Thursday, May 26, 2011

The Odes of May


Radish, you spicy little onion you,
how you make a salad sing
with your peppery bite
hidden under your crimson sling
may you always reign supreme
and be so bold
to stand up to creamy dressings
and lettuce oh so cold
you are best sliced thin
smashed into an avocado
on crunchy toast with watercress
standing bold with a pinch of salt
and no bravado


Quinoa, Quinoa, my favorite grain,
I love that no one can say your name
(except for me, of course)
it’s “keen” like a lover’s sigh
and “wa” like a baby’s cry
all crunchy and chewy and easy to cook
with mushrooms and feta each bite is perfect
Quinoa, Quinoa, my favorite grain,
I love that no one can say your name.

Red Pepper

Oh red pepper, you are the best,
oh so bright in your fashionable jacket
Oh so much better than your wan cousins
yellow and orange cannot compare
and green, tasting yucky everywhere,
oh red pepper you are a dream
of crispy, crunchy veggies steamed
or fresh you are the best.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Mixed Truths and Some Lies

- it sucks not to be able to cook. Baby S is very, very demanding right now. Less cooking more carrying out.

- frozen vegetables are ok. I like frozen creamed spinach very much. Also, frozen turnip greens are delicious. Frozen mixed veges are nice to add to a quick soup. Frozen corn is delicious pureed in soups as a thickener.
- slow-cooker. Slow cookers save lives. I am making slow-cooker chicken thighs in tomatoes and garlic for dinner tonight. It beats having Wendy's again.
- there is no such thing as baby-proofing. Just saying.
- a little bit of dark chocolate goes a long way for the soul, the tired, aching, dirty old soul.
- cold coffee really sucks. I rarely get hot coffee anymore. Microwaved coffee is wrong, just wrong.

Weigh in

193. So slow but at least it's moving.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Ode to Mother's Day: Blog: It's not all about bitching; sometimes it's about love.

I don’t want to miss a thing. What will happen if I miss one breath, one blink, one smirk, one tear—what will it look like when she takes that first step? Will she know it? Will she be proud of herself? Will she feel afraid or will she feel triumphant? Maybe both, a little afraid and then the rush of “I did it! Holy shit, I am walking!”

Can your heart explode from loving so much? You know that feeling in your chest when you see something amazing and touching and you almost cry (welling up, tight and hot)? I feel that way every single flipping day. That is the love of being a parent. If anything ever happened to my daughter, my heart would die (black, frozen, bottom-of-the-ocean, dead.) The love that she inspires in me is the real thing—genuine, unembarrassed, unconditional love—it’s fierce and bright and hot and free; it floods out of me, uncorked. She is the moon and the sun. She inspires poetry and music and dancing and all things tender and sappy and divine. I am in love—maybe for the first time.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Sleep training and other myths of parenthood

There is no such thing as sleep training. People lie about it all the time. That or they have nice little babies that have the right temperament for sleep training. My baby says, “No effing way Mom—if that is your real name—I am not sleeping just because you want me to. Forget it! Hold me or I will scream!! DO it now!”

None of the sleep training books or blogs or info on the web says what to do if your baby screams (not cries, not fusses, not whines but screams) for 2 hours while you are supposed to be sleep training. Baby S will go from lying in her crib to all-fours to sitting up screaming. She can sit there and scream indefinitely. So what should I do? How can I comfort her? She is not hungry. Not thirsty. Does not need to be changed. She is exhausted. What can I do?

Two hours is a really long time at 2 am.

Signed, slightly defeated.



My yoga practice has become more of a meditation and less for exercise. That is not to say that I don’t get those totally sweaty practices where sweat drips from my nose onto the mat because that happens every time I practice. But it is so much more for my mind—for my own sense of quiet—to check in with myself. Checking in is something I am denied most of the day. Baby S doesn’t really allow much time for me. She demands so much. I want to give her so much. It leaves very little for me.

I search out the quiet. When I am yogaing, I concentrate on a pose or breath or gaze and I do not think about babies or husbands or pain or how tired I am or how long it’s been since I have had a brow wax. I just get strong in the pose and breathe, focusing my mind into the movement, holding, breathing. I love those moments.