A Letter of Persuasion.

Dear H,

Any chance you could come home early?

We're all pretty excited about camping.

Especially Jane and Mitchell.

They've been playing campout in the living room for the past hour.

I'm wearing my most granola-y pants.

And my hair is in a braid.

Think me. In 1998.

(Or 2010. Same thing.)

Hurry home.


W.

Whipped.

Today, from across the row of car seats, Mitchell called out to his sister. "Jane," he sighed, "I wuv you."

Jane gasped. "Mom!" she cried, beaming, "Mitchell wuv me!" I glanced in the mirror. She was staring right at me, her eyebrows raised, her eyes popping with pleasure while her mouth gaped with joy.

I think it made her day.

Five minutes later, as I tried my hardest to pry Mitchell's determined fingers from my neck while his preschool teacher pulled from the other end, Jane watched, concerned. He wailed as she dragged him away, his cries ringing through the neighborhood.

I stood there, conflicted.

"Mom?" Jane asked, as we drove away, Mitchell's moans echoing from behind, "Mitchell so sad! But, Mom! Mitchell...he so sad..." She wanted to turn around. I tried to explain, but it didn't matter. She didn't want an explanation. She wanted reassurance. She needed affirmation that her big brother, the wuv of her life, was okay.

And he was.

Until about 4:45.

Mitchell was the father. Jane, the baby. He chased after her with an old bottle, the both of them laughing their guts out until a sickening thud stopped them, dead, smack in the middle of their fun.

I left the tortillas burning on the griddle and rushed over to a frightened Mitchell. One hand was gripping his head, the other was smeared with blood.

My stomach flipped.

I scooped him up and rocked him in my arms. We sunk into the couch, his face buried in mine, and he cried.

He cried. And cried. And cried.

Nervously, I held him. And kissed him. And rubbed his back.

And so did she.

He sobbed for her to go away!, to leave him alone, to not touch him. He begged her, desperately, to just stop. He plead with her,screaming, "Mommy, I love YOU!"

But.

She wouldn't leave.

She just stayed put.

She gave him no choice.

Finally, an exhausted Mitchell gave up.

He looked at her, torn between frustration and love.

Accepting this cue as victory, she scooted nearer and, in her most empathetic voice, said "One time I do that too, Mitchell. One time I cut off all my things: my hair, my glass slippers and my fingers."

Everything stopped.

It was silent.

She waited.

And then, it happened.

He chuckled.

"No," he laughed, feebly, "you did not."

She continued.

"Yes, I did. And so did you. You cut off your nose. And your eyes. And your fingers. And your ears..." she trailed on through every body part until Mitchell could no longer resist.

They joined forces, finishing each other's sentences. And your...CHEEKS! And your...EYELASHES! And your...SHOES And your...TOES! And your ... (Is anyone else disturbed by my children's grotesque sense of humor?)

And then, in one last attempt to win him over, she pulled out the big guns. With perfect toddler comedic timing, she threw back her head and sucked on that ridiculous bottle.

It worked. Like a charm. Just as she'd hoped it would.

He was overcome with laughter, giggling, uncontrollably, like an old buffoon.

She couldn't have been more pleased.

And that was it. Her work was done.

Satisfied, she turned on her heel, bottle swinging from her mouth, and strutted toward me in her mismatched high-heels.

I looked into those mischievous eyes. They were brimming with pride. She smiled, coyly, her hidden smile speaking volumes.

Then, with perfect finesse, she carried on her merry way.

She never even looked back.

She didn't have to.

She knew he'd come.

And he did.

Less than a minute later he was at her side, fully recovered and ever grateful, ready to resume their day.

And that is the story of a girl. Named Jane. Who loves her glass slippers.

But loves her brother even more.

The End.

Peach Love.

I'm not sure, but I think Jane's cheeks are to blame. They're plump. And soft. And round. Her skin is creamy. And rosy. And when the light hits her just so, it's easy to catch a glimpse of the vanishing summer sun, glowing from her peachy skin.

I'm just sayin'. One look at that girl's face and I want peaches. Lots of them. And lucky for me we (by "we" I mean Costco) have plenty of them.

Last week I made peach pie. Saturday, peach ice cream. Sunday, peach syrup. And today, between the two of us, Jane and I ate at least four. Peaches, that is. All juicy and ripe and sweet, like we'd strolled out into our Georgian orchard and picked 'em ourselves.

Summer just ain't summer without fresh peaches. I can thank my mom for that addiction. We grew up with peach trees. And corn. And tomatoes. And green beans. And apricots. And swiss chard. And everything else you can possibly imagine.

But I always loved the peaches best. I loved the pies. I loved my mom's syrup. I loved her jam. And although I didn't love standing at the sink for hours, every night, slipping hot skin off buckets of impatient peaches, I did love watching my mother slide them, gently, into the fat jars. I loved watching her arrange them in the hot pan, the steam sealing the lids like a gift for next winter. I loved the tart, yet sweet aroma that hung in the kitchen as we worked. Bucket, after bucket, after bucket.

By the week's end, the counters were swamped with jars of peaches, their color perfectly preserved, the peak of summer captured in every bottle. I could hardly wait for that frozen December day when I'd trek downstairs to the basement, sneak into the pantry and open a bottle of summer.

It's hot tonight. The fan is spinning above me, my cotton skirt is resting above my knees, my hair is pulled up off my neck and my bare feet feel swollen. But I don't mind. Because it means summer is still here. It means there's another day to jump in the pool. To eat a popsicle outside. To finish that novel. And, best of all, to eat another peach.

Maybe I just love peaches because they taste good. Maybe I love them because they make a great pie. Maybe I just love that soft fuzz that reminds me of my daughter's cheeks. But mostly I think I love peaches because my mom loved peaches. They make me think of her. Of my childhood. Of our home. Of her hard working hands. Of her freckled summer skin. Of her garden out back and her bountiful pantry inside. And of her love. Her ever present love, for me.

Canning peaches might be a lost art in this house. But I hope when Megan grows up she remembers hot nights in August, gathered together eating peach ice cream and feeling "cozy." (Her words.) I hope that Paige looks back and remembers laughing, and giggling, and talking over a hot peach pie. I hope Mitchell will make his favorite peach syrup for his own kids. And I know Jane won't remember slurping peaches with me over the kitchen sink on a quiet Monday morning. But maybe she'll remember me. With her. The two of us sharing a peach. Or a puzzle. Or a good book on the couch. And what a good life we had.

My kitchen is definitely the heart of this home. It's where we meet. As a family. Every. Single. Day. It's where we create memories. And love. And amazing food. It's where kids refuel after school. It's where we embrace a father at day's end. It's where a wife nurtures, a mother comforts.

And it's for that, not the peach pies or the homemade ice cream, that I know my own mother would be proud.

I know I am.

Swayed By The Pink Tie. (And The Face.)

Can you believe I was actually scared to have one of these? (A boy, I mean.)

I mean, seriously, just look at him.

He surprised me this morning at the kitchen counter. I turned around to find him fully dressed for church, pink tie and all. His handsomeness killed me.

"Mom?" he asked, "Can you make peach syrup for my pancakes?"

I wasn't planning on peach syrup. But what do you do when a kid who looks like that asks you for peach syrup?



You make peach syrup.

The End.

A Death Wish, Annoying Music and A Blueberry Muffin.

I grew up next to a long, winding road. It led to everywhere I ever needed to go: the candy store, my best friend's house and a little french bakery called "C'est Bon."

I used to run (yes FG, you read that right...run) on this road, listening to Erasure on my purple walkman. I rode my bike on this road, my pockets jingling with quarters as I pedaled my way to buy candy. I learned to drive a stick on this road, stalling up and down the never ending hills. And every morning, around 7:00, I prayed for my life to be spared just for one more day as I bounced down this road on the way to school.

Her name was Heather. She drove a red, Suzuki jeep. It was dirty. And old. And had no padding in the back seat. It popped like a shotgun when she took off and probably never passed an emissions test. Ever. Heather drove one speed, which usually averaged about 97mph, and she only listened to two songs, Doin' The Do (don't worry, it's not worthy of remembering...) and The Joker (what is a space cowboy?), over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over...

But.

Sometimes, if her foot could hit the brake in time, she would stop at the french bakery at the end of the winding road. And it would almost (almost) make up for the broken tail bone I suffered, daily, crammed against my will into the back seat of that machine.

C'est Bon made the best blueberry muffins. Ever. Period. In the entire world. End of story.

Summer (my bf) and I would jump out, our necks sore with whiplash and our thighs blue with bruises, and race inside for a still-warm muffin. They were oversized, too big for their (or my waist's) own good. They were topped with a crumbly streusel that hung from the edges like crackled lace. I'd gently lift the entire top off the muffin, cram it into my mouth and thank heaven I'd survived one more day in the back of that death mobile, just so I could be right here. Right now. With this muffin top melting in my mouth.

And here I am. Twenty years later. Still trying to recreate that moment. (Minus the broken ribs and the obnoxious music.) I think I got pretty close this morning.

Sour Cream Blueberry Muffins with Streusel Topping

Muffins:
2 cups flour
1/2 cup sugar
3 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon of salt
1 egg, beaten
1/3 cup oil
1/2 cup milk
3/4 cup sour cream
1 1/2-2 cups blueberries

Streusel Topping:
1/3 cup butter
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 cup brown sugar, firmly packed
3/4 cup flour


Preheat oven to 400 F.

Mix dry ingredients in large bowl. Add blueberries.

In separate bowl, combine wet ingredients. Fold gently into dry mixture, just till combined.

For topping: Combine flour, brown sugar and cinnamon into food processor. Cut butter into 1/2 inch cubes and add to processor. Pulse until crumbly mixture forms.

Fill muffin tins with muffin dough and top with streusel. Bake at 400 F for 20 minutes.

Yield: 12 muffins.

An Old Trick.

By the time Jane was born, I'd discovered a few tricks.

This (see above photo) was one of them.

Megan was a pretty happy toddler. Except around 3:30pm, when something always happened. A shift in her mood. A drop in her energy. A lull in her brain. Suddenly every snack became unappetizing, every toy, loathed. It was too late for a nap, too early for bedtime. She rejected puzzles, blankies, dress-ups and me.

I racked my brain. It was empty.

In desperation, I turned to my kitchen. Worse yet, I turned to the pile of dishes sitting cruelly in the sink. I looked at them. They looked back at me.

And then, inspiration.

"Megan, do you want to help Mommy with the dishes?" I asked, my face full of wide eyed/wrinkled forehead/syrupy smiled excitement.

That's all it took. She was hooked. Every afternoon she'd pull up the chair, next to me, and scrub away her blues. Soon enough it became a high, rather than low, point of our day. We'd sing. And laugh. And splash our way through the lull. Content to pour water from one cup to another for at least an hour, Megan would soak her way back to her happy self, just in time for dinner.

Today Jane woke up from her nap. She wanted milk. But then she didn't. But then she did. And then she didn't. She finally settled on cheese. Orange cheese. No, white! No, orange! No, white! No, orange! No, I don't want cheese! Finally she fell into my arms, her grumpiness too heavy to bear. Hold me up! No, down! Up! Down! Up! Down! Up! I WANT MY MILK!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You can sense where this was headed.

I cranked open the kitchen faucet faster than a Haagen-Dazs lid at midnight. "Janebug," I cooed, "Do you want to help Mommy with the dishes?"

She bounced up, her pout turned upward, her eyes brighter already. I scrubbed pots and she scrubbed pots. We sang. We laughed. And she dumped buckets of water all over the kitchen floor.

(Frankly, it needed a good mop anyway.)

It was one of my favorite kind of moments. The kind where life feels simple. And pure. And good. Where the world is spinning, but you're still, so still, sharing something ordinary, yet magical, with your child.

I felt slightly nostalgic as I rubbed arms with Jane. It doesn't feel so long ago I was rubbing arms with blue-eyed Megan in our shabby student apartment, with textbooks stacked on the microwave. And the kitchen table. And in the coat closet. And under the bed. She filled my every thought. We were constant companions who spent every day discovering each other: I, as her mother, she, as my daughter, and the two of us, as friends. We read, and napped, and baked, and took walks, and collected leaves, and danced, and dressed up, and sang songs, and told stories on the couch and, of course, played in the kitchen sink. And that was our life. Simple. Easy. Happy.

I know someday I will grow old. And I'll have that pinched turkey gobble hanging under my chin. And I'll start watching Jeopardy. And I'll have nothing to blog about anymore. But at least I'll have memories like today. With Jane. The two of us at the sink. I'll remember the way she sang along with me as we buried our arms in bubbles. I'll remember how she pressed her hand against the spout, spraying water throughout the entire kitchen and soaking the both of us like rain. I'll remember how she stuck her chubby arm down, with mine, into the glass pitcher, our hands swirling through suds to scrub it clean. I'll remember how the house was a mess. And the other kids were playing. And dinner was cooking. But she was right there. With me. Smiling. And happy.

And so was I.

And I'll remember how, long after her fingers had turned to prunes and her grumps had disappeared, she turned off the water, lifted off her apron, climbed down from the chair and walked up to me to say, matter of factly, "Mom, I'm all done doing the dishes."

And she waddled off to play.

The End.



_________________________________________________

Let the record state that blue-eyed Megan no longer jumps at the chance to help me with the dishes. Nor does green-eyed Paige or hazel-eyed Mitchell. Thank goodness for naive-eyed Jane...

Le Dejeuner.

Sophina.

Meet Sophina.

She loves ruffles. And duct tape. And grape popsicles.

But mostly she loves to swim.
Especially in a golden skirt.

With a silver bow.
(It gives her magical powers.)

And her favorite duck.

Every afternoon, Sophina asks her mother the same, simple question.
"Mother," she says, "Can we swim today?"

Sophina's mother wants to say yes.
But sometimes she has to say no.

Because of homework.
And practicing.
And dinner.
And (Sophina's least favorite) school.


But today was special.

Today, she said yes.


Sophina slipped into her suit and floated out the door. Her silver sash hung from her shoulder and glittered in the sun. Her loyal duck sat comfortably in her left hand, awaiting the coolness of the water to refresh its scorched back. Long wisps of hair hung like tinsel around Sophina's face as she braved the heat, popsicle in hand, skipping romantically to the song in her head.

(Sophina always has a song in her head.)

Suddenly, she turned to her siblings, a dreamy smile upon her face. "Call me Sophina," she said, wistfully, as she glided toward the pool.

It was her only request.

And all of the children obliged.

And then Sophina, with her duck, her skirt and her magical sash, jumped into the pool.

And she was happy.

So happy.