April 30, 2007
Sergeant Mom Gets Mushy
I’ve spent the better part of the last five years in the role of domestic drill sergeant over my boys:
“Stop! Who goes through that doorway first- you or a lady?”
“What would be a better way to ask for that? Remember the word ‘please?’ Moms really like to hear it.”
“Why is your napkin on the table when the table doesn’t have a mouth and cannot eat a hamburger?”
“Be sure and tell Chatty Mom ‘thanks for the ride’ or she may get tired of driving you to school and you’ll have to walk every morning, even when it rains.”
“Towels don’t have muscles, so they can’t put themselves back on the towel rack.”
“‘Uh-huh’ is not a word. It’s ‘yes ma’am or yes sir.’”
It’s easy to feel that it’s all for naught, but now that the guys are eight and eleven I can see some of the lessons slowly taking hold.
Bill was out of town last week so I took the boys to Brio for dinner one night. Drew opened the restaurant door for me, and Finn stood beside him and punched Porter in the ribs when he tried to walk through ahead of me.
“Ladies first,” Finn told Porter sternly, and we made it all the way to the hostess stand with only a few tears.
At the table, Drew and Porter amused themselves with the word search on the kids’ menu and were especially delighted to find “ass” in the collection of letters, though fortunately not in the list of words to seek.
All three boys thanked the waiter for their milk and food without prompting from me. I was flabbergasted and peered at each child’s face to make sure my boys hadn’t been replaced with someone else’s while I went to the bathroom. They hadn’t, so I ordered another glass of wine from our unfriendly waiter and toasted myself.
There were snags, to be sure. Porter shoveled tremendous forkloads of spaghetti into his mouth and slurped inches of dangling noodles through his lips until I taught him to twirl the pasta on the fork before eating it. He was entranced by the strategy, though not particularly skilled at it, but it did improve the situation a bit.
Drew forgot our main purpose, eating, and was lost in a meticulous reading of the story on the kids’ menu until I realized his food was untouched and removed the literature, promising he could read it in bed.
Porter began standing up to eat, until I reminded him that fannies stay in chairs during dinner. He put his fork down and his body started quaking and shaking, Elvis-like, from his head to his feet.
“Dude, what are you doing?” I asked, alarmed.
“I had to get the wiggles out,” Porter replied cheerfully, as he sat down and resumed eating. Is this what they teach in school these days? If so, it’s brilliant.
Drew and Porter went outside to look at the wildlife that somehow manages to flourish in the water between the mall and the highway while Finn and I discussed the latest social developments in the fifth grade. Finn expressed dissatisfaction with his love life. I advised him to keep washing his face and using deodorant. The situation is bound to go his way sooner or later.
While we waited for our car, I discovered I had no dollars. Porter, always prepared for a gumball machine, offered me his three quarters. After a thorough investigation of my wallet I was able to cobble together two dollars in change, a paper clip, a guitar pick and a linty Ambien. I offered it all to the teenage valet, who chose to take only the money. I was secretly pleased, as both the paper clip and the Ambien are treasures in my house.
We had a lovely drive home with the windows down, with Finn acting as DJ, blaring first Gwen Stefani and then the Killers. We sang and clapped and drove around the block a few times so we wouldn’t have to turn off “All These Things That I’ve Done” prematurely.
The boys went to bed with sweaty hair, full stomachs and clean teeth.
As I lay in my bed later, I thought of all the things that I have done. I think that even when the guys are grown, this particular night is one that I’ll always remember.
April 23, 2007
What’s A ‘Hoo? And Other Thoughts
In my last post I showed Beta Bridge painted with the sentiment “Hoos For Hokies” which is the University of Virginia’s way of expressing support for Virginia Tech during this tragic time. This raised the inevitable question: What’s a ‘Hoo?
I’ll quote from the paper of record at the U, the Cavalier Daily:
“WAHOOS? What the heck is a wahoo?” Prospective University students ask this question every year during tours around Grounds. One can only imagine the looks on the faces of University guides as high school students and their parents gaze expectantly at them, waiting for an answer. For, as every Wahoo comes to know — as well as every Wahoo’s chagrined parents — a wahoo is a fish that can drink twice its own weight.”
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You know you’re a parent when your courtesy notice from the library advises you that one of your many overdue books is titled Paws Off, Cheddarface!
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It’s been a cinch lately to figure out who’s a regular reader in town. These fans are marked by a compulsion to stop me anywhere– at Sunday School, at the ball park, at Publix– to start a conversation using the phrase “pop a boner” as conspicuously as possible.
April 19, 2007
Days Before Doorknob
I was making up the bed and I let out a muffled, feminine poot.
“Safety!” I shouted reflexively, before I realized that Bill was at work, the boys were at school, and my toot wasn’t placing me in physical danger.
In the days before Doorknob, flatulence was followed by an “excuse me” or the proclamation, “I farted!” followed by peals of laughter by the small boys who are amused by such things.
And then testosterone poisoned our house, Doorknob was discovered and our way of dealing with farts underwent a radical change.
One night I was reading the movie reviews in my New Yorker when I heard squealing in the den where Bill and the boys were enjoying a rare night of TV. There was giggling and scuffling and shouts of “Doorknob!” and “Safety! and “I smelled it”! and “I touched the doorknob! I’m safe!”
“What was going on in there?” I asked when everyone was tucked in and Bill settled into bed.
“It’s the greatest game ever,” he said with satisfaction. “I don’t know if Finn invented it or heard about it at school, but someone is a genius.”
“Please explain,” I said skeptically.
“Say Finn farts. If I hear it or smell it, I yell ‘doorknob!’ and then I can tickle him all over the place until he gets away and grabs a doorknob. But if he admits to the fart and says ’safety’ before anyone calls a doorknob on him, he can’t be tickled.”
I looked at him and waited for him to continue. He gazed back at me impassively.
“That’s it?” I asked. “You sit around and listen for poops and try to call them?”
“We don’t just use our ears, honey,” Bill corrected me. “We use our noses, too. Some smelly ones are silent. And that’s not the main focus. We were actually watching baseball, and ‘Doorknob’ was a side activity.”
“That was a lot of yelling for four guys. You had to be faking some of those farts.”
“Honey, maybe barbecue for dinner would lead to a more potent game, but you gotta admit, those Beef Balls can rouse up some gas,” Bill said.
I scowled. It’s not my cooking; it’s just that my boys are over-achieving farters, in my opinion.
The next night I was browning chicken when Bill came home from work. Drew had just finished setting the table. Bill walked in the kitchen and loosened his tie, then bellowed, “Doorknob!” He rushed Drew, scooped him up in his arms and began tickling him.
Drew squirmed and shrieked and twisted himself into fantastic positions. Finn and Porter came rushing in and stood by, shouting encouragement. At one point during Drew’s frantic gyrations he almost put his head through the window. Then he reached as far as he could and barely touched the door to the patio.
“I’m safe!” he yelled, red-faced.
“Has anyone ever bled in this game?” I inquired, wiping the tears from my eyes and turning back to my skillet to hide my laughter.
“Not yet,” Bill answered, setting Drew down, “but it’s likely to happen. Everyone’s getting a lot better at hearing and smelling farts.”
Later that night I was putting my clothes away while Bill brushed his teeth. He turned off the water and I grimaced. I knew he was wiping his toothpaste lather onto my hand towel, although he has his own hand towel in the bathroom.
Then I heard a tiny “PPfffft.” I tiptoed to the bathroom. My lover’s back was to me.
“Doorknob!” I shouted, and I tickled him just below each armpit, his most deliciously sensitive spot.
Bill’s right. Someone is a genius.
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I realize the above story isn’t a rousing endorsement for the following recipe, but it’s been requested, and here it is.
Beef Balls In Red Wine Sauce
The boys are starting to fight over this meal, so if you have big eaters I would double the recipe. I serve it over rice. If your people are apprehensive about vegetables, you can be all sneaky and pulverize them so they disappear into the tomato sauce. If you’re not a drinker I bet this would taste fine without the wine, but I can’t say I’ve ever tried that myself.
Mix a pound of ground beef with a tablespoon of paprika (I like smoked paprika), some salt and pepper, and a teaspoon or so of dried thyme. Form the mixture into 10-12 balls and brown them in some olive oil in a skillet. Add to the skillet a chopped onion, a few chopped carrots, a couple of stalks of chopped celery, and some fresh garlic, minced or chopped. I use 5 cloves but I love garlic. Cook over medium heat until the veggies wilt a little.
Sprinkle some flour over the stuff in the skillet. (2-3 Tablespoons?). Stir everything gently so you don’t break the meatballs. Stir til the flour disappears.
Add about 1/4 cup red wine, a can or so of chicken broth, a generous splash of Worcestershire sauce and a cup of tomato sauce (not paste) and stir gently. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and cook covered for 30 to 45 minutes. If you have some fresh thyme you could tie it in a bundle and throw it in during this part.
If you’re feeling especially industrious, make this and something else on Sunday and wait and serve this on Monday when it will be even yummier. (Refrigerate it overnight. I forgot one time, though, and I boiled the hell out of it and fed it to my family anyway because I was too lazy to think up another whole dinner and we’re all still here!)
