It’s Friday and it’s a snow day. Monday was MLK Day. Tuesday was another snow day. Wednesday had a two hour delay. All of this time off applied to my children; some of it (the federal holiday) applied to Ryan; none of it applied to me. Whenever I feel my mind and mood drifting into solidarity with the other exasperated and beat down working parents on social media and at the neighborhood sledding hill, I try to remind myself that I am personally very well-positioned to weather (ha ha) all of these unplanned school closures, in that my job is generally not very stressful and nobody is expecting anything of any consequence from me this week. I would certainly like for these kids to go to school at some point so I can experience a moment’s peace, but the only thing really keeping me from having fun in the snow with my family and my neighbors today is my own mind, and two meetings.
I have been having this conversation with myself re: my inability to truly perceive the invaluable nature of my flexible white collar job since the beginning of time, pretty much :(
Conversation I just had with my eldest:
Me: If you’re going outside to make a snowman, you should wear those waterproof mittens that Dad got for you guys.
Gus, pulling on thin flimsy knit gloves: No.
Me, who escorted both kids home from the park while they wailed about how cold they were not two hours ago: Your hands are going to immediately get wet and freeze in those gloves.
Gus: No they’re not.
Me, mostly to myself: I don’t know why you’re speaking to me as though I do not understand how snow and hands and fabric works but okay
Speaking of Things Dad Got For You Guys: When the first snow fell, we discovered a winter-boot-sized hole in the kids’ infrequently used snow gear stash. Gordon had a new pair of light-up Spiderman snow boots, purchased in desperation last fall at a Target in Gaithersburg, Maryland when we were on our way to pick apples in the drizzle and had no waterproof shoes of any kind in his size. But then, fast forward to this week: Gus was totally out of luck in the snow-friendly footwear department, except for a pair of rain boots that he refused to wear, for secret reasons known only to him. During our first attempted outing he stuffed his feet into a pair of snow boots from several years ago and insisted he would be fine, then had to turn back after half a block, in angry tears from the pain. Just go put on your rain boots, we pleaded. The rain boots fit you and they’ll work. No dice. Full of rage, toes pinched, he limped home with Ryan while Gordon and I did a round of sledding.
He went out the next day in rain boots after all. His neighborhood buddies were all sledding at the park, parents rotating in and out of supervisory roles, contracting and then subcontracting out their duties as they ran into their houses to be on calls. After a while I gathered up my kids plus two extra and walked them back to our place for mac and cheese and hot chocolate and some strangely peaceful hours in the basement. At one point I went down there to stuff everyone’s coats and snow pants into the dryer and overheard Gus and Gordon putting the Barbie soundtrack on their new record player. “You guys have to hear this one,” they said. It was the Sam Smith beach volleyball song. Later on Gordon would ask for me to print out the lyrics so he could learn to sing it and I demurred. Generally speaking I think it’s a wholesome and time honored tradition for children to be exposed to mature themes through popular music, but if homeboy wants to serenade his bros on the playground about how he’s super sleazy/born to be easy, I’m gonna let him figure that one out on his own.
I was certainly feeling satisfied with myself. I had sacrificed my Tuesday so that I could be Flexible Snow Day Mom. My mind was clear; my priorities, straight; my children, happy and well socialized and connected with their community and entertaining their friends so sweetly with a record player and a pink LP that I — me — had thought to give them. I pulled their friends’ outerwear from the dryer and folded it in neat, warm piles, drunk on my own competence.
Then the friends went home. “Today was pretty fun,” I said. Then, to Gus, fatally: “I’m glad those rain boots worked out for you.”
“They actually didn’t work out,” he said. “My feet were cold and I kept tripping. You should have had real snow boots ready for me.” He stalked around the room as he said it, glaring down at the ground and then at me.
It’s rare that I sputter or miss a beat with the kids but it took at least a second, maybe two, of me sitting there with my mouth open and my eyes rolling while my brain glitched and produced all sorts of garbage: Oh it’s my fault / who made sure you had snow pants and good winter coats / I probably should have double checked the boot situation but I’m not the only adult in this house you know / also I’m not your personal assistant / then again I kind of am / okay but JESUS can you cut me SOME slack / (voice from the subbasement of my brain) did you hear how you let his feet be cold all day / etc.
“Ugh,” I said, in a pissed off tone, then thought the better of it. “Yeah I messed up. I’m only human.” We eyeballed each other. I will be drawing the line at apologizing to you, my eyeballs said to his.
Turns out his new snow boots, ordered by Ryan as soon as the problem emerged, were already in the mail and due to arrive the next day, just in time for the second round of snow. When Gus put them on he exclaimed in delight: Wow, Dad! These are so good!
Fine! Whatever!!
RECOMMENDED:
We’re renovating our kitchen (More accurately: Our contractor Martin is renovating our kitchen. “We” are not “do”ing shit), and have been slowly putting away the pots and pans and cutlery and bowls and transitioning into a No Cooking, No Dishwashing lifestyle. I will say, as the household’s Dinner Planner, Grocery Shopper and Chef, that I feel, at the moment…a little bereft but also so free?? Anyway we’ve been exploring new horizons in the Trader Joe’s Convenience Foods landscape and here are some of our heavy hitters at the moment:
Icelandic Style Skyr Lowfat Cherry Yogurt:
Also comes in Raspberry and Vanilla, which are tasty, but the Cherry is god-tier. I thought I hit my lifetime limit on yogurt back in September when I went to make my customary Big Hungry Weightlifter Lady breakfast of Greek yogurt/protein powder/ blueberries/granola and was suddenly filled with the conviction that if I tried to make myself eat tangy crunchy slop one more time I was going to hurl. This Icelandic stuff, though! I wish it came in a bigger tub but as-is it’s a pleasing little snack, with a pudding-like texture that rolls about in the mouth.
Ryan and the kids like theirs with a little drizzle of honey and you know what???? Sometimes????? Me too.
Bag o’ eggs:
While I was googling around for an image of these bad boys (I took this one from an admirably servicey but possibly defunct Blogspot, Exploring Trader Joe’s, thank u to that blog), I became aware that the concept of buying a plastic bag of peeled hardboiled eggs was somewhat controversial. You can imagine the arguments (wasteful/lazy/ridiculous/environmentally unsound/gross) and the counter arguments (I think you’re forgetting about folks with disabilities) all on your own I’m sure.
Listen I am no stranger to boiling some eggs to go on top of rice or noodle bowls, and I usually throw a few extra into the pot to enjoy later in the week. Obviously it is not difficult for a person such as myself to make hardboiled eggs, and that’s why it had never occurred to me to buy these until now, when I have lost access to my stovetop, sink and countertop. But once we can use our kitchen again, will I keep buying these? You bet your ass I will!!!! It’s not the pre-boiled nature of these eggs that’s so valuable, it’s the pre-peeledness. You reach in and lift one out and there it is, ready to be rolled in some flaky salt, begging for you to sink your teeth into it, immediately. I love these wet little guys.
They do sit in a puddle of their own juice, which is upsetting. And the bag smells like farts when you open it. No pain no gain as they say
Hatch Chile Mac n Cheese:
No notes. I would die for her
All crudités all the time:
Please bear with me here, but: I am experiencing a real paradigm shift around the Dinner Vegetable. As our household’s Dinner Maker, and as someone who, through luck and no effort of her own, has children who will consent to eat a wide range of foods, I am always just making things for dinner that I want to eat, that I look forward to eating. I would say that looking forward to dinner is about 60% of my personality. I can whiff breakfast; lunch can be a bore. But if dinner sucks, the entire day is stained. When dinner is bad, what was the point? Of living I mean.
In our current circumstances, however, what I consider to be an exciting Dinner Vegetable is either impossible (roasted or stir fried items) or too annoying (salads) to put together, and so for the foreseeable future we are just getting our fiber in the form of bite-sized vegetables in little crinkly bags. Obviously a small handful of baby carrots has always been on the menu for the kids, especially during Bullshit Kid Dinner nights (aka Friday - Sunday), but I don’t hate this new way of operating, where every night is a Bullshit Dinner For Everyone. I submit to the Bullshit; I have no choice. I am in a gilded cage of my own construction, crunching my way through half a bag of sugar snap peas as a way to pass the time while my mac n cheese is in the microwave.
Next time on Capitulate Now: Katie tries Soylent for dinner and the light behind her eyes goes all the way out
Thank you for this service journalism!!!
January was really a wash, school-wise, eh?
I serve at the pleasure of the president (Mr. Trader Joe)
January was not great!! But I'm sure February will turn things around!!