When It's Good

There's something to be said about a meal that comes together properly.  Whether you're the cook or simply the right hand of the cook (chopping vegetables or setting the table or making other preparations), you are an active part of preparing the meal.  The cook can probably handle all these tasks on their own, but there's something to be gained from a cohesive effort.  My cooking, for example, improved significantly after I met my wife.  She had formal training as a preparation chef in a professional setting, which added a dimension I had not previously had, being self-taught.

It was that way from day one.  I was ready to prepare dinner and thought nothing of volunteering to cook, and she was equally willing to offer her assistance in whatever capacity was required for the meal.  We must have both surprised one another during that initial meal, because we couldn't help complimenting one another's efforts, and praising the resulting meal from our seamless teamwork.

Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised.  In retrospect, neither of us should have been when considering how our first date transpired.  Unlike my previous experiences, where my counterparts would order tiny meals or skip dessert, then constantly pester me for "a bite" of my food that turned into them inhaling half of my plate, my wife ordered a real meal and ate until she was full.  She not only ate until she was full, but she really enjoyed her meal, and she wasn't afraid to try new things.  In fact, she appreciated the variety of food I was able to expose her to.

Thinking about how this would work after having children was never really a concern of mine.  It was so far from conscious thought that my daughter blindsided me when she started eating solid food.  Sure, she consumed breastmilk and baby food purees with reckless abandon, but all kids do, right?!

Obviously that last part isn't true, but it represented my reality, and sometimes it's hard not to think our own reality as correlating to those around us ... that is, until your eighteen-month-old daughter inhales everything from burgers and fries to fried chicken to steak to broccoli and everything between as though the meal would be her last.  As meals were being prepared, she would hover near the kitchen, barely able to speak, but completely capable of conveying her anticipation.  

Just before her second birthday, a restaurant commercial appeared on the television, featuring a steak and baked potato, captivating her.  That's when she suddenly pointed emphatically at the image and chirpily declared, "Mmmmmmmm!  It's good!"

Of course it is.

Bright and Early

Mornings in our modern society can be a bit trying for those of us who tend to be more nocturnal.  Regardless of our preferences, society expects us to be available during weekday mornings.  There is no better example of this arbitrary requirement than when you're a child and required to attend school.  Bright and early in the morning never seemed to feel that way to me.  In reality, it still doesn't, and I doubt that will ever change.

Unfortunately for my children, this night-owl trait appears to be genetic, particularly at the end of the week.  When my son was six and being woken up by his mother for school on a particular Friday, he claimed he could not get out of bed because his stomach was hurting.  Not buying it, his mother told him to, "eat a banana and a cereal bar for breakfast and maybe you'll feel better," obviously thinking his aching stomach was related to hunger more than anything else.

As my son walked toward the kitchen in a defeated sort of way, my wife assumed the issue was settled and resumed her morning routine.  She had clearly underestimated his resolve, because when she got out of the shower and checked on him, she found him in bed, under the covers once again.

"Why are you back in bed?"  She asked him.  "Why haven't you been getting ready for school?  Did you eat breakfast?"

From under the covers issued his muffled response, "yes, I ate breakfast."  He then peaked at her from under the covers and indignantly declared, "Mama, it didn't work!  All it did was make me go pee!"

Of course it did.

Love and Loss

The stories of our lives are a collection of chapters that we're barely aware of.  We don't even realize we are in a new chapter until well after the previous chapter has long since concluded.  For example, there was a period in my life when it seemed like my wife and I were constantly attending weddings — and then we weren't.  If anything, weddings have largely been replaced by wakes; a result of the cruelties of life, tragedy, and circumstance.  It's no wonder books and movies are divided into chapters, given the parallels to our own condition.  Except with our lives, it seems only in retrospect can these chapters be fully appreciated as many struggle to appreciate the significance of things as they are happening.

Apparently "many" does not include my daughter.  When she was eight, she was sick for a few days and missed some school.  Although not normally a big deal, this time it was during a locally sponsored trout farming program for my daughter's class, and she was ill right in the middle of the die-off phase.  The night before her return to school, she shared her misgivings with her mother:

"I really think (specific given-names of multiple alevin, aka baby fish) died by now because they were really sick the last day I was there," she said with difficulty, taking a moment before continuing.  "They're probably dead, but I guess that's what I get for loving them too much," she said, breaking down as she was consumed by her sense of loss.

While this provided us with a great opportunity to discuss natural life cycles and the reality that everything that lives will eventually die, we learned more from the moment than she did.  Our daughter has the heart of a child, yet to be jaded by the cruelty of life, so she loved with all of her heart.  Of course she did.  And there's nothing wrong with that.

Starting Over

There is a certain love affair society tends to have whenever a new year first graces our calendars.  Resolutions are made with abandon, all with the promise that this year will be different; an upgrade.  As much as I'd like to join in, believing in the limitless possibilities, last year's baggage is still in tow, still requiring a resolution of its own.  These things tend to be so all-encompassing, there's not exactly a lot of room for additional obligations, prompting further prioritization.

Of course, the downside of addressing the most pressing of obligations is the reality that things we genuinely desire will also have to be set aside.  It's a tough lesson for anyone, but even more so when you're six and fighting a particularly nasty stomach flu.  

My son had barely slept as he had been puking the majority of the night.  When morning dawned and he was still struggling to hold down fluids, we called him in sick to school and called his pediatrician for a sick appointment.  We then laid him down on the couch in the living room for the sake of proximity.  At around nine in the morning, after his sister was already at school, he sat up and looked right at me, clearly bothered by his liquid-only-diet.

"Daddy, can I have some food?"  He asked me.

"No, mijo," I replied consolingly, "because you've been puking all night, we need to make sure you can hold down liquids before we try solid food."

He gave me a melancholy sort of look and responded in a tone that matched.  "Daddy, I want to start over," he said as he collapsed dramatically on the couch.

Of course you do.  I think we could all use a do-over from time to time.  I just wish it were that easy.