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.

Up on the Roof

Apparently in lieu of leaving the house with my slippers on–a behavior I have somehow, blessedly, managed to curb–I have now begun driving with my possessions rolling around on the roof of the car. It’s happened about three times now, and each time I’m made aware of it by a loud noise that causes both Kate in her carseat and me to look up at the ceiling of the car with “what the hell is that?’ expressions on our faces.

Due in some part to luck and in another part to there being a large sporty-person equipment carrying device (Mark’s) screwed onto the top of the car, I have not yet lost anything. I just pull over and easily retrieve the forgotten toy, sippy cup, bottle of water, what have you.

I swear the next time it happens Kate is just going to roll her eyes and say, “Ma, you did it again.”

Corn Muffin Conspiracy

Simply put, why the f*@#k aren’t corn muffins sold on the West Coast? If you don’t live here I’m not lying about this. It’s true. This is a serious problem, and I’m willing to do what it takes to blow the lid off of this conspiracy.

To give credit where it’s due, this issue was first brought to my attention by my friend Jill. She grew up in Connecticut and she could appreciate herself her a good corn muffin. But in her days living in the Bay Area she noted that they just don’t have them here. Now she has pulled up her roots and she and her family are living back in Providence, RI. Well it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why.

Now granted, I’m the kind of person who finds out you can’t get something somewhere and it’s suddenly all I want, need, and crave. I know that doesn’t reveal a very appealing part of my temperament but be that as it may. When I was living in France my junior year of college someone casually mentioned that they have all the same candy bars there, but they don’t have Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. Well that’s all it took. I was desperate for them. A candy I’d previously never taken a particular shine to, though within seconds I was lamented how wrong it was that I’d so foolishly overlooked it’s many gastronomical virtues. To this day, Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups are my favorite candy.

So, you can imagine what happened when Jill mentioned the Corn Muffin Debacle. Actually, it was a few years ago and I’m happy to say I didn’t instantly go mad with the thought of the denial. I guess it was because Jill said she just made them herself whenever she craved them–and that pacified me, for a while at least.

But I just got back from nearly 3 weeks back East. While there I stumbled across some Thomas’ English Muffins that were made with corn meal. They were sublime. The same favorite English muffin goodness, with a slightly sweet and more crunchy corn element. We had them at my sister’s house on Cape Cod and everyone who tried one agreed they were delicious.

Then on the last day of the trip I was in the grocery store and saw another fine product by Thomas’: The Corn Toast-R-Cake. Yum! They were essentially like flattened muffin tops that’d fit nicely in your toaster so you could have your nice warm crunchy butter-topped muffin with your, say, Earl Grey Decaf tea for breakfast. My God, people! What could be better than that?!

Well I was flying cross-country solo with a baby and 12-odd tons of associated crap so I squelched the desire to buy some to take back. Besides, I thought, they’ve got to sell these in CA, right? Thomas’ is a national brand. There would be *no reason* for them to deny these delicacies to us Left Coasters just because we don’t like cold winters.

Well, I’m sure you can see where this is going. I got back and spent the ensuing days scouring the shelves of every Safeway and Albertson’s this side of the Mississippi. Sure they had all the standard English Muffins, but no Corn Toast-R-Cakes. Not even the corn English Muffins.

What gives? Frankly, this was starting to get a little creepy. I was feeling like a character in a John Grisham novel who realizes the nice boss at his fancy law firm is really not looking out for his best interests after all. So I did what any good consumer in the Internet Age would do, and sent an email to Thomas’ asking them nicely where near my zip code I can get their delicious corn products. No doubt they are somewhere here, right? I’m just probably shopping at the wrong stores.

Yesterday I got a letter from George Weston Bakeries Inc., some company that I guess is the parent company to Thomas’. In it they thanked me for my “recent communication” and said:
“We regret to inform you that this product [Thomas' Corn Toast-R-Cakes Muffins] as well as our Corn English Muffins is not distributed on the West Coast.”

Aside from the grammatical issues with that sentence, I was understandably troubled. They went on to say some rigmarole about their two corn muffin products being distributed primarily in the upstate NY and New England markets. They also dangled before me the possibility that their corn English Muffins, a new product, may be distributed outside of the northeast some day. Well I’m not holding my breath.

What I want to know is who is behind this? And to be honest with you the conspiracy extends far beyond the George Weston/Thomas’ clan. You can walk into any bakery–large or small–in California and still not find so much as a corn muffin crumb. And how can that be? Tell me there is no small bakery owner who, like Jill and I, hailed from the East Coast and understands the joy of a corn muffin.

And sure, sure, I can make them myself. But at this point, this whole thing is starting to smell very fishy. Someone is up to something and I plan to do everything within my power to get to the bottom of it.

You will hear from me again on this topic, I can assure you. And if anyone reading had any information about this, please please do share what you know. If it ever comes to it, I will not reveal you as my source.

Oy, I need to go take a nap.

Go Fish

My dad and I did lots of fun stuff when I was little. On account of the divorce, the time we spent together tended to be activity-based. So, we’d take day trips to Faneuil Hall in Boston, hit the mini-golf green and follow it up with an Eskimo King ice cream chaser, and poke around seemingly endlessly in dusty crowded hardware stores and even dustier crowdeder flea markets.

What made these forays memorable was not only the destination, but the car-trip conversations. My father always talked to me like I was an adult. I don’t even remember what exactly we talked about (though there was a lot of counting how many states and/or countries we’d each been to–and clarifying the rule that you can’t count a place if you’ve only changed planes there). But whatever I’d spout off about related to school, or current events, or people, I never felt like my ideas weren’t worthy of serious consideration because I was a kid. Even if he disagreed with something I said, we’d wrangle over opposing viewpoints in a pretty egalitarian deferential way.

I can also remember times when my dad seemed to welcome the opportunity to get down to my level–particularly with my school science projects. Of course I’d love to say that this happened a dozen or so times, since I think it’d make a better story, but I think it was truly only two or three times. I’d have some assignment to do something like make a volcano with a lava eruption. This was a chore to me–a waste of a big chunk of my weekend when I could be watching Creature Double Feature or crank calling Phil Kinder.

My dad, on the other hand, could think of nothing more fun to do. First off, these projects required a trip to a hardware store (sheer bliss for him to actually *need* something there). He’d have his brain in overdrive about how to best tackle the project. And whatever crap idea I’d have, he’d try to respect, but couldn’t contain himself to not offer his two cents. And call it a moral compass of some sort, but I just didn’t feel right going into class with something that my dad had done 90% of. Despite feeling comparatively inadequate, I was compelled to stick to my half-baked plans. But I also didn’t want to rain on the guy’s parade, so I’d eventually just convince him to complete his own version of the project, working alongside me.

Of course, this inevitably ended with me firing up a sagging lump of a volcano that let out a weak fart and a teeny wisp of smoke. In Dad’s corner he’d be pushing down on the TNT box to erupt an immense model of Mauna Loa with faux lava pouring forth over a small village he’d whittled out of balsa wood. Okay, so maybe his wasn’t quite that impressive, but the 40 years he had on me did give him a bit of an advantage.

So, today I got my first taste of how this parenting thing can give you an indulgent opportunity to let your inner child loose. After a lovely night spent near Santa Cruz for my friend Kristen’s 40th b-day, we ventured with the kiddies to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. My God, that place ROCKS.

I was practically elbowing kids out of the way to check out the sea otters at their feeding hour. And those huge billowy bright orange jellyfish! They are beautiful and putrid at the same time. Impossible to not be transfixed by. And the gargantuan tank with the sharks and the sea turtles and the big swaying columns of seaweed two stories tall that kinda make you dizzy when you’re standing at the base of them looking up. I could have stayed for days.

Kate was koala-bear-hugged onto me in the Ergo pack, and together we walked around in wide-eyed wonder. Kristen chased her two-year-old through exhibits at what seemed like Mach speed, while Kate and I dreamily lingered over each display. She was mesmerized by it all, including the mass of humanity that was cramming their strollers into any free nook near a tank and taking bad photos with cell phone cameras. Between gawking at fishes, Kate took in the other kids, safety railings, ceiling lights. It was all good.

In that way I have of sometimes getting ahead of myself, I was having so much fun I couldn’t wait for the next time we could go back. Maybe we need to rent that house in Santa Cruz again with the Grippandos and come here one day, I thought. Or maybe Mark’s mom has never been here–or would be willing to come again. The cool thing was that Kate really did seem to dig it, so I wouldn’t even have to make up a fake excuse on her behalf to go back. (Maybe a B&B weekend in Monterey this fall?) This is educational! Kate needs to come here often in order to develop into an intelligent, curious, and well-rounded person!

If today was the first time I got to release my inner kid while taking Kate to do something, I can’t wait for the years ahead. Disneyland! Paddle boats! Petting zoos! Hooray!

But for help with any projects involving balsa wood, I’m sending her straight to Mark.

A Unique Consumer Opportunity!

If, like mine, your child is just sitting around looking cute and occasionally demanding food, clean clothes and fresh diapers, why not put him or her to work? Doing what you say? Promoting your blog!

Sandwich boards are unfortunately not practical on children this age, and tattoos are costly. So why not buy a shirt (or onesie or bib, if you prefer) that directs all those who see your little one to read your little blog?

Genius? We think so.

“Read my Mommy’s Blog” shirt ($15)
www.cafepress.com/kmcclusky

“Read my Daddy’s Blog” shirt ($15)
www.cafepress.com/mcclusky

It’s a pleasure doing business with you.

A Blast from the Past

A couple weeks ago I got an email from my friend Mike entitled “You won’t believe who I saw.” For some reason I immediately thought it was our old friend Kelly. Kelly, Mike, and I were at the University of London together for a junior year abroad semester which was somewhat oddly called the Beaver program. Kelly was at Simmons College (I think), Mike at Tufts, and me at Harvard, I mean Kenyon.

Over bad cafeteria food, endless pub pints, and Eurail adventures we formed the kind of friendship you develop when you’re 19 and living even further away from your family than your college got you. Add to that we were in a huge city and another culture where no one knew us or expected us to act or dress or talk or think a certain way. College is liberating, but studying abroad takes it all to another level.

Mike is one of those people who is still in touch with the other kids from his kindergarten class. (He’s also saved the Playbill from every play he’s ever been too.) It amazes me that he’s managed to maintain those friendships, but Mike is such an incredible human to have in your life some of the effort must have come from the other people. Despite all this (maybe I should have taken the hint?), Mike and I fell out of touch after our British educational adventure. Then, a few years later walking down the street in the West Village one evening, we bumped into each other and have been fast friends ever since. He was my partner in crime in my NY years, and the one person who’d make a move back to NYC seem do-able for me. I still regret not having him as a bridesmaid, but at least I have something from that day to beat myself up over.

So every once and a while Mike and I have wondered what ever happened to Kelly. She was so smart and fun and excellent, and as I mentioned, in the 6(?) months that we were in London we became pretty damn good friends. No doubt she was up to something cool. And for Mike, I’m sure he was just confused and frustrated by ever having let a friend slip away.

In fact, like Mike and I, Kelly and I bumped into each other in NYC back when I was living there too. Of all weird coincidences she lived on my block and I saw her walking a huge German Sherpherd one day. And her boyfriend was from Bristol! He grew up a couple houses down from my Uncle Joe. I remember hanging out with her a few times after that and going to hang out with her at her parents house in Massachusetts, but then somehow we drifted apart again.

So Mike sends the “You’ll never guess who I saw” email, and it ended up being some random political spam he sent out to like 300 people, which I didn’t even read. I emailed him about my disappointment that he hadn’t found Kelly. Especially when you have an friend like my 4th grade best friend Sydney Smith, who has a kinda generic name, you think even the powers of Google will never reunite you.

Well by that day’s end, God bless him, Mike had found her. All hail Google, where he (freakish memory that he has) remembered Kelly’s home town amongst other details about her (like her last name). He tracked her down to Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts where she’s worked for a decade now. He even found her email address and had exchanged a few messages catching up with her.

You know you’re getting long in the tooth when you reconnect with someone you haven’t seen in 15 years. And it’s not a childhood friend. At any rate, Kelly just got back from a vacation today and sent me an email after having gotten the run-down on my life from Mike. Hooray! She is well and married and has a sweet 3-year-old son named Cole, and by the looks of the photo she sent Mike, she hasn’t changed a bit. I’ve got to make a plan to see her when I’m on the East Coast next.

Now I just need to get Mike on the scent of Sydney Smith…

Smarty Pants

This baby is getting so smart. She’s learning things daily! I mean, I guess that is what they are supposed to do, but it’s pretty surprising to watch anyway.

So far she’s gotten down all the U.S. Presidents and is working on memorizing the Vice Presidents. Next we’re on to the Periodic Table abbreviations. Well, not really. But she does say bye-bye and wave, and claps her hands, and gives these little tongue-smacking clucks that we think are kisses. And she knows when I’m trying to feed her green beans and there’s a can of those little puff cereal thingies sitting on the table to clamp her mouth down and point to the puffs.

What other mundane thing does she do that I can boast about? Oh, when you take the tray off her high chair she starts grabbing at the strap buckle since she knows that comes off next. And when you unbuckle her carseat she holds her arms up to get picked up. And once I think I asked her to hand me something and she kinda did.

I just want to remember some day when she is doing advanced calculus homework that I can’t help her with, that there was a time when these little things she was learning were big accomplishments.

The Church of the Farmers’ Market

Last Sunday we went to the kick-off of a new year-round farmers’ market that’s a four block walk from our house. The place was packed with the cute white nuclear families that comprise our neighborhood. And can you blame them? I can think of no better way to spend a Sunday morning.

Going to a farmers’ market is like tripping on ecstasy for me. It makes me so damn happy. I love it.

First, you’ve got other people in an outdoor setting, and usually on a sunny day. This sets the baseline for bliss. Other humans for me to interact with, warm weather, and not feeling cooped up in the house.

Then you’ve got all the crap to look at: fruit, veggies, soaps, jams, musicians, fresh fish, smoked fish, organic meat, thai food, baked goods, orchids–you name it. Feast your eyes! And having Kate in the Ergo pack kicking her chubby legs with glee and reaching and pointing to it all is the manifestation of what I’d do myself if it wasn’t so socially unacceptable for someone my age. Kate leans out from her roost on my (or Mark’s) chest and frenetically points to piles of broccoli, other babies, blenders churning up smoothies. She greets it all (human and inanimate) with the occaisional ardent “ba-bye,” her version of “aloha.” It works for the coming and going.

Nearly every vendor has samples to share. (Did they get this idea from Costco, or did Costco get it from them?) Strawberries, wedges of nectarines–last week they were even passing out paper cups of pureed organic baby food. And the kettle corn vendor has samples too! Damn that stuff is good. I made my way through a huge sleeve of kettle corn so obsessively and hypnotically once that Mark had to wrench it from my hands while speaking slowly and calmly to me.

And the tasting thing is perfect for a guy like Mark. I take a taste of whatever and love it and just want to buy some then and there. But Mark takes a taste and holds his emotions at bay. “Yeah, it’s good, but I want to try some other ones.” He moves along to the next peach vendor to compare notes. “Nope. These won’t really be ready until next week.” Like a puppy dog I follow along behind him while licking my fingers? “Really? Seems good to me now.” What amazes me is his ability to remember not only what stall had the best peaches and where it was, but he also remembers the varietal. (Who knew there were so many?) I’m just too drunk on the whole sunny scene to make my brain work that hard.

So it’s Sunday morning. Kate is taking her nap and Mark is riding his bike. When she wakes up and he gets back we’ll slap on some sunscreen, grab an empty canvas bag, and make our way over to the action. Some people choose church. For me, it’s the farmers’ market.