Mom v. popcorn

Tonight, we're taking the girls to the Gardenfest of Lights. If you're from these parts, you know what I'm talking about. If you're not from these parts, you'd probably figure that it's some sort of Christmas light extravaganza in a garden somewhere. And you'd be right.

I'm packing us a picnic dinner, and I thought to myself, "Hey, I should pack us some sort of special snacky something." My friend Carrie's voice popped into my head, poetically describing white chocolate popcorn the way some describe wine. Mmmmmm. Yes. Salty sweet goodness to munch on while sipping hot chocolate and meandering through magically lit flora and fauna. That's the way I saw it in my mind's eye.

So, standing there in the big box store in front of all the popcorn, another voice pops into my head. I heard the reporter from Sunday's 60 Minutes segment called The Flavorists. These folks concoct chemicals that companies add to food to make it taste sweeter or citrusy-er or chocolatey-er so that you, sucker consumer, continue to buy the product. I stood there in front of the processed, pre-packaged popcorn thinking about what kind of fake butter flavor was in each different kind of popcorn. This project began to lose it's appeal. Then, I saw this.

One ingredient: popping corn. The directions sounded simple enough. Heat oil. Drop in a kernel. When it pops, add lots more kernels. The end. Did I mention it was cheaper? Significantly so. I bought it.

After I'd put the girls down for their nap and done some dishes, I decided now's as good a time as any. Best do this while they're asleep and I can work in peace. Out of the cabinet comes my favorite silver frying pan. Out of the pantry comes the vegetable oil. The directions said to cover the pan by an eighth of an inch. Done. Medium high heat. Done.

Now, we wait. I scanned facebook and amazon until I heard some cracklin' and sizzlin'. Open bag. Grab single kernel. Toss in oil.

Nothing happens. Hmmm. Must not be hot enough. I have a moment of clarity here. I think ahead long enough to grab a cookie sheet to place over the two right burners I wasn't using, and a small plate over the baby burner behind my favorite, silver fryer. Just in case the oil spashes a little like bacon grease or something.

That kernel was still just sitting there. I imagined it was getting pretty soggy from the grease and just wasn't going to pop now. I turned back towards the computer to give the oil a bit longer to heat up.

POP!

Gasp! It worked! That little guy popped himself right out of the oil and landed on the counter beside my stove. I picked him up and looked at him. Looked normal. Smelled normal. Didn't feel greasy at all. Then, I ate it. Not bad, not bad. Alright. Time to get down to business. As per the bags instructions, I covered the bottom of the pan with kernels.

It took about ten seconds for it to start popping and for me to realize I was in trouble. As each kernel popped, it flung hot oil out in a little trail behind it. A white comet of popcorn and hot oil. Who knows how many kernels were in that pan. Enough to cover the whole dang thing.

Oil landed on my arm as I reach for the pieces landing on the stove. It smarts. Like bacon grease or something. As I pull my shirt sleeves down to protect my arms, the kernels start popping in rapid succession.

poppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppop!

Pieces are landing everywhere, even the floor. I bend down to pick them up, and firey little trails of grease land on the part of my hair and the small of my back. The floor is becoming a a bit slick. I stand up. Oil is splattered all over the stove and the counter.

Here comes another moment of clarity. I somehow think through the popping and spitting grease to grab my colander and I slam it upside down on the pan in an attempt to contain those little suckers. That's where the clarity stops. I just stand there staring at the pan and blue plastic colander, wondering when in the world all those kernels will be done.

poppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppoppop!

It seemed like it would never, ever stop. The popcorn stayed contained, but the grease. The grease! It was everywhere. I finally grabbed the handle of the pan and took it off the burner and set it on the cookie sheet (thank goodness for the cookie sheet!). And still, it kept on popping.

When the popping finally (FINALLY!) stopped, my eyes landed on the wall behind my stove. My house was built in 1904, so there's no backsplash. Just wall. Look closely at the picture above. See all those grease spots? None of them existed before today. My husband will notice. My husband who doesn't do a darn thing in the kitchen will notice those grease spots and ask what happened. How will I explain this?

How will I get all this vegetable oil off the floor? And my Keurig? Oh, my poor Keurig. I'm sorry, Keurig. I love you.

And that's where we are, folks. I'm typing this at my kitchen island, staring at the mess. That greasy, popcorny mess.

Well how 'bout that

I quit smoking nine months ago. Can you believe it? It's almost like that part of me never existed. Except that it did. The really unbelievable thing about this day is that being a non-smoker is totally irrelevant.

Today I found out I have skin cancer. Isn't that funny? Not funny "ha ha." But certainly funny in the well-of-course-why-not kind of way.

Just so I'm clear, I do not have melanoma. It's basal cell carcinoma. "It's the most common form of skin cancer," the nurse said to me over the phone. My innards aren't being rapidly chewed away my this thing. Just slowly decaying. My handy dandy pamphlet from my super duper dermotologist says that it rarely spreads to other areas of the body, but that it can damage surrounding tissue. It specifically mentioned eyes. As in, this stuff growing in the general vacinity of my face could lead to loss of an eye. Why do they put stuff like that in a take-home information packet?

So, it's kind of thrown me off. And trying to form a coherent reason as to why I'm so bothered has proven difficult. It seems pretty silly to get all worked up over a cancer that's not really a cancer in the way we typically think about cancer. I should be extraordinarily thankful that this isn't melanoma. I should be happy. And I am. Kind of.

I also feel like I've gotten away with something. Or, like the worst is yet to come. I smoked. A lot. For a long time. I'm trully ashamed at the reckless way I went about life. As if my life would always be mine to do with as I pleased and that being a mother was for other people and I'd never have to answer for any of my actions.

As it turns out, being a mother wasn't just for other people. Maybe I just became one of the "other," grown-up, people. Whatever the case, my life isn't only mine. It also belongs to my children. What if, one day, I have to look my children in the eyes and tell them I have lung cancer? Ugh. It makes me sick to my stomach.

I feel guilty for something that may never happen.

CLEARLY, I need to work on forgiving myself.

I've been writing this post for 23 days. It's been a month since posting anything. This stupid little spot on the side of my neck has taken up enough of my time. It's cancer. I'm not dying. They'll cut it out after the new year. I can't beat myself up over the past. I quit smoking and that is awesome. Amazing. So, I'm done obsessing over this. I will hit the post button, and move on.

Behold

That effing cat.

"All by myself!"

She's so proud that I don't have the heart to tell her they're backwards. She can channel Kris Kross until our next potty break.

The Shaming

I don't like cats. They're aloof and slightly neurotic and I don't trust them. I'm sorry. I don't. Stop reading if it offends your feline fanaticism. I will say, no animal was harmed in the typing of this blog entry. Or ever in my life, except for that mouse that Carrie and I smooshed in a frantic attempt to catch and release it. (Yes, I get it. A cat would have been handy.)

So, there's this orange striped tiger cat that roams our neighborhood. I frequently find it on our fence, on the bumper of my Explorer, and even on my porch swing. When I spot it, I'm quick to shoo the thing away. My husband doesn't understand. Especially when I mumble, "That f*#!ing cat," under my breath.

"Have you seen a mouse since we moved in, Babe? You better start thanking that cat," he says. Humph.

A few weeks ago, the girls and I were loading into the Explorer on our way to where ever we were going. I turned the corner, baby in my arms, to find that cat laying in my hostas. Without thinking, I lunged towards it and it took off running.

Now my hostas! The porch is no longer suffient? Oh! The nerve of that cat! And who does it belong to anyway? All these thoughts run through my mind as I strap the baby in her carseat.

"Come here, Virginia. It's your turn. Let's get in the truck so we can go on a trip." She skips over to me, reaches her hands up, and as I lift her into her seat, do you know what she says to me? Straight out of the mouth of my precious child:

"That f*#!ing cat."

Just as sweet as can be. Her face turned towards me, blue eyes sparkling in the morning sun, and her perfect little mouth smiling in weird juxtaposition to her language. I was stunned "What did you just say?" I asked out of disbelief. And there it was again.

An announcer appeared behind me, dressed in a tux and holding a microphone. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Mother of the Year Award goes to...." I felt the hot, white spotlight of my daughter's innocent and unblinking blue eyes.

She just stared at me, expectantly. As if she finally found a way to make me see her as a grown-up and now we could talk about the deficit and Afghanistan over a glass of pinot. Mortified doesn't do the embarrassment justice. Nothing can.

I quickly scolded her (because she is the one who needs scolding) and poured myself into the driver's seat. That cat sat under our neighbor's walnut tree as I pulled down the driveway. It watched me. We cut eyes at each other as I put the truck in drive and pulled away. I was too indignant to say it out loud.

Thank you, cat, for teaching me a lesson.

And Babe, you were right. (Oooooh! That one hurts!)

Further proof we're unfit parents:

The Queen of No

No, we don't stand on chairs.
No, we don't eat Play-Doh.
No, we don't jump on the sofa.
No, we don't play with the light switch.
No, we don't put our hands in our milk.
No, we don't take things from your sister.
NO, YOU DO NOT PUSH YOUR SISTER DOWN.

It's all I say, all day long. No. Quit. Don't. Stop. It's exhuasting.

The other day, Amelia was screaming as I wrestled with her to get her to hold still long enough to change her diaper (why won't she just hold still?), and Virginia tried to grab a wipe. "No, Virginia, leave those alone." And now Virginia is also screaming because why can't she have a wipe?


"ONE WIPE! ONE WIPE! JUST ONE WIPE!"

Over and over again. Amelia is thrashing around on the floor, throwing a serious tantrum, because the only thing more unnacceptable than having a poopy diaper is having your poopy diaper changed. And now, the toddler is screaming.

I turned my head to look at Virginia. Her little face with those blue/green eyes tearing up because I wouldn't let her have one wipe. Is it really such an unreasonable request? The Mom Guilt washes over me.

"Ok, Virginia. Just these two." (Mom guilt.) And she stopped crying.

Why did I say no in the first place?

Because all those wipes are folded together in a neat stack by some stupid, unthinking, un-mom machine so that they fit nicely in the little plastic refill packages. Those folds overlap, so that when you grab one, you're not just grabbing one wipe, but the one that was on top of the accordion fold of wipes. What's the big deal? The big deal is, my toddler grabs the top-of-the-accordion-fold wipe and walks to the other side of the room, taking the whole stash of wipes across the floor with her. Ten feet of wet wipes across the living room floor. Now, I'm not only changing a poopy diaper, but I'm cleaning the living room and scolding my toddler. That is why I said no in the first place. Pro-active prevention.

But, WHY? Who cares if I have to pick up some wipes? It only takes a few seconds. Here's the really ugly truth.

By saying no, I have control. I have some sort of sliver of control over the total chaos of my life. I cannot control when they laugh or cry or when the destroy their books or toys or how they behave in public (no, you really can't control that, regardless of what non-parents may think). But I CAN impose limits and boudaries to rope in the chaos to a manageable level.

I said no to the wipe, which prevented her from grabbing the stack and making the trail across the floor, which prevented me from picking up the wipes and scolding my toddler, which would have led to tears ANYWAY, which would have made the baby cry EVEN LOUDER, which would have taken my blood pressure up fifty more notches, which would have made ME scream, which would have made me feel guilty, which would have made me put on Barney again to shut her up, which would have made me feel like a bad mother letting them watch so much tv, which would have led me to saying no to a second episode of Barney, which would have led to EVEN MORE CRYING, which would have.......get the point?

The moments of my life are stacked and folded together accordion-style, just like those stupid wipes,and saying no prevents the trail of wipes from making its way across the floor of my day.

Here's what she did with the wipes that I gave her.

The Sickie Ickies

Well, hello there cold and flu season. So lovely to see you again. Let's get something straight right now.

That business you pulled in our house from January to April ain't happenin' again. Do you hear me? Do you understand me? It was awful. You turned me into a true believer of hand washing and sanitizing and quarantining. Of Puffs Plus and Children's Benadryl. Of Bacchus and liquid grapes.

Each and EVERY time we ventured out of the house, just a day after their leaky little snot faucets dried up, we ran into a snotty nosed child running all over the play equipment. One whose mother was not exhausted from taking care of two children under two years of age with two runny noses and four watery eyes and two sore throats for four months.

So, I just stayed away from all things play. I kept us all locked up in this house. Just us and the Sickie Ickies. And I cannot do that again. My husband may leave me if he has to come home to That Wife again.

This is day seven, kiddo numero uno. Show some manners and spare the baby. The girls are getting antsy. I'm starting to drink more. Let's wrap this play date up. Consider this your eviction notice.