Happy Birthday to moi

Well, I'm 35. Thirty-five. That's basically, practically, nearly 40.
But you know what? I'm okay with that.

The last five years, my birthday hasn't been much of a celebration. I turned 30 two weeks after an emergency appendectomy (and the loss of Dave's grandmother). The next four years went like this: pregnant, nursing, pregnant, nursing. And not just pregnant, but first-trimester, so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open, so sick I subsisted on cheese toast, pregnant. Then not just nursing but pumping-around-the-clock nursing. (I know I complained of this just a few posts ago, but hey, years of both Thanksgivings and birthdays and Christmas holidays have been compromised by the rigors of growing and rearing babies).

In fact, I haven't been much for celebrating much of anything about myself. When I left my job after six years, I refused all offers of Board dinners or cocktail parties, and only reluctantly submitted myself to a staff breakfast on my last day at the very last minute (and then turned the whole thing melancholy with my tears.)

But you know what? It's time to celebrate. This year, I feel as if life is moving forward. I feel like saying, okay, let's celebrate me.

I had a preview tonight when Dave and his parents cooked up a delicious dinner to my specifications: flank steak with chimichurri sauce, mashed potatoes, spinach salad with hard-boiled eggs and bacon, butternut squash (Dave's addition), and, for dessert, pumpkin cupcakes and mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. Oh, and Pete got me a bottle of Mommy's Time Out red wine, which I am polishing off right now (don't worry, I shared.) Clio and Eleri made me drawings. Dave got me a throw pillow I was dying for but which was cost-prohibitive (he got it 70% off!), and I got to open early Christmas presents from Barb and Pete. And it's not even actually by birthday yet!

Tomorrow, I get to indulge in one of my favorite activities: sitting on an airplane, reading a book, with no obligations and no one to bother me. (That's right: the girls are staying here with their grandparents. Perhaps one of the greatest gifts ever, though not actually intended for my birthday.) I'll surely watch the movie, no matter how bad, and drink the complimentary diet coke. (It's the little things).

Then, I get to spend a weekend in NY, with my husband, and to remember what it is like to go to bed when we feel like it and wake up when we feel like it and feed ourselves whatever we want, whenever we want. I get to do some Christmas shopping in an actual store. I get to get my haircut. I get to have dinner with my mom's group. And another dinner with my aunt and uncle and cousins. And then, when all of the celebrating is done, there's one more celebration to come: we close on our house on Monday.

And then, the following week, reunited with my children who will almost certainly be even cuter and smarter and funnier and sweeter than even I ever knew, we will all head off to MN, where I will celebrate again with (more of) my family.

And to all of that, I say:

yes, please.

A Dave's-Eye View

Dave is a wonderful photographer- he is the reason that we end up with beautiful photo books at the end of the year, and why about half of the photos on this site are a pleasure to behold (he thinks about light and mechanics, I think about narrative and composition). Before he trained his lens primarily on his daughters, he took pictures of the world. Sorting through photos from the year, I was reminded that he has a very particular point of view.

These pictures were taken last Christmas, at his grandparents house, and they capture both the sense of melancholy we felt then, when Eleri had pneumonia and PaPa was in the hospital, and that we feel now, with PaPa passed on, MaMa in a nursing home (at 93), and Barb and Pete preparing the house and 40 acres for sale.

So much of this blog tells of his life through my point of view. I wanted to share a bit of his.

Too Much Information

Want to freak yourself out?

Just head on over to the parenting section of your local library or neighborhood bookstore. There you will find titles like Your Dieting Child: Is She Dying for Attention? And Too Much, Too Soon: The Rise of Early Sex in Youth. And Early Puberty. And Why Kids Lie (actually, considering Clio's recent penchant for Little White Lies, I might actually read this one.) For every phenomenon we fear, and for all those we never thought to fear, there is a book.

I suppose this is a good thing: should one of the girls (god forbid) become a "cutter" or battle an eating disorder, I'll be glad for resources. But for now, it is simply too much information.

I did, however, take out a book called Your Three Year Old: Friend or Enemy, and I'm planning to read it today.

The 500th Post

I will never forget the day that my college friends Dina and Jocelyn uttered two words that changed, in short order, the way I thought of myself.

We were on the path from the campus townhouses (or "THs" if we're going to use Vassar lingo). It was winter. I was wearing baggy pants, a vintage blouse, and a tight little sweater vest and I had recently cut my hair short and dyed it aubergine and topped it with my silver-sequined beret (it was a look.) I was telling a story about some crazy thing that had happened over the holiday break. We were probably heading to a Sociology class. But maybe Ijust remember it that way because they were about to give label to my essence. The words they uttered: Drama. Queen.


GASP!


I literally stopped in my tracks. I probably rolled my eyes or flipped my hair (oh wait! no hair to flip) or stomped a foot or two for emphasis, or planted my hands on my hips and harumphed my shoulders, all the while protesting, "I am not a drama queen."

They laughed. In my face. Then asked me, in disbelief, if this was the first time anyone had ever told me this. As if it was impossible that I did not know this about myself. As if it was so obvious, they could only be shocked by my shock.

Allow me to consider.
I do think of myself to be an altogether practical, down to earth sort of a girl (oh, okay, cue laugh track), but I suppose I do, on occasion, embellish for dramatic emphasis. Dress for dramatic entrance. Make use of the dramatic pause. Sigh, dramatically.

If a girl can be labeled in this manner based on the number of feather boas and wigs she owns, or the percentage of her wardrobe that includes animal print or metallic thread, or the wind power generated by her hand gestures while telling a story, or the number of semi-colons and colons she uses in a single blogpost, then fine, perhaps I have had my moments in the drama queen department. Although I prefer the term "Maximalist."

I hadn't given this much thought recently, until I saw these pictures of my own progeny.




And I thought to myself, oh my, it's genetic.

And then I realized that I had been plotting for weeks (months!) what to do with this, my 500th post (500!)

And now, with it written, I feel I should have done more. But there's no special effect in blogger for glitter, for feathers, or for a sidelong glance coupled with a STAGE WHISPER.

Alas.

Thankful

I'm thankful for so much, really, truly. The obvious: my partner, our health, our kids, our wonderful, generous families, the relative ease of our new life. In this moment of the thanksgiving weekend, finding myself very fortunate, I had various posts in the works about privilege, about family, even--bittsersweet--about the people we have lost this year. But tonight, I find myself thankful for something simpler: a break.

Over the past four years, Thanksgiving has found me pregnant, nursing, pregnant, nursing, and working on top of that. Last year, the holiday break from my day job included reviewing student papers for my teaching job and taking calls about a legal issue related to my Board position. This year, I'm not pregnant, not nursing, and I did not check my work email (for my one and only job) once.

For months, there has been something constantly hanging over our heads. Big things to do, like selling our house, on our own, at the bottom of the real estate market, or planning a cross-country move with two small children; deadlines for work projects; a job search; the rigors of starting a new job (or, for Dave, school). And smaller things too, like choosing side tables for the living room (although, arguably, this took nearly as much time and energy- if not stress- as the former two.) In any down moment or time off, we have been running off somewhere: to visit family, to visit Boulder in preparing for the move, to weddings and to funerals. But this weekend, there was nothing that we had to do. And I remembered what I've been waiting for for ages: that feeling of being settled.

For months, it feels like I have dreamed of a time that I could just sit and read a book. This weekend, not only did I finish the wonderful Pulitzer-prize winning The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, but I read (in two days) the wonderfully trashy Prospect Park West, a novel that both made me glad to have left Brooklyn and sad to have it portrayed thus, a novel that paints many of the challenges of motherhood in sympathetic, if unflattering, light. Reading both a book that educates and illuminates something about the human condition, and one that, in a way, holds up a mirror and asks you to look at who you are: what a luxury to go both places in one weekend!

This weekend, we also saw friends--friends!!--in Boulder, including some neighbors we met at a party (their daughter, about Eleri's age, is "the other Ellery") as well as a friend-of-friends, which feels like an accomplishment in three short (long?) months here.

We enjoyed Boulder, taking Clio ice-skating on a small rink downtown, taking walks in the neighborhood, heading to the playground, and driving this morning to the Children's Museum in Denver. But also leaving plenty of downtime in which, I must say, I really enjoyed quality time with the girls, and quiet time in our house. Last night I started editing the year's photos for the annual Christmas photo book, and I noticed something: all year long, it looked like we were in the midst of moving, and not even most so when we actually were packing up the house. While our upstairs in Brooklyn came together quickly, the main level--where we spent all of our time--never quite did. As much as I obsess over home magazines, love decorating shows, and want to live in a space that makes me feel good, the constant stream of paint chips and half-made decisions in Brooklyn was part of the constant looming to-do list. I don't think I realized this until our neighbors invited us over to see the work they were doing on their home--doing themselves--before they ran off to Home Depot, joking, as they left, that all they really wanted to do was go to the Butterfly Pavilion, a nearby attraction that they have not been able to visit in their few years here, though we have in our few months.

Over our 5 years on 30th street in Brooklyn, we acquired investment pieces slowly- the beautiful solid cherry farm table that Dave's Dad made for us, the Phillipe Starck white Ghost chairs (the largest splurge we've made), the orange rug bought with Amex points- to mix with the "heirlooms," such as the white tufted "boudoir" chairs and 60s cabinet from my grandparents and the Asian armoire (and headboard) from my parents. Every time something new came in, something else felt wrong, had to be changed, and the process felt unending. The process was unending: we never finished it for ourselves, but instead finished it for potential buyers, making choices that were more "neutral," less personal. In the end, there was one bonus to this: when we left Brooklyn, the house had not yet sold, so we left it staged, opening the opportunity to finally (at long last!) replace the no-longer-white sofa that was purchased a decade ago, long before kids were in the picture.

In Boulder, with all the major pieces in place, decorating was just a matter of the smaller touches: new curtains, a dining room rug, a desk chair; I researched sunburst mirrors (for above the couch) and side tables (for beside it) obsessively but quickly, and I love that, 3 months in, I can look around the living room/ dining room and think: done. (Well, almost: I'd like new throw pillows on the white chairs, a yellow leather or lacquer tray on the coffee table, and some glammy frames for family photos on the end tables, but that's all just fun stuff, anyway.)

So let me amend: this weekend, I find myself grateful for the simple thing of having a break, and enjoying it in a house that is itself settled.

How ironic that it is a rental!

Thanksgiving 2009

Dave and I hosted Thanksgiving this year. Between a trip to NY last month for my cousin Patrick's wedding, another one next month to close on the Brooklyn house, and then Christmas in MN, I was in no mood to get on a plane--with the girls. Plus, Thanksgiving has typically been a driving holiday, with my Aunt Missy and Uncle Jim hosting us in Connecticut more often than not over the past 16 years. When I found myself complaining to Missy that we would be lonely on the holiday, that we would really miss being part of their thanksgiving, she gave me sage advice (as always): make it your own. Start with some good recipes and build from there. This is, of course, not a problem for Dave and I, and I must say the results were delicious. In fact, our guest Amy voted it her best Thanksgiving meal to date.

Here's the menu:

Peterson Farms Roasted Turkey with Giblet Gravy
Dried-Fruit Stuffing
Mashed Potatoes two-ways
Sweet Potato casserole with hazelnut topping
Green Beans with Toasted Garlic and Almonds
Pan Carmelized Brussels Sprouts with Applewood smoked bacon, lemon, and brown butter
Gingered Cranberry sauce
Parker House Rolls

Bourbon Vanilla Pumpkin Tart with Whipped Cream
Gingerbread Cookies with Vanilla Ice Cream

Because Dave is Mr. Artisenal, and because I recently read Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, which has an entire chapter on Turkey husbandry and the superiority of heritage breeds, Dave ordered the turkey from Peterson Farms in Minnesota, through our local organic meat purveyor, Herb's. After much research, he brined it overnight in a recipe of his own making, which he calls "part Alice Waters, part Alton Brown"; roasted it with a fairly basic butter baste, and made stock from the giblets as a base for the gravy. Allow me to remark that there is nothing hotter than a man who knows his way around a turkey, and will not only carve it, but cook it, for Thanksgiving.

As for the sides. We recently read this funny pair of articles in the NY Times facing off a food editor who believes Turkey is King with another who is all about the sides. While we did not ultimately choose any of their recipes, we did get inspired by the multitude of gorgeous side dishes. For a bit of tradition, I made one of my mom's favorite stuffing recipes, from Bon Appetit circa 1997, and got the simple cranberry relish from Sunset Magazine ("The magazine of living in the west": I'm soooo susceptible, and rarely need more of an excuse to buy a new magazine at the grocery check-out). The potatoes- all three dishes- came with the Desautels-Steins (Justin and Dave have been making things "two ways." Actually, they recently made chicken two ways, two ways. While it's simple math it doesn't seem quite right, so let me clarify: four different chicken dishes over the course of two dinners.) The brussels sprouts came from NY Magazine, where the picture (and the ingredient list) had us both drooling, and the green beans are Dave's classic, from the Gourmet cookbook, though the link above seems very very close. Same with the parker house rolls, a light yeast roll that Dave made from scratch.

We have no buffet, and not a lot of room in the kitchen, so we all served our own plates from pans on the stove and platters on the washer-dryer, leaving me to capture the spread really only on my plate...with a little toddler interference. But yum, right?



For some reason I'm always making desserts from Cooking Light, and our Thanksgiving treats were no exception. I don't know if this is some kind of balance thing (I'll have seconds; at least it's "light") or if it's simply that this is the only cooking magazine I read and therefore it is my primary exposure to dessert recipes. The filling for the pumpkin tart was divine (though the crust soggy- I didn't have a spring form pan, so who's to say if it's the recipe or the equipment?) and the cookies, which Clio and Dakota helped make last weekend, never quite got iced, but have been gobbled up.




Missy gave me one other helpful piece of advice: to think about what we really wanted from the holiday and do away with traditions that didn't make us happy. This came in part in response to my complaints about all my good china being in storage. As I thought about it, I realized that a pretty table IS important to me, but a formal one is not. So I used what I had on hand, including a mix of casual dishes with finer stemware (and silly vintage glasses for the kids), rough linen napkins which I tied with some vintage grossgrain ribbon from the craft drawer, and finer linen placemats which I did not bother to iron (nor will I ever: who cares?), and put together a pretty little centerpiece from a $10 grocery store bouquet.


In trying to engage Clio in a little craft project, I also ended up tracing some leaf-shaped cookie cutters on old, faded construction paper; I was planning to decorate some printed menus, but instead used the pink leaves as place cards.



The clean room and pretty table made me unspeakably happy; it signals a special event for me when the toys are all put away and the table sparkles--in fact, it was always my job to set the table for big events growing up, and I never tired of polishing silver or sorting through napkin rings to find a complete set.

More importantly though, I love that we spent the day cooking together and taking turns running after the girls. That we got to host our friends Justin, Amy, Dakota, and baby Noah, without whom Boulder might be a very lonely place. That Dave and I wrapped the night watching 30 Rock in front of the computer. And that the dishes were done and everybody in bed before 10.

I'm also pleased that Dave and I took on the tradition of a delicious Turkey dinner. While Amy and Justin debated whose family produced a worse Thanksgiving meal, I realized Dave and I could never have such a conversation: our mothers (and families) are excellent cooks, and Thanksgiving--turkey AND sides--is no joke, in either household.

Finally, i love that Justin suggested--and nearly succeeded in capturing--a Peterson family portrait. The only two photos that I'm aware of with all four of us are in the hospital after Eleri was born and in Chicago when Dave's parents came to babysit the gilrl while we went to a wedding.


These, while a bit unruly, are also merrier.






Happy Thanksgiving!

The Curious Incident of the Doggies in the Nighttime

Eleri is obsessed with dogs.

But it's sort of a strange obsession, because if an actual dog actually comes near her, she freaks out and demands to be picked up. So it's more the idea of a dog, Plato's shadow-on-the-wall dog, if you will grant me that latitude. We tested the theory by showing Eleri some puppy videos on YouTube: yup, the girl loves dogs- on video.



She especially loves this book that Barb ordered for the school library where she was librarian for many years: when it turned out to be not quite as educational as Barb expected, she passed it along to Clio as a gift. This is one of those touch-and-feel books, where most of the dogs have a little furry patch you can pat or a sticky tongue, or a pull-tab makes the dog's head wag or leg scratch. Eleri can not get enough of this book.

The other night, she woke up around midnight, crying, inconsolable. This never happens. We tried everyhting: more milk, in case she was hungry. Some oragel on her gums in case she was teething. A steam in the bathroom to relieve the congestion from her cold. While in the bathroom, out came her one sentence: I want Daddy. Now considering the hour, I thought this was a great idea, and roused Dave from bed, only, when he came in to see Eleri she shook her head and said "uh-uhn" in that charmingly emphatic way she has. So we had to think: not Daddy.... (you see where this is going?) Yes, Doggies. We got the doggy book, put Eleri on the bed between us, and for the next 15 minutes she jumped up and down on our bed, laughed, waggled paper dog heads and tails, and generally tried to engage us in play, all woes of moments before forgotten. I swear, you would have thought the girl was at the circus eating ice cream while taking a bath. (have I mentioned that the bath is Eleri's favorite place? That she likes ice cream enough to trot out her never-used sign, "more").

Anyway, after 15 minutes of this, Dave deemed her ready to go back to bed, and sure enough, not another peep.

I want Doggies, indeed.