Shopping Notes

I am sure that nobody really cares what thoughts go through my head whilst I am shopping, and in fact it is probably the epitome of narcissism to even post them, but on the other hand, perhaps you share them and can relate.

Produce Isle: This is where I get to be the mother I always wanted to be - in my mind. I fill the top of the cart with all manner of green. Broccoli, spinach, peppers, beans. I am going to, after seven years of planning, finally make tabouli salad. I have until the parsley I just bought rots to make good on my plan. I know from experience that I have up to three weeks if I'm lucky. I have all kinds of fantasies about making wonderful healthy meals for my family since I have Monday off this week (which is now half over). It is not going to be like those other times, where eventually I slop all the slime from the bottom of the crisper box into the compost and soak the crisper in bleach. This time I'm going to finally embody the pinnacle of perfect motherhood and cook. I am as sure of it as the father who says "I know I haven't called you in a year and a half but I promise that when I get back in-state I'll take you to Disney". Or Russ will cook us great meals like he always does provided he is not working til 1 am.

I progress to the deli. This is where I decide while my ham is being sliced that I am going to get Johnny to quit his pepperoni habit. Next week. Everyone knows that pepperoni is just a gateway drug and can lead to all manner of worse addictions, but heck, he has made himself a pepperoni wrap with cheese five days a week for the whole school year, so another week isn't really going to make a difference. Plus it might make for better relations if he tapers off rather than going cold turkey. And I don't think he likes turkey anyway. So putting off the "you're eating turkey instead of pepperoni" battle makes a lot of sense. It is good parenting to mentally prepare for these kinds of interventions.

On to the meat section. It is at the bottom of all the rest of the aisles and I dread getting near it. I can pretend I don't see it the first couple of times I pass into another aisle, but eventually I have no choice but to face it. DINNER! It's not about how to cook, but what to cook, as my mother always said. But as I peer at the cuts of meat and packages of chicken and wonder what the heck I'm going to do with it once I get home, I try and make myself feel better with the happy fact that at least I don't have to go out and kill it. In fact, that is what I mention to the gentleman next to me who is an acquaintance and has just muttered a polite hello. He says: "what"? And I say: "I said that at least I don't have to go out and kill it, skin it, drag it in, cook it, and all that. You know what I mean?" He laughs weakly and suddenly gets very interested in the turkey burger a few yards away.

Now that I have called Russ three times to ask how to pick out meat to cut up for stew and what else should we make on the nights when we are not buying burgers at the swim meet, I can move on to more important things.

The bread Isle is easy. Back when I was younger I had this idea that I would read labels and try and find bread without high-fructose corn syrup, which, in this country, is harder than you might think. I got around the issue by spotting a very healthy-looking mom with a very healthy looking child in the bread section. I know how to pick-em, because sure enough, she started reading labels while her kid sat patiently in the cart. Must be the lack of sugar that keeps him so calm. Since my toddler was too jumpy for me to even consider stopping to read anything, I just muddled about near the rolls and semi-stalked the woman until she put a loaf of bread in her cart and then I ran over and grabbed a loaf from the same place. That bread is no longer available, but now I have different criteria. If my kids will eat it and it says “natural”, “12 grain” and is even moderately brown I buy it and move on. Plus I never have glasses with me for reading nor the time to wait around for unsuspecting health-conscious mothers to happen on the scene. And they make me feel old and fat by comparison so I'd just as soon skip it.

As I approach the diaper aisle, I muse at how things have changed over the years with respect to the diaper aisle. In my early 20's I looked down it and said: “thank goodness I don't have to go down the diaper aisle yet”. In my late twenties it looked slightly more inviting. In my thirties it was where I spent the majority of my shopping hours, perusing and evaluating what goods to buy for my little treasures. In my 40's I smugly glance and say, “thank goodness I'm done with THAT aisle, with a little wistfulness that I can't deny. Now, approaching 50, there is a tiny thread of dread as I peer down the aisle and the thought occurs to me that I might have to revisit that aisle again in not so many years. The big packages of Depens leer at me, bigger than life as I say to myself “thank goodness I don't have to go down the diaper aisle again. YET.”

I pass rather uneventfully through the frozen section, peering over the pile in the basket every so often to wonder how much it is all going to cost. If it is time to buy chicken “strips” (not the same as chicken nuggets, mind you, because the package says “white meat” and the shape is oblong and not nugget-shaped and it costs $7.95), then I grab it and stuff it as deep as possible in the cart and cover it with vegetables. That way I can tell myself as well as the rest of the shoppers at Hannaford that I am a good mother because I buy good food. If it is baseball season and my cart has too many convenience foods and too few vegetables with which to cover them up, then I casually mention to people I know that it is baseball season and that isn't it terrible that we have to feed our kids (all beef and nitrate-free and make sure to mention that part) hot dogs and rush off to the games. Not that they are in any different predicament than I and in fact I am not peering into their carts so why should I think that they are peering into mine, but that is beside the point.

I would live to hear your shopping thoughts.

Another Concert

Another concert...Two for two in two days.

Russ and I moved mountains. I mean mountains (he moved, I stood by mostly helpless) to put a healthy dinner of chicken breast, quinoa and two vegetables on the table before we rushed off to the BFA concert. As I was rushing out the door to pick up my "baked good" from Food City for the bake sale, the boys asked if they could make chocolate chip cookies while we were gone (oh the irony-couldn't they have made them an hour ago for the bake sale?). First I said "no", then "yes", then "no, okay, yes - do whatever you want as long as you clean the kitchen." I rushed out leaving Russ to bring my dad.

At the concert, by the time I decided where and with whom I was going to sit, I was trotting down the aisle after lights out and had to climb over my dad to take my seat. It took me a while to calm down and sink into the auditorium chair and absorb the music. Shortly, my phone rang and said "HOME' on the screen. I couldn't answer it of course and since I had disturbed everyone in order to sit down I couldn't get back up, emergency or no. So I listened to the BFA band and thought of every possible catastrophe that could have befallen my boys: They blew up the oven or burned the house down. The guy I heard about who is purported to be a fake vacuum salesman and who pushes the person who answers the door into the house and robs them or worse came by and the boys answered the door. Ethan finally killed Johnny or vise versa. I had visions of my gray (years ago they were white) carpets covered in the blood of my babes (it is hard to even write that). I finally decided to text a neighbor, which was difficult because after yesterday's concert, Russ told me about Frank's speech before the show telling what he was going to do to people who were caught texting during the performance. I was late so I didn't get the memo. So when I didn't hear in nanoseconds from the first neighbor, I texted another, and then another to ask them to call the boys and ascertain that they had not been blown up or bludgeoned. As people have lives and perhaps might be busy or not have their phone on, I was tapping my fingers and wondering why I wasn't getting an IMMEDIATE response. Finally one person said she would call. I waited. It didn't occur to me that she might be attending her kid's baseball game and witnessing a great play by her son and not sitting at her kitchen table waiting for me to call with a myriad of emergencies. So at the intermission I jumped over my dad and went to call the boys.

"Hi, Johnny, are you okay?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Well, why didn't you leave a VOICEMAIL???"
"Because I never leave voicemails."
"Well, what did you call me for in the middle of a concert?"
"We were just wondering if we could have some ovaltine."
"OVALTINE? You called me at a concert to ask if you could have some OVALTINE?
"Yeah. So can we?"
"I thought you were going to make cookies."
"We already made the cookies. Can we have one?"
"I don't care if you raid the LIQUOR CABINET - just don't call me at a concert to ask me first, leaving me with terrible visions of your violent demise..." (NO I did NOT say that, for the record. Should I type that twice just in case you are skimming and call the authorities or decide that you will never ever send your kid over here?)
"Do you know how many people I called to check on you?"
"Yeah. they called us. So can we have a cookie and some Ovaltine?"
"Yes. I gotta go. And the kitchen had better be clean when we get home."

On the way back to the concert I stopped to talk to the French teacher who was working late, and I of course in an attempt not to be rude, I was ignoring all of Russ' texts imploring me to tell him if his boys were alive and well and not at the Emergency room or worse. "Are they okay? Shall I go home??? Hello, HELLO???"
By this time it was past lights out again and I had to make the walk of shame (sound familiar? I make a lot of those) - okay, I just have to jump in here and, pardon the enormous digression - I always have Russ read these posts just in case I'm really screwing up and he pointed out that "the walk of shame" is, well, what you probably think it is. He looked it up in the urban dictionary so I'll just let you find out for yourself (by clinking the link I mean, not by going out and experiencing it - although, hey, don't let me stop you if that is what you really want) - make sure you read the long definition as it is quite funny - I had to convince Russ that I did not write it myself- and after you surf the interned for 20 minutes make sure you can pick up the rest of the sentence that I just so rudely chopped up with all this stuff about walks of shame - and the most important thing is that I clarify that with this new clarification, I have made a very small number of these and not lots - http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=walk+of+shame (back to the story here)... and climb back over my dad to enjoy the concert - as much as anyone can who is sitting behind a guy who is holding his ipad in front of one's face so it is not in front of his own.

True Confessions of an Aging Modern Parent

Confessions of an aging modern mom (Alternative title: “A woman has needs”)

I work til 6:20 and am supposed to catch Johnny's baseball game that began at 6 and then go to Ethan's concert, leaving my dad home with a frozen pot pie after the rest of the family has had hot dogs for dinner again. I make a point of mentioning to my dad that it is not the best choice but they are at least nitrate free.

I arrive at the game about ten minutes before I should be at the concert, but since my kid is in the Senior Band I figure that, although it is terribly bad form to show up late, I will have to so I can take in a few minutes of my other son's game while the junior band is playing their numbers. The real reason for stopping in at the game is so I can get some dinner. I am starving. To death, practically. I drank protein shakes all day and am shaking from lack of real nourishment. I march up to the snack bar and purchase a nitrate-laden hot dog and a bag of popcorn. There is no real beer (sadly) so I get the next best thing – a root beer. I sit on some bleachers, take a much-needed breath and sink my teeth into my hot dog, with a bit of aluminum foil for good measure. Ahhh. Finally time to relax and watch a game. My pocket vibrates and I see that Russ is texting me that the orchestra, of which my son is a member, is on first. When I was young, we played ONE instrument, but life was so much simpler in those days. I gobble my hot dog and grab my unopened popcorn and rootbeer (thank goodness the can is still sealed) and rush to the car. Mr. Mehaffie's mantra is that if you are on time you are late, so I arrive at 7pm on the dot and catch the second half of the first number.

I know that no one does this stuff on purpose to shame latecomers, but the door to the gym squeaks extremely loudly and I am glad that I had not waited until between numbers to open it. I see a music stand holding a stack of programs, which I need so that I will know when to run out again, but the stand is in view of all of the onlookers, so I have a short walk of shame to collect it. Late. Another parent squeaks through the door and I show him my program. He gives me a very appreciative look and says a very kind “thank you” and takes it. Not only do I have to again do the walk of shame, even later, to get another program but I also don't want him to feel badly that he has taken my program. I finally pay attention to the music and am delighted to discover that I have a nice clear view of my son. Until I see the high water pants, the ratty sneakers and the outgrown shirt that I thought I had buried in Johnny's drawer so that Ethan doesn't remember he owns it and takes it back or tries to beat up his brother for taking his shirt. And I don't know how he can read music from under that mop of hair he has been asking me to cut or get cut for months. I a, so consumed with his attire that I forget to obsess about the fact that he never ever practices his violin.

Ok, the Orchestra has finished. Time to sneak out before the next band starts and get back to the game. Again, I know that it is terribly bad manners to leave after your kid's performance, but manners or no manners, I just have to get back to my dinner. My stomach is turning inside out. The car reeks deliciously of popcorn but I abstain until I get to the game. I find a place on a little grassy incline, take a bite of popcorn (not worth the wait or the calories) and a sip of my root beer and decide I need some salt. I see the guy whom I almost blew up with the grill on the day of my stint as a snack bar walk by away from the ball field, so I figure it is safe to approach the snack bar. I sprinkle a ton of salt on my popcorn, citing low blood pressure as my license to do so to a woman who couldn't care less and go back to settle back on my little hill for a bit of peace and popcorn. I discover that my root beer has been perched, and, subsequently overturned on the hill and so without any admonishments to myself or angst of any kind, I march to the snack bar to purchase another one. I need something to cut the grease of the popcorn and that is that. On the way back I see someone I know walking by with cupcakes. “Cupcakes!” I scream to myself. “Someone has time, not only to show up at their kid's game, but to show up with cupcakes!” I try to imagine having the time, wherewithal or desire to even think of making cupcakes. I mention this good-naturedly to the woman with the cupcakes who I know is as busy as I am, and she mentions that she doesn't have time either but she got up at 5 am to make them. I digress, as usual. Anyway, this time I sit on some nice flat bleachers and eat and drank. I am only about a third of my way through the bag of popcorn and just barely over the threshold of nausea (which usually takes at least 2/3 of the bag) when I get a text that the Senior Band is starting. I dutifully jump up and rush to the car. The wrong one of course, as I seem to have this propensity to just rush to and open any car that has a color that remotely resembles that of my own, but after whipping it open, letting out a kind of yelp and closing it again, I look around and see that no one is the wiser, so I get into my own car and drive away, narrowly missing my friend's mother who is crossing in front of me (sorry Heather, “narrowly” was a bit of an exaggeration).

I am locked out of the school but a woman sees me on her way out and holds the door open for me. She also accidentally slams it with a sound that rivals a gunshot. However, when the people near the door hear it between music pieces, they look back and see me through the window of the inner door standing there, innocently. I wait for the music to start and sneak in as unobtrusively as possible given the squeaky door. I breathe and watch the rest of the concert in an utter state of relaxation. And indigestion. I see my boy playing music and muse that he is correct, there are a lot of hot girls in the flute section. Not that I am seeing them that way myself, but through the eyes of a 7th grader. And I thought Ethan chose the flute to save me buying one as I have my old one lying around.

When I get back to the car, the kids devour the remnants of my sad little dinner, but I do not care. I have not seen them all day (except from a distance with an air of perceived and projected judgment) and embrace them. Or at least I try.