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Once a year, my husband tries to grow a beard. He has not succeeded mostly because his facial hair tends to sprout in patches, which, as it grows longer, looks remarkably similar to the coat of a dog afflicted with mange. Being the supportive wife that I am, I mock him endlessly when he makes these attempts. I don’t know why he puts up with me.
It’s funny how differently things look to a four-year-old.
Small was on the toilet, doing some deep thinking. “Daddy?” he called, “How come you got-th hairth on you fayth and arm?”
My husband grinned at me and wandered into the bathroom to talk to his son. “Well, buddy, that’s just the way God made me.”
“Huh,” Small said, disappointed. “Den God made me pwain.”
My family is no more (or less) dysfunctional than others—like most, we have our secrets and quirks. However, on the holidays, we drag out our best behavior along with the good china and we gather together. Each of us strives to avoid the hot button issues that we know will ignite old arguments and we all uphold the small traditions to which we are accustomed, at least obligingly if not effortlessly.
As a teenager, I was far less accommodating. I would sulk in corners and make disparaging remarks, then disappear before the dishes were cleared from the table. I’m not sure how my parents withstood my insufferable attitude.
Now, with every passing holiday, I appreciate my family’s particular flavor of dysfunction a little more. Although I cannot dispute that we are an acquired taste, it is one that I prefer over any other.
My husband and I, along with Small, Medium and Large, celebrated Thanksgiving day with my parents, my sister, and my brother and his family. Our blessing went like this:
“BlessusoLordforthesethygifts,whichweareabouttoreceivethroughthybountythrough
ChristoLord,Amen.”
“Give food to the needy,” my mother added her normal intercession.
“And world peace,” my husband said quietly.
I shot him the Not Now look.
“Oh, yes,” said my mother, gathering momentum for a longer prayer. “And bring our troops home safely and….”
“Yes, yes. That’s fine,” my non-Catholic father interrupted. “Let’s eat.”
Driving home after feasting like Kings—an incredible meal that I know took my mother all week to prepare—I asked the kids what they were thankful for.
“Family,” said Liam.
“Yeah, family,” said Nora. “And for the stars.”
Pleased, I turned in my seat to look at our littlest angel.
“What are you thankful for, Henry?”
“I am thankful for….mythelf,” he said smugly.
I guess he hasn’t acquired the taste as yet.
I am evicting the chipmunks living in our garage. Since they ignored my pleas to go quietly, I was obliged to put out a trap. A subtle, catch-and-release trap (I can kill mice and moles but not chipmunks–I don’t have it in me. I watched too much Disney growing up.). Even so, I didn’t tell the kids.
But they saw it anyway.
And this is what they did to it:
“Guys, what’s all this?” I asked.
“They should have an acorn party before they get trapped! They deserve it!”
Looks like Chip and Dale will overwinter with us after all.
I cannot relate to those people who spring out of bed, recharged and cheery after five winks. More often than not, mornings find me churlish and grumpy. I “normalize” only after imbibing a substantial amount of caffeine.
Sadly, our coffee maker is currently broken. And the fault is mine own.
There was one meager mugful left in the cold coffee pot. I mentally cursed my husband and his travel mug as the microwave hummed.
I had but one choice: brew another pot. For most people, making coffee is a simple task. For me, with our temperamental machine and my lack of skill, it isn’t. I make terrible coffee even when half the pot isn’t dripping off the counter. But an addict needs her fix.
I located the bag of whole beans, measured out 8 tablespoons, and dumped them into the grinding compartment. I filled up the small holding tank with what I estimated was the right amount of water, put the pot under the drip spout and pressed “On.” Nothing happened.
Then I remembered that the latch on the grinding compartment’s lid was broken. More than once, I had come downstairs and found heavy items balanced on top of the coffee maker.
I reached for the closest glass dish, smashed down the lid and pressed “On.” The familiar burr of beans being ground was loud and comforting. I relaxed and wandered away.
Shortly thereafter I heard popping noises that did not sound like the sputters at the end of the coffee cycle; those little pops that inform you that your delicious ambrosia of coffee, cream and lots of sugar is but moments away. No, these pops sounded more like kernels of corn exploding in the hot oil of the whirly-pop. Making this connection, I realized what I was hearing—it was the butter.
Yup, the glass dish I put on top of the coffee maker was the butter dish. In my morning stupor, I had stupidly overlooked the basic fact that BUTTER MELTS.
I raced into the kitchen to find liquified fat coating most surfaces in the room—the countertop, the floor, the backsplash, the cabinets. Further inspection revealed that melted butter also had streamed through the grounds and filtered through the machine into the pot. I was aghast.
Hot buttered coffee doesn’t taste too bad…as long as you pretend it’s hot buttered rum and down it in shots.
We spent the weekend in Boston with the kids—packing in the memories like sardines in a can. The Children’s Museum. The Barking Crab. Nantasket Beach. The Red Parrot. U2 at Gillette Stadium (this last was only for Liam and Brendan). We stopped fifty miles from home to return the borrowed stroller to my in-laws and to pick up our other car. I offered to drive the sedan in a selfish ploy for an hour of peace and quiet.
“Anyone coming with?” I called, hurling myself from the still moving vehicle. “No? See you at home!”
I was opening the car’s door when I heard the van pull in behind me. It had been too good to be true.
“Medium and Large are coming with you,” my husband announced, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and his Blackberry with the other. He continued perusing his email inbox and didn’t notice the glare I gave him.
“Are you kidding?”
“Nope. They want to be with you.”
I am almost never alone. This is one of the hard truths I have faced while morphing from Woman-With-A-Career to OINK. I am constantly accompanied by, or in the company of, others. Usually very small others. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a people person. I like people and I like to believe that they like me. But there are times when I pause to think longingly about closing the door to my office and sending the calls to voicemail; about the rental cars where I listened to whatever caught my fancy on the radio; about the airports where I sat blanketed in anonymity—just a speck in the endlessly amusing spectacle of humanity.
In those spaces, no little voices were ordering me to turn up the volume on “Crazy Frog,” whining about needing a snack ten minutes after we finished breakfast, sobbing that someone had poked them. And while I had other voices in my head—the ones reminding me to finish this proposal or that brief, nagging me to return phone calls and emails, chastising me for being the parent who was always late picking up her kids from daycare—they were all my own.
I miss my own company.
My husband interrupted my reverie. “Liam didn’t want you to be lonely.” The side of the van slid open and Liam jumped out, followed closely by his sister. In spite of myself, I was touched by my son’s thoughtfulness. He gave me an awkward, one-armed hug and ducked his head. He and Nora scurried off.
“Well, that was sweet of them.” I tried to sound positive.
My husband chuckled. “Nora is only coming with you because she wants to be with Liam. When Liam worried you’d be lonely, she told us, ‘Mommy’s not lonely–she’s fine! Liam, you stay with me!’”
Either she knows me better than I realize or she is more like me than I know.
I love my kids, but what I need is a Fortress of Solitude.
OINKtales 
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