The One that Got Away

If there is one thing I am proud of myself about, it’s having gotten hip when I did to the kind of man who is fit for marryin’. Sure, there were other men in my life who at times I toyed with playing house with, but in my heart of hearts I knew they weren’t right. Some guys are fit for dalliances (even year-long ones), but not for reading the paper with over breakfast when you’re 65. Mark, thank God, is.

In college my friend Ben was my best male girlfriend. He was smart and sweet and even pretty damn cute. We’d while away long boring Gambier, Ohio afternoons in his room in the slightly dorky co-ed “society” he was in. I’d bemoan whatever romantic foible I was entertaining my psyche with at the time, and he’d listen, help me strategize, and then we’d analyze his crushes.

We were no fools though. Hot-blooded collegiates that we were, each of us at times considered the other as a potential girl/boyfriend, or at least a one-time conquest. But never at the same time, thankfully. And neither of us ever said or did anything in the times when we were feeling curious/smitten with the other—probably out of fear that one awkward kiss had the power to ruin a great friendship.

It worked out for us that those “what about him/her?” episodes made up the minority of time we spent together. Mostly, we watched a bad game show where kids did things like crawl between the pieces of bread in a 10-square-foot peanut butter and jelly sandwich in order to win cool prizes (the name of which I can’t believe I’ve forgotten), play drunken air guitar to ACDC, and lounge around chatting idly and snidely about nearly ever other person at our rural 1,400-student college. Ah, Ben.

Of course, the guys who I spent most of my time interested in were compelling to me because they were either A) not interested in me, B) clannish in that I-never-outgrew-boarding-school way, C) insensitive and immature, and D) cute. (At least they had one redeeming quality.) All in all, the social dichotomy between them and Ben served me well. The guys from the football fraternity were fun to swim in the fountain with (there was no fountain–that’s just my metaphor for hijinx). And Ben was fun to philosophize and gossip with in the sober light of day.

At one point in our senior year some smart gal got hip to all that Ben had to offer, and suddenly he became one of those guys who held hands with his serious girlfriend while walking down Middle Path. In what seemed like no time, we grew apart. Understandably, he had a new confidant, and she was probably not too keen about him spending time with me. I learned from the alumni magazine a while back that he married that woman not long after graduating, and at the time at least, they lived not far from where I do now.

Thinking about him tonight, more than I have in over a decade, I can’t help but be nostalgic. But I am happy that his memory doesn’t bring me a feeling of regret, which it might if I were single. It would be easy to label him “the one that got away,” and dozens of other gals from Kenyon probably do. In my teens I just didn’t have the foresight that his wife had to snatch up such a wonderful guy, such a keeper.

Thankfully, on my own timeline, I managed to smarten up and find a keeper of my own. When Mark and I go to his college friends’ weddings I always have a moment of realizing that some of the women we’re with look at Mark as the one that got away. It’s one of the things that makes me squeeze his arm a bit tighter when the bride and groom are exchanging their vows.

Lucky for me, I’m the one that gets to turn down the page of the newspaper at breakfast 30 years from now, and see him there.

Not What I’d Intended

Growing up my godparents, Mimi and Uncle Ant, lived next door. They never had children of their own. As Mimi puts it, “The only thing that ever ran around my house was a picket fence.” So, with their physical proximity and the closeness that our families had in that good old-fashioned neighbor way, Mimi and Uncle Ant were like grandparents to me. Wonderful kind Italian Americans who taught me about my heritage (i.e. how to swear in Italian), fed me often and well, and both corrected my ways and boasted about my accomplishments like family.

It should be known that Mimi and Uncle Ant were set in their ways. Dinner at 5:00, basement tools organized to perfection, and never so much as a mote of dust wafting through their living room. Comparatively, the Bruno girls, as my sisters and I were known, were a catastrophic train wreck–always late, wrinkled clothes, arguing with each other in inappropriate places, and invariably cutting the cord on the hedge trimmers we’d borrow from them. Typical family stuff, as my mother would rationalize. Mimi and Uncle Ant were the way they were because they didn’t have kids, she’d say. Kids force you to be flexible. (I can’t help but think that even with a family you’d be able to bounce quarters off the beds in their house.)

Like all good Italians, Mimi and Uncle Ant were into food. Mimi and her sister (and neighbor) Mary could cook a meal that would make a dead man salivate. And in that finicky perfectionist way of his, Uncle Ant could always find fault with it. “Emily!” he’d bellow. “You overcooked the spaghetti! And what’s with the olives? You know I hate olives!” Uncle Ant was a renowned picky eater.

So, whenever I’d mince my way around a pickled beet or a tomato as a kid, my mother would sigh and call me “a little Uncle Ant.” And instead of being put off by the comparison, I loved it. In fact, Uncle Ant (short for Anthony, if you were wondering) and I used the food thing as a platform for some serious intergenerational bonding. “Mushrooms!” we’d cry. “Blech! Who’d ever want to eat those?” Even as my palate matured and there were fewer foods I was averse to, it remained my favorite way of getting Uncle Ant going.

When I was pregnant Mark and I would crawl into bed at night and sometimes talk about the things that were important to each of us as parents-to-be. Sometimes it’d be spurred on my some friend’s kid who we’d seen that day. “Our kid will eat all different kinds of food,” I’d say. “Definitely,” Mark would agree. “I don’t want her living off of mac and cheese.”

Making your child a different meal than yours every night not only took extra time, but it showed that the kid ruled the roost. “There will be one dinner in our house, and one only!” I’d proclaim. “This is what’s for dinner, boy-o. Love it or leave it.” Besides, there’s something cool about being able to feed your kid pate in front of other people—like our friends, the gastronomically-advanced Surh kids–and have him eat it without batting an eyelash. We’re foodies, therefore our child will also like food. Right?

Ah well. Ten months in I’ve already caved. In an attempt to get Kate to eat something tonight, here is what I offered her:

1. Multi-grain toast
2. Monterey Jack cheese
3. A scrambled egg yolk (babies her age can’t eat whites for some reason…)
4. A nectarine
5. Summer Vegetable Medley baby food
6. Peas and Brown Rice baby food
7. Sweet Potato and Turkey baby food
8. Oatios (organic Cheerios)
9. Puffs (Gerber cereal that’s probably packed with preservatives, chemicals, and carcinogens)

Of these NINE items, she ate a small ration of Oatios, and of course, some Preservative Puffs. God help me.

I think I’ve been a pretty patient and easy-going mother, but the one thing that has driven me to call Mark in a “when-are-you-getting-home-I-need-back-up-fast” fit, is The Dinner Stand-Off. All I want is for her to eat something. Preferably something with some nutritional value. And not cry and wimper and whine throughout the whole meal. Is that so wrong?

Where most parents probably want this for their kids, I’ve got a strong streak of the Italian “need to feed” thing. When we first introduced solids, Mark asked me when he was feeding her how much food to give her. “I don’t know,” I said. “I just feed her until she cries.” And I wasn’t kidding. I’d just keep spooning in that rice cereal until she had to wail in protest, in lieu of being able to say, “Enough already! Back off with the spoon, lady!”

So she wasn’t always so picky. But now her will has sprung forth fully-formed. I come at her with a piece of fruit and she pushes against the high chair tray and turns her head while clamping her lips shut. I must say, she’s gotten good at screaming with her mouth closed. When she used to let her guard down on the lockjaw, we’d often sneak in a spoonful. No such luck these days.

Tonight I finally gave up. It’s getting to the point where I’m fearful that the neighbors are going to wonder what I’m doing to her every evening when they hear her screams from our open windows. Running on the “she’ll eat when she’s hungry” assumption, I took her out of the high chair red-faced and wailing and minutes later plunked a cheerful babbling baby into the bath tub. Move her from one room to the next and you’d never guess it was the same kid.

What everyone seems to say is that at this age everything comes in phases–both good and bad. So, when your kid is sleeping through the night, don’t get cocky and tell your friends. Next week he’ll start teething and be up every two hours. I’m hopeful that’s the case with Miss Kate and her food issues, though Uncle Ant was 92 when he died last year, and he was a picky eater to the very end.

I’ve Come a Long Way with this Baby–or Have I?

Today I’ve led the kind of day the thought of which sent me in a hysterical crying jag and breathing into a paper bag post-partum.

Three weeks into Kate’s life, while everyone else in my mother’s group was talking about their fears about raising a smart kid, handling breastfeeding challenges, and whether little Miranda would ever sleep through the night, I was wrangling with much different demons. I was crawling the walls with fear that I’d never leave the house, start watching daytime TV, and suddenly determine that scrapbooking was a fun way to spend a weekend with girlfriends.

Well let’s see. Today I got up, kissed my husband goodbye, and shuffled into the kitchen in my PJs to feed Kate. (No food in the house for me, so I decided to wait for lunch to eat.) When I put her down for her morning nap I wrote roughly 10 thank you notes for various Kate-gifts and other hospitalities that we’ve been the recent (and not-so-recent) recipients of. Then I showered and put on one of the 4 pairs of kakhi shorts I seem to rotate through. As a special treat to my self-esteem, I blew dry my hair.

Kate got up, I changed her using one of the new Costco-brand diapers. Intrigue! Will these diapers be as good as the Huggies she’s been using? Did I really save a considerable amount of money on them? (Whatever the outcome, we’re stuck with a 4,000-pack.)

Dressed Kate, mailed notes. Loaded kid into car for journey to Trader Joe’s. Shopped, returned, fed kid lunch. Started to make dinner–a one-dish Mexicana-type meal that includes a jar of Pace salsa and a can of refried beans. It’s a recipe I recently got from a friend with a one-year old, in exchange for my chicken salad recipe.

Read Kate stories, put her down for Nap #2. Finished assembling world’s simplest meal (my God, it’s a casserole) and realized that if people didn’t start having kids at older ages this whole slow-cooking/gourmet phenomemon might never have come into existance. Maybe a lot of other things wouldn’t either. Did Albert Einstein have kids?

Now Kate’s up again. Just now hearing her babble. So, I’ll get her up, change her (while noting the quality/absorbancy of the Kirkland diaper), and we will head out to visit Rose at the nursing home.

This is the day that I feared. I had a couple days of post-partum crying thinking that a day like today would inevitably cause me to internally combust. In those weepy moments I asked myself questions like: Why after 12 years in SF did we decide to move to Oakland? Why was it we wanted a baby? And why can’t I just strap her to my back and go about my usual life as if nothing ever happened? Back then I even remember wanting to admit myself to the nearest workplace for a good old familiar 12-hour work day.

What’s scary is today has been perfectly pleasant. I’m not sure if this is progress or not.

Two Kinds of People

As far as I can tell, something that really divides people is whether to roll a corn cob directly onto a stick of butter versus spreading it on with a knife. In my experience, peolpe align themselves fervently with one approach or the other.

For me, I’m a knife-butter-spreader who aspires to being a roller. I just can’t enjoy the ease of rolling enough to make up for the stress that I know the messy stick of butter will cause me later.