Crispy tofu and oh god what now
Gargantubaby is two and three-quarters. He loves to play "family": "You be the baby, and I be the daddy" (or, if he deigns to recognize the 19 months I FED HIM FROM MY BODY, the mommy). Mostly I play him, and he plays one of us, but he also loves to be the baby so he can say, "Goo goo, gaa gaa" and pretend to cry.
Which is better than actual crying, which I've done twice in three weeks. That may not sound like a lot, but generally I don't cry unless I'm laughing or witnessing humankindness. Mostly when shit gets rough I get angry or anxious or, lately, have panic attacks.
Then 480 people in Iran died from drinking methanol, not because they wanted to die, but because they wanted to live.
A relative posted something on social media: "We are going through a collective traumatic experience."
Also: "Not everyone has the privilege of turning a pandemic into something fun or productive."
The specifics of my experience are different from everyone else’s. But at the end of the day, we're all going through it, and I've been striving to count my blessings.
It's possible—POSSIBLE—that my breakdown about the mass deaths in Iran and across the world coincided with my menstrual cycle, since the second time I cried was the next day. SJ had to leave the house for some essential bullshit, so I was trying to work (because I am blessed to have work and to be able to work from home), be with my son (because I am blessed not to be separated from him and that he is healthy), and eat something (because I am blessed to have food), and I was getting frustrated, so I kept walking away from him. I finally sat back down with his sister's Elsa Uno cards between us (we've entered the Frozen stage) and put my head in my hands.
"This is hard," I said.
"You can do it!" he said, dealing me a card.
(Note: Either I stress-menstruated five days early, or I'm entering perimenopause. Stay tuned.)
Three Mondays ago, I broke it to Gargantubaby that he wasn't going to daycare that day, or any day.
Jenny: We're going to have a little vacation at home.
GB: Why? Is a surprise?
Jenny: (Surprised) It is a surprise.
GB: Is it my cupcake?
NOPE.
We have a family dance party every morning around 8:30, with intermittent attendance. If it starts too late, I bow out for work. GB gets bored with yoga and screams if anyone plays anything other than "The Elmo Slide," a song I will never, ever be able to get out of my head. But sometimes everyone shows up, and we each pick a song and take turns "leading" a class. GB fucking loves this because we do whatever he does, which is a combination of jumping and rug parkour. The other morning, during "Elmo's Slide," he made his angry face and yelled "Angry eyes!" Yes—our own little Richard Simmons, instead of "Jazz hands!" or "Smile!" yelled "Angry eyes!" So we made angry eyes and hopped in place for three minutes.
The 10-year-old plays her creepy pop and then retreats to her room to puberty. SJ is the only diehard. I walked in one morning to him giving the family a slam-dancing lesson to the Dead Kennedys. Another morning I got him to do Jane Fonda's Buns of Steel.
SJ: I feel so overdressed. (Coronavirus humor): Isn't one of the symptoms shortness of breath?
Jenny's state of mind: I dreamt Bill Murray was murdered.
GB's state of mind, after being cooped up with his parents and a dog that terrifies him just by being alive:
When I sneeze, instead of saying his usual, "Bless you," he glares at me and yells, "Stop!"
Amid everything else, GB is still a two-year-old, figuring out the world.
He constantly asks for "soft cwackers." SJ and I have no idea what he means. We just give him the regular crackers, and he seems OK with that.
He's trying out a lot of language, including phrases he's heard. In our house, those phrases run the gamut from "reflects good parenting" to "did you forget you have a two-year-old."
Over breakfast:
GB: I'm really proud of you, Mommy.
Jenny: Aww! Thanks, honey. Why are you proud of me?
GB: Because you have toast. (Thinks for a second) You have peanut butter on your toast?
Jenny: No, I don't have any peanut butter.
GB: (Chews politely. Apparently not proud anymore.)
He's finally getting over a cold OR COVID-19 WHO THE FUCK KNOWS he's had for more than two weeks. The sleeves of all his shirts and pajama tops are slimy or crusted with snot. Every hour or so he cries out in desperation, "A tissue! A tissue!" At first I thought he was desperately asking me to kiss him, but when I would try, he would get really upset. This morning he cried, "A tissue! Holy cwap!"
He's alternately demanding and sweet. He says "sowwy" so often—"Sowwy, Mommy," or "Sowwy, Daddy"—that we must say "sorry" to him pretty often. So we have a routine of responding, "You don't have to be sorry," since he apologizes for things that truly don't merit apology, or at least we don't feel he needs to apologize because he's fucking two, man!
The other morning in bed, he said sorry for something so mundane I can't even remember what it was, and before I could respond, he said, "I don't haf ta be sowwy?"
Jenny: Do you want to go pee-pee?
GB: I don't want to go pee-pee. But thanks to asking me.
I complemented his painting the other day:
Jenny: It's beautiful.
GB: No. It's not beautiful for me. It's uncomfortable.
He's still brilliant. After months of every color being "blue," colors have suddenly clicked for him. I also thought he was getting "left" and "right," but then he started mixing them up and I realized he’d just had a good week (he has a 50% chance of getting it right every time, after all).
He can almost spell his name, both by saying the letters out loud, picking them out on a keyboard, and pointing at letters. We've been working on it for weeks I MIGHT BE A LITTLE OBSESSED. His name has six letters and he can get the first four without prompting YES HE'S BRILLIANT AND WE TAKE DONATIONS TO HIS 529.
He's "a big kid," a "nińo grande," a "big boy," or, when he doesn't want to do something, "a little guy." When he's feeling charitable he assures me I also am a "nińo grande."
If anyone's learning new skills during the quarantine, it's him. I walked into the living room to find him holding SJ's phone and watching the movie Dr. Doolittle.
Jenny: SJ? What's going on in here?
SJ: (Comes in from the kitchen) How did he get it unlocked? (I don't even know SJ's password, because we both know I would snoop if I got the chance, even though SJ is very, very boring.)
Me: Did you have that movie cued up or something?
SJ: No!
GB found a fairy wand, so I showed him how you can wave it and turn somebody into something else. I turned him into a cat, a snake, a dog, and a bear, which he played along with, delighted.
"Now you do it!" I said. He took the wand and turned me into a dog, then looked around the kitchen and turned me into an apple, which confounded us both. Then he turned me into a potty, an eye, and some teeth, and then the game was over, because it doesn’t really work with inanimate objects.
As usual, SJ is keeping me sane. How I know we're meant for each other: We watch Cheers reruns on Netflix and cry laughing.
He's also killing me, of course. In preparation for the quarantine, we broke down and bought an iPad. SJ has yet to call it "the iPad" or even "the tablet": In searching the house for it or deciding we should use it for some educational app, he calls it "the Pad."
NO ONE CALLS IT A PAD.
NO ONE.
EXCEPT SJ.
Last thing: As I've written before, my family holds hands at dinner and goes around the table to say, "I'm grateful for X," before we eat. GB is going through a phase of, "I'm grayful for eye" (as in an eye, singular) or "I'm grayful for dinosaur," both respectable choices. But two nights ago, as I was saying goodnight in the dark, he squeezed my neck and said, "I'm grayful for you."
DID I MENTION THE CRYING.
SJ and I have been cooking up a storm. It's the only thing that makes all this cooking and cleaning bearable. This is one dish for which we had all the ingredients, and though simple it turned out really well, and the kids ate it, BOOM. This is almost completely lifted from Bon Appétit, as usual. You need:
· 1 (or more) blocks extra-firm tofu
· 1 ½ "-in. piece ginger, peeled, very thinly sliced
· ¼ cup soy sauce
· 3 TB pure maple syrup
· 3 TB rice vinegar
· ½ tsp. red pepper flakes
· ½ cup vegetable oil
· Cooked rice, kimchi, toasted sesame seeds, and sliced scallions (for serving)
You need to:
· Drain tofu, then sandwich between several layers of kitchen towels to remove excess liquid. Cut into 9 cubes.
· Whisk soy sauce, maple syrup, rice vinegar, red pepper flakes, and ginger in a small bowl.
· Heat oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high. When oil is rippling across the surface, carefully add tofu so it doesn't splash. Cook, undisturbed, until very crisp and dark brown underneath, 3–4 minutes. Carefully turn and repeat on opposite side. Holding tofu back with a spatula or slotted spoon, pour out oil into a small bowl. Return skillet to medium-high heat and add soy sauce mixture. Cook, reducing heat to medium so it doesn't over-reduce or burn and basting tofu occasionally, until glaze is thick enough to coat a spoon, about 4 minutes.
· Divide tofu among plates. Drizzle with glaze, then top with scallions. Serve with rice alongside, plus kimchi and sesame seeds.