Sexual Ethics as the Parent, part one.

The first step in solving a problem is admitting you have one, right?


Well, we have a problem. 

We have a problem as Americans, and particularly American parents.  And our problem is with sex.
It looks like this:

But, this is just an image.  And it is a reflective image, as is all of pop culture.  It reflects what we want and who we are. But, sometimes, like my mirror reflection in the morning, it hurts our feelings.

Wait, apparently 10 lbs are not just numbers on the scale, they also involve that second chin making its presence known.  Wait, apparently, sexting and twerking and scantily-clad-selfies and all the other words that I haven't yet heard because secretly I'm old, well, they look ugly in the mirror.  And we don't notice and we don't notice, and then one morning, the bathroom light is just right, and we remember to put our glasses on, and whoa, who is that 20 year old in her panties with that tongue?

She is us, and she is ugly, and that man in his jailbird? referee? outfit needs to go home to his children instead of victimizing someone else's.  Now. 


And then, as parents, we look at our babies, and we realize what kind of world they live in.  And, being in the age of the internet, we write, as I'm doing now.  We post facebook statuses and we draft blog posts, and everyone's feelings are hurt about the reflection in the mirror, and everyone is terrified that it's accurate, and accurate even to their own households, and oh my heavens, not my babies!  My babies!

And it leads to a lot of people getting riled up, because, shockingly, we don't all parent the same way, and we don't all identify the same root of the problem, or what to do to chop off that root before it chokes out the trees of healthy living we've done such work to plant and nurture.  All we know is that that woman in the mirror looks bad and our feelings are hurt and aaaahhhhh.

Some people fuss at other people's kids -  

 

And some people basically say that young girls should be able to do whatever they want and anyone suggesting something otherwise should rejoin the days of Scarlet Letters. 


So, we have a problem:  Our children are growing up in a sexually corrupt and corrupting culture, and due to the technological revolution, putting them in a pristine bubble isn't even an option anymore (as though it was ever healthy....).

That is our problem.  Step one.  Doesn't that feel better?  


Step two, fleshing out the problem:  here. 

Menu 6/27 - 7/3 - And the Amazing Plan to Eat

A few months ago, a friend sent me an email that said, "Hey - you may not need this, but I found this awesome online menu planning/recipe storage thing a majig - it's called Plan to Eat." 

I didn't think I needed it, but then I started perusing, and I fell in love. 
I've been looking, for some number of years now, for a way to store recipes digitally, but also still be able to have a paper copy, and formatting them twice has not appealed to me.  So, Plan to Eat solves that problem, and so many more.

You can enter in recipes - by hand or by fancy shmancy import (basically, anything that is already in recipe format on the internet can be easily imported) or by basic import (which will try to read the jumbled email you sent your friend that has a recipe interspersed with tiny bits of life updates and it will import what it can and ask you to finish it).

And then, and this is the amazing part, you have this handy dandy calendar. 

And you just drag recipes and drop them on the calendar at the time you want to eat them.  And you can make notes about things you're not cooking - and you can place on there individual ingredients, so even though they don't go in a recipe, the Bran Flakes will still show up on the list. 

And your menu plan is done for the week.

But, wait, ladies and gentlemen. 



But that is not all.  Oh, no, that is not all. 

Then, you bop on over to your "Shopping" Tab and the beautiful, miraculous website has populated your grocery list.  And categorized it for you by produce, etc.  Yep, that's right.

But, what if you already have honey and cumin?  Well, you just go through and remove the things you have (forcing you to check, and therefore helping you eliminate those times when you think you have eleven cans of diced tomatoes and so buy none, or those times when you think you have no cans of diced tomatoes, and so, for eleven weeks in a row, buy a can).

And voila!  Meal planning, list making, and recipe organization is all taken care of.

Yes, it does cost- 40 dollars a year, though - So, would you pay 80 cents a week for this assistance?
 You do get a free 30 day trial.  And it's actually free - they don't request your credit card number until after your trial is up.  So, that's pretty amazing.

So, do it.  plantoeat.com. 

And be my friend! 


 And then, yes, more.  You can have friends.  And look at their recipes.  Instead of folks emailing me and calling me and I fail to return their calls with handy dandy actual responses - those who are on PlantoEat can just find the recipes there. And I get to check to see if my friends have a recipe for chicken cacciatore before I google and take the internet's word for what works. 

I know.  It couldn't get any better.

Actually, my friend Jessica and I decided this week that it is missing just one feature.  Are you listening, Plan to Eat folks?

It's missing the "View My Friend's Created Menu" option - So we can all spy and receive encouragement and inspiration and see what everyone is eating.  I can see my friends' recipes, but not their menu plan for the week. 

So, until then, the menus will still have to be here.

So:

Thursday, June 27th - Red Beans and Rice, Sausage, Green Salad

Friday, June 28th - Bacon Wrapped Shrimp is what I took to add to an appetizer spread for a friend's Birthday

Saturday, June 29th - Grilled Chicken, Comeback, Black Eyed Peas, Squash, Potato Salad, Corn on the Cob, Green Salad

Sunday, June 30th - Honey Lime Chicken Enchiladas

Monday, July 1st - Bean Burritos

Tuesday, July 2nd - Leftovers / Make a Cake for a Friend's Baby Shower

Wednesday, July 3rd - Daddy's Birthday - I don't know what we'll eat, but we'll likely eat with my dad and Carrie.

allowed to cry

My baby girl has turned nine this morning.  Well, she will at 11:35 am to be exact, but that's irrelevant to everyone but her.

This morning, as I lay in bed, she came bounding into the kitchen and greeted her daddy with a very excited, "It's my birthday!"

I lay there and listened as they visited about when she was a baby - the things he remembers fondly - that she cannot remember at all.

And I cried.

And then I remembered that my baby boy turns four tomorrow.  Four.  No one under four in my house (save this small thing fluttering about inside).  Four is big.  Four is pretty much adult.  Four is learn to put your clothes away, learn to make your own lunch, learn to get your own bandaids age at our house.  There is something little about three year olds that four year olds just don't posses.

So, I cried some more.


I have always eschewed this phenomenon of lamenting the aging of our children.  We want them to grow up - to become who they were designed to be and who we are, hopefully, helping along the way.  We are supposed to be happy when they quit mispronouncing things and learn to competently put on their own shoes.  We are aiming at a finished product, and crying over growth is contrary to that aim.

However.

As parents, we have the privilege of an intimate knowledge of stages in their lives - of times when they are different people.  Both Ada Brooks and Collins have entirely changed- him over the last twelve months, and her over the last five years.  They are different people.  And not only did we know them when, we bandaided and cried and helped them change.  Not having any babies at my house has meant that I'm not following people around trying to keep them from eating marbles of death or going down concrete stairs head first.  I have put down that type of exhaustion (for a few more months), but I have picked up different kinds.

I have one child who we're trying to teach to respect people's desires for space and calm at certain times, one who is beginning the life long process of boundary-drawing in her own relationships, and one who is so hurt by the idea that people, including him, do wrong, that he has a mini-existential-crisis three times a week.

I. talk. all. day.  I.am.the.question.answerer.  A new kind of exhaustion has crept along and joined our ranks.  I look at these people, with whom I'm not fighting many "you must eat your broccoli" battles, and I am thankful to have begun to phase that out.  (Until November, when we start all over.  Oh, the humanity.)   I am fighting new battles, because the terrain has changed. What a blessing. 

But I am also sad. I'm not fighting those battles, bandaiding those cuts, and laughing at those silly words said just a tiny bit wrong, because, well, they're finished with being those people with those needs. 

They have changed into new people.  And that is what we want.  But losing something is always hard.  They will never be my babies again - and them being my babies was good. 

My grandfather is approaching the end of his life.  He will go to live with his heavenly father after a life as well-lived as any I've known of, and it is good.  It is good that he was born, that he has lived 91 years blessing every life he ever touched, and it is good that, as his health has deteriorated, he will soon leave us for life free from pain.  He has finished his race, and, if the Lord says it to any of His broken people, He'll certainly say to Big Paul, "Well done."  But, we will all still cry.  Because it is sad to lose good things- for good things to come to an end.

So, I'm going to let myself be sad.  I have a little girl who is trying hard not to be a little girl anymore, and two little boys who are slowly learning not to crawl in my lap.  Trying to hold onto it is silly, and worse, destructive.  And not looking forward to what comes next is a waste of a great amount of hope.  But, I will still cry.  Because it is sad to lose good things - for good things to come to an end. 

I feel like I'm reading the best book I've ever read, and I see the bookmark moving every so gradually through the pages, and it's not as though the middle is not as good as the beginning.  In very many real ways, it's better.  Honestly.  I promise - conversations with 9 year olds are better than they are with 3 year olds, despite the lack of adorable phonetic confusion.

And the end will, Lord willing, be better still.  But it still means there is less to go - it will end, and sooner every day.  They will leave, and I will hope that we have done our duty and we all still like each other as much as we do now- or more.  And more than that, I will thankfully collapse into the arms of a husband who I like better than all of them.


But, the book will end, and the bookmark is moving, and I am allowed to cry.  
She's halfway to 18 - half way to gone, for goodness sake.  I am allowed to cry. 

Menu: 5/15-5/22

Okay, we're going to get back to it.  It always runs so much more smoothly when there is some thought put into what we're going to eat, you know, before 3 pm the day of the needing to eat. And I like to be able to read what others are eating, and trying to post this holds me accountable. 

So, this week:

Wednesday night my daddy took us to see Lyle Lovett at the best venue in the world - Thalia Mara Hall.  Okay, perhaps not the world.  But the acoustics are great, seats comfy and not a bad one in the house, and it's 9 minutes from my house, making it awesome.

The kids ate leftover lasagna, and Paul and I joined Brooks and Carrie at the best restaurant in the world.  Okay, perhaps not the world.  But maybe.  Walker's Drive-In.  And, I've become convinced that soft shell crab is in season in the gulf in May simply because of divine providence allowing it to be at the same time as my birthday.   So, soft shell crab, lemon tarragon butter, red potato mash and thin beans for supper.  Plated perfection.


Thursday, we had Red Beans and Rice - Plain ol' Jane ol' cheap and filling. 

For lunch on Friday, we had red bean and rice tortilla roll ups.  See what I did there?  Sneaky sneaky.    Friday night, we had an end-of-season cookout with Eas's baseball team.  There were burgers, chips, hot dogs.  I was in charge of the best thing ever -  Capri Suns.  I rocked it out with those capri suns.

Today for lunch, well, I should probably come up with something....

Tonight for supper: Pork Loin over Vidalia Onions and Apple Cider.  Something along these lines:  Recipe Here.  Lady Peas, Roasted Broccoli, Mashed Potatoes.  This is me, cleaning out the pantry and freezer.  Good shall conquer evil.  Or at least efficiency shall conquer waste. 

Tomorrow, we have a food filled day.  We have our Pentecost luncheon at church -  I'm contributing a quiche (fillings as yet undetermined, but I'm thinking it might involve shredded pork loin, some chopped roasted vidalias and maybe some roasted broccoli?  ;)  ), Roasted Asparagus with Vermouth Butter, and a Pear Tarte or Gallette or some such.

Tomorrow afternoon, I get to help give a baby shower.  And I'm responsible for cracker candy and for spinach dip.  I recently had the best spinach dip so far in my life - it's easy to get bored of it - but it was so good, and I'm so excited to try the recipe I begged off of a kindly woman at a party...

Tomorrow night, we are celebrating my mother's day, a bit late (insane week), and we're having steak and twice baked potatoes and the rest of the works.  I'm cooking, but Paul is doing all of the setting up, cleaning up, minding the children, etc. 

Monday for lunch, we'll be plowing through leftovers.  

Monday evening, we've a birthday party to attend.  I imagine there will either be pizza or grilled hot dogs.  Win/Win.

Tuesday evening, Paul and I have a meeting to attend.  The kids are having supper with their grandparents, I think, or we'll continue the leftover plow-through.  Paul and I will, I'm sure, grab taco bell on the way home from our meeting, which will be a travesty. 


Okay, back in the saddle.  Feeling better.  Life under control.  We're a gonna make it.  I shall not be sick at my stomach for the remainder of my lifetime.  People will be fed.


Whew.  

Freezer Inventory and Giving Thanks

A dear friend came to play today, but instead of just playing, we cleaned out my refrigerator.  This had not been done since 2012, I'm pretty sure.  Which means it was uber gross. 

Actually, I think it's been grosser before, and that's just by some miracle. 

So, we pulled everything out and washed the fridge guts and then put everything back in.  Which is just the best feeling in the world.  The kids were even showing it off to one another.  "Look, Ada, Look at the refrigerator!" 

Anna's baby, Roland, even climbed in before we added anything back (except the bottom produce drawer - it was already filled).

A Girl! In All her Resplendent Glory

I spotted this post this morning, linked from a few friends on my facebook newsfeed. The pictures are beautiful and the project is creative. 

I was immediately drawn to it; I try to keep up with issues of The Woman, especially as related to The Little Girl.  I have one of those - little girls, that is -  and I remain concerned with the images we project onto our daughters.  [This week we're seeing the inability of Disney to let strong, real girls remain apart from sexual objectification, as seen with the reformatting of Merida, the atypical princess from the movie Brave.]   These images we continue to project, post sexual-revolution, have resulted in a culture of pornography and eating disorders, not to mention continuing the culture of unhappy marriages, divorce, and abuse. 

The second reason to be drawn to this post is that the photography is excellent.  I know not Jaime Moore, but she can sure take a picture. 

And the third reason (and it's entirely self-centered): I did a report on Amelia Earhart in second grade and have a treasured picture of myself dressed in my leather flight jacket and some sort of goggles on my head. 

So, I love these ladies - Especially Amelia, Helen, and Susan B, who are personal faves of mine.  And the little girl being photographed, well, she looks happy and to be enjoying the exercise.  And her mother's motivations are good:  stay away from the prostitutes-disguised-as-heroes in most of pop culture today.

However.

I have a few objections to this type of thing being the key to alternative, fix-the-bad-feminine-images strategy.  Please don't read this as a criticism of Jaime Moore.  She seems an earnest, excellent type who aside from taking great pictures, is being thoughtful about how to rescue her little one from the false images of sexuality that pervade and prevail.  I'm just reluctant to join the bandwagon of "isn't this cool" linking up to this project.  It is cool.  But, I fear it is not the complete answer. 

So, to the However. 

It's (not) my right: Fighting to, in fact, be a thankful house

Paul and I believe that thankfulness is the solution to many of the world's ills, thus the name of this here little corner of the internet.  And, our own world is no exception.  When there is grumpiness, chase it away with thankfulness.  When there is frustration or giving up or meanness or illness, conquer with gratitude, cheerfulness, joy.

But, not so surprisingly, sometimes that's hard.

And, as matriarch of the day, I have a special burden.  Ain't nobody happy when Mama's not happy?  Well, ain't nobody thankful for jack when Mama is just a fussin' up a storm.

And the fussing doesn't start outloud.  It starts inside.  And usually, it starts with perceived victim-hood, right?  We all know this feeling.  I have been injured, and now I am irritated, so now I am grumpy, and eventually, it works its way outward and we start snipping over the fact that are you seriously asking me again where your d**n shoes are?
And of course, the worst perceived injuries are those perpetrated against us by our families.  The world is not really out to get you, but your family probably is, right?

My husband is the most hard working, caring, kind man I have ever known, and he genuinely wants me to be happy, healthy, and holy.  And his ego doesn't even get in the way of those desires.  But, still, he clearly is in a plot to make me miserable, says the small part at the back of my head.

And do you know when the primitive id rears its ugly head and insists that gratitude is far from what is needed?

Every year at this time.
(And I bet I'm not alone here.) 

It's Mothers' Day season. 

This is a day to give us mothers a time when we are officially appreciated. The idea is that our job is thankless, and that if we can just have this one Sunday, all manner of thing shall be well. 

However, if you are as blessed as I am, you are appreciated most days.  My husband puts our children to bed, while I sit on the couch or languish in the bed or scroll at the computer, every.single.night.   My sons are, as I type, playing a game in the back yard of "Who can pick Mama the most flowers" and my daughter tells me about once a week that dinner was just so delicious and she hopes she can one day cook like I do.  And they all defer to me in matters of the matriarchy -  I dictate, hopefully benevolently and with input, the way in which our life runs on a day to day and celebratory basis.  Christmas goes the way Ann Lowrey arranges for it to go. 

They do appreciate me.  They all four do.  No, really.  But, that is not enough in my own mind.  And, to top it all off, nothing ever would be.  That's the problem, right?

One year on Mothers' Day morning, they brought me breakfast in bed.  It was pretty much my least favorite foods, all ill-prepared.  Who is the ungrateful one now?  Who doesn't appreciate whom?

Why do I (we?) feel this way?  Why is it not enough?

I was sitting here this morning and psyching myself up for not being a witch, even internally, this mothers' day.  And I realized why we keep waiting for the perfect celebration brought to us by our people.

It's because, at least for me, I'm the one who is good at this stuff.  I plan, I celebrate, I find the thing that they all need to make them feel special.  This is my job.  I better be good at it.  I am in the business of making a home.  This means the daily things and then the special things.  I am supposed to interpret and parse the real injuries from the dramatic ones, and react accordingly.  I am to take the temperature constantly.  I am to know who is stressed and why - who needs a pick me up and how - and then to enact it.  I am to recognize the reasons for and then ensure the celebrations.  And so, because of these duties, I get better at these things. 

So, this day rolls around.  And if I could celebrate myself, I'm sure I'd do a bang up job.

I would appear at my own door with a coke icee first thing in the morning.  I would send me to the book store with one of the children, and then I would clean the house for me.  I would administer a foot rub and a back rub and put on Norah Jones or better still that Diana Krall album Paul bought for me the summer Ada Brooks was born, candles lit.  I would have developed a slide show of pictures from my years of mothering, and, being inside my own head, I would know exactly what sounds good for breakfast, lunch, supper, dessert, and would pull it off with the right bit of panache.  There would be ice cream.  And I would know whether or not I was in the mood for silence or visiting, all the kids climbing up in bed with me or not, a hike or a nap, an outing or 30 rock.
I could really Mothers' Day it up around here. 

But of course, we don't want to do that.  We want them to know it all and do it as well as we'd do it for ourselves.  Even though this is what we do all day, and this is what they do once or twice a year.


I have a favorite song - it's by Mary Chapin Carpenter - the lyrics are all about a woman and those small things she wants.  It's got a great piano intro, and she rocks the guitar while singing in that great old country-rock style that defined my childhood.  She just wants pens that don't run out of ink, and, ultimately, she just wants passionate kisses.  She sounds so reasonable.  And then, she gets more and more irritated and she finally says, "Do I want too much; am I going overboard to want that touch?  Shout it out to the night; give me what I deserve.  It's my right."

And so, the seed of ingratitude grows.

[And, just before we allow ourselves on the high horse:  quiet martyrdom is no better, and sometimes more long-term harmful, than actually fussing.  Thinking, 'oh, they can't help but be terrible husbands and children, but my role as mother and wife is to sacrifice and so I shall be silent and alone and only the Lord will know the sufferings of my heart, woe unto me' may be worse than saying, 'hey sweetheart - could you buck up and do something for me?' Silent martyrdom isn't helpful; the only solution is recognizing how well-loved and undeservedly blessed we already are.] 

 "It's not hard to love on people - just love on me."
"Love is a transitive verb, afterall."
 "Just try, for goodness sakes."
all run through my head, and too many days for me to admit, escape my lips.

And they do try.
And they perform at about a C- level.
And our victim hood grows.

It is the sin of our mother Eve.  She knows better, and probably, if you'll just let her alone, she'll take care of it, and you'll all see.  But see, she doesn't just want to do it her way; she wants you to do it her way as well.  It is, in a word, disgusting.

So, admitting you have a problem is the first step to solving it, right.  I am joining Ingratitude Anonymous.
The list of things for which I should be on my knees constantly giving thanks about is ridiculously long.  God is good to the world He created.

I have an employed husband who seriously never quits serving people, usually us, who is also awfully funny and a terribly good kisser.  I have three pretty children who are healthy and amusing and generally pleasant.  I have a house - with 75 year old wood floors - a gas stove, gin and tonics, phenomenal friends, a church family that actually loves us, reliable transportation, clean water, great extended family, my health, hulu and netflix, an in-house and public library system,  sauteed onions and chocolate milkshakes, great music.  


But, for mothers' day, because I deserve it, afterall, I would also like 100 ranunculus in this perfect shade of antique ecru with an ever so slight tinge of pink undertones.  Carnations are evil; don't even try that jazz.  And why, family, do you not already know this? 

Lord have mercy on my soul.