Planet Mom Blog

 

NOTE: The following post (originally written in 2007) doesn't exactly fit MomDot's Small Talk Six criteria, however it does address the matter of crediting my mother-in-law with something for which I will be eternally grateful. And as Thanksgiving Day fast approaches, I thought it made sense to pay tribute to her memory here.

 

Thanksgiving won’t be the same this year. Not without my mother-in-law who passed in May. She made the best potato filling on the planet. Bar none. Now it’s my turn. My turn to try and fill the house with the most glorious aroma known to man—a mouthwatering mélange of onions, parsley, butter and of course, potato-y goodness. It’s my job to recreate what that Dutch-y dish represented—the warmth and flavor that defined home at Thanksgiving—first for my husband and his sister, and subsequently for me, when I officially joined the family nearly 11 years ago.

 

I’ll follow the recipe to the letter—careful not to leave anything out or to be so bold as to add some jazzy new ingredient that in theory may seem perfectly sensible, but in practice may prove to be a culinary disaster. I can’t afford a culinary disaster. Not this year. Everyone’s counting on me to produce. But somehow I fear I won’t measure up. Something will be missing. A splash of character. A dash of kitchen wizardry. A deluge of love.

 

Of course, all the experts will tell you that food isn’t love, and people certainly cannot draw more than mere sustenance from a meal. Nor can their souls be nourished by the almighty spoonful. Apparently the experts never met a woman like my mother-in-law. She’d have proven them wrong a thousand times over. Her Black Magic cake alone would make a grown man cry. Tears of joy, that is. The Williamsport Police Department can attest to that—a select few of its members can anyway. During one of her many visits to Billtown, this modern day Betty Crocker thought those hardworking folks ought to have some cake. So she made it happen. And again and again at Williamsport High School.

 

That was what she did—all her life. She showered people with food. Magnificent food. Cakes. Pies. Jams. Apple dumplings. Pickled beets. Marinara sauce. Chicken pot pie. Pepper cabbage. Cheese balls.

 

Potato filling. And all of it was to die for.

 

It was her way of connecting, of rewarding and of loving I suppose. By all accounts, she was masterful in that arena. I, on the other hand, am a novice. A stranger even to my own kitchen most days. It’s no secret. Everyone knows I’m no cook and that I chose that path purposefully and willingly out of sheer defiance, despite my own mom’s undying effort to bring out my inner chef. Even my kids know the score: “Daddy’s the bestest cook in the land.” Good thing.

 

Somehow I think my other mother knew she could help me find my way, though. So for the past decade or more, she sort of took me under her wing—or beneath that speckled and spattered apron, so to speak. Patiently she watched me fumble and stumble through the arduous chore of making strawberry jam, pot pie and marinara sauce FROM SCRATCH. It must have killed her to witness such an ungainly creature, one who used to think the powdery mix that comes from a box IS “from scratch”. Even still, part of me clings to the idea that pots and pans are anti-bear devices and that ovens are primarily meant for storing the leftover stuff I’m sick of seeing on my countertops—not for creating edible delights.

 

There is hope, however. The woman made inroads into this oh-so-stubborn psyche—or as she liked to refer to my obstinate streak: DICK KEPPich. I’m not so reticent to delve into all-things-kitcheny now, although I’ll never come remotely close to owning her prowess there. But at least I own some of her winning recipes. Our favorites, of course. The ones that take us back to that warm and cozy place and that remind us how wonderful she helped make it—for Thanksgiving and for always.

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

 

Copyright 2007 Melinda L. Wentzel

Skeletons in My Closet

September is mere hours away and here I sit—completely and unspeakably ill prepared for an event that is perhaps among THE most important for my soon-to-be third-grade daughters (i.e. the first day of school). To date, roughly six items of clothing suitable for the fall have been purchased, including exorbitantly priced sneakers and hideous-looking (read: Bratz-inspired) pants. Exactly ZERO items of the aforementioned garment-age have been tried on without some sort of theatrical meltdown involving the words, “But I’ll DIE if you make me wear that!” or “My underwear will show and THEN I WILL DIE!” Also heard in these parts, “Do you HATE me?! Because anyone who WANTS ME TO BE UNCOMFORTABLE AT SCHOOL must, in fact, HATE me!”

 

What’s more, academic reviews of the previous year are at best, incomplete, books I’ve promised to read aloud time and again have been all but forgotten, homework areas are deplorably and inexcusably cluttered and I can’t find anyone’s soccer cleats to save myself—which, incidentally, we will need in approximately two hours. Even worse, a sensible bedtime routine has yet to be fully implemented and last year’s backpacks (Gasp!) still await the celebratory purging process I know and loathe (i.e. the process whereby every glorious granule of backpack-ish material harvested from the previous school year is dumped upon the floor and painstakingly scrutinized to determine the worthiness of that-which-I-erroneously-deemed-to-be-rubbish-back-in-June).

 

Oh, the horror!

To think I almost chucked a handful of perfectly gnawed upon pencil stubs, a stash of deformed paperclips, crumpled up notes filled with mysterious phone numbers and legions of plastic thingies torn from chocolate milk bottles—all of which were squirreled away “…because they’re special to me, Mom.” Read: Junk destined for the Second Grade Shrine which currently adorns the dressers of those who apparently worship and glorify refuse.

 

What I’ve done (or left undone) these past few months is unforgivable, really. At least I managed to schedule haircuts before the school bell rings. And we have snazzy new lunch boxes upon which I’ve already scrawled my progenies’ names with a big, fat marker. So there’s that. But aside from those beloved keepers-of-all-things-sandwichy and the taming of my brood’s unruly manes, I have failed in the back-to-school arena this year. Miserably so, methinks.

 

But I didn’t set out to fail. In fact, I thought I had done everything humanly possible to avoid such a catastrophe—to include highlighting important dates and activities for the summer and drafting a list of what needed to be accomplished before the start of school (i.e. I defiled the calendar and composed an unmerciful list of that which is impossible to complete without divine intervention). THIRTY-EIGHT OUTRAGEOUSLY IMPRACTICABLE THINGS I sought to achieve in three months time—a fool’s errand by anyone’s definition.

 

Sadly, less than half of those tasks were ever fulfilled to an acceptable degree. The rest were either ignored completely, modified so that at least partial success could be realized or stricken from the list altogether. Looking back, it would have been wise to prioritize said list, to stay within the bounds of reasonableness and to abandon the notion that summer is a season without end. Because clearly, it DOES end. And clearly, I fell into the abyss of denial somewhere during the month of July. Needless to say, a bunch of things that qualified as slightly imperative just didn’t get done. And for that I deserve a flogging.

 

Weird as it sounds, the biggest skeleton in my closet is the closet itself. More specifically, my kids' closet—the one teeming with clothes my children haven’t worn literally FOREVER. The one overflowing with Halloween costumes, Easter dresses and shoes I no longer recognize. The one stuffed with smallish sweaters, powder pink snowsuits and corduroy pants I can’t bear to part with. The one besieged with  yesterday’s toys and doll houses that have fallen out of favor. The one whose shelves are stacked high with baby blankets, preemie clothes and a hodgepodge of wee sleepers—those fuzzy, fleecy cocoons of wonderfulness within which I nestled my sleepy-eyed cherubs night after night, winter into spring. The bottle of Johnson’s bedtime lotion is still there, too—its lingering scent of lavender and chamomile takes me back in an instant, as do the soft and supple ballet slippers over which my fingers trace.

 

Indeed, the closet has become a Behemoth of sorts—a beast that lives and breathes and by all accounts threatens to become functionless at some point. Foolishly, I allow it to exist. I feed it. I defend it. And I furnish it with all that it could possibly desire. That said, I’m not entirely sure I dodge the issue of purging because the task itself has grown so completely monstrous, or because I simply can’t let go of the memories contained within.

 

Perhaps my closet and I need some sort of therapy to discuss skeletons and whatnot.

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (feeding the beast). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

 

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Opportunists Never Sleep

My children are opportunists. I know this much is true. Said seizing-of-the-proverbial-moment unfolded thusly.

My husband, the brood and I sat down to dinner one evening not long ago. The delectable fare was chili, I believe, sprinkled with voluminous quantities of idle conversation. Par for the course in this household.

More specifically, there was talk of tadpoles and those dastardly Bakugan toys, discussions involving loose teeth and dog breath, and naturally (NATURALLY!) there was a remarkably gruesome retelling of an Animal Planet feature on polar bears--one in which a woman was horrifically mauled at a zoo. Lovely. Just lovely. My appetite thanks you, dear offspring from hell.

What's more, my co-ed daughter started texting her boyfriend obsessively DURING THE MEAL. Did I mention that it was during the meal and that it was obsessive in nature? Not surprisingly, she was entirely unaware that the rest of us even existed. Translation: it was as if we had slipped in pig shit and fallen off the fucking planet. All that truly mattered was that beloved Blackberry of hers and the stupid little messages that kept popping up on her screen, making her giggle uncontrollably.

And laugh out loud.

And roll her eyes.

And fervently punch those teensy tiny keys in an effort to top the boy's witticism in 160 characters or less.

Gag me with a spork!

At any rate, Thing One and Thing Two (my wily eight-year-old twins) took note of said heinous crime, scolding their big sister for interrupting the meal with something so completely frivolous.

"That's reeeally annoying, Sara. You ought to stop it," Thing One chided as she took a bite of cornbread.

"Yeah, Sara--put the cell phone away or Mommy's gonna get mad. REALLY mad," Thing Two echoed.

Of course, the Texting Queen was totally oblivious to their impassioned demands--so absorbed was she in crafting the next 17,000 messages to the Boy Wonder.

"Hon," I felt compelled to join the fray, "you need to stop texting. You really do. We're trying to eat dinner here together, remember?"

"But Mom, HE keeps texting ME," she lamely defended.

"So. Stop answering him."

"I can't do thaaaat. It would be rude."

"And this isn't rude?! Helloooo!"

"Well that's different."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is."

"Okay then...why don't you tell him something catchy like, 'STOP TEXTING ME. We're having dinner right now and MY MOM ACTUALLY COOKED, so technically speaking that qualifies as a SPECIAL OCCASION!'?" Of course, I suggested the use of capital letters as needed.

For a time, a cloud of silence hung in the air. No one so much as chewed a morsel of food or touched a key. Everyone knew I was right. It WAS a special occasion.

Enter the opportunist...

"Mom," Thing One tentatively offered out of the blue, "can I have some of your wine?"

"Whaaa?" I asked, completely taken aback by her request.

"You said it's a special occasion, right?"

"Right. So???"

"So I should be able to have wine."

Indeed, opportunists never sleep.

Planet Mom: It's where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Smother May I?

Someone hand me a machete. Some scissors, perhaps? Anything! Puuuuleeeeez! I am in desperate need of said sharp-ish devices so that I might finally, and for all eternity, sever the apron strings that bind me inextricably to my eldest daughter, now 21.

To be clear, she is not to blame. It is I. I am the foolish one--the insanely overprotective, nurture-obsessed fusspot-of-a-mother who simply won't let go of her woman-ish child to save herself.

Indeed, it is quite likely that I need therapy. Admittedly, I have issues. Serious issues with mothering. Or more correctly, smothering.

Just today, in fact, I gave the poor kid some money and asked her to run some errands for me, ones that would involve d-r-i-v-i-n-g somewhere, p-a-y-i-n-g for things and actually i-n-t-e-r-a-c-t-i-n-g with people. Imagine that. At any rate, from the moment she left until she returned a short time later, I was filled completely with a host of irrational fears, some of which involved the very real possibility of being abducted by aliens, being whisked away by a man in a monkey suit and, of course, being suddenly stricken with dementia--in which case she'd wander the earth interminably searching for that which she couldn't remember anyway.

Naturally (and as expected), I also obsessed over dreadful car crashes she might have, navigational nightmares she could experience and the legions of unsavory characters with bad teeth and mismatched socks she was sure to encounter during said perilous jaunt into town. Never mind all the road trips to urban destinations she's made without the benefit of mapish entities (i.e. the countless times she's made me deranged with panic for not having enough sense to take along a fricking MAP of metro D.C.).

Further, I became gravely concerned that she might not remember to pick up the book I so desperately needed for comic relief this day (Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay), she would forget to count the change to make sure it was right and by some strange twist of fate, her ability to string coherent sentences together like, "My Mom ordered this book. I'm here to pick it up," would be lost forever, leaving her at the mercy of bookstore employees who would then send her packing with an obscenely pitiful piece of literature just to clear the aisles of derelicts and whatnot.

Needless to say, none of the above mentioned horrors came to be. But that doesn't mean they couldn't have. Because they could have.

I'm just saying....

To be sure, I sent my dear child out into the big, bad world armed with that which I deemed necessary for survival: a Ziploc baggie with enough cash, a detailed list of the stops I had planned for her (complete with street addresses and suggestions for where to park), coins for the meter and a reminder that she should call with ANY questions or concerns--like forgetting how to breathe, for instance. It's a wonder I didn't tell her to look both ways before crossing the street--something my husband swears I whispered in her ear on the day she left for college.

I did no such thing--at least not that I can readily recall.

It's true. I have issues with letting go and must fight the urge each and every day to position a safety net beneath her wherever she might venture. She's not two anymore, despite how vividly I remember that period in time. The way she twisted and twirled her hair (or mine) when she grew tired and longed to be rocked. Her well worn thumb planted securely between those pouty lips. Those blue-gray eyes, framed by thickets of lashes--lashes that lay like petals on her sweet face only yesterday.

Indeed, only yesterday.

Planet Mom: It's where I live (feeling wistful these days). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Dances with Carts

Shopping carts are the bane of my existence. It seems I have an uncanny knack for choosing ones that are both polluted with germs (Gak!) and hideously deficient in some unforeseen manner (i.e. equipped with a smarmy, foul-smelling handle or some gunked-up, pathetic semblance of wheels that lurch and rattle and are positively driven to move me in any direction but straight).

For whatever reason, I tend to poo-poo the many and varied imperfections at first, foolishly thinking that I won’t have to tolerate them all that long and they certainly won’t be all that bothersome in the end.

Moreover, the truly vexing nature of most of the rogues I choose doesn’t become readily apparent until I’ve already journeyed halfway through the produce aisle, mindlessly fingering the fruit and considering whether we need more carrots or romaine. By then I’m committed to the match made in hell. For better or for worse. Till death do us part. Or at least until I manage to shove the misfit-of-a-cart through the checkout line or muscle it to my car where I can finally ditch it for a better life.

To add insult to injury, I often have to endure such hardships with my heathens in tow—the lovely creatures who yearn to make each and every shopping excursion I embark upon more memorable. And they do. Whining incessantly about this or that item—the one that the mean-and-horrible-troll-lady won’t let them have. Wrestling over the matter of who gets to man the cart first. Wooing me with pleas for sinfully sugary cereals and those sickly sweet gummy snack-a-ma-call-its that ought to be removed from the planet altogether.

Apparently it is not enough to be blessed with a wayward cart.

And once I make that regrettable and irrevocable decision to allow one of my miscreants to navigate the treacherous trail ahead, my fate is sealed. Someone’s ankles will indeed pay the price. Likely, mine. Despite the innumerable lectures I’ve delivered, the live demonstrations I’ve provided and the vat of instructional guidance I’ve offered on the subject, my two dandies, though well-intended, are physically incapable of maneuvering from Point A to Point B without smashing into someone or something. Granted, the aforementioned errant and evil wheel-a-ma-jigs do little to further their cause.

Not surprisingly, at some point during each supermarket tour my patience usually wanes with the pushing-of-the-cart-ludicrousness, climaxing shamefully somewhere between the toothpaste/shampoo aisle and the frozen foods section (i.e. the beast that is mommy rears her ugly head). As I return to the helm, attempting to pilot that which refuses to be piloted, I am met with yet another challenge: that of effectively communicating to my brood the notion of walking single file. My futile commands typically go something like this: “Okay girls, someone is coming toward us now and we need to walk single file.” “Girls?” “Hellooooooo. This stinking aisle isn’t WIDE enough for all three of us AND another cart to pass—is any of that remotely registering with you two?!”

Of course, neither child of mine responds, so engrossed are they with hanging onto the sides of my cart, eyeing the shelves for more of that which is forbidden. I must then stop the cart and clumsily move them—as if they were a couple of giant chess pieces—either in front or in back of me, smiling apologetically to the person now upon us. Again and again I repeat this cart dance—this utter lunacy, aisle after aisle, both stunned and amazed that creatures capable of telling me anything and everything I might want to know about a Euoplocephalus dinosaur cannot grasp the concept of hiking somewhere single file.

And let us not forget the times when one or both “helpers” insist upon riding inside the cart, “…so you can pile all the stuff on top of us, Mom, like we’re inside a little house! That’s so cool!” Naturally, there are people who find this disturbing—especially when they detect a hint of movement somewhere beneath the econo-sized Goldfish and the Lucky Charms.

“Do you know there are children in your cart?” they’ll ask, alarmed by the possibility that I could, in fact, be so fricking clueless as to not notice a couple of stowaways on board.

“Yes. They’re with me, otherwise known as Dances with Carts.”

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (forever dodging those ankle-biting menaces in the grocery store). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

She Talks to Pencils

I have never been genuinely shocked by the degree of bizarreness that apparently exists in elementary schools today--much of which I learn in the form of highly animated blurbages launched across the dinner table. Of course (and firstly), I consider the source: my extraordinarily-dramatic-and-prone-to-exaggeration eight-year-old twin daughters, Thing One and Thing Two. Secondly, having been an educator once myself, I recognize that bizarreness happens in such an environment (yes, I vividly recall one of my ninth graders stapling his finger "just because" and then nonchalantly informing me that he had done so--as if I hadn't noticed!). Thirdly, I take whatever school-related utterances that happen to fall from my kids' lips with a grain of salt--and hope like hell their teachers do the same.

"No, Mr. So-and-So, as a parent I would NEVER EVER allow my second graders to tune into Jeff Dunham's comedy routine and I have absolutely no idea why they keep saying 'Jose Jalapeno, on a steek!!' (much to the amusement of peers)." All the while, I pray to God the man never feels compelled to quiz them on what Juuunior has been quoted as saying or Heaven forbid, that cranky-assed character, Walter. Naturally, I'd deny all involvement and promptly hide my cache of Comedy Central DVDs.

That said, I generally buy into about half of what my brood tells me happens in the Land of Books and Pencils. As a courtesy, I hope those soon-to-be-sainted teachers return the favor.

So when one of my dear children announced that she had missed part of recess because she hadn't finished her work (due to a decidedly "weird-ish distraction" in the classroom), I wasn't fazed in the least. I figured she's as distractible as they come and that more than likely, she deserved such punishment. Further, I thought that perhaps she might benefit from actually being held accountable for something in a sit-your-little-fanny-on-this-curb-until-you're-finished sort of way.

As it turns out, she had benefitted. But not in the manner I had assumed.

Our conversation unfolded thusly:

"Mom, guess what happened to me at school today...I missed part of recess," Thing Two announced over dinner.

"Oh. Why is that exactly?" I asked without looking up from my potato salad or so much as glancing at She-Who-Was-Busy-Confessing-to-Some-Yet-to-be-Disclosed-Atrocity. "Did you stuff a live worm inside your backpack again?" I had to wonder aloud.

"Nope. I didn't finish my work during Centers so I had to do it outside. On. The. Curb," she relayed with a touch of indignation.

"Is that a fact?" I stated, aiming for concern sprinkled with a smidgeon of pity. "That's too bad. Why didn't you finish your work anyway?"

"Because (insert the name of any number of nose miners--I mean dear classmates) distracted me and I couldn't concentrate," she explained.

"Distracted you?"

"Yep. She sat right next to me and I couldn't stop watching her. Really, Mom, I just couldn't."

"Well, (for crissakes) what in God's name did she do? Turn into a toad or something?"

"Nooooo," she whined impatiently. "She made her pencils talk."

"She made her what talk?!" I shouted, nearly choking on my fork.

"She made her pencils talk," she stated matter-of-factly once more.

"The girl can make pencils talk?!" I remarked, thoroughly stunned by the notion and eager as ever to hear more.

"Yep."

"Tell me more, my darling little fabricator."

"What's a fab-ri-cator, Mom?"

"Never mind. Just give me the scoop on the pencil thing?" I demanded.

"Well, she made the Mommy pencil talk to the Daddy pencil."

"What did they say to each other?" I had to ask.

"I dunno. They argued a lot."

"They argued?" (Pencils can argue?!) "About WHAT?" I pressed.

"The babies."

"Whose babies for crying out loud?!"

"Their babies."

"The Mommy pencil and the Daddy pencil had baby pencils together?!" (Pencils can reproduce?!! Good God!)

"Yes. Lots and lots of them. They're tiny erasers actually." She then continued, "The Mommy and Daddy pencils got mad at each other over whose job it was to take care of the babies. She'd make them say stuff like, 'Why don't you help out more around here?! And why do I always have to change their diapers?! I'm tired!'"

"Oh," I said, seriously considering the possibility that this latest and greatest nugget of bizarreness just might top the list of strange utterances involving happenings at school. And of course it was SO bizarre, I believed each and every syllable. My kids can't make up stuff this outlandish. It positively had to be true.

"Yeah, Mom, and she even made them punch each other 'cause they were really mad," she added, punctuating her spiel with smallish grunts to demonstrate how pencils might hit one another if they felt so inclined.

"I see," I responded, now understanding COMPLETELY how she had been mesmerized by such a weird and wonderful display.

In the end, I, too, probably would have chosen to take my lumps (i.e. to sit on the dreaded curb during recess) just to witness something so entirely enthralling. It's not everyday that people get sucked into the life and times of an ordinary pencil--especially when there's high drama involved.

Planet Mom: It's where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel