure something would
come to her.
Any minute.
Any time now she would think of something. Anything.
Her husband was out for a run. A long one. Ten freaking miles. She
rolled her eyes at the thought. Running was not her thing though she
tried every now and then on the dusty treadmill downstairs. She just
didn’t get it.
She knew that, were they animals in the wild, her husband would be
the antelope outrunning the predator while she would be the one
saying, “Well, this is just ridiculous. Here… enjoy my pancreas.”
And her husband would leap away while she gave of herself to feed
the hungry pride of lions. “Lazy? Hah! It’s because I’m a giver,”
her antelope self would call after him. .
And really, as many women can tell you, survival of the fittest in
the suburbs has little to do with life or death chases and
everything to do with the ability to make a quiche out of two eggs,
a drop of milk and whatever leftovers you find in the fridge.
Running, Kirsten decided as she opened a game of Solitaire, could be
her husband’s thing. She had more important things to do.
A half hour later, her page was still blank and she’d moved on to
online checkers when her husband appeared at the door. In he came
and she knew immediately that something was amiss. He looked tired
and sweaty as usual but the look of utter bewilderment on his face
was something new.
“Hey. How was the run?” she asked.
“Completely embarrassing,” he said, shaking his head.
“Did you wipe out?”
“I wish. No. I was running and…”
He recapped his run for her and got to the part where he had taken
off his shirt and thrust it into the river. |
“Yeah,” she said, because his story
so far hadn’t explained a thing (not unlike this one), “and then
what?”
“Well,” he said and he swallowed hard as if something was caught in
his throat. Could have been pride. “Well,” he said again, “you know
how my nipples get?”
Now, to any other person this might seem a strange question but her
only reaction was, “You didn’t.”
He nodded. “You know they chafe when I go for long runs and so…”
“Oh no!” she winced. “You put Band-aids on your nipples?”
“Yes!” He looked horror stricken. “I always do. It’s just a habit
now. I mean, who wants sore nipples?”
She had no answer because at that moment a pebble of understanding
hit her in the forehead. “But when you took off your shirt you… you
took off the Band-aids, right?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. His devoted wife had to cover
her mouth with her hands in an effort to contain her outpouring of
sympathy which sounded suspiciously like a bark of laughter.
“And I was shirtless for the last two miles and my cool down walk,”
he said with a hint of despair. “But that’s not even the worst
part.”
Kirsten frowned now. How could it get worse? This time,
understanding hit her like a brick. Eyes wide, she gasped, “Oh no!”
He held up his hand and stuck to it were two Band-aids. On one was a
smiling picture of Sleeping Beauty and on the other was Princess
Jasmine waving hello.
After long minutes of uncontrollable mirth, his supportive wife
finally managed to say, “Well, they… they’re very pretty.”
Carter looked to the ceiling and pulled on his hair. “I can’t
imagine what the people I passed were thinking.”
Kirsten gulped down a giggle and said matter-of-factly, “Don’t
worry. They will think you have daughters, that’s all.”
“Or that I’m a princess pasty wearing pervert,” he added. “And there
I was… feeling so proud of myself, smiling at the nice families as
they fed the ducks. I’m surprised they didn’t run away screaming.
Why… WHY were we out of Scooby-Doo Band-aids?”
“Scooby-Doo would have been better?”
“He’s a little more manly than Jasmine and Sleeping Beauty, don’t
you think? He solves crimes.”
Instead of arguing that Scooby Doo was nothing more than a snack
craving coward, Kirsten kindly suggested, “How about we buy you some
plain Band-aids to wear the next time you’re at the park?”
“I can never go back there.”
He walked away muttering about princesses overtaking his life and
wondering if anyone he knew saw him.
She called after him; assuring him that no one they knew would have
been at the park that early. No one would ever know that his
sensitive nipples had been saved by those pretty princesses.
Still chuckling, she turned back to her computer. Her blank document
was still open before her. And quite suddenly, her fingers began to
move over the keyboard.
She paused after the first few sentences wondering if it was wrong.
Was it fair that one person’s misfortune was another person’s
inspiration? Especially when those people were married? It was a
dilemma and Kirsten spent minutes (at least two) pondering it.
But then she thought of the untold millions of men and women who
have problems with chafing. Wouldn’t it make them feel, if not
better, perhaps less alone to know that there are others who suffer
from the same complaint? It could (and probably will) be argued that
it would be a disservice to keep this story from seeing the light of
day.
As she tried to control the devilish grin that kept sneaking onto
her face, Kirsten continued to type; convincing herself that her
motives were pure and kind. Selfless. Indeed, within moments she was
certain she had a moral obligation to educate the public by
revealing every embarrassing morsel of her husband’s run in the
park.
Anything less was simply unthinkable.
The end |
Down the Dark Hallway, 3/06/07 |
The wind is howling but it is soft
footsteps that wake me. In the way of many mothers, I am able to
sleep through loud noises outside but the quietest hiccup from one
of my children will have my eyes popping open. I squint through the
darkness now to see our youngest daughter passing our doorway to
head into the bathroom.
I glance at the clock. 4:20 am. The house is cold as the wind rushes
around it, pushing its way into any crack that hasn’t been patched
by my husband, Captain Weather-strip.
I see the light from beneath the bathroom door. I hear the toilet
flush and the water begin to run at the sink. I wonder if I should
get up to walk her back to her bed. She’s only five and the hallway
is dark. The nightlight in her room is the only beacon she has to
follow and that’s not really visible from anywhere but her bed.
I hear the bathroom door open. I’m about to get out of bed when I
hear something. I hear Julia talking. She’s whispering something and
so I lay still and strain my ears to hear this early morning
conversation she’s carrying with herself.
“Don’t spill the water,” she says as she takes some steps out of the
bathroom. “Be careful.”
She’s gotten herself a cup of water and these are words I’ve spoken
to her countless times. She’s forgotten to turn off the bathroom
light. I’ll turn it off after she’s in bed.
“Forgot the light,” she whispers as if she heard my thoughts. I see
her turn, holding her hand over the top of the cup so no water
escapes as she heads back into the bathroom. I can picture her
reaching up to turn off the light, being careful not to spill a
drop. I listen some more. The light goes out. Her small voice
continues. |
“This is scary,” she gasps as she’s
thrown into the dark. “I’m scared.”
My first instinct is to get up but something holds me back. All is
silent as her eyes adjust. She continues down the hall.
“It’s not far,” she whispers. “I’m not scared.”
More words she’s heard from me, murmured over and over as I’ve
carried her to bed. I can’t stop myself. Hearing my voice will make
her less afraid. I know it. I call out to her in a sleepy voice.
“Julia.”
The footsteps stop. She turns around and her head pops into my
doorway. “What?” she whispers.
I sit up in bed. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
“I just got a drink. I’m going to bed.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” she replies and she’s off again, whispering still, her
footsteps not so hesitant.
I pull the covers up and close my eyes. The wind continues its
howling. I no longer have to carry a little girl back to her bed. I
no longer have to coax a child back to sleep.
I am glad because the night is cold and the blankets are warm. I am
sad because soothing a child to sleep is a miracle and a memory I
treasure. I am proud because she, my youngest girl, can talk herself
down the dark hallway.
Before I drift back to sleep I pray that she’ll always carry my
words, my voice with her. And I pray they’ll always make her journey
easier. |
An Experiment in Vegetarianism,
11/05/06
The
idea (or The Half Assed Vegetarian) |
I’m sitting at my desk one day last
week when my daughters, Emma and Olivia, come home from school. They
are full of excitement.
I am immediately apprehensive.
“Mommy,” Emma says. “We had an idea.”
Oh boy. “Really? What’s that?”
“Well,” she says.
“Well,” Olivia says.
“We want to be vegetarians,” Emma announces.
I wince.
“For a week,” Olivia adds. “Just to see if we like it.”
I sigh.
I look at them. Emma’s eyes are pleading. She’s serious about this.
Olivia is jumping from foot to foot. She is also serious about this…
or she has to pee. I quickly think of our schedule next week to see
if we can fit in new menu items. Looks pretty clear.
“Okay,” I say. “But we’ll do it next week because this is going to
involve some planning. Olivia, go to the bathroom.”
She does.
I break the news to Carter the next day.
“Hey, we’re vegetarians next week.”
“Why is that?” he asks.
“Because our children want to explore new things and we encourage
their adventurous spirits?”
“Oh, right. Well, we can eat eggs, right?”
“No.”
He frowns. “What? Of course we can.”
“Eggs are meat. They come from a chicken.”
“But we can drink milk?”
“Yes,” I say.
He looks triumphant. “Milk comes from a cow. Eggs come from a
chicken.”
I look like I’m married to a doofus. “But the milk will never, under
any circumstances, turn into a cow. An egg could turn into a
chicken.”
“But,” he says thoughtfully, “is an egg that hasn’t been fertilized
really poultry?”
“According to the food pyramid, eggs are meat.”
|
Carter waves that away. “The food
pyramid is based on how many lobbyists the farmers can send to
Washington. Wheat and grain farmers? Lots of lobbyists so they are
at the bottom of the pyramid. ‘Eat lots of bread! Pasta too!’ The
nut farmers get screwed right up to the top of the pyramid. They
have to beg people to put them in cookies just so they have a
chance. The food pyramid is an unreliable source.”
“My point is that eggs are not nuts or grain or vegetables or fruit.
You ask anyone and they will tell you that eggs are considered
meat.”
“I still think eggs should be allowed.”
I call my neighbor, Ann. She eats tofu. She’ll know the answer. I
tell her our plan to be vegetarians.
She is silent for a moment and then, “You’re eating eggs though,
right?”
“NO! We are not eating eggs.” I ignore Carter’s smug look. “Eggs are
meat. We are not going to be half-assed vegetarians. If we’re going
to do this, we’re going to do it the right way.”
“Your kids need protein and lots of it. What about B12? What are you
going to give them?”
“I don’t know. Peanut butter.”
Ann is silent again. I know how she feels about JIF. She thinks if I
were truly a choosy mom, I wouldn’t give my kids peanut butter made
with partially hydrogenated oil. The only response and, luckily, the
one that always wins is, “But JIF tastes gooooooood.”
“Most vegetarians eat eggs,” she tells me.
I tell her Carter’s theory that an unfertilized egg can’t be
considered meat.
“He has a point,” she says. “When did you become pro-life?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Same argument, really. At what point can the egg be considered a
chicken?”
“Goodbye, Ann.”
I hang up and head to the computer where I google vegetarians and
eggs. Hmm. It turns out that most vegetarians in the Western world
do drink milk and eat eggs. They are called lacto-ovo vegetarians.
Seems like cheating to me but maybe I should go along with the crowd
this time. I do love eggs.
“If the girls want to try vegetarianism,” Carter says, “we should
try the most popular branch.”
So the decision is made. For one week, we will be lacto-ovo
vegetarians.
“Sounds kind of cool,” Carter says. “Hi, I’m a lacto-ovo
vegetarian.”
I nod. “But you can just call me a half-assed vegetarian.”
And so it begins… |
An Experiment in
Vegetarianism, 11/05/06
Sunday (or The Prepared Vegetarian) |
We decide to start our experiment on
Monday. Mostly because I have a ham to cook on Sunday and I’m sick
of looking at it in the freezer. We’ll eat the ham on Sunday night
and on Monday we’ll tell people we don’t eat anything with a face.
Excellent plan.
On Sunday, Carter and I go for groceries. While we’re there, it
suddenly hits him that he’s giving up meat for a week.
“Why are we doing this again?”
“Kids. Encouraging exploration. Something like that,” I reply.
We pass the lunch meat counter. He sighs. “I really love meat. I’m
happy to be an omnivore.”
“We can do it,” I say as I pat him on the shoulder. “It’ll be fun.”
He is not convinced.
At the store, I buy lots of things I’ve never bought before. Black
beans, barley, vegetable broth. We avoid the meat counter and the
seafood counter. Carter whimpers and asks what I have planned for
the week.
“My plan is to buy lots of things and then throw them together so
they become culinary masterpieces.”
“You have no plan.”
I grimace and shake my head. I never have a plan. “Soup. I’m
thinking lots of soup.”
“Oh God.”
“I can make soup. And salad.”
“What will I have for lunch?” He comes home for lunch most days.
“The same.”
“You expect me to eat soup and salad for every meal, every day?”
“You can have eggs for breakfast,” I remind him. |
We buy three dozen eggs.
We continue on and Carter is only cheered when the grocery bill is
far less than normal. Hooray for vegetarianism!
That night, we eat ham and savor our last bit of meat. I ask the
kids what they think we should eat this week.
“Pancakes!” shouts Olivia.
“Cheese!” says Emma.
“Cinnamon Toast Crunch,” says Julia.
“Cake!”
“Noodles!”
“Cookies!”
“More cheese! Tastykakes!”
“Okay, listen,” I say. “We are not using this week as an excuse to
eat more sugar. You must eat eggs for breakfast every day. You will
pack lunch everyday except pizza day and mac and cheese day. We will
try new foods with lots of vegetables and decide if we like them or
not. This is an experiment. Not sugar and cheese week.”
Some people put the Christ in Christmas. We’re putting the veggies
in vegetarianism. Everyone agrees with the plan.
“But,” Olivia (aka Sugarhead) says. “We’ll still get dessert, right?
If we eat the veggie stuff, we’ll get cake, right?”
Carter pipes up. “I’m afraid chocolate is considered a meat.”
“Is not!” Emma cries. “I know about the food pyramid.”
“Don’t mention the food pyramid to your father, Emma,” I say. “He’s
teasing. Of course, we can have chocolate.”
We are vegetarians, after all, not barbarians. |
An Experiment in
Vegetarianism, 11/05/06
Monday (or The Cheating Vegetarian) |
Emma is sick. Okay, it’s more
accurate to say that Emma was sick on Sunday night. She is fine by
Monday morning.
“Why isn’t she going to school?” Carter asks.
“She threw up last night. It’s a rule of mine. Throw up at night,
stay home the next day.”
He starts making his eggs. “It should be ‘Throw up at night, next
day sit tight’.”
“No, I like it my way.”
He shrugs. “Whatever but sayings are way better if they rhyme.”
This has nothing to do with anything but goes to show you what
mornings are like at the Cheskey house.
Emma wakes up and eats an egg. She’s definitely better. All the
girls have eggs. Olivia and Julia go for soft boiled. Emma’s is
over-easy. I can practically see the protein rushing into their
little bodies.
Carter decides to work from home in the afternoon because I have to
take Julia on a field trip. He tells me he’ll be home after his
lunch meeting.
“Get a salad,” I tell him.
“You bet,” he says as he leaves.
The day passes. I don’t miss meat at all. I miss heat as I spend the
afternoon at a freezing cold pumpkin patch with Julia but I doubt
extra protein would have warmed me up. I’m starting to think this
vegetarianism is something I could get into. Especially with the
eggs.
I come home later to find Emma watching television. Carter is typing
away on his lap top.
The phone rings. It’s Ann.
“Do you have any celery?” she asks.
“As a matter of fact, I do. And I never have celery.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t like celery.”
“None of you?”
“No.”
“Why did you buy it?”
“Because we’re lacto-ovo vegetarians and celery seems like something
we should be eating.”
I can actually hear Ann rolling her eyes. “I’m coming over to steal
your celery. I’ll replace it.”
She’s at our house in a few minutes. She asks why Carter is home. I
tell her about not-so-sick Emma.
Ann looks out to the kitchen. “Where was your lunch meeting,
Carter?”
Carter is silent.
“Good question.” I look at Carter. “Where was it?”
Carter looks sheepish. This can’t be good. “Smokey Bones,” he says.
Ann breaks into uncontrollable laughter. My mouth drops to the
floor. “Smokey Bones? What did you have?” I really don’t have to
ask. A place called Smokey Bones doesn’t really cater to the
vegetarian.
Carter stops typing. “I had coleslaw.”
I walk towards him. “You had coleslaw and what?”
“Nothing. Just a big plate of coleslaw.”
“You had the pulled pork platter, didn’t you?” |
He laughs nervously. “Okay, yes, but
I didn’t pick the place. I couldn’t help it.”
Ann is still laughing.
I glare at him. “You’re a cheater. I can’t believe you didn’t even
make it one day.”
“One day?” Ann gasps. “He didn’t make it five hours.”
She leaves with my celery. Carter gets back to work after I tell him
I am disgusted by his behavior.
Dinner tonight is veggie risotto. I’ve never made risotto before but
I like it. I google vegetarian risotto recipes. I find one that
looks pretty good. I don’t have the exact ingredients but I can
improvise. And I can add cheese. Cheese makes everything better.
I cook vegetable broth and add onions, garlic and the risotto to
some of the broth. I cook it all until the broth is absorbed. Then I
add more broth. It is also absorbed. I add mixed vegetables that I
picked fresh from the frozen section in the grocery store.
Olivia show up to see how it’s going. And is it something we can eat
with chopsticks. About a year ago, Emma decided we should start
eating more meals with chopsticks because we eat slower and get full
quicker. Emma comes up and sees the chopsticks by the plates.
“Are we having Chinese food?”
“No,” I tell her. “We are mixing cultures.”
“Looks like rice,” she says.
“But it’s Italian rice.”
“What’s the difference?” Olivia asks.
“About five dollars a box.”
Blank stares.
“Okay, one is called risotto. One is called rice.”
That answer satisfies them.
“Smells good,” Emma says, as if she’s surprised.
“It does,” I say. And I am surprised. My improvisations don’t
usually turn out this well.
I sprinkle it with grated parmesan and we sit down to eat.
It’s good!!
Our first vegetarian meal is a success. Sure, I can’t help but think
it would be better with a few strips of chicken but I don’t mention
that. Julia gets herself a fork. And we all get spoons because we
are also having applesauce and it takes too long to eat applesauce
with chopsticks. (Don’t think we didn’t try.)
“So we’re eating Italian food with chopsticks,” Emma says.
“Yes.”
“Do you suppose people in China eat risotto with chopsticks?”
“Maybe if they’re in an Italian restaurant,” I say.
Emma looks at me. “Really? Do Italian restaurants in China use
chopsticks?”
“I…” I glance at Carter who is giving me the ‘don’t look at me’
face. “No, I don’t think so. I doubt it.”
“Hmm,” Emma says. “We could be the only people in the world eating
Italian food with chopsticks.”
I smile. “I suppose.”
“I like being a vegetarian,” Olivia says. “So, is everyone ready for
cake?”
We are… and we eat it with forks. |
An Experiment in
Vegetarianism, 11/05/06
Tuesday (or The Sad Vegetarian) |
The day passes without incident.
Carter is home for lunch and eats veggies and a frozen vegetarian
Kashi meal. When he takes the meal out of the microwave, I sniff it
and say, “Mmm. Looks good.”
I am lying. It doesn’t look good. It looks like someone threw up
some black beans, rice and mangoes but he needs something to get him
through this week. So, mmm, good.
He tells me it’s not bad but you can’t trust Carter’s taste. The
cereal he eats tastes like cardboard. He eats protein bars with some
kind of coating that’s supposed to be chocolate but is, in fact, NOT
chocolate. It’s chocolate’s evil twin. Looks the same but you turn
your back and it’ll sleep with your husband. It’s not at all like
real chocolate.
Dinner tonight is tomato soup. I make quesadillas from whole wheat
wraps and cheddar cheese. (Two wraps, shredded cheddar, one minute
in the microwave. Voila!) And we have a salad.
Carter comes up to the kitchen while I’m slaving over the one can
soup/one can milk recipe.
“So, how’s the day going?” I ask him. “Doing okay without meat?”
“I’d be doing better if the leftover ham wasn’t sitting in the
fridge begging me to eat it.”
“Oops. Forgot about that. I’ll get rid of it.”
I see a sadness come and go in his eyes. He goes to get the girls
for dinner and comes back holding a beer. Not really odd, but
usually Carter saves beer for parties or football. This is just
dinner.
“You’re having a beer?” I ask.
“I’m hoping there’s meat in it.”
“Sorry, no.”
“Yeah, well, it was the strangest thing… after my run, I was
sprawled out on the kitchen floor and I thought, ‘I want a beer.’ So
I got one.” |
I take a swig of his beer and say, “I
don’t think anyone’s ever uttered that sentence before.”
I want to ask why he was on the kitchen floor but I’m afraid he’ll
say he was sniffing the dog food. I drop it.
We sit.
“I don’t want this soup,” Olivia says. “I want my soup.”
Olivia’s soup is chicken broth with goldfish shaped noodles and
meatballs.
“You can’t have your soup.”
She smiles. “Oh, yeah. Well, I don’t want this soup.”
“Try it,” I say. “We’re all about expanding our tastes this week.
You can take the leap to cream of tomato soup.”
She tries it and gags.
“Okay, don’t eat it. But take more salad.”
Emma eats everything. Julia is not thrilled with the tomato soup.
“Why can’t we have the other soup?” she asks.
“Chicken broth,” Carter says.
“Meatballs,” Olivia says.
“Goldfish,” I say, snickering at myself.
No one else laughs.
“Get it? Goldfish would be meat.” Everyone is staring at me. “But
it’s really a noodle. But if it was really a gold…”
“Just eat your salad, Julia,” Carter says.
She does.
I take his beer and drink it down.
Five more days. We’ll see what tomorrow brings. |
An Experiment in
Vegetarianism, 11/05/06
Wednesday (or The Excited Vegetarian) |
The day starts with the sounds of
Olivia being sick in the bathroom. Another one down.
I get breakfast for Emma. I start packing her lunch.
“Wait,” she says. “What’s school serving for lunch?”
“It’s the ham and cheese on a soft pretzel roll.”
Emma’s face falls. “Oh. But…”
“I know,” I tell her. She loves that lunch. It’s ham and cheese
baked between slices of soft pretzel. Quite frankly, this lunch
sounds like heaven. But sacrifices are being made all over the place
this week. This is just one of them.
“When all this is over,” she asks in her most pathetic voice, “do
you… do you think you could try to make ham and cheese on a soft
pretzel roll?”
“I will do my best.” Meanwhile, I’m thinking, Yes! I get to eat
heaven too!
Carter kisses everyone goodbye. “I feel really good today. Maybe
this isn’t such a bad idea.”
I narrow my eyes. “Coming home for lunch today?”
Carter turns around, all innocence, “Oh, no. I have a lunch meeting
again today.”
Aha!! The anticipation of animal protein is what has him so chipper.
“Oh, do you?”
“I didn’t plan it.”
I gasp. “Lies!! I heard you last night.”
It’s true. I heard him on the phone last night talking with a guy
from work. And I heard Carter saying, “Yeah. Well, we should
probably go over this at breakfast. Or lunch. I’m free for lunch.
Any day. Breakfast. Or lunch. How about we get together for lunch
and go over this. Lunch. Lunch. Please, let’s go to lunch!” (I’m
paraphrasing slightly.)
Sheepish grin from Carter. “Oh that. No, that was me hoping to get
in another lunch meeting this week. Today’s meeting was planned
weeks ago.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be good. I won’t cheat.”
He leaves. Emma stands beside me as we watch him go. .
“Did Daddy cheat?”
I glance down at her. Put my arm around her. I know it’s hard but
it’s better for her to hear the truth from me. “Yes, he did. But
we’ll work through it and will stay together because of the
children.”
“Does this mean I can have the school lunch?”
“Not a chance.”
Our day passes nicely. Olivia begins to feel better. Friends who
know about this experiment send me vegetarian recipes to try. Other
friends tell me what they’ll be having for dinner. And it always
involves meat.
Tonight, I am making black bean soup. I just got the recipe this
morning from my friend, Laura, and I have almost everything I need
to make it. I call Carter at lunch time and ask him to bring home
more black beans and a nice fat loaf of bread.
He does. He also brings home a doggie bag from lunch.
“What’s this?”
“It’s proof that I didn’t eat meat for lunch.” He was at an Italian
Restaurant today. Your chances of getting a meatless meal there are
better than the barbeque place.
I open the box. “Ooh! White pizza! Looks yum… what is that?”
“It’s…”
“That’s meat!” It is meat. There’s a little pile of prosciutto in
the Styrofoam box.
“I know… I was…”
“You cheated again!! I can’t believe…”
“No! I took the meat off and brought it home so you would believe
that I didn’t eat it.”
I look at the meat. I look at him. I relax. “Oh honey, you didn’t
have to do that. I trust you.”
Silly man. Where does he get these ideas?
I start dinner. This is a very easy recipe. It’s ready in no time at
all. I puree it in the food processor. I think and think and then I
remember where the food processor is stored. I pull it out. Dust it
off. (Not kidding.) Assemble it within fifteen minutes. (Not
kidding.) And I pour the soup in.
Here’s the thing… as you may have guessed, I don’t use my food
processor often. Most of the food we eat has been processed to the
fullest. Our chicken is pre-breaded. Our cheese is pre-shredded. Our
bacon is already cooked. Seems a little easier to me, so I go with
it. And as a result, our meals don’t usually take much preparation.
They certainly don’t take extra small appliances. So, as I pour my
soup into the food processor, I suddenly feel as sexy as Jamie
Oliver is in his kitchen. I am Rachel Ray. I am Paula Deen. I am
Emeril.
Okay, not Emeril, but I’m feeling pretty good about myself.
I turn that soup into a… well, it’s not exactly soup when I’m
through with it. In fact, it’s as thick as mashed potatoes. I become
slightly distressed about this but then I taste it.
It’s really good.
Olivia sets the table. She sees me dishing up the soup. |
“Um. What’s that?”
“Black bean soup,” I tell her.
“I don’t like that.”
Emma comes to the kitchen. “Um. What’s that?”
“Black bean soup and it’s delicious,” I say.
“I don’t think I like that.”
Julia sits on her stool at the island. “Oh no. What’s that?”
I throw the wooden spoon in the pot and turn on my children. “Listen
to me. This was your idea. Not mine. Not your fathers. Yours.”
“Wasn’t mine,” Olivia says.
“Oh, yes, it was. You both asked. You both wanted to try something
new. This,” I point to the soup. “This is something new. And I used
the food processor. It’s delicious and you WILL eat it. Understand?”
Emma looks at the bowl I set in front of her. She looks at her fork.
She looks at her spoon. Which to choose? I can’t blame her for this.
In all honesty, she could eat this soup with chopsticks. She settles
on the spoon and takes a bite.
“Needs cheese,” she says.
I roll my eyes and give them the bag of shredded cheddar. They all
load it up. Carter and I eat bowls of the soup. We love it.
“This is the best thing we’ve had all week,” Carter says as he
scrapes the last of the soup into his bowl.
“I agree,” I say.
“In fact,” he continues, “it’s the best thing we’ve had in a long
time.”
I smile.
“A really long time. I can’t remember the last time we had something
this good.”
My smile fades marginally but I let him gush. I made the soup, after
all. Not sure how he managed to choke down all the other meals I’ve
fed him in the past years but I decide to take the compliment.
“Do we have to eat this when veggie week is over?” Emma asks.
“Yes!” Carter says. “This is really…”
“Yes, Emma. I’ll be making this again,” I say.
Olivia’s face falls. “It’s on the permanent menu?”
“’Fraid so,” I tell her. “I love it.”
“Me too,” Carter says. “This is really good.”
“I don’t know if it should be on the permanent menu,” Emma says.
“Oh, it’s on,” I say. “It could be monthly, if not weekly.”
There are groans from the children. But they’ll get over it. Next
time I’ll make it look a little more like soup and a little less
like brown mush.
They eat. And Carter and I start to clean up.
And then things get scary.
“I like this,” he says as he carries plates to the sink. .
“I know. It was good.” Jesus. He’s in love with the soup.
“No,” he says and he looks at me seriously. “I like eating this way.
I know I was giving you a hard time the past few days but I felt
great today. I like eating this way.”
I sigh. “Carter.”
“I know. I know.”
I know too. Carter likes being healthy. He works out regularly. I
work out if I feel like it. He runs. I stroll. He eats healthy
foods. I will eat cotton candy if it’s in front of me. He drinks
green tea. I drink hot chocolate. But even with these differences,
we manage to get along okay.
The scary thing is… Carter gets excited about things. And then
suddenly, it’s a part of his everyday life. He sees something.
Studies it for a bit. Decides it’s good and then BAM! He takes it up
for the rest of his life. And if you think that’s not a description
of our courtship and marriage, you’re wrong.
So I knew it was a risk, this week of new eating styles, but I
didn’t think it would happen so soon. I did not think he would
embrace vegetarianism.
It was really good soup.
“We’re not getting enough protein,” I remind him. “You’d have to
supplement somehow.”
“I know. I’m not going to give up meat but I think we should maybe
add more of this,” he points to the messy pots and pans, “to our
regular routine.”
“What? Cooking?”
“No. You know what I mean.”
I do. “We will. I liked it too. It was fun. And it was delicious. I
promise to cook healthier foods once in a while.”
“Good.”
“Right after I make the soft pretzels with ham and cheese.”
He smiles.
And another day is done. |
An Experiment in
Vegetarianism, 11/05/06
Thursday (or The Addicted Vegetarian) |
I’m a little shaky today. I don’t
mind telling you, the thought of a burger is making me sigh
longingly. I think about my friends coming over later and wonder
what appetizer I’ll make. My first thought is, "Get crabmeat."
My second thought is, “Crap! That’s meat!”
I find I’m a little short tempered with my kids, my husband.
Wouldn’t it be nice, since we’re busy tonight, to just stop at
McDonalds? Chik-fil-a? Anything?
But no. I can not.
I call my mother. She asks how it’s going. I tell her, “Not well.”
She asks what we ate the night before.
“Oh. We had this great soup.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And I put it in the food processor and…”
“Wait. What??”
“Um, I put it in the food processor.”
“You,” her voice shakes, “Kirsten, you pureed something?”
“Yeah. And it was really good.”
She’s silent for a moment. I imagine she’s dabbing at her eyes with
a hankie. I’ve just made my mother very proud.
“Mom?”
“Yes?” I hear the smile in her voice. I don’t think I’ve heard her
this happy since I presented her with grandchildren. The Black and
Decker food processor wields great power.
“What are you having for dinner tonight?” I ask.
“Spinach capellini and meatballs.”
“Ooh! Pasta. I have tortellini. Good idea.”
It is a good idea. I was so hung up on the burger I wanted that I
was forgetting that I had a couple packs of ricotta and spinach
tortellini just sitting in my pantry. Yum.
I cook them up. I’m opening a can of plain tomato sauce, kicking
myself for not taking the time to make my own sauce, when Carter
comes to the kitchen.
“Hey. We should use that jar of sauce I brought home,” he says.
My husband’s job sometimes requires him to tour companies around the
area. If that company happens to process some kind of food, we get
samples. Sometimes, the samples aren’t that great. I’m leery of the
sauce. |
“It has to be good,” he says. “It
costs eight dollars a jar.”
“Oh yeah. More expensive stuff is always better.” I say with a roll
of the eyes.
“I bet it’s better than that can you’re opening.”
Hmm. He’s probably right. I take the jar and open it. Smells pretty
good. I look at the ingredients. No meat. And it’s vodka sauce.
That’s encouraging. I cook it up and put it on the tortellini.
Immediately, we can see why this sauce costs eight dollars a jar.
Though prices have gone down in recent years, heroin still costs a
pretty penny and this sauce is obviously laced with the stuff. My
unsuspecting family have just become addicts.
It’s the only way to explain the wonderfulness of this sauce. It’s
better than any sauce I’ve ever made. It’s better than any sauce
I’ve ever eaten… anywhere. The kids clean their plates. I snap at
them when they beg for more of the ‘yummy sauce’.
“You don’t need that much sauce. I need the sauce. I need it!”
I look at Carter. Normally, I’d be embarrassed to catch him looking
at our meal as if it was a long lost lover come home to rest forever
in his arms but, to be fair, I’m pretty sure I have the same look in
my eyes.
“Do you have anymore meetings at this place?” I ask between bites.
Carter pushes Olivia’s hand away from the bowl of tortellini. “I’ll
do the serving.” He turns to me. “Yes. In November sometime.”
“Get more. Please get more.”
He nods. “I’ll try. My God, I’ll do my best. You know they had a
whole flat full of jars they were sending to the food bank.”
I choke a little. “Really? An entire flat?”
He nods again. “For the food bank.”
An idea takes hold. “Do you… Could we…”
“No,” he says. “No. That would be wrong.”
It would. We gobble up the rest and wait for the sauce rapture to
fade. It doesn’t. We’re all strangely content all evening.
My friends arrive a short time later. They bring snacks which
include Swedish fish, dark chocolate, panetini and Asiago cheese,
fresh salsa and chips, Mango Martinis in a BOX! (We are very classy
girls.) And more!
It occurs to me that I don’t miss meat at all.
But, really, that could be the heroin talking. |
An Experiment in
Vegetarianism, 11/05/06
Friday (or The Drunk Vegetarian) |
The Halloween party is tonight. The
annual neighborhood Halloween party for which we were instructed to
dress as our favorite television couple and to bring our favorite
munchie.
“What am I going to make?” I ask Carter. I’m in the parking lot of
the grocery store, calling him while he tries to work. I only
interrupt work for very important things. This is one of them.
“I don’t know,” he helpfully replies.
“Okay,” I say. “How about this? How about a party tray from
Chik-fil-a? Everyone loves those. I love those.”
I do love those. They come with Polynesian sauce. I could drink
Polynesian sauce.
“Umm,” Carter says.
I curse and say, “Forget I called. I forgot that chicken is meat.
I’ll think of something.”
Stupid vegetarianism! Not that I've had a bad experience with this
whole thing but I was really in the mood for some delicious white
meat chicken tenders.
I decide to make corn bread with honey butter. It’s really easy and
really good. And a lot of drinking goes on at this party. Bread will
soak up all the nasty shots.
I go home with my ingredients. While my bread is baking, the phone
rings. It’s Ann.
“Hey,” she says, “how much advance notice do you have to give
Chik-fil-a for a party tray?”
I curse again. “You’re taking a party tray?”
“Why? Are you taking one?”
“No, Ann. I can’t. Chicken is meat. Duh.”
“Oh yeah. Sorry, I forgot.”
I sigh. “Yeah. Me too. I almost ordered one an hour ago.”
Ann laughs. “Well, I’m getting one.”
“If you were a good friend…”
“I’m getting one.”
I think about it. “Okay. Well, possibly I’ll get drunk and then I
can eat some. Eating meat while under the influence or something
like that. It’s the alcohol. I can’t be held responsible.”
“Oh yeah. That’s a hell of a defense, Cheskey.” And once again, I
hear Ann rolling her eyes.
We hang up. I burn my corn bread. Carter and I dress as Gomez and
Morticia Addams. The babysitters show up and off we go.
We arrive at the party which is two doors down from ours. My
neighbors, John and Christine, have their house all tricked out for
the party. To get into the house we must pass through a curtain that
says Must See TV. And then the rest is just spooky.
I set up the bar because I am the bartender. Not that I’m that good
at making drinks but I’m really good at getting people to drink. I
think it’s because I’m charming. Carter thinks it’s because I’m
scary. All I know is I have a husband come up and tell me his wife
has been in a really bad mood. Could I please get her to loosen up?
A wife comes from another couple to tell me that her husband has
been stressed out at work. Could I make sure he forgets about work
tonight? |
Luckily, we’ve all walked to the
party so I don’t have to worry about taking keys. I quickly
determine who doesn’t want to drink, who is just saying they don’t
want to drink, and who really, really wants to drink. The pouring
begins.
Ann comes in carrying her party tray and holds it over the bar as
she walks by. “Drunk enough, yet?” she asks.
I’m not. Damn it.
Time passes. The party picks up. The music gets turned up and
Skippers are dancing with Gilligans. Kelly is dancing with Regis.
Mel, Flo and Alice are cutting a rug. Homer and Marge Simpson are
sitting in the corner talking. I’ve been drinking a lot but really,
I’m feeling pretty good. Just a little buzzed. Not drunk enough to
eat meat.
Then host John comes by. He says, “Enough work. Go dance.” And he
pushes me out on the dance floor.
Suddenly, I’m not just a little buzzed. Standing behind the bar is
one thing. As soon as I take a step, I reach for Gomez to hold me
up.
"You lost your moustache," I tell him.
"Broke my cigar too," he says. "Your wig is gone. And your shoes."
"Really?" Things are spinning. But a happy spin. Not the “oh my God,
why won’t the room stop spinning” sensation that I’m sure I’ll
experience later.
I spot Ann. Of course I do. Ann is dressed as Mimi from The Drew
Carey Show. Her husband is Drew. Ann found the most God awful outfit
at Goodwill and has clown-like make up on her face. It's not
possible to miss Ann really. I weave through the crowd.
“It’s time,” I tell her.
“Time for what?” She’s dancing away to Barry White.
“I’m drunk enough. I’m going to have some chicken.”
Ann stops dancing and gives me a pitying look. “Honey. That was gone
an hour ago.”
“What?” Surely she’s mistaken. Have hours really passed? What time
is it? Where’s the party tray? “But I love the party tray,” I tell
her.
She pats my shoulder and I nearly fall over. “Everyone loves the
party tray.”
I make my way to the dining room and see the snack table is mostly
empty. Someone has even swiped all the meat from the seven layer
taco dip. Probably Carter. Nothing is left. Well, there sits my
burned cornbread but who wants to eat that? I shake my head in
disbelief.
All I wanted was a chicken tender. And it's too late.
I turn back to the bar.
And, though details would be lovely, I'll simply tell you that
things just spiral downward from there. |
An Experiment in
Vegetarianism, 11/05/06
Saturday (or The Desperate Vegetarian) |
Good God. What was I thinking? I am
far too old to have said the words, “Just mix it in a shot glass.
I’m sure it’ll taste good.”
What was I thinking?
My eyes pop open at seven in the morning. I jump a little when I see
Carter staring at me.
“Does your tongue feel like a dried out and splintered two by four?”
he whispers.
I check that out. “Yeth,” I whisper in response.
He nods his head in the direction of my nightstand. I turn, slowly.
There is a glass of water and Tylenol sitting right there. A gift
from my always prepared husband or the hangover fairies. I don't
really care which.
I partake of the blessed water and Tylenol and feel my stomach turn.
Carter turns on the television.
“You know what we need,” he says.
“What?” I mumble.
“McDonalds.”
We generally treat hangovers with fast food. But right now, the
thought of any food, fast or slow, is making me sick.
I shake my head and turn to the TV. There’s a KFC ad on. Someone is
mixing mashed potatoes and corn and topping it with chicken and
gravy and cheese?
“Why? Why would anyone eat that?” I ask as my stomach turns again.
“What is that hellish chicken bowl anyway? Turn it off. Please.”
Olivia and Julia wake up. Emma spent last night at a friend’s house
so we have one less child to parent this morning. Thank God.
Olivia comes into the room and sees the bucket sitting by the bed
(another gift from the hangover fairies).
“Are you sick?” she asks.
I nod regretfully. What’s more shameful than your kids catching you
nursing a hangover the morning after a night of excess?
Olivia looks concerned. “Did you catch what Emma and I had this
week?”
I think for a second. And I nod again. Okay, lying to your kids
might be more shameful but I’m in no condition to explain anything
else.
Olivia runs to tell Julia. They both come in looking worried.
“The good news is,” I tell them, “you can do whatever you want to do
today. You can wear a fancy dress. You can eat dry cereal from the
box. You can make a mess knowing that I won’t make you clean it up
until tomorrow.”
This cheers them right up. I barely see them for the rest of the
day.
Eventually I get dressed and go downstairs to attempt to do
something. I hear someone at the door and see Emma has come home.
Her friend’s father has just dropped her off. He helps bring her
sleeping bag inside. We chit chat for a few minutes and then he
leaves.
I find Carter and tell him that Emma was just dropped off.
“Did you answer the door like that?” he asks.
“Yeah. What? I’m dressed.”
“Look in the mirror, Alice Cooper. Abigail’s father is going to tell
everyone that Emma’s mommy is a meth addict.”
I look in the mirror. My hair is a mess. My face is pale. And the
black eye makeup I was wearing last night, well, it’s still there,
only not where it’s supposed to be. I probably smell like a barroom
floor.
I whimper and sit down.
“We need McDonald’s,” Carter says again.
“We’re vegetarians, remember?”
“We’re desperate. And besides, I had some chicken last night,” he
admits.
I look at him sharply. The party tray!
He sees my look and backtracks. “Well, only like two pieces, I
think. Yeah. Only two.”
“We’re not going to McDonalds,” I say. I’m not quitting.
The day passes. I nap and drink Coke and am still feeling rather
bad. The kids have been wonderful. They’ve played without fighting
for most of the day. Dinner time approaches.
“So what are we having for dinner?” Carter asks. |
I shrug. I still have no appetite. I
can’t even begin to think about what to prepare.
“You know what you need,” he says.
I do. I know it. I need McDonalds. And not just for the hangover
that is not going away. I need it because, I just can’t think of
anything else to eat. I give in.
“Okay, go get McDonald’s. But ask the kids first. If they don’t want
to eat meat, then we’re not eating meat.”
Carter goes to ask the kids but really, are they going to say no?
Happy Meals are kiddie-crack. They can’t say no. We all know this.
“They’re in,” Carter says a few minutes later. “What do you want?”
“Just fries and a Coke,” I say. “I’m still fighting the good fight.”
He is back within minutes. We get everyone set up with their meals.
“Okay, everyone,” I say, before we dig in. “If you eat this, you are
giving up on the…”
Emma takes a bite of her burger.
“Emma!”
She smiles. “I’m hungry.”
“Okay, eat, but know that the experiment has failed.” They dig in
and I pick up a fry. It’s good and I start to feel better.
And then sneaky Julia holds up a chicken nugget. “Do you want one of
these, Mommy?”
Last night, I’d have sold Julia for a chicken nugget but I don’t
mention this. She sits there looking at me sweetly, offering her
food to her mother who was sick all day. She holds it closer to me.
I have my fries but… look at that nice golden breading on nugget.
It’s the boot-shape nugget. I like the boot-shape nuggets from
McDonalds.
Julia blinks her eyes and smiles and puts the nugget in my hand.
“You can have one of mine, Mommy,” she says.
I can’t say no. Sweet little girls are mommy-crack. I take a bite
and…
Really, it’s not as good as it looked but I eat it anyway. I’ve
given up.
“So,” I say as I shove more fries in my face and wonder if Carter
will offer me part of his burger. “What did we learn from our futile
attempt at vegetarianism?”
Olivia says, “We don’t like the brown mush.”
“Oh, thanks for reminding me,” I say. “I’m making that tomorrow.”
“Mommy!”
“I’m kidding. But we will be eating it again. When you least suspect
it, you will find black bean soup on your plate. Emma? What have you
learned?”
Emma has eaten her burger in record time. “I’ve learned that I like
meat.”
“But,” Carter adds, “I think we had some very good meals this week
and we can experiment with more vegetarian meals each week.”
“But not an entire week at a time,” Emma says.
“Deal,” I say as I watch Carter eat the last of his burger.
Later, Carter and I are in bed again, watching football. A
commercial comes on for the KFC chicken bowl. Mashed potatoes, corn,
chicken, cheese and gravy all mixed together.
I am transfixed. “My God, that looks good.”
Carter laughs. “Proof that you’re feeling better.”
“We are no longer vegetarians,” I say. “I can’t believe we failed.”
“It was okay,” he says. “Let’s think of it as a starting place for
healthier choices.”
“Like McDonald’s?”
“That was medicinal.”
“Oh, right.”
“And,” Carter adds. “There will be other experiments. We won’t fail
those.”
I nod and close my eyes. And then open them again, wide with horror.
Dear God, what other experiments?
The End |
Are We There Yet?
2006
Prologue - A Million
Little Pieces... of Spree |
I must begin this tale by admitting
to something terrible. Something awful. Something that will show you
how an addiction can lead you to do unspeakable things. How it can
make you desperate, frantic. How it can lead you to… murder.
Okay, actually it’s about my search for Spree the night before our
yearly trek to South Dakota but still, bad things happen.
I need Spree for my trip. Everyone knows it. This isn’t the first
travelogue you’ve read and if it is, I suggest you read the other
two. There might be references which would be totally lost on you
otherwise. Like Spree. I need it on long car trips like I need
caffeine. Like I need Ewan McGregor singing to me. Like I need my
husband asking me a million times if I’m okay to drive.
I love it. I need it.
The thing is, I’m out of Spree. Have been for some time now. So I
think of all the places in our area that might stock Spree and I
make a pilgrimage to the suburban Mecca. I journey to Target,
because, come on… it’s Target. They have everything. They always
have Spree and I need to go there anyway for some necessities like
new shirts, three pairs of sandals, and Pringles. It’s for the trip.
Can’t be helped.
I check the candy aisle. You know which one I mean… the BIG candy
aisle. The one with all the colorful boxes of candy stacked so
nicely from top to bottom. The aisle that makes you think of Willy
Wonka and all that’s good in the world. I look through the boxes and
see that they have Good N Plenty. They have Bottle Caps. They have
Charleston Chew, for God’s sake.
What they don’t have is Spree.
I’m offended by this but it’s not enough to have me walking out
without buying my clothing, shoes and potato chips. After all, the
grocery store is down the street and if that trip fails, there’s one
more place I can check.
My grocery store is also Spree-less. I wonder what the hell is wrong
with the world as I pick up some Bit O’Honey as a consolation. And I
realize that I have to hit my regular dealer. It’s off the beaten
path. It’s not in a place so familiar and friendly as a strip mall.
Oh no. For this candy, I’m going to have to travel… about a mile.
Possibly less.
It’s a dark night made dangerous by the rain that’s been falling
steadily for days. But my wipers work well as I make my way through
the parking lot, around the corner and get to the road that will
lead me to Spree.
I drive along, obeying the speed limit though some voice is telling
me to hurry. The place might close early. I don’t know the hours. My
hands shake a little but I keep a steady pace because you never know
when a little bunny is going to run out in front of your van and
you’re going to have to run over it. |
Good thing too, because right at that
moment a little bunny runs out in front of my van and I have to run
over it.
I do try to miss it. I swerve but it’s confused by the headlights
and turns back. I swerve the other way. It runs back the other way.
I run over the bunny while screaming, “Make up your mind, bunny.
Noooo!” I don’t feel a bump though. Hmm. Maybe my tires missed it. I
look in the rearview mirror to see if there’s a little dead lump of
bunny in the road. I’m unable to tell because the headlights from
the car behind me are blinding.
I wince. That bunny may have avoided my tires but no way did he miss
that guy’s too.
I take a moment to mourn the poor bunny and realize if I hadn’t been
on this terrible, well-lit road looking for Spree, I might have
avoided this brutal killing.
Wait a minute, my Spree. God, I hope my place is still open.
I get to the shop. It’s dark, but a single light shines from inside.
There’s a burned out car in the parking lot that upon further
inspection is actually an Oldsmobile Silhouette minivan. Probably
from the early nineties. And it’s not actually burned out. Just
needs a little wash probably. Or maybe it’s just night time and I
can’t see so well.
Anyway…I walk into the store, avoiding the harsh glare from the new
Dunkin Donuts that sits across the street. I nod to the woman behind
the counter.
“You have Spree?” I ask.
The woman takes a drag from her cigarette and says, “I got Spree.
You got the money?”
“Yeah, I got the money.”
She snorts out a laugh. “Went off to fancy Target, didn’t you? Let
you down, didn’t they? I knew you’d be back. They always come back.”
Then I whip out my switchblade and…
Okay, actually, I nod to the woman who is not smoking behind the
counter and she gives me a nervous smile that all but says, “Please
don’t kill me. I smell the blood of a bunny on you.”
I buy six rolls of Spree, pay and tell her I don’t need a bag. I
leave the convenience store and get back into my van.
Dead bunnies aside, I consider it a successful night. The horrors of
addiction fade from my mind as I make my way home on that wet night.
Like all good junkies I am suddenly content by the fresh stash in my
purse. I have all I need.
I am ready for our trip.
To be continued... |
Are We There Yet? 2006
Part one - The trip starts... kind of |
We’re going to take our time this
year. That’s the plan.
South Dakota is far away. What’s the rush? Let’s drive during the
day. Take two days instead of one. Spend some time in Wisconsin.
Maybe, maybe hit the Cheese Chalet because… is it made of cheese or
does this chalet merely deal in cheese? Who can say? Maybe we’ll
find out. There will be no stress. No worries. We have our nice
comfy new minivan with lots of lumbar support. Let’s spend more time
in the van. Let’s slow down. There’s no hurry. Let’s enjoy the trip.
Yes. That’s our motto for this year. We’re going to enjoy the trip.
Our families, especially Carter’s mother, are pleased with the
decision to forego the night time driving. For the past few weeks,
we’ve heard about all the dangers of driving at night. Falling
asleep at the wheel, car crashes, night blindness, axe murderer
attacks, surprise tornadoes. All these things happen at night or so
we are told by my mother-in-law.
So the decision is made. We’re leaving Wednesday morning.
But here’s the thing, we are ready to leave Tuesday night.
Everything is packed, ready to go. Kids are anxious. We’re anxious.
So anxious that maybe we’ll leave a little earlier than six in the
morning. Maybe we could get up and go by four. It’ll still be dark.
The kids should still sleep a little bit.
“Remember last year?” I say as I dump my Spree into the snack bag.
“The kids slept all night. Ten hours they were out.”
“Yeah,” Carter says as he dumps his health bars into the bag. “That
was nice. Maybe three am would work.”
“Or maybe we could snooze a little and get going by midnight,” I put
in.
Carter looks at the packed car. He looks at me. I can tell he’s
struggling over the pros and cons of this. While I consider midnight
to be just really early in the morning, let’s face it, it’s night.
Night driving is good in that there is very little traffic and very
little noise from the back of the minivan. It’s bad in that we are
usually kind of twitchy the following day.
“Remember we’re not driving all the way to South Dakota. This would
give us more time at the hotel tomorrow. And we’d have enough time
to tour the University of Wisconsin,” I add.
Carter looks at his watch. It’s almost nine o’clock in the evening.
“Is everyone ready, because if we’re going, we’re going now.”
The decision is made. We are leaving at night. And if Carter’s
mother calls, we’ll just tell her we left a little early. It’ll be
fine.
Did I mention it was raining?
It has been raining for about five days straight. Our front yard is
like a sponge when you walk across it. The streets are full of
water. But we pack up and we drive out of town, knowing that
Mobridge, South Dakota is experiencing its worst drought in years.
Heading toward drier pastures seems like a good idea.
We get the kids settled. It’s a little different this year. New
minivan. More room. Our three girls used to be smashed in next to
one another on one bench seat. Now they each have their own seats.
Their own space. Two are in the middle. One is in the back. I know
none of them are going to want the back seat so I make it as
appealing as possible. The back seat sitter gets to have the special
bed seat. Pillow against the window, legs stretched out over the
cooler. It’s the most comfortable spot in the car. Or so I tell
them.
Olivia, also known as “Wake up, Olivia”, decides that seat will be
hers, but I assure her we’ll rotate seats as the trip progresses. I
set up some movies for the kids and we are on our way. This is going
to be great. Our best trip yet.
About fifty miles into our trip, we hit a snag. Well, not so much a
snag, and not a bunny either but well, you’ll see…
We come around a bend on the Pennsylvania Turnpike that is covered
by about six inches of water. Carter sees that it is deeper in the
fast lane so he starts to switch lanes in order to avoid it. And
sometime during that change, our minivan just starts floating away,
rather quickly, toward the guardrail. I am looking back at the kids,
answering some question or other, when I hear him curse. I look out
the front window and there we are, heading for a ditch. Carter turns
the wheel a few times but we are like a bumper car that has been hit
by some jerky kid who gets off on making cars spin out of control.
We veer back and forth across the turnpike. Only seconds tick by but
it feels like much longer. The girls start screaming. I think I say,
“Oh my God” about five thousand times. We keep fish tailing back and
forth.
Finally, keeping with the bumper car theme, it becomes obvious that
the only way to stop is to run into something. And the something
this dark, rainy night is the concrete lane divider. Carter tries to
turn us away one last time but it’s no use. I remember thinking,
“We’re going to hit the wall.” This tells you that even in emergency
situations, I can state the obvious with the best of them. In slow
motion, the wall gets closer and closer until we hear the sad crunch
of my brand new Toyota Sienna against the concrete.
The only sound for about five seconds is the rain pelting the car
mercilessly. Then I turn around and say over and over, “Are you
okay? Is everyone okay? Are you okay?”
“What happened?” Emma asks.
“We’ve had a car accident,” I tell her. “But it’s okay. We’re safe.
We’re okay.” |
Emma immediately breaks into the
story about her friend, Anna, who got into a car accident and walked
away without a scratch. How nice that they now have something else
in common.
“Hey,” Carter grumbles. “Next time I’m trying to control a
hydroplaning minivan could you not grab my arm?”
I look over. I’m still holding onto his upper arm. Oops. I let go
and tell him it’s my natural protective instinct.
“Grabbing the arm of the guy steering is your natural protective
instinct?”
“I can’t control it.”
Carter realizes that we are sitting across the highway and are
blocking the path of any other cars that might be coming along. So,
he backs up and very slowly takes us to the next exit. On the way
there, I ask again if everyone is all right. Julia nods. Emma says
yes in a quivery voice. Olivia looks up from her movie and says,
“Huh?”
She is pretty unconcerned with the whole thing.
As we creep along to the exit, Carter asks, “Did you see your life
flash? Because I did.”
I think about it. “I don’t think so. I was too scared to see all
that.”
We pull off the exit and inspect the damage. Part of the front end
is sticking out. The hood is slightly buckled. Part of the bumper is
ripped. All in all, not too much damage. The car is still running
and nothing is in the way of the tires. Carter and I stand in the
rain, in the dark and wonder what to do.
“It could have been worse,” I say, flicking the flashlight from one
damaged part to the next.
“What if a truck had been behind us? We’d be dead,” he says.
“Well, yes. That would fall under the worse heading.”
“What if you’d been up changing a movie for the girls? You were
standing up just minutes before we got there.”
“But I wasn’t standing up when we got there.”
“What if we’d gone in the ditch?”
You can take from this conversation that my husband is not exactly
Mr. Brightside.
“I think we can fix this part that’s sticking out,” I say as I start
messing around with it.
I push and lift but can’t get it to snap back into place. Carter
reaches down and does the job for me.
“See? Already it’s better.”
He looks unconvinced.
“Do you want to go home?” I ask him. “We could go home and find a
flight or something.”
He thinks about it. “No, we’ve already started. Let’s keep going.”
I want to mention that we are only fifty miles into a sixteen
hundred mile trip but still, a start is a start.
“Okay,” I say. “Then let’s go.”
I take his hand and feel it shaking the same as mine. I wrap my arms
around him.
“I almost killed us,” he murmurs.
“No, you saved us.” I lean back and look him in the eye and say the
words I know he needs to hear. “And if your mother asks, this all
happened in broad daylight on dry land. Do you understand?”
He smiles finally. “I guess it could have been worse.”
“This is nothing. The airbags didn’t even go off. Could have been
much worse.”
Carter nods and grins. “Yeah. You could have been the one driving.
We’d be in the ditch for sure.”
Hmm.
“And I’ve given you something to write about.”
“Thanks for thinking of me but I gave myself something to write
about last night,” I say as we get back in the van.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“I killed a bunny during my frantic search for Spree.”
He looks at me aghast. “You killed a bunny?”
Okay, look, Carter’s as tough as they come but I have to tell you,
he has a thing for bunnies.
I explain what happened.
“So you didn’t see the body?”
“Well, no but if I didn’t get him, I’m sure the car behind me did.”
Carter shakes his head and we start on our way. “I think he made
it.”
I laugh a little. “Yeah, okay. Probably.” All the while thinking,
“Dead bunny.”
“Ready?” he asks.
“Let’s go,” I say. “Our trip starts now.”
And so it does.
To be continued... |
Are We There Yet? 2006
Part two - Through the cities |
The next part of our trip is tense.
Turns out there’s not much to think about during the long night
hours besides all the ‘what if’ scenarios. Carter and I keep to
ourselves mostly as the kids snooze behind us. At about midnight, I
really feel like calling my mom and telling her about the crash.
“I feel like I should call my mom,” Carter says.
“Hey. I was just thinking that. Only, my mom, of course,” I say.
Carter smirks. “We could call, wake them up and tell them we’ve been
in this crash but that they shouldn’t worry about us for the rest of
the trip. We’ll be just fine.”
“That would funny. And mean. We can’t do that.”
“Guess not.”
We switch off driving all through the night. As the sun comes up, so
do our spirits. Everything's better in the daylight. Except the
traffic.
Since we left later than we normally do and because of the rain
slowing us down, we hit Chicago, not at dawn, but at rush hour. The
kids are wide awake as we come upon the windy city.
“Look girls, there’s Chicago,” I say as I grab the Frank Sinatra CD.
It’s become something of a tradition now.
The girls were sleeping last year when we passed through it. They
look on in wonder at the tall buildings. Carter sighs at the traffic
we’re stopped in.
And then Julia asks, “What’s Chicago?”
Yes!
I smile. Carter perks up a little. I have My Kind Of Town running
through my head. Carter has the damn Sandburg poem running through
his. This is the answer Julia gets from her parents.
“Chicago is… my kind of town. Chicago is…”
“Stormy, husky, brawling…”
“The Wrigley building. Chicago is…”
“City of the Big Shoulders…”
“The Union Stockyard…”
“They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen
your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys. “
(That’s Carter’s favorite line right there, by the way.)
Emma shakes her head at her goofy parents and says, “It’s a big
city, Julia.”
You know, it’s a sad day when your kids realize you’re a geek and
want no part of your geekiness.
Anyway, it takes a long time to get through Chicago. There’s a
thunderstorm which causes all sorts of excited screaming from our
children. We’re all getting hungry and would love to get around the
city so we could find a small place to eat.
A train runs by. Emma says, “Hmm.”
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Is that the number nine?”
I look at Carter. He looks at me and shrugs.
“I don’t see a number on it.”
She nods and then says, “Oh. Because I thought it was... Engine,
engine, number nine. Going down Chicago line. See it sparkle. See it
shine. Engine, engine, number nine.” |
She says it quickly and then shuts
her mouth when she’s finished as if she’s surprised at herself. Her
eyes are laughing when I turn to look at her with my mouth hanging
open. I look at Carter.
“I think the kid just one-upped us in the poetry department.”
Carter nods. “She did.”
I turn to Emma. “You make us very proud, Emma. That was a very
Cheskey thing to do.”
She looks proud and… mildly horrified.
Yes. Definitely like us.
We get through the city and stop to eat. Then we move onto Madison,
Wisconsin. We usually stay in Madison on our trips home. It’s a nice
city but we never feel too much like exploring. And every year I
hear Carter say, “Maybe this year we’ll get to see the University of
Wisconsin.”
Here’s another thing about Carter. He loves universities. I think
just walking around them makes him feel younger or smarter or
something. And he’s always heard how nice the U of W campus is, so
since we’re only heading to LaCrosse, WI on this day, we can take a
few hours to explore Madison.
We drive into the city.
“This is another city,” Olivia says.
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s like Boston,” she adds.
I look around Madison. Yes, it’s a nice city. I’m not going to deny
that. But it’s really nothing like Boston.
“Not really,” I say to Olivia.
She nods. “Yes, it is.”
I look around again. “No. It’s not.”
“It’s a lot like Boston,” she says again.
I turn in my seat, laughing. “Olivia. We were just in Boston last
year. I remember what it looks like. This is a city, yes. But about
the only thing Boston, Massachusetts and Madison, Wisconsin have in
common is that we have visited both.”
She shrugs and I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
I let it drop. We get out and stretch our legs. We walk all over the
place. It’s a very pretty campus. I’m glad we came. They have
painted cows all over the place. The girls run around counting them,
milking them, picking which are their favorites.
(Just a note: I have since learned that Boston also has these
painted cows standing around the city. I’d appreciate it if no one
mentions this to Olivia.)
After a couple of hours, we pile back into the car. We get to
LaCrosse, Wisconsin and have a nice evening playing mini-golf,
eating a great dinner, and swimming at a pool with a huge water
slide.
As we’re settling in to bed that night, I say to Carter, “It feels
like we dreamed the whole accident. Like it was a long time ago.”
Carter mumbles something about having a nightmare of a deductible on
that car but soon we’re all fast asleep.
Tomorrow, after a brief stop in DeSmet to take the girls to the
Little Town on the Prairie, we’ll head to Mobridge. It’s their
Centennial Celebration. Lots of fun things are planned.
We’ll need our rest.
To be continued... |
Are We There Yet? 2006
Part three - An open
letter to a jackass |
Dear Sir,
I write this letter in response to the welcome I received upon my
arrival in Mobridge, South Dakota. You are a resident there. I’ve
met you before. My husband knows your family well. It was great to
see you during our first morning in Mobridge.
We were so happy to wander down Main Street, to see all the
improvements that have been made to the store fronts in preparation
for the Centennial Celebration. We were impressed by the trees that
had been planted, by the plaza that had been added, by the pretty
fountain that collected pennies from my children.
When we met you, sir, it was our pleasure to pat you on the back, to
tell you how great the town was looking. It was so nice of you to
ask about our girls, to comment on what beautiful names we’ve given
them.
I’d also like to thank you, sir, for saying, “And it looks like
congratulations are in order again.”
And then after my blank stare, for asking, “Aren’t you pregnant?”
I consider myself a reasonable woman with a fine sense of humor and
your comment certainly brought forth my laughter, hysterical though
it may have been. And, quite frankly, your face after I answered,
“No. I’m just… it’s just… fat”, is a picture I’ll carry with me
always.
I know there are others who've been asked this question by clueless
men around the world. Some would maybe feel bitter about your
comment. Some would say that maybe I should take issue with it and
tell you that no one should ever ask that question . That even if a
woman was in her third trimester and was wearing a Bun In My Oven
shirt... only a jackass would ask that question. |
But I don’t. I don’t mind laughing at
myself and the situation. I don’t mind watching you flounder and
apologize and gnaw your foot off at the ankle. I liked to see how
quickly you could find something to keep you busy so you could run
away from the humiliation you just caused.
I also want to thank you because without your comment, I wouldn’t
have heard my husband say, “Honey. Don’t get upset, it’s not good
for the baby.” every time we were having a little tiff. Without the
comment, he wouldn’t have rested his head on my belly at different
times during the week and whispered, “I think I hear the baby’s
heartbeat.”
Without your comment, I wouldn’t have had to kick my husband’s ass.
Without your sheer idiocy, I might have changed my shirt before
going out that night but no, I felt it necessary to prove to the
world that I liked my shirt, even if it meant I looked as though I
had started marking time by trimesters. And since I wore it that
night, I had it on as I stood all evening with my darling husband
and his ex-girlfriend. The girl he broke up with to date me. The
girl who is very sweet and kind of funny, and who, sadly, must be
suffering from some eating disorder because she’s thinner now than
she was in high school.
But you, sir, made the comment and all of those things happened. So
thanks for that and more.
Jackass.
Sincerely,
Kirsten |
Are We There Yet? 2006
Part four - The rodeo truth |
Rodeos are filled with crazy people.
Okay, there’s more to the story than that but it really occurred to
me this week that participating in rodeos means you might just be a
hair shy of sane. Possibly a full head of hair shy of sane but I’m
sure every sport has different degrees of dedication.
Carter’s father used to ride rodeos when he was younger. Carter’s
sister was a rodeo queen one year. I even have a picture of an eight
year old Carter holding his blue ribbon for sheep riding.
Go ahead. Take a moment. Have some fun with that last sentence.
Everyone does.
So I know a thing or two about the rodeo. I’ve been to a few over
the years. The Sitting Bull Stampede takes place every year in
Mobridge over the fourth of July. I’ve seen the broncs whipping
cowboys around. I’ve seen the barrel racing. I’ve seen the calf
roping, the steer wrestling, the bull riding.
But this year I realize, they’re all nuts. The object of the rodeo
seems to be injury. Hey, ride this horse that’s going to throw you
through the air. I know, sit on this bull that wants to kill you.
Of course, my blood-thirsty children love it.
We sit back by the chutes so we can get an up close and personal
look at the men getting kicked. So we can that the dust from the
horses kicked up into our faces. This is where all the old cowboys
stand or sit, hats pushed back to watch the young guys work to
develop the permanent limps they all seem to have.
The girls love the bronc riding. (“Whoa. Did he get hurt?”) The are
upset by the calf roping. (“Oh, that poor baby cow.”) And bewildered
by the steer wrestling. (“Daddy, what’s the difference between a
steer and a bull?”)
I can’t tell you how happy I am that Carter got that question. He
looks at me and I smile wickedly, letting him know that he is on his
own. He looks at Olivia who asked the question.
“Well, bulls could be considered the daddy. And steer are, well…”
“Dinner,” I murmur.
“Steer are…” he says. “Look… is that Whiplash?”
Distraction. A very useful tool in parenting.
Whiplash, it is!!
If you don’t have a Taco John’s near you, chances are, you don’t
know who or what Whiplash is. Whiplash, it turns out, is a monkey
dressed as a cowboy who rides a border collie in the Taco John’s
commercials. Here at the rodeo, he rounds up some goats much to the
delight of all the children. I want to tell them that the dog is the
one doing all the work but does he get any glory? No. My
brother-in-law’s father raises border collies. I’ve seen them round
up a herd of steer. Three goats is nothing.
But I let Whiplash have all the glory a monkey tied to a dog can
have. |
Next is the barrel racing. I admit I
like this part. From what I’m told by Carter’s uncle, this is the
part of the rodeo when most people get up to get a snack. It’s too
girlie. What it is, is sensible. It’s a race. Ride around the
barrels without knocking them down and the fastest time wins. Nobody
gets hurt. Though Carter’s sister does show me the scar she has from
when the barrel cut her leg open, the barrels are padded now. There
are no injuries in the barrel races today.
The evening passes and soon it’s time for the bull riding. A smaller
ring is set up within the rodeo grounds and Olivia is all but
quivering in anticipation. She tells me she loves bull riding. The
last time we were at a rodeo, I was pregnant with Olivia. I don’t
know where the love of bull riding comes from. She’s never seen it
before.
The first rider comes out and Olivia says, “Oh, that’s a pretty
bull. Look at his udder.”
Carter and I both look.
I should tell you that I have been told in the past that there’s
such a thing as being too honest with your children. For instance, a
few months ago, Emma came up to me and said, “I know what the F word
is. It’s fidget.”
A smart mother would have said, “Yes, you’re absolutely right.
Fidget is the F word.”
I, of course, said, “Don’t be silly, that’s not the F word, Emma.”
I don’t know why. I just blurt things out without thinking
sometimes. Knowing that, it can come as no surprise to you when you
hear that my response to Olivia’s comment about the udder is, “Whoa.
That’s no udder.”
“Well, what is it?” she asks.
I look at Carter who smiles wickedly, letting me know that I’m on my
own. I turn to Olivia.
“Well, it’s a… it’s a... You know? You’re right, it’s an utter.”
Lies. Another useful tool in parenting.
We watch cowboy after cowboy get thrown off the bulls. One gets his
arm stuck and is tossed around like a rag doll as a loud gasp from
the crowd hits the air. He walks out of the ring to much applause
but his arm is hanging limply at his side.
I look at my father-in-law and try to imagine him getting tossed
around by some mad animal. I lean over to him.
“When you did this sort of thing, did you think it was fun?”
He glances at me, looks back at the rodeo. I see memories come and
go across his face. Then he says in his slow, cowboy way, “Guess I
did.” He looks at me and smiles. “Can’t think why now, though. Seems
crazy.”
Yes. Yes, it does.
But it’s fun to watch crazy every now and then.
To be continued… |
The Most Beautiful Song, 6/26/06 |
Today I heard the most beautiful song but first
there’s a story.
A few months ago, our eight year old daughter, Emma, came home from
her choir practice filled with excitement.
“I’m doing a solo,” she announced.
This news wasn’t met with all that much surprise. She’d had other
solos in the past year. A few lines while the rest of the choir
stood with her. All the kids in the choir had little solos at some
point during the year.
“No,” she said. “All by myself, over the summer. I’m going to be
singing all by myself in front of the church.”
This news was met with a universal “Huh?” Neither Carter nor I could
figure out just why any child of ours would want to stand in front
of people she didn’t know and… sing. But she was excited and happy
and we like our kids to be excited and happy, so we said she could
go for it. Meanwhile, both of us started wringing our hands
wondering how we were going to make it through this.
Her choir director called to make sure we weren’t crazy stage
parents, pressuring our child into something she wasn’t ready for.
“If you knew me better,” I told him, “you’d know I’d be perfectly
happy to have my children shun extracurricular activities. Do you
think an eight year old girl is ready for something like this?”
He and Emma had a lesson. Afterwards, he said he thought she was
more than ready. Her excitement was shining through. So they kept
meeting once a week until he was confident she knew the song.
I wasn’t supposed to know the song she was singing. She told Carter
it was to be a secret and she was going to give her mother the gift
of song one day. Of course, Carter told me right away but during the
next two months, all of Emma’s practicing was done while I was out
of the house. Progress reports were good. A date was set. Emma would
sing her solo on June 25th.
A week ago, the choir director called and asked if Emma would sing
at both church services. He thought it would be a gift to the people
who never get to hear the children sing. I asked Emma. She said she
would do it but suddenly there were nerves in her eyes.
“How many days left?” she’d ask every day.
She started having dreams about singing. None of them good. I found
her a few times sitting in her room, staring out the window.
“Thinking about singing?”
“Nervous,” she told me.
I’d offer encouragement, along with the “you made a commitment”
line. At dinner during the past week, we joked until her nerves
faded away. But all the while, Carter and I were shooting looks back
and forth. Looks that said, “Why is she doing this? We have to go to
church twice? Is she ready for this? Wait… twice in one day?"
Finally, the morning arrived.
Emma woke up at 7:15. She was ready to go by 7:20. We were going out
for breakfast after the first service,
 so we didn’t have to worry
about feeding anyone until later. Julia, the four year old, was
perplexed by this but we figured my mom was sure to show up at the
early service. If their stomachs started growling, Grammy always had
Tic-Tacs to hand out.
We were all set to leave when suddenly Carter said a little
frantically, “Oh no. That dress won’t work on Emma. There’s no place
for the microphone battery pack. She needs a belt or something. She
definitely needs a belt. That’s not going to work. She needs…”
“Pockets?” I asked.
Emma showed him the deep pockets in her dress. Carter sighed in
relief and then looked horrified.
“Oh God. I’m a stage father. What just happened? I became one of
those fathers. I don’t want to be that guy.”
“You’re not. Let’s go,” I said. “We’re all a little nervous.”
And it was true. We were trying to laugh off the nerves as we’d been
doing all week but we couldn’t. Emma was quiet. Olivia, our six year
old, kept giving us the ‘thank goodness I’m not getting up there’
look but she didn’t make a sound. The minivan was silent. I may have
kept saying, “It’ll be okay. We can do this.” But, frankly, it’s all
a blur.
 We arrived at the church with plenty of time to spare. Emma got her
cool microphone that clips to her ear and we went in to take our
seats. We opened the bulletin and there it was, right after offering
collection – I’ve Got Oil in my Lamp – Emma Cheskey; soloist.
I leaned over to Olivia and said, “You think you’ll ever do a solo
like this?”
Olivia looked at me with wide eyes and laughed nervously. “No way!”
I couldn’t help but be relieved by that. Olivia sings in the church
choir but she enjoys having others there to fill in when she just
pretends to sing along.
 The church service got underway and seemed to hurry by. I admit to
hearing something in the sermon about the trials of Job but was in
no condition to ponder the significance of God helping him through
the tough times. Tough times? Hah! Did Job ever have to wait for his
little girl to stand in front of strangers and offer up the gift of
song? I don’t think so. Me? I knew a thing or two about trying
times.
The offering was collected. Emma put on her microphone. She shook
out her arms to loosen up. That made me laugh a little. Then she
left us and stood up in front of the church. Her eyes got big when
she looked out over the congregation. I looked at Carter. His hands
were shaking as he held the video camera.
The choir director began to play the piano. Emma began to sing.
She sang one line and froze.
“Wait,” she said. “Oh no.”
Oh no.
She put her hand to her throat, then covered her face. She hurried
down to the choir director and I could hear her saying that her
throat wouldn’t open. She couldn’t sing. He must have given her some
encouraging words, because in a moment, she stood alone again.
Carter and I sent desperate looks to one another, while trying to
send encouraging looks to her. I considered walking up and standing
there with her or just carrying her out of the church but I kept my
seat and watched helplessly. |
The music started. Emma opened her mouth… and nothing came out. I
saw panic, then humiliation. And then I saw tears.
She walked down the steps, handed the microphone to the director and
ran to our pew. She threw her arms around me and sobbed. The
congregation stood and sang while I ushered Emma outside, where she
clung to me, crying. I helplessly said things like, “It’s okay. It’s
okay. We’re proud of you. It’s okay.”
“I only wanted to sing,” she cried. “Why couldn’t I do it? I’ll
never sing like I want to. I was awful.”
I told her she wasn’t awful. I told her she was brave. I told her
she was eight years old and that was too young to use the word
‘never’.
And then I asked her what she wanted to do.
She pulled her head back, looked me in the eye and said, “I want to
go home. I want to eat breakfast and I want to pretend it’s a normal
day. I don’t want to sing again.”
There was a huge part of me that was ready to take her hand and lead
her home. A part of me that shared her excitement, her nerves, her
heartbreak.
But there was that pesky voice breaking in (it sounds alarmingly
like Carter actually), telling me that she’d regret giving up. So I
gave the answer that all mothers give when they’re being
non-committal. I said, “We’ll see.”
Church finished up and some people came out to offer their support.
They told Emma she was courageous to stand up there. She was braver
than they were. She had no reason to be ashamed. Emma nodded but
didn’t believe them.
Our pastor came to the small room where we stood. He took Emma’s
hands and knelt down in front of her. He told her a story of his
first solo. He told her he’d been terrified. So terrified, in fact,
that he couldn’t do it. He’d made his best friend stand there with
him as he sang. So it hadn’t been a solo at all but he’d sung his
song.
He gave Emma a hug and encouraged her to try again at the next
service.
Carter spoke up then. “What if your sisters were with you?” he
asked.
Emma looked at Olivia. Olivia looked at Carter with eyes that
clearly said, “Are you high, Daddy?” Julia wondered aloud just when
we’d be getting breakfast. Seems she’d do whatever we asked as long
as we fed her first.
“Would you sing if they were with you? Would that help?”
Emma thought about it. “Maybe.”
Carter turned to Julia and Olivia. “Would you help Emma sing?”
Julia said yes right away. She doesn’t mind being the center of
attention. In fact, she kind of likes it. Olivia thought it over,
then took a deep breath and said, “Okay. She taught me some of the
words.”
We talked to the choir director. He thought it sounded like a great
idea.
We went out for breakfast/pep rally. Carter and I kept telling them,
telling ourselves, that they could do it. If they used their powers
for good, together, they could do anything.
We went back to church. Emma collected her microphone. My mother
showed up again. So did two of my brothers and my sister. They sat
behind us. We waited through the service. Emma sipped from a bottle
of water until she was about to float out of the church. I took her
to the bathroom during the reading of the psalm.
While I waited for her, I decided that, though I could never be what
one would call a good Christian, we were in a church and I should
probably offer some kind of biblical advice.
So I said, “Emma. The lesson in church today is about having faith
in God to help you through the tough times.”
She nodded and washed her hands.
I continued. “So maybe if you trust in God, he’ll see you through
this.”
She nodded again and looked up at me. “I trust in my sisters,” she
said. “They’ll see me through.”
I’d like the record to show that I tried.
We went back to our seats. It was almost time. I leaned over to Emma
and whispered, “Remember… just keep
 singing. Just keep singing.”
I don’t know about your family but the lessons in Finding Nemo have
proved invaluable to ours.
Then it was time. She put on her microphone. She chanted, “Just keep
singing. Just keep singing.” And she and her sisters, the same
sisters she kicks out of her room on a regular basis, walked to the
front of the church.
And there they stood. Emma in the middle, holding their hands.
Holding on, it seemed, for her life, while Olivia rocked back and
forth, chewing on her lip, a shy smile on her face and Julia
grinned, leaning her head against Emma’s arm.
The choir director walked to the piano and started to play. My three
little girls, who fight and argue everyday of their lives, started
to sing. The congregation could only hear Emma’s voice, as she was
the one with the microphone, but it didn’t matter. Emma could hear
her sisters. She knew they sang for her so she could sing for
everyone else.
I smiled through the entire thing. Applause broke out when they
finished and still they held onto one another as if suddenly
realizing the strength they had when they were together. I glanced
at our pastor and saw him look heavenward, maybe thanking someone
for something.
Carter and I breathed an easy breath. The first one all day.
By the time evening fell, the bickering between my daughters
resurfaced. I know it will never end. But I noticed they were
gentler with each other. Kinder in th | | |
