Who's Cooking This Dinner Anyway?

I'm sitting here, at my kitchen table, as my husband cooks me dinner. And it's making me very nervous. I think Kevin made dinner for me once before. And it took two hours. It has to be understood that though Kevin and I are a lot alike in some ways, our minds work very differently. He works with computers and has a brilliant analytical mind. There are codes and symbols and all sorts of things I couldn't possibly understand and when there's a problem at work Kevin is the one they call. It's all a puzzle to him and he thrives on finding the solution. I, however, am known for winging it.

For example, before I began writing this, I caught him at the computer. The recipe called for 2 tablespoons of cream and he was looking up the exact ounce amount.... because it's liquid. Now, I could be wrong, but I suggested he just use the tablespoon. I got a look. It's one ounce by the way.

I have to admit this is bringing the worst out on me. When he spent almost 10 minutes chopping the mint so that the pieces would be exactly even in size, I almost lost it. I actually had to sit on my hands to prevent me from jumping up and grabbing the chopper. Some may say I'm a control freak, but he's just not doing it the way I would. Oh. Wait....

I suppose this is a good analogy for life - for marriage. When the Reverend married us, he told us we were each in love with the most wonderfully, frustrating person we would ever meet. We're both really feeling that right now. But I guess that is where the magic of it all lies - realizing that there is more than one way of doing things, trusting it's all going to work out, and smiling if and when it doesn't. I'm sure this dinner is going to be wonderful. I'm not positive that we'll be eating before 8:00. Nor am I sure I won't be wearing this dinner in my lap.

Why I love Jaimie Oliver.

Well, let's start at the basics. He's cute, he's charming, he cooks, and he's got that accent. Yum. What? I'm talking about his food. I've been watching Jaimie since the Naked Chef came out - way before I even tried to cook. He took good, basic cooking and made it a bit more rock n' roll. And a heck of a lot easier.

Over the past month or so, hubby and I have been watching Jaimie Oliver's Food Revolution on ABC. What an eye opener! I think we are all aware that there's a serious obesity and diabetes epidemic going on. Some of us may even be living it. Most of us probably have at least one loved one struggling with it. And yet, it is amazing to me, how even the most educated mind skips the obvious questions. What are chicken nuggets made of? (You don't want to know.) What are our schools serving our children? What are we serving our children? What are we feeding ourselves?

I personally look in the mirror and wonder.... what have I been eating? Just because the box says "Lean Cuisine" should I assume that it's healthy for me? Who's definition of healthy? Here's an example. A very trusted girlfriend and mother that I highly admire was horrified when I told her that I was feeding Buggy Gerber's jarred chicken. I couldn't understand. I mean it was Gerber's for goodness sake. I was fed Gerber's I'm sure, so how bad could it be? My girlfriend said, "Christine, think about it. It's meat. In a jar. Unrefridgerated." Crap.This isn't necessarily going to harm our children. But is this the best we can do? Don't we as people, parents, consumers, deserve more?

On Jaimie's show, he really throws these questions - and their answers - in your face. It's not always pretty and has sent me a few times to my pantry and fridge to throw things out. He doesn't always please people - I think Jaimie Oliver has just as many enemies as he does fans. But you have to admire his passion, his motives, and his heart. These are things I often find missing in today's world. Certainly on TV. In today's world of disasterous health care and rampant, often preventable disease, proactive is the way to go. Food is the way to start.

So check out the show and check out his new cook book, "Jamie's Food Revolution: Rediscover How to Cook Simple, Delicious, Affordable Meals". I own it myself and will be reporting on some of his recipes. You've got to love a book that combines Indian, Italian, Traditional British and Classic cooking so seamlessly. And there's a great picture of Jamie on the cover! Hey, it doesn't hurt.

Suburban Torture

I continued my weight loss efforts this morning and popped in my P90X dvd for a 60 minute legs and back workout. It made perfect sense to me that if I upped the poundage of my dumbbells and worked twice as hard, my legs and back would magically slenderize, tone and build amazing muscle twice as fast. Bra causing back fat begone! Adios saddle bags! Did I tell you that I failed math? Twice?

After my workout, I was sipping my enigma of a recovery drink (tastes good, yet smells like death) contemplating the fact that I have a flight of 17 stairs in my home and a 20+ pound baby to lift. And that's when it hit me. It is only in American Suburbia that women torture themselves to achieve "the thinness". Keeping in mind of course that the level of thinness is constantly changing depending upon which celebrity is in rehab, has a book, a reality show or new product to hawk.

I live in the Hill Country area of Texas. Hills my butt. If you come from Jersey, as I do, these are not hills. They are mountains. My neighborhood is a veritable roller coaster waiting to take you out in one direction or another. This is where I've seen the torture in action. I once saw a woman huffing and puffing, shoving her stroller with child up a hill. She had added weight plates to the bottom. Weight plates!

There is a group in my development called - and no, I'm not kidding - "Baby Booty Boot Camp". This is a group of women who stick their tykes in strollers and walk while be yelled at by a somewhat plastic looking Barbie drill sergeant. Every once in a while, these women are commanded to stop willy nilly and begin a performance of squats, lunges, crunches, etc... while using their babies as weights! Are we having children? Or exercise equipment? And can you tell me.... do you think they'd have room for one more? Do you think I'd be wait listed?

What's going to happen if any of us achieve "the thinness"? What are we going to do with ourselves? How will we fill our time? Would we all have to get.... GASP... a life? This is something I'll ponder as I compare myself to the women in the Athleta catalog and continue my P90X + Body For Life + FIRM + Weight Watchers diet and fitness plan. Hey, if one is good, then 4 should equal success in what... a month?

The Apple

A fascinating phenomenon is happening in my family room. This room is littered with a wide array of brightly colored, loudly singing, blinking, whirling toys all given to us by overly generous grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends. These are some very cool toys here and my husband and I have been caught more than a few times playing with them ourselves. One would think, that for a 6 month old, this would be heaven. No. Not so much.

Buggy is getting quite proficient at what I refer to as the "Army Man Crawl" - half slither, half drag. It's amazing the speed this kid can get up to. Now one would think (or at least one who hasn't had children before) that speedy child would be more than content to slither and roll around the room from toy to toy, exploring this fun colorful world, perhaps with a happy giggle to appease his parents. No. Not so much.

Every toy is bypassed, every small item tossed aside as he earnestly speeds towards the fireplace, the tile floor, the glass doors of the TV cabinet, a dirty shoe or two, the cat's tail, a sofa cushion, and an empty glass. Baby gates? I think I'm going to build baby gates around him. Oh wait... that's called a play pen. Yeah. He doesn't like that. No. Not so much.

But what really runs through my mind as I skip, jump, and frantically run around the room towards every possible "forbidden fruit" is that Eve never stood a chance.The desire of the forbidden is driven deeply into our psyches, as my baby is demonstrating. It's fascinating. This could explain my dilemma with cake. Perhaps, Fisher Price should manufacture toys which resemble mounds of toxic waste, or rusty nails, shards of glass.... I could be onto something here.... Ummm... No. Not so much. The kid would just play with the box.

DEPRESSION. Definition: The hole my butt leaves when I get off the couch.

A recurring theme I come across frequently as a new mom, is "getting my body back". Well I don't want my old body back. I could take Angelina's, Catherine's, perhaps Selma's... but I'll gladly leave mine behind. The sad fact of the matter is that I'm only about 10 pounds shy of my pre-pregnancy weight and I still look about 4 or 5 months pregnant. *sigh*

I have Valerie Bertinelli telling me I'm carrying around sacks of potatoes, Marie Osmond hawking food that should probably alert Haz-Mat, Tony Horton yelling at me to "Bring It" and I don't know what Jillian Michaels is saying because quite frankly, she scares the hell out of me. It's not easy. It was never easy to begin with, and even more so now.

I once made the mistake of thinking "How hard can it be with a kid? You're always on the move, always active, and you may even forget to eat!" Yeah, right. I didn't think about trying to cook a healthy supper while my baby was howling for attention or trying to body slam the cat. I never tried to work out while inspiring my baby to attempt climbing out of his excer-saucer. And by the way, what the hell is a nap schedule? Does any child have one? Really?

But, none the less, it is time to "Bring It", drop the sack of potatos, and well... I draw the line at the Haz-Mat food. I actually did try that stuff when Buggy was born. It did nasty, frightening things to my stomach and other parts. And I'm still afraid of Jillian Michaels. But I want to be a good example for my baby as he grows up. I want to be here for a long time and have the most quality time as a family as possible.

And I'd like the seemingly permanent hole in my couch to eventually come back out.

Who's Kid Is It Anyway?

So, let's start this off with a bang. I'm on an airplane yesterday with my husband and my son. My son, the Bug, is 6 months old, over 20 pounds, 29 inches long, and ridiculously strong. For those of you who cannot relate to the numbers, I gave birth to Bam-Bam Rubble. For those of you who cannot relate to that, you're way too young.

So, going back to the baby, holding Buggy still for any amount of time is exhausting! He's a very good baby, but he loves to twist and turn and look around and grab everything he can... glasses, ties, hair, clothes, books, newspapers. All of which does not need to belong to his parents. I decided to take a little 10 minute break, and strap him into the empty seat between us.

Now, I'm not stupid. I'm not going to leave my 6 month old child, unattended, strapped in by a lap belt for the flight. My husband had one hand on him, I had another hand on him, and the kid was ecstatic. I started to get the circulation in my arms back as well as feeling back in my neck.

Then the flight attendant comes by, kneels down, and with that smarmy, service induced, holier than thou whine, tells me that it's not safe for the baby to sit in a seat by himself and I'm supposed to be holding him. I stated back that he's wearing a seat belt and his father and I are holding him. The attendant just smiles that slick, fake smile and shrugs, standing there, staring at me, until I take my monster baby out of the seat and back onto my lap. I wanted to throw my seat-cushion-that's-really-a-flotation-device at his shiny little head.

Who the hell did he think he was? This was my child and I take damned good care of him. I can't imagine that sitting in an airplane seat, with a lap belt, and both of his parents' hands on him can be anymore dangerous during turbulence (of which there was none) than his mother trying to hang onto him. It's not like I was trying to stuff the child into the overhead compartment! I pay waaaaaaaaay too much money, to sit my size 14 butt in a size 2 seat, plus ludicrous fees because I dare to pack clothes and necessities for myself and my family, subjected to what somehow passes as food, engine noise, basically being shuttled like cattle and now snotty flight attendants.

Since Buggy's birth, it's become alarmingly clear to me that we're losing control of our lives and our children's lives in today's society. We seem to have somehow lost the ability to make informed decisions, whether it's choosing to go onto a medication for post-partum depression, daring to gain 1 pound over the "15 recommended" for pregnancy, choosing a bottle over a breast, or not choosing the $75 organic, made from the rare oochy boochy tree of southern Peru formula to feed your kid. Early motherhood has become fear based.

Perfect strangers feel the right to jump on you, your intuition, your confidence, and your love and devotion as a mother to tell you that you suck. Once upon a time, we only had to worry about a nosy mother in law, but now it's.... EVERYBODY? How's a chick to compete with that? How do you become a mom with some snarky flight attendant telling you that you're a bad mom?

What really, really makes mad? Is that I sat in my too small seat, clutching my baby, embarrassed, and angry, with all these words in my head - words that I have a right to say. But I didn't say a thing, because I'm a "good girl" who didn't want to make a scene.