And then the tides turn

Shit.

Just when I'm certain we're finally all coasting on the same smooth path, the sidewalk ends, and we tumble into a dark and mysterious crapstorm in which I find it hard to see the boys' inner lights.

Sometimes this happens with one child but not the other, but on extra-special occasions, like today, we all fall together. 

It's possible this started yesterday when the exceedingly loose tooth Oliver's had for weeks now went down his gullet. I'd been warning him of the possibility of swallowing or losing that bad boy if he didn't let me pull it, but no dice. And then one bite on a Nutella-coated breadstick, and away went the tooth. 

Sobs wracked his body. "How will I get the tooth back? Can I use a baby potty and look in my poop? Let me call Poppy."

Now Poppy, my dad, is a gastroenterologist, and so really, it was wise of Oliver to think of calling Poppy to discuss the possibility of reclaiming the tooth. I'll give him that. But...

"Hi Poppy, it's Oliver. Can you tell me how to strain my poop?"

I swear to y'all that was the actual telephone conversation opener. Poppy said he could send a strainer but I refused delivery. I don't need to indulge this craziness, y'all. That tooth is gone!

Additional Nutella-crusted carbs plus one of his best buddies being over to play (and, might I add, looking rather askance as Oliver wailed about poop straining) plus the excitement over his class play being this morning helped appease the tragic feelings. He was cast as Gorilla 1. 

Hours later, Jack could.not.sleep. and so I ended up reading Belly Up (Stuart Gibbs, natch) to him until nearly 10. This is all well and good except that Jack is a hangry bear when he's sleep-deprived, and so I reckoned I (and he) would pay for the late night today.

I was right. 

The boys were wild animals from the time I picked them up at school until the time I stormed downstairs hours later and told Tom he best leave the grill to me and DEAL with those children. Our neighborhood is hosting a multi-house community yard sale tomorrow, and I spent a huge swath of time today organizing, cleaning and pricing things AND making a preposterous number of extremely delicious chocolate chip (milk and dark) cookies for the boys' lemonade-and-cookie stand. They want to earn some money and donate a third of all their proceeds to The Fresh Air Fund, and I fully support their endeavor. 

But still, y'all. Those cookies don't make themselves. And a mad-eyed fatigued child who will not put down the giant branch that fell from the tree during yet another rainstorm but instead waves it about like a poky javelin and has zero awareness of just how much of said poky javelin is flailing behind him, nearly decapitating you, is really not the optimal icing on the cake.

Long story short, it is the whiplash feeling I experienced between Monday-Thursday and today that I tire of and which blindsides me in the worst way. It's exhausting. Parenting is so inconsistent and yet so consistently taxing, and really, that is a tough and often disappointing energy suck. It is for me, at least.

I give my kids my all every day, and sometimes, it's hard to keep going. It really is. I don't remember the last time I had a real break from parenting in any significant way, and that is awfully wearing at times. 

Did I mention that I also found out today that my identity was stolen last weekend and used to purchase more than $2000 worth of goods at J.C Penney and Toys "R" Us? What morally bankrupt asshat pretended to be me?

Anyway, this scrumptious meal and a decent amount of wine smoothed out this feisty Friday. 
*While you might think "butt" when you see that darling potato in the bottom right corner, I want you to see "heart." Just that.

The sun actually showed itself which was exceedingly remarkable given that it has been in hiding most of the past sixteen days. I joked recently about my grass turning, alchemically, into slugs, but I today found that for real, two of my doormats are sprouting like chia pets. It has got to dry up!

When your child meets a hero, or For the love of books

Much to my delight, Jack is an avid, voracious reader. Reading came to him easily, so he's been at this for a while now, and I consider it a great gift that curling up with a book remains one of his most beloved pastimes. 

He relishes the feel of paper and the weight of a bound work -preferably hard cover- in hand. He enjoys series and wants to have every volume of his favorites: Harry Potter; Big Nate; everything Stuart Gibbs has thus far written. 

I try not to give the boys too many random gifts, but only rarely can I turn down a request for a new book "for my library, Mom." And I love me a full set.

In these ways, Jack is most definitely my son.

Last night, Stuart Gibbs was scheduled to give a presentation at the library near us, and today, to visit and speak with the kids at Jack's school. Several months ago, I got a sitter for Ol and planned on last night being a Mom and Jack date so that I could see him meet a hero for the first time.

To prep J, I said, "you know, every author presentation is different. Some are formal and some aren't. Some will sign all your books and some limit you to one. Some will disappoint you and others will be just what you imagined."

Last night was perfect. We snarfed pizza (dinner) in the car and arrived to the event an hour early. We bought three additional books (well, I bought two and J one), got front-row seats, J's best friend sat next to him, J asked multiple questions and he got all six books signed plus one for a friend who couldn't be there. We also got a photo.

Stuart and Jack, and all the books

Once home, Jack's feet continued to dance above the clouds with glee. I finally gave him a melatonin, kissed him goodnight and wished him luck getting to sleep: I was going to bed immediately. 

Today at school, Stuart remembered J and said "hi, Jack." I'm not sure life gets better. As it turned out, today was my library volunteer day, and Stuart and I got to hang for fifteen minutes. "I can't believe you got there an hour early," he said, smiling.

"It's not every day you get to take your child to see a hero for the first time," I replied.

I'll remember it always

Old-school Em-i-lis

The past couple days have found me yearning for leisurely hours in the kitchen. It's been a long while, too long, since I've felt I had any significant amount of time to relax in there and play around. I miss it, and have noticed that when rushed, dinners become more chore than pleasure, and I cut culinary corners in ways I don't like. 

Our spring has, so far, been an awfully wet and chilly one. There have been glorious days of warmth -heat even!- and sunshine, promises of lemonade stands and relaxed evenings on the deck with a cold glass of wine. But by and large, those times have been elusive, and most days are still "pants and long-sleeve T's, boys" rather than shorts and sunblock ones.

That said, it's spring somewhere, and the produce of the glorious season is starting to roll our way. It's the right time for rhubarb, and those beautiful pink and green stalks are showing themselves at our local farmers markets as are greenhouse tomatoes and herbs and the earliest strawberries. Asparagus is in its prime.

At the grocery, fava bean pods glow green and swollen, and plums, peaches and apricots are finally being trucked in from places north of Chile!

Perhaps I should thank the mostly-gloomy days of the recent past, for they have offered me quick moments in which to steal to the markets and have then shooed me back inside when the rains return. During the latter periods, the beautiful beans and fruits and tomatoes and greens beckon to me, and I have gone to them.

Shelling beans is an always-pleasant task, meditative, productive and grounding. Favas and borlottis are my favorites to hull, because my reward is a bowl of vibrant green or cranberry-speckled beans that only nature could conjure. Favas beg to be smashed with mint and pecorino and olive oil and a squeeze of lemon, slathered atop grilled bread slicked with more oil. Nothing this beautiful can be anything but healthful or a pleasure to eat.

fava bean and mint crostini

The smell of tomatoes alone is thrilling, but then the juicy pop of each orb's taut skin is the happiest salvo. The crisp crack of each asparagus spear's end breaking off at just the point that woody and fibrous gives way to silky and tender. 

the freshest pizza 

All of these ingredients make such delicious dishes but without much effort; that is the gift of real, fresh, seasonal food.

velvet apricots

Today, I made my black velvet apricot and Cognac jam. It is as delectable as it is pretty; looks rather like a jewel, really. I love recipes that freeze an ephemeral ingredient in time for later enjoyment. It's why I make mango butter even though straight-up mango, peeled and sliced, is our favorite way to enjoy them, especially the Ataulfo, or champagne, variety that comes out in late April each year.

I also made some old favorites this week including my farro with golden beets, candied pecans, feta and a sage-chive oil and oven-roasted rosemary salmon, and, perhaps most thrillingly, treated myself to this Meyer lemon tree on Mother's Day. I'm positively over the moon about it, and will feel equal parts Cher (from Clueless; remember when she reaches out of her father's office window to pick a fresh lemon for his tea?) and Martha Stewart when I pluck a fresh lemon from its boughs.

farro with golden beets, candied pecans, feta and chive-sage oil

Now, if only the sun will come out a little bit more and help us all dry and grow and ready ourselves for the next marathon of cooking and growing and rooting, it'd be swell!