jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

To the person who found this blog by searching “crush on my mailman”…

Do it! Seriously, make that mailman love you. You can do it. He wouldn’t come to your house every day if he wasn’t interested, right? I know that your long-term civic relationship makes it complicated, but surely you can face that down even if the worst happens. You cannot possibly make a bigger fool of yourself than I just did trying to sing a Julie Andrews lullabye to my baby. That was a travesty. Think on this: If you break up some day you can send yourself passionate love letters (you know he’ll be reading) and extravagant gifts. What could be more delicious that making your ex hand-deliver tokens from your new love?

Unless you are part of a monogamous relationship. To you I say…

Don’t do it. It’s not worth it. When this all inevitable devolves into recriminations and regrets you will still have to see that guy every. damn. day. Face it, you’ll have to move. You don’t need that.

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.