The spring harvest of my forty-fourth year

Last night the soccer season started for Deaglan again and as I watched him run for the ball, a blur of long lean limbs, dark hair and determination, I knew somewhere deep inside that there was nowhere else I’d rather be. It’s been one of the nicer aspects of meandering my way through my forties. I’m content to be where I am; my twenties and much of my thirties were not so peaceful. But now that I’m here, the harder times of those younger days are all a blur too. 

I watched the boys on the field and couldn’t believe they were all between 7 and 8. They appeared still small to me, their sweet baby faces breaking out in shy grins when they’d tame the ball and kick it to the intended destination, peering back over their shoulders to see their parents' delight.

It’s been a good spring so far, our first in this house. At least once a day Deaglan shakes his head and says: Mom can you believe there are pink and white trees out my window? Who ever heard of pink and white trees? I agree; it’s like harvest around here. We moved in during the high heat of last summer, when much of the lush green had withered, then tired and surrendered. But from this side, the early days of a highly anticipated spring, well it is such a treat, each of us exalting every flowery bloom and magically germinating branch.  

We’re taking it all in stride though; getting to each thing when we can. There’s a lot to do.

Open the pool.

Dust off the lawn furniture.

Plan a nearly five-year old’s birthday party.

Keep up with homework even though we’ve just about had it with reading logs and spelling tests.

Buy new flip-flops.

Track down the sunscreen.

Read a book in the quiet afternoon sun  - cold glass of Chardonnay nearby. 

I don't know for sure, but I may have a severe case of spring fever.

My friend Shannon gifted me this hibiscus plant over three years ago. Just when I think I've killed it with my awkward gardening ways, it rewards me with a bloom so beautiful I rethink everything.

This magnolia is one of my favourite things about our new front yard.

The pink and white trees out Deaglan's window.

Mother's Day paper flowers from my sweet guys.

I told my FB friends that we went fishing on Mother's Day (what else are you gonna do when you're surrounded by boys?). This was the result: each caught me a trout and Shaune barbecued them on a cedar plank and served with roasted peppers, onions and asparagus.

And this is the harvest of all those early years of parenting: watching one kid read to the other. Sigh.

 And speaking of spring blooms. This guy here will be five in a few short weeks. Five!!

The loud and gentle voices

Last winter I gained something like 7 pounds.

On my small, apple (not pear) shaped, child-birth-ravaged, could-actually-stand-to-lose-15-pounds frame, that’s a lot of extra weight. To be honest I was in complete denial (even though my skirts had been screaming Uncle every time I zipped them up) until a very truthful colleague at work pointed it out. We only see each other every few months, so when she visited from the Toronto office last spring she asked me flat out.

She is soft spoken with a very thick accent and was smiling while pointing to my mid section; naturally I assumed she was paying me a compliment. She must be, I remember thinking, for there can be no other good reason to so intentionally spotlight a middle aged woman’s most vulnerable parts.

In response to what I thought I heard, I told her no, I hadn’t. She insisted that I had and then, to prove it, she pointed to my face. She was gesturing that it had gotten fuller.

Sirens.

Then light-headedness.

Was I dreaming? Was this woman really telling me that I’d gained weight?

Yes, I do still speak to her.

But it did hurt to know that the long wretched winter we had last year had left its mark on me. I can’t say for sure but it might likely have been the many Saturday afternoons I spent snuggling up with Dexter and Ms. Vickie.

A deadly threesome.

I’ve been a regular exerciser most of my adult life but it was clear that I could no longer afford to eat like I did even five years ago. This broke my heart.

Sorrowfully, I unfriended Ms. Vickie.

Dexter and I became exclusive.

I started adding in a sixth workout when I could and played soccer with the kids most nights after dinner throughout the summer. The weight did not budge. I read about perimenopause and how hard it could be to lose weight in the years leading up to menopause but didn’t want to believe it was impossible. Finally, I took a good hard look at how I was eating and accepted that while most of the time I did make good choices, I was still eating too much.

That’s when I turned inward.

I started listening to the voices in my head before each meal and noticed that just before lunch and dinner there was one particularly loud voice that told me there was not going to be enough food. Eat as much as you can, it insisted, before it’s all gone. And eat fast!

Obviously, those first seven years in Bangladesh when full meals were rare and the subsequent years as part of a large family where you had to act fast at the dinner table, had done a number on my relationship with food.

I started a dialogue.

How about we eat this much and if we’re still hungry in a half hour we’ll grab something else?  I asked gently at every meal. The voice began to listen and eventually quiet down. That was three weeks ago. I’m happy to tell you that I’ve shed six pounds.

That’s like an average sized newborn.

An uncarved pumpkin.

A small turkey. I’ve lost a small turkey!

The voice (along with so many others) is still with me but we’re learning to co-exist. And I still think about Ms. Vickie at least a few times every month but so far have not renewed our friendship. But Dexter and I? 

We’ve still got some unfinished business - Season 8 is finally on Netflix (!).

Here's Naveen yesterday morning in his favorite outfit - the one I mentioned in my last post. He insisted on wearing it again this morning. Oh how I love to do  laundry at 6 am on a weekday!

 

This weather is making me hungry.

Yesterday after the gym, I ordered a heaping plate of deep fried potato wedges instead of green salad with my chicken breast. I doused them with vinegar and on the side plopped a good fat dollop of ketchup for dipping. I was a ninja getting back to my desk; short cuts and no eye contact.
Quiet. Stealthy.
Nothing to see here folks. As you were. Please talk amongst yourselves.

Back at my desk. It wasn’t pretty.

I ate as if I’d come off of a thirty day famine. The wedges were crisp and golden, heftier than their French fry cousins. They’d been seasoned with salt and pepper then tossed with dried rosemary; still piping hot, perfect for dunking into the ketchup. An ice cold pint of beer would have been perfect. I gulped water.

I munched and read through the emails that had piled up in my inbox over the lunch hour. When every last wedge was gone, every last bit of ketchup sopped up, I sat staring at the screen.

Full. Yes.
Complete? No.

Then, the faintest whisper.
Something very familiar.
I typed away furiously, doing my best to lalalalala.
It got louder.
Twenty minutes, I mouthed over and over, twenty minutes.
It started to shout then.
Five pounds, five pounds, five pounds I chanted desperately.
But it drowned me out: CHOCOLATE!
CHOCCCC-LATE!!!!!
DO YOU HEAR ME?????
NEEEEEED. CHOCOLATE. NOW!!!!!!!

My fingers stopped typing. My legs automatons.
There was no drinking water till it shut up. No tricking it into submission with a rice cake and peanut butter.  
Before I knew what was happening, I was running to the escalators, bee lining it to the coffee cart, running my finger over the plastic enclosure on the platter of dessert pastries: Date square? No.
Éclair? No, no.
Oatmeal bar with raisins? Absolutely no.
And then... Yes, yes, yes: Thick chocolate cover, layers of peanuts and rice crispies, glued together with firm hardened caramel.  

Hello Dolly. How do I know your name?

I scurried scurried my ninja-self back to my desk. I sat. Looked around.
Had anyone noticed?
I cut the square in two and sliced one of the halves into thin pieces. I lay the slices out flat on a napkin.
I’ll take the other half home. Dessert for the kids.
I then responded to the emails. Popped each slice into my mouth.

Sweet, crunchy, chocolaty. Salty. Calming.

I looked down and the slices were gone. I cut a sliver off the other half.
They’re so picky, I reminded myself. They won’t like this.
Another sliver. Another slice. And another.  
I looked down and it was all gone.

The sugar was now swirling in my head.
I was dizzy.
Water. I needed water.
Ughhhhh. Oh my geeeezzzzz.
My pants are too tight.
Why? Why????
I need to lie down.
Or throw up.
Oh godddd, why?
Why did I eat the whole thing?
I need the couch.
I need my comfy pants,
To run ten miles.

Why????????

This is the last time.

I.will.never.do.this.again.

I swear.

 

 

I'm yearning for these kinds of days.

 

I take none of it lightly

You people.

You lovely, kind people. The things you said in your comments on that last post. Well, words can’t explain how much those things mean to me.

Thank you.

And to my Facebook friends: the ones who always comment on my posts (Frank I’m talking to you), the ones who send me private messages to let me know that something I wrote struck a chord or just that they liked it, and the ones I see in real life in the halls at work who stop to tell me they read one of my posts; to all of you, thank you. Thank you!

You should know I take none of it lightly.

I was feeling good about this and  about life in general despite the fact that we seem to have entered phase two of winter around here, the opposite of Indian summer, when I realized I forgot to tell you that in a few short days, Shaune will once again be a homemaker. Then I realized that I forgot to tell you that he got another temporary teaching job in the first place.  The technical term for which is long term occasional or LTO if you’re in the business.

Yup, lucky for us, once again someone needed surgery.

Last year he replaced a teacher who was having his elbow operated on. It gave him six months of work. Yay bum elbow! And then this past September he got a call to step in because another teacher needed his shoulder fixed. Greedily, my first thought was, that other shoulder isn't going to fix itself.

Maybe you’re thinking we should be taking a long hard look at the obvious. Elbow replaced? Shoulder surgery? What kind of work has Shaune gotten himself into? Will he one day come home and tell me they need to operate on his thumbs? Replace his forearm? We have thought of that and it’s hard to say for sure so we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.  Besides, on most days I remember to tell him to be careful.

But it is hopeful that in the two years since graduating from teacher’s college, an industry everyone thought he was crazy to get into because of all the budget cuts our province has been making, he’s worked steadily at least half of each year.

He’s developed really good relationships with two principals and many, many teachers. Just last night a group of lady hospitality teachers took him out for dinner to celebrate the end of his LTO and to let him know how sad they were that he was leaving. They’d all told him on different occasions how much they liked working with him. A few said they appreciated that he always came over to their classrooms to say hi or discuss a lesson plan.

He was hesitant at first about going, just him and five ladies, some who are close enough in age to be his mother, but in the end he went and I think, had a good time. I heard him come in around ten so it couldn’t have been all talk about grandkids and gardening. Although, if they had discussed gardening for any length of time, they would have had his undivided attention.

He’s a food nerd on all levels.

Now he’ll go back on the supply list; take substitute teaching gigs whenever he gets calls. But more importantly I’ll have gained a Nanny. A handy, handsome nanny who does windows! Oh sweet, sweet unemployment. If last year is any indication, he’ll take the kids to their respective places. Every morning (!)

He’ll pick them up. 

Every afternoon (!)

He’ll have the house clean and dinner ready.

Every day (!!)

And if that isn’t enough to make me want to increase my pay scale to make this situation permanent, he’ll tackle another big project in the realm of home improvement. I’ve thought it through and already have come up with an itemized list in descending order of importance. It’s been just short of impossible to not fantasize about coming home to brand new curb appeal. I stay up late imagining the possibilities for the upstairs bathroom.

Obviously, and not to mention ideally, we need him to be gainfully employed. I mean it isn’t right that I’m over the moon at the thought of him being available should the school or daycare call because one of the kids is sick. Or that I'm practically giddy because now I could seriously consider doing one of the morning classes at the gym. It's not right.

Right?

And finally, we can get back to eating like this. These are all dishes he's made in the past when the only kitchen he cooked in was ours.

Assume nothing

Earlier this evening a young woman came to the front door. She had good news for me she announced. She would take care of the installation charges if I agreed to switch from my cable and internet provider to her company. She was bright and hopeful, young and pretty.

I cut her spiel off at the knees. It felt bad to do it. It’s a tough thing; going from door-to-door during the dinner hour, in the cold.

But still.

We have that sign on the door prohibiting exactly this kind of thing. And besides, she’d come in the middle of a presentation I was giving to an audience of two. Two small boys were refusing to eat their dinners.

Again.

And until that loud knocking at the front door, I’d been on somewhat of a roll. I was saying things like, “there will absolutely be no more dessert or treats (dramatically tapping at the treat cupboard) if you don’t eat your meal,” and “you have no idea how lucky you are to have so much food, some kids (pointing meaningfully out the back door) aren’t so lucky.”

I was perfectly aware that my beautifully delivered oration was being met with complete disregard by Naveen who was busy wrapping noodles around the wheels of a mobile cow. And Deaglan had only one question he kept interrupting with, “How much do I have to eat to get a chocolate pudding?”

I’ve learned one very disappointing truth on my parenting journey so far: Assume nothing.

Shaune and I are hearty, willing eaters. And we excel at sleeping.  Our favourite things are to eat and sleep. In fact, a long-time dream of mine is to be allowed to only eat and sleep for days at a time. Give me food. Give me a bed. I’m happy.

Our boys?

Failures on both counts.

I was discussing this very thing with a mom friend of mine a while back. She wasn’t as good at commiserating as I’d hoped she would be. She admitted that her son was a very good eater and he’d slept practically 12 hours straight since the day he was born. When she saw me wincing she kindly pointed out some of his failings. “He’s two and he hardly says a word. I mean, didn’t you say Naveen can practically read from the Encyclopedia?”   

“And” she added, “my little brother was a really picky eater. My mom had the worst time ever making meals and packing his lunches.”

“Oh yeah?” I perked up a little. “Did he grow out of it?”

“You know what? He did. Two years ago when he moved to Toronto for work, he started hanging out with a more sophisticated crowd of people. Now he eats sushi and all kinds of vegetables.”

So basically she was saying that I might have to wait till Deaglan’s almost thirty to see a change in his eating habits. He won’t even be my problem at meal times then!

Hopefully.

The price of my sanity

This morning at (the new) 5:30 Deaglan sprang awake exclaiming he was starving. A few minutes later Naveen wailed from his bed that he wanted “someping to weat Mama!” For Deaglan I whipped up a two egg omelette with chopped ham and for Naveen a raisin bagel; a cup of apple juice for both.

Ten minutes after they’d eaten, only two sips into my coffee, Deaglan asked if he could have a treat – aka Halloween candy.  “No, have a banana or apple.” I said and explained for the millionth time how bad sugary junk was for his teeth and body. And reluctantly, with a four year-old version of a scowl, he took my advice and grabbed fruit for both himself and his brother.  Two minutes after they’d eaten a banana each, they wanted me to peel them an orange.

Twenty minutes later Deaglan asked if he could have a treat since he’d now eaten something healthy. I refused and poured them both a glass of milk and handed them each a Toy Story chewable vitamin.

Five seconds later, Deaglan said he was hungry.

At this point I may have lost my patience (and mind) and asked him in a yelly (not calm) voice if he thought I was his (frickin) personal servant. Unfazed he insisted that he couldn’t help it if he was hungry. Still hysterical I told him he’d have to eat something bready – when it comes to not eating carbs this kid has the discipline of a monk. I made him half a raisin bagel sprinkled with cinnamon-sugar after he’d warned me that he’d only eat one piece so I shouldn’t even bother toasting both parts. Naturally, after he finished it, he wanted the other half.

I had no words.  

In the name of self-preservation, I walked to the kitchen counter where their trick-or-treat baskets sat out of reach, unwrapped a lollipop and mini bag of M & M’s, let them know it was at the kitchen table and told them not to speak to me again. Ever.

It wasn't even (the new) 10 am.

When we were courting

My first real date with Shaune over 15 years ago was when he cooked dinner for me in his parents’ kitchen while they were vacationing.

He made fresh caught trout with a beurre blanc sauce, grilled tender vegetables and saffron rice.  I remember distinctly wondering why the hell he was so excited about taking shrimp shells and boiling them for several hours in a broth of water, vegetables and seasonings just to create a gleaming white mixture he’d eventually pour on top of the delicately grilled whole trout.

I’d never been around sophisticated cooking except to be on the receiving end in the fancy (to me) restaurants I’d eaten in so far; the likes of which included places like The Keg and a few of the nicer Mediterranean eateries I’d waitressed in up until then.

Which is to say – I’d really not been in many fancy places at all.

So when he said he was going to make me a lovely dinner, I’d expected my idea of lovely, a simple pasta with some red wine, maybe a steak cooked close to right, sautéed mushrooms and mashed potatoes. I had no idea what I was in for. We certainly had different ideas of what a good meal was – him with his intense culinary training at Humber College and some of the best restaurants in Toronto.  Little did I know, that first evening would change my notion of good eating, push me to more refined hankerings so that I never took a good meal for granted ever again.

Over the years we’ve spent a small fortune on food.

During our childless years, we found restaurants we liked, and dined in them again and again. We were like the French, slow and deliberate in our eating. We often started with dry vodka martinis, tiny swords full of Spanish Manzilla olives or buttery apple chardonnays, plates of light crispy fried calamari before moving onto our main courses. Rarely did we end a meal without sipping Frangelico and shots of hot strong espresso.   

In the late nineties, when we lived there together, Sarnia had some wonderful little places.

 We thought of them as our places back then. Two in particular were owned by the same woman, a vivacious red-head who knew outstanding food and combined it with wonderful wine pairings, just enough kitsch and twinkling lights to allure us back time and again. She came to a no good end back then. We often think of her fondly and hope she found her feet to start over.

Sometimes I miss those times with the kind of ache only someone who knows better can. Those days when we were just us two and a dog.

It’s rare for us to eat anywhere fancy these days. Our criteria has changed slightly.

Is it loud enough to drown out our kids?

Do they have chicken nuggets on the menu or, better yet, a buffet to address the picky eaters in our party?

Colouring books and crayons?

Servers who have the patience to deal with rascally little boys?

Something decent on tap?

Yes??

Well then, we’re in!

Shaune’s been waiting for supply teaching work. Lately he’s revealed a new set of skills equally impressive.  He’s been busy re-doing our floors, cleaning the house regularly and having dinner on the table when I get home every night. And his first love - wonderful food - well it's still a part of who he is and lately I’m coming home to some of the best meals. 

It's not the same; as you can imagine. 

In between bites we're either bribing the kids with the promise of dessert or threatening them with discipline if they get up from the table one more time. There's no candle light or thought to atmosphere - except to ensure it's safe. I'm usually in kid-proof shorts and a T-shirt and we're done eating within minutes. 

Still, it sometimes takes me back to those old days.

This is what we ate last night - a crispy skinned salmon fillet over wilted spinach topped with a sweet and spicy chili garlic sauce, served with roasted pepper-squash and green zuchinni.
Recipe to follow.

Looking good on my terms

A woman I periodically see at the gym stopped me in the cafeteria at work today. She told me I looked great and asked if I’d lost a ton of weight. 

I had to resist the urge to throw my arms around her neck and cuddle her.  I’m not kidding, I was so grateful for the compliment that my nose twitched to nuzzle her neck.

The truth is I’ve been working really hard at the gym and at the table for some time now.

Let me tell you, it has not come easy. And to be completely honest, I haven’t shed that many pounds. The changes have come in the form of toning and reshaping. I’ve been weight training three times a week (a class called Bodypump), and running and cycling the other days.

It took me about four months to cement this workout schedule. I fought myself the entire time. At the beginning I’d let just about any excuse deter me from going down to the gym:  

Not enough sleep?

Too tired.  

PMS?  

Too emotional.

Reruns of Parenthood again? 

Too distracted – how can I be expected to work-out not knowing if Jasmine and Crosby are back together?

And on and on.

But then I began loving it, really needing to get those workouts in for my sanity’s sake.

I’d always been into exercise of some sort – my metabolism had dug its heels in early -  by the end of my adolescence, refused to budge unless I took drastic measures. I've always gained weight easily and was up 60 and 50 pounds with Deaglan and Naveen respectively. 

 I’ve always struggled with body image. 

I remember being seven years old and conscious of the small soft rolls of my stomach. In grade five when skin tight RoadRunner jeans were in, I yearned to have a rear end to fill them out. In university when all the girls I knew were aiming for Kate Moss waifish-ness, I was looking to specialty shops for bras that gave me enough support.

But after I had my boys, I changed my mind about what I wanted to look like and why. I stopped with the nonsense of coveting what I saw on TV and magazine ads. I decided I wanted to look good because it felt good. I decided I wanted to be healthy so I could live long enough to do all the things I’d been dreaming about. 

And yet even regular exercise wasn't giving me the changes I wanted. 

Up until this point, I'd avoided addressing my eating habits. Oh it's not that I was feasting on fast food and milkshakes everyday. On the whole I'd say I  ate okay - always brown rice, whole wheat bread, whole wheat pasta, green salads, chicken, salmon and fruit.  But I had to admit I was now in my forties and maybe I needed to cut some of the pasta and bread out, replace them with raw or cooked vegetables and beans. I could no longer indulge in the pizza we ordered for the kids once a week, could no longer consider wraps from McDonald's a healthier choice those nights we were just too tired to cook. 

Because I didn't want to flirt with idea of losing the weight and getting healthy anymore. I wanted to actually do it. 

So I started making healthier choices at every meal. I shifted my thinking about what constituted a meal, embraced the notion that rice, pasta or potatoes didn't have to be on my plate just because I'd grown up believing they did. I began giving all vegetables a chance - not just the ones that fit neatly into my idea of a salad.

I'd likely not be a good candidate for one of those before and after shows - my progress has been slow and gradual and I've certainly got a longer way to go. And I've made friends with the realization that I'll always have to exercise and eat right to maintain a healthy weight. 

In fact I find myself falling deeper and deeper in love with running all the time. 

And there's also this: I've never felt I had to trim down to gain my husband's approval - he says the nicest things all the time about how I look (believe me I've suggested on more than one occassion he consider asking for a stronger prescription for his glasses).  And whenever I lament that attaining a flat stomach would require major surgery, I look at those boys of mine and know that a bit of a belly is a small price to pay for such heavenly gifts. 

Did I mention I'm 5'2"?

I wish I could capture the scene we have each day as I’m getting the kids into their outdoor gear. I’m sure you would drive straight to my house and award me some kind of a trophy for not giving my children away.

I’d videotape it, although I’d not only be implicating myself as the crazy woman I turn into but it’s a full body job – my legs are needed to restrain Naveen while my hands put on his socks and shoes.

I’m not kidding.

And don’t even get me started on the laps around the house I do to catch Deaglan, threaten him with the worst punishment I can think of that won’t require intensive psychotherapy when he’s a grown-up, till finally, I can sit him still long enough to get his arms into his coat.

I have no idea why I’m not thinner than I am.

I mentioned something like this to Shaune yesterday – that I’d gained a few pounds lately. And you know what my husband said? Brace yourself because you’ll be relieved to know that although he does the cooking around here, he’s not perfect. He goes – “maybe it’s all the treats you eat at work.”

Can you imagine the nerve??? I mean how dare he??

Well I know it’s the treats but I was very comfortable in my sugary little cocoon of denial, thank you very much. How can I be expected to make it through the afternoon at work without chocolate almonds? Is it my fault that on Tuesdays our coffee cart only has one Sweet Marie square and if I don’t get there at just the right time I miss out?

And in all fairness to myself, I thought I was working-out just enough to break even. I even calculated the number of minutes I’d need to run, to afford each afternoon's pick-me-up. I was no math major but I really thought I had a foolproof system.

But then I had to go and remember that we needed batteries for the scale when we were at Canadian Tire last week. And just like that Cold-Hard Truth slapped me across the face.

Seven pounds since June.

 Every time I doubt that they look alike, I get reminded that they actually do. On the left is Deaglan just shy of a year old. Look at how similar their little cheeks and mouth are.

Little punks, it's their dreamy cuteness that keeps me from holding grudges.

Mealtime madness

Sometimes I think I’m not cut out for a life of responsibility and routine. I shouldn’t be in charge of sustaining people even if they are under three feet tall. Between five and seven most nights, I re-think this whole gig. I block out people with real problems and get a little pity party going for myself. I wonder why every little thing has to be so hard.

Mostly I resist the urge to think long on darker realms like vengeance and karma, but on occasion I do find myself fantasizing about a day when Deaglan will have a picky eater for a child. I try to visualize his face when after he toils over French toast or pancakes, lovingly adding cinnamon and strawberries; his little cherub screeches inconsolably that he hates French toast.

I smile with a little satisfaction knowing karma could kick in, gift him with a finicky little buzz-kill who only eats chicken nuggets and hot dogs. I imagine his sense of panic every night trying to come up with nutritious lunch box ideas because his kid gags at the thought of sandwiches, chicken, vegetables, egg salad. Hamburgers. Steak.

Conversely around six o clock those same nights, watching Naveen gobble down whatever I put in front of him, I have two thoughts: He’s officially my favourite again.

And how will we ever afford our mortgage and groceries when this kid comes of age?

Do you have a picky eater where you live?

A moment of grace

We exited the restaurant slowly, our bellies full; asking ourselves why we did it. Why did we order dessert? I'd had more than my share of crab and oysters and those penko breaded shrimp dipped in sweet chili sauce.

And there he sat, on the grimy curb, his baby toe poking out of the hole in his left shoe.

"Can you spare some change Ma'am?"

I squeezed my three year old's hand praying he wouldn't go into the Why mode. The man looked to be in his late thirties. His face was leathered by the sun. A dirty beige baseball cap perched on top of his shaggy greasy hair. I could tell he was good looking even through his disheveled appearance. Anger didn't grip me like it sometimes did when I was solicited for a cigarette on my lunch break at work. I didn't size up the expensive tattoos on his arms and turn disgustedly away.

A softness came over me. A vision of where I'd been a few minutes ago flashed in my mind. Me with a plateful of expensive food at my fingertips. A glass of decent wine on my right. I looked to my husband who already had his wallet out. He grabbed the lone bill, a five, and handed it to the man. 

"Bless you Sir, bless you." His deep blues eyes watered with gratitude. 

We walked to the van in silence. The usual thoughts didn't make an appearance. I didn't care that he might be headed to the liquor store right that minute. It made little difference to me what he spent it on. And to my utter amazement, my inquisitive son did not ask one single question all the way home.

This week the ladies wanted us to push ourselves out of our comfort zone, try something new. I decided to go with a much shorter post than usual. It scared me a little not to over-do the scene, so you'd really get it. But then I remembered how smart and savvy you all are.

A birthday letter to Shaune

Dear Shaune,

I'll bet you're wondering why you married me, huh?

Especially after you saw these cupcakes above. Did you know they took me three hours to make? That's not counting the planning and shopping.

But here's the thing, I had big plans. I consulted a cookbook (a Kind gift

 I am NOT dismissing). I read the recipe and thought - this is exactly what we need,a healthy yet delicious treat. You'll get your blueberry cheesecake and we'll sneak some squash and spinach into Deaglan without him suspecting a thing! Win, win.

Honey, you and I both know that I have no natural ability in the kitchen. But I can follow a recipe. I did everything this comedian's wife told me to do. I pureed fresh spinach. I used the food processor and the electric mixer. Both of these tools make me sweat with anxiety just thinking about them.

I had big plans. I bought candles. I imagined us waking up this morning and walking into the living room busting out the birthday song. I pictured you saying something like you made these by yourself??? ARe you sure you didn't buy them at a fancy bakery?

Once I had convinced you that yes, I indeed did create these works of art, you would have said something like - ahhh but cupcakes for breakfast? We should wait until after lunch. And that's exactly when I would drop that beautiful bomb - they are healthy cupcakes!

I had no back up plan.

I thought the cupcakes could be the entire birthday extravaganza. I imagined you wanting to take a few to work to share with your coworkers. Maybe one of them would send me a quick email to compliment me on how well they turned out. Flashes of all of you standing around the water cooler shaking your heads in disbelief. So good and with vegetables hidden in them.



Thanks for being on my side about this. Thanks for saying that it was the recipe. I couldn't agree with you more. I loved what you said about not believing Mrs. Comedian's Wife actually profited from that cookbook. It felt right when you suggested I just stop using that cookbook. I love when you support me.

And you're right, we didn't need the extra calories a birthday treat would have cost our figures. How nice that we can treat this day just like any other. Happy birthday honey. And when you figure it out, let me know what we're having for dinner. I'll bet you've got something special planned eh?

Love Kim