jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

Alden and Elliot showed poor form by being born with 17 days between them on the calendar, just two years apart. I enjoyed that short stretch where I got to say “I have two under two. And they’re both boys.” and people would recoil as if it was catching. The truth is that they wear my behind out, but I don’t know any different. I mean, would I have polished nails and a tidy desk if they were girls? If they were three or four years apart? I have no idea.

Their proximity in age and birthday, though, means they share parties. We throw one family party and one kid party. I’m following my tradition pattern of lots of grand planning, total inaction, then frantic compensation on the day before. I like the grand planning part the best. I even made a Pinterest board to collect clever ideas.

Here’s my favorite:

The fake Harry Potter font makes me cringe, but it’s a cheap and easy magic trick.   Adults should feel free to use vodka. And go first. Because I know those kids are going to fight over the colors until I am threatening to end the party right then and send the pony home. (There’s not really going to be a pony.)

When I asked Alden what kind of cake we need he said:

— A Star Wars cake (He has no idea what that is.)

— A Darth Vader cake (He has no idea who that is.)

— An outer space cake.

— And for Elliot, a banana cake that looks like a banana and tastes like a banana and has bananas on top.

As you contemplate those requests, know that the first cake I made for him looked like this:

Shut up.

Damon’s mom made a cake for our niece that looked like this:

Guess who is getting assigned the banana cake.

The situation as it stands is that I have tons of good intentions, very little skill and even less time. I am open to suggestions and prayers.

Damon: Knock knock

Alden: Who’s there?

D: Banana

A: Banana who?

D: Knock knock

A: Who’s there?

D: Banana

A: Banana who?

D: Knock knock

A: Who’s there?

D: Orange

A: Orange who?

D: Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?

A: Why?

After racing up the stairs…

Elliot: I win!

Jillian: You win!

Elliot: No! I win!

Have I mentioned that Alden refuses many foods? A million times? Is this secretly a blog about a kid who won’t eat? Is there anything more boring?

It’s not as bad as it seems, considering how much attention I give it here. My big concern is his health, of course. But it also touches on my ego, though, and the hubris of assuming I could make my kid into a “good” eater by “doing it right.”

Ruth Riechl (love!) wrote an essay (I think in Gourmet — I can’t find it) calling for the end of children’s menus in restaurants. Amen!, said I. (Except for the part where no mention was made of server smaller, less costly version of regular menu items for the kids. Not everyone eats for free, dear Ruth.) The idea was that kids live on chicken nuggets and grilled cheese because we don’t challenge their palates, we don’t do the work to introduce new things. Ha!, say I.

I want my kids to be adventurous eaters. I want them to love food and all its implications like I do. I really felt like I could make that happen. Except I couldn’t with Alden. Turns out my kids are who they are, rather than raw clay for me to mold as I please.

All of this is preamble to a flash of inspiration that helped.

Alden will eat chicken salad. Meaning, chopped chicken in mayonnaise. Last week, facing down two hungry kids and a looming bedtime, I grabbed a fresh container of chicken salad as an easy means to get dinner done. My heart sank when I opened it and saw tiny flecks of carrots. I would very much like Alden to eat any carrots, including tiny flecks, but I knew we were in for a  total refusal. So I flipped off the lights. I told him that they were hurting my eyes, so we were going to eat dinner with just the lights from the adjascent kitchen. He could see his food. But he couldn’t SEE his food. Ten minutes later his plate was clean. I can’t get a bowl of broccoli in him that way, but we have successful gotten small, soft vegetables into pasta sauce and chicken salad, passed off tuna salad as chicken salad, and hidden cheese under the sauce on his pizza.

My favorite part of this tip is that the only effort it demands is the energy to flip a light switch.

This interactive fountain, on Knoxville’s Market  Square, is one of Alden’s favorite places.

What Elliot’s doing while I’m at work.

Pretty much everything you need to know about my boys. Peeking into “the polar bear’s basement” at the Cincinnati Zoo.

We went to New York City. Alden discovered the massive Toys R Us in Times Square, and the cool science section behind the T-Rex.

Elliot’s wondering how seriously to take my threats. He decided “not very” and made me chase him all over the Tennessee Aquarium.

Alden took this picture. It’s one of my favorites because you can see (and I can see) what I feel when I look at him.

He has the same effect on his Grammy.

I don’t get too political here. And I try not to make my kids a billboard for my causes. But we stand as a family for equal rights. This is us at Knoxville Pride.

Dear Folly Beach, we love you and we’ll be back next year.

Alden got himself a Godmother. He made an excellent selection.

Endless, endless love.

Also, see that pasta salad? Alden wouldn’t eat it.

He is cute, no? Sitting sweetly on his leafy perch. I envision myself feeding him bread right out of my hand, like I did the squirrels in our old park.

Now picture him IN MY HOME. And envision me with my feet up on a chair, frozen and somehow also sweaty. Cut to twenty minutes later and I am shoving suitcases into the car seats and my sons into the storage compartment of the Honda.

To go back a few steps… my home in this story is my father’s little cabin in the woods. Now my little cabin in the woods. Although the mice would probably make some noise about squatters rights and occupancy laws.

You have to understand that Damon and I spent many years in small apartments in big cities. We don’t really know how to take care of a normal house, much less a little cabin in the woods. One visit I brought a bag of bird seed, thinking we might hang a feeder. We didn’t. I left the seed. You can guess the rest. In case you can’t… field mice infestation. Field mice times a million.

On our next visit we got there late, unpacked and went to sleep. Something woke me up, some sixth sense. In a pre-dawn haze I walked out of the little bedroom just in time to see… something… zoom past my toes. And then another, across the room. And now we’re back to the part where I’m on the chair.

I’m not a screamer. I’m more of a freezer. My heart scrambled up my throat and all the little hairs stood on my arms. I didn’t want to haul everyone out of bed at 4am, and so I waited until nearly 5 (heroic patience!) before I hissed, “DamonDamonDamonDamon. We have to go Right Now! Mice! We have miiiiiiice!”

Half an hour of equal parts cringing, gasping and car packing and we were making the 5-hour drive (that we’d just completed the night before) back home.

Exterminators have visited. Damon found a kind and iron-spined local woman. I told her she could name her price, as long as she went in there and gave every dead mouse a decent burial (or whatever) somewhere far, far away. I will raid the college fund if needs be.

We’re going back for the long weekend, and this time we’re bringing cats.