Why is dinner so hard?

I have a goal to eat dinner as a family. But getting my family to wait until dinnertime is only part of the problem. The other part is what the hell to fix.

My children and I are vegetarians. (Not that this is a huge issue with Kai at the moment.) So our boxed-crap options are pretty slim. And I'm sick of them all. I love pasta, but am burned out on store-bought sauce. And that's pretty much the food industry's answer to prepackaged vegetarian food, at least at my grocery store. (Oh, Schnucks, I miss you.)

My daughter thinks macaroni and cheese is a food group.

My partner thinks ramen and freezer burritos are acceptable meal options.

I have a collection of recipes that I am working to expand, but right now it's pretty small. And when I ask "What do you want for dinner?" the answers never come from my recipe box.

I tried making a menu planning board. I put the names of recipes we all like on cards and put the board in the kitchen. All we have to do is select and post a handful of recipe names each week. We did that once. The same dishes have been up there since around June.

I created a similar list on my phone. The names and recipes for all our standby meals are all there -- I just have to pick a few, then go to the store and buy what we need. But apparently even that is too much work.

When I lived alone, I made a pile of new recipes and planned menus around them. I shopped every two weeks, and tried out 4 or so recipes between shopping trips. I planned the menus to reduce food waste but still afford myself a little variety. I ate healthy food, dropped a few extra pounds, and felt great.

Suggesting we try a new recipe to this crowd is about as popular as suggesting we play a fun new game called Russian roulette. Even when I promise we can go to Sonic if it sucks.

I am not completely innocent here. I hate going to the grocery store so very much that usually I buy whatever we used the week before, toss in some healthyish junk food for Anya to nosh on, and call it done. So my pantry remains full of pasta and tomato sauce that I don't want to eat.

I need to get a handle on this before Kai is old enough to grab snacks on his own, or it'll be anarchy around here.

Love and money

Couples often fight about money. It's been an issue in past relationships for me, so I understand. For instance, that was the main reason offered up to me by my wasband when we had a pregnancy scare and he asked me to consider abortion. He didn't want the child cutting into his spending money. (I wasn't pregnant, so it turned out to be a nonissue. And a year later, I wasn't married anymore, either.)

I've never been in a relationship in which my partner and I saw eye-to-eye about money. But with one brief exception, I've always had my own money, so it's not been as big an issue for me as it is for some. And in my current relationship, I have what may be the perfect scenario: I make the lion's share of the money, and my partner is more frugal than I am. (In most ways, anyway.) That means I get to make most of the big financial decisions, and don't have to rein him in much. We have had some silly arguments, mostly about how long leftovers are still good (I would never, ever bring home fries from a restaurant to eat later, for instance, and consider most refrigerated leftovers contaminated after three days). But for the most part, he trusts my judgement and doesn't blow my budget.

Now if we just had a little more money, we'd be in good shape. But who doesn't think that?

I won't say we don't fight. We do. Just not about money. It's...nice.

A long December

So it's December. Where my life usually veers wildly out of control. A poorly balanced diet and erratic bedtimes and extra freelancing and holiday-related craziness. This is the month that I send the rent check late and oversleep and totally forget important appointments. It's only the beginning of the month, and I am already dragging.

Our bootcamp theme this month is "Wrapping up 2015 with Great Balance and Poise." I've not done yoga once this month. Haven't meditated in weeks. Other than the walk I took on Thanksgiving, the only exercise I've gotten recently has been shopping. And shopping with my daughter is not the greatest example of my poise. (Especially when she runs off and hides in the clothes racks.)

In a way, I am glad for the disintegration of my routine. It usually means I slide into January head first, begging for some structure to my life. I hit the ground running January 2, and uphold my resolutions faithfully...oh, until March or so. But some of them do stick, so it's not a completely wasted effort.

For this month's bootcamp goals, I'm knocking out a lot of holiday-related tasks, but also looking ahead to those resolutions. My big three (exercise more, sleep more, eat better) will of course be on there. And working on my debt -- that's a biggie. But more and more, I'm beginning to realize that I need to rein in my gaze. Instead of always looking out ahead of me, I need to look at the ground I'm standing on. Make more time to do special things with the kids, even if it's just a walk to the local playground. Put a little more effort into making the house look nice; Anya can't stop talking about "Anya's beautiful house" since we've put up the Christmas decorations. Find a way to add a little more peace to my days.

It's so easy to hop on the work treadmill and fix my gaze on the horizon -- buying a house, getting a larger vehicle, getting married (yes, that is on my radar, though not an immediate goal). Plow through the days and weeks and months with little thought beyond my long-term goals. But the process of achieving those goals will be far more pleasant if I spend a little effort on the here and now. I just need to figure out how I want to go about doing that.

Flattery

The other night, after our shower, Anya was watching me brush her hair.

"No, like you," she said, indicating I should part her hair on the side, like mine. So I did.

"I should trim your bangs," I said. "Get them out of your eyes."

"No!" she cried. "No cut hair." And started flapping at me to drive me and my implements of hair wrangling back.

"Okay, okay," I conceded. "I'll leave you be."

As I put away my brush, I watched her carefully pick up a chunk of her bangs and position it so that it fell in her eyes. Just like mine is always doing, because I tend to put off trimming my bangs for at least a month longer than I should.

This child is such a little fashionista. I buy her outfits, and she mixes and matches the pieces to come up with even better outfits. I buy her shoes, and she pairs them with her outfits in surprisingly sophisticated ways. I don't often allow her to play in my makeup, but at 4 she is every bit as good with lipstick as I am. (Which, admittedly, is not saying much. But it almost always stays on her lips these days.) She shops for jewelry and handbags like other kids shop for toys. The fact that she wants her hair to look like my overgrown mop speaks more to her opinion of me than any words or gestures ever could.

Makes me think perhaps I should give her a slightly more attractive role model.

The lying game

I've caught my daughter in a lie. Not our usual scenario -- she is hurt or sick and doesn't want me to know, so she says she feels fine. No, this is an irrefutable lie: She got into the Advent present bin and opened presents. (All of them. At least the bin was small enough that she only had access to a few.)

I've suspected as much for days. She offered her brother a toy I was certain I'd not given him yet (before she figured out the wrapping paper was color coded). Also, I was seeing more Shopkins baskets than I believed she'd received. Before that, she was getting into the Advent tree and filching candy. I put the tree up out of her reach until December 1...but I guess I didn't address the sneaking part strongly enough.

Today I caught her playing with a toy I knew she had not received yet. Checked her room, and sure enough, there was the Advent container, the wrapping paper, and the toy packaging. No denying it now.

Man. I was not ready for this conversation.

Today, of all days, too -- today I am swamped. So I gave it a quick "lying isn't nice/Santa is watching you" and went back to work. But I know I need to do better than that. I just...don't know how.

I remember being caught in my first lie. I climbed a tree that was too small for such treatment and broke a limb off. At my babysitter's house, no less. She was really good about how she handled it, but I still felt ashamed. (Still feel ashamed, as ridiculous as that sounds. Nearly 40 years later.) I'm trying to follow her example, and handle this firmly but gently. I don't want to ruin the Advent tradition for Anya. As I suspect I have ruined her enjoyment of that Elsa doll.

Much as I hate to do it, I know I need to not replace those Advent gifts. If she still gets a present every day, she's going to think that this behavior is ultimately okay. And it is not okay.

This opens the door for a bunch of crap I really don't want to deal with. Not with this child. I was timid and people-pleasing and constantly worried about doing what was right. All you had to do to make me fall in line was be disappointed in me. My kid doesn't have a timid bone in her body, and is too headstrong to consider what others expect of her when she wants something. No, I need to nip the lying in the bud.

But how to do it with love...that's the issue.

My little mirror

My daughter is speaking more, and more clearly, than ever. To my delight and horror, depending upon what comes out of her mouth. Because it's almost all me. Oh, there's some Daddy in there, and Mimi and Poppy, and a fair sprinkling of Hobby Kids. But most of it is me. And I'm not always pretty.

But sometimes she moves me to tears, man.

Like last night. Mimi and I were going shopping after work, and it was for Anya, so of course Anya could not go. But I couldn't tell her that, because Santa/childhood magic things. So I was upfront, but vague: "Mommy has to go somewhere with Mimi and run errands. I'll be back soon. You need to stay here, because reasons."

She was cool at first -- one lone tear, which is downright stoic for my living anime character. But then she called me into the bedroom. Patted the bed and told me to sit.

"Listen. Listen, Mom."

I smiled. "I'm listening."

"Remember that time when you went [somewhere...I didn't catch that part]? Remember? When you were gone?"

"Yes, baby. Mommy hates to leave you, but every so often, Mommy has to. I'll bring you a treat when I come back, though."

She put her hands on my cheeks and looked deep into my eyes. "I missed you, Mom. Really missed you. Don't go. Stay here and play with me."

No tears, no yelling, no lashing out. Just simple, quiet, rational discourse. From my 4-year-old. About how she can't bear to be away from me -- even with the promise of a treat.

Note that she wasn't begging to go. She wasn't objecting to being left behind; she was objecting to being away from me. Nothing like a coating of Mommy Guilt to make an outing complete.

And she did it not by using my worst behavior against me, but my best. The mommy I wish I always were: Calm, gentle, thoughtful.

Oh, Santa was good to her last night. Yes, indeedy.

Hoarding redemption: Oatmeal boxes

(Sorry for the missed post; Monday turned out to be extraordinarily hectic, and it just slipped my mind!)

Ordinarily, I am not a hoarder -- in fact, I am the trash-happy member of this household. ("What did you do with my whatever?" "Oh, did you want to keep that? I pitched it. Sorry!") But every now and then, something takes hold of me and I hoard. The strangest things, too -- butter tubs, hangers, cardboard toilet paper tubes. This goes on until R teases me, at which point I realize the extent of my foolishness and stop. Usually. (When we moved into this house, with us came a large moving box full of nothing but empty hangers. Seriously.)

 

Lately, it's oatmeal boxes. I eat oatmeal like crazy now -- I go through about a carton a week. And I have been keeping those cartons, because they look cool. I'd thought I would make flower arrangements in them, since my salt box arrangement turned out so well. Which was fine for one or two boxes, but my collection was a bit bigger than that. The problem is that once I save one box, I have a hard time justifying throwing away subsequent boxes. If I needed that one, why don't I need these five?

Yes, I have issues.

I started scheming about a collection of seasonal arrangements. However, the arrangement wasn't quite tall enough for the carton, so I moved it to a vase and repurposed the covered oatmeal box to an advent present container.

Which left the rest of the stack. Thankfully, inspiration struck: I could use them to pack gift boxes for the homeless at the Memphis Union Mission. They ask that you put toiletries, gloves, and little treats in a wrapped shoe box, but I don't have any shoe boxes. However, the oatmeal container is about the same size as a shoe box, and can be wrapped in such a way that the paper need not be ripped off.

Cover the bottoms and tops.

Wrap the sides, leaving a small
overhang at the bottom.

Curl paper over the bottom edge.

Fill!

So I made a bunch of packages, which we will drop off sometime in the next week or so. And have depleted my hoard, which is also nice. 

But I'm almost through with this week's box of oatmeal, so the pressure is mounting.