Stuffed shells and everything is going to be OK
Gargantubaby is 4 and a half. He says things that make no objective sense and then rolls his eyes, hard, when I ask for clarification.
You’re not listening to me, he cries.
He loves Pikachu and Pokémon, although none of us is clear on what Pokémon cards are for (although SJ uses them to teach him multiples of ten) and GB hasn’t seen any Pokémon movies because none of the rest of us wants to sit through that shit.
Spiderman is his favorite superhero — again, how? He’s too young for the movies — and SJ and I are strong-armed into endless bath time/potty time/bedtime stories about Spiderman and “the big Hulk”: “Mommy, will you tell me a story about Spiderman and the big Hulk?” My stories always have lessons about diversity and saying please and thank you. SJ’s stories have snowboarding and zombies. GB listens to both with rapt attention.
Gargantubaby: You’re making me so angry I’m going to noise up the place!
SJ: Kweku is going to come over this afternoon so we can garden.
GB: Prove it!
GB: What does prove it mean?
***
I got some feedback this week. Basically, it went like this: You have communication issues and everyone says so.
HAVE WE MET YES I KNOW
I’m not a New Year’s resolution kind of person. This is because I have not been able to keep resolutions, and each subsequent failure compounds my sense that This Is Just The Way It Is and I Will Always Shock People With How Unprofessional I Can Be. These are some past resolutions:
Stop talking.
Lead with empathy.
Be a better person.
Go in with humble inquiry.
Stop talking to my parents about financial issues.
Every once in a while, I make some progress: I listen when someone else is talking. I use nonviolent communication to address an issue I feel strongly about. I let someone finish speaking before telling them why I think they’re wrong. I “let go.”
Then, just when I think I’m getting better — better at communicating, better at generosity, better at considering the needs and perspectives of others — the terrible, horrible, no-good, judgmental, defensive, self-righteous person who hovers just beneath my skin, shimmering with the chance to leap out and ambush my chances at Healthy Personal and Professional Relationships, bursts through and burns everything around me into a neat, blackened circle, leaving me smoking (yet smug!) in the center.
This latest piece of feedback has given me pause (although not a panic attack — thank you, Lexapro!). Apparently, at the age of 45, I am still a work in progress ENOUGH WITH THE LEARNING EXPERIENCES ALREADY and can be cut down to the roots.
I texted SJ last night: “I think my midlife crisis isn’t over yet.”
My idea about a resolution this year has been to OH HOW I HATE TO SAY IT take better care of myself. Take the walks. Do the yoga. Get the sleep. Take the breaks. All in the hopes that if I treat myself better, I’ll treat other people better.
Either way, since I’ve been on a rampage lately about pandemic parenting/middle age/gender-based pay discrimination, I thought I’d share a list of things I actually LIKED about 2021:
2. This book:
3. This park:
5. This kid, this kid, this kid. Maybe he won’t feel as much pain as the rest of us do. Maybe he won’t cause as much pain. The other day, I said to him, “Life is hard,” and he blinked and said, “No, it’s not. Life is easy.”
***
GB has a game where he crawls into the kitchen when I’m making dinner, keels over on the linoleum, and croaks out, “These are my last words.”
So far, he’s left this mortal coil with the following: “Make it right. Don’t do what you want” and “Put signs up. Don’t let people get mad.”
***
I prepare to leave the house one weekend day, hoping that while I’m gone SJ will do some work in the attic he’s been promising to do. But because I’m trying to Be A Better Person, I don’t mention it. Lo and behold, SJ steps into the kitchen from the backyard holding a drill. We smile at each other.
I think I just came up with something brilliant, SJ says. He attaches a wooden spoon to the drill and grabs the peanut butter.
***
GB loves to have pillow fights where SJ and I assault him rapid-style with the couch pillows. GB’s favorite is getting hit squarely in the face. He can’t get enough, and I can’t get enough of his giggle, so night after night we bean him with pillows.
One night I hit him with a doozy, and everyone pauses.
Who’s the president? I cry.
GB: Me!
Jenny: What year is it?
GB: Friday!
I think, Everything’s going to be OK.
***
This recipe definitely takes some shopping, some prep, and some time, but every once in a while I’m in the mood to do all of the above, but as it turns out, GB doesn’t like this dish, which I find impossible. As I was spooning more ricotta/mozzarella/parmesan into my mouth, I said to SJ, “This isn’t something I would make for myself. I like it fine [honestly, it’s delicious, and all the leftovers get eaten], but I made it because I thought the kids would like it.”
If you, too, would like to spend two days making something your kids don’t like, by all means:
You need:
You need to:
I can’t find this recipe. I think I threw it away because 1. low familial engagement, 2. the page I ripped out from a magazine was pretty torn up. But the recipe had: thawed frozen broccoli, chopped, and thawed frozen spinach, drained and chopped, mixed with ricotta, parmesan, and grated mozzarella on a layer of tomato sauce that I make the day before.