Mother Hen

     Today I look like a mommy.

     Not the kind that you see with the perfect manicure and freshly blown salon hair, each and every strand sweeping across the shoulder blades when she walks.  Her alabaster, corn free feet are multi-lingual, today they are speaking French in their Louboutins.
     She doesn't speak in heavy breaths like me, her tone is relaxed.  She did her weights in the morning at the gym.  She has everything on her shopping list delivered to her home.  She pronounces each syllable with a carefree calm that I've only witnessed in preschool teachers.  It is not yet twelve o'clock and her dinner is already done along with everything else on her To do list.  Bitch.
     I am still in the black Sugio leggings that I sweated in on the treadmill at ten.  I smell like fried chicken, every last piece of me.  From my greasy home blown hair to the ankle socks I've been mopping the floor with as I fry.
     Make up was not an option today.  Skin moisturized and pores steamed, once again...by chicken grease.  My leggings and black tank soon turned into a custom body apron. Instead of bronzer and body glitter, I wear flour and cornflake crumbs.
     The combination of Coke Zero and not quite fried (but dipped and baked in oil) breaded cauliflower, would scare the nutritionist that I don't have to death.
     It's twenty to three and my princess has a double play date today.  It's time to change into my old faithful jeans from the Gap.  ANY t-shirt will do.  I already regret picking at the quazi-fried cauliflower.  It's sitting in my chest but won't quite emerge into a burp.
     I have already gone to the arts and craft store.  Painting their own princess mugs and making pictures with dot-dot markers should pass the time without much arguing amongst the three divas in training.
     The familiar toot from the maroon Honda Odyssey reminds me my 'playtime' is over.  She slides off of the vinyl backseat and jumps onto me in a hug.  It is the kind of hug that only a five year old knows how to give.
     It's beautiful, unlike the way I'd been feeling all day.  For a full minute, the rest of the world and all the disruptive sounds from it have muted.  Her warmth has revived me from self loathing chicken lady, to a gorgeous silhouette I see on the sidewalk aside me.
     I am mommy, and with all that I may or may not have in this world one day-my most glamorous accessory in my possession..

is her.

Cake Mistake

     All he asked for was a photo cake.  A picture that he took great care in selecting.  In the photo, Alan  was 10 months old, and  my husband Joe were sitting in a ball pit at a local indoor fun zone.  The photo was monumental if you know Joe, a self proclaimed germifobe who won't drink from a glass outside his  home because he can’t handle the thought of someone else's mouth on it.  I’ve only heard about the nightmarish items that get lost in the ball pit, for that reason alone, this picture exuded a father’s love for his son and the personal fear and disgust Joe had put aside.

Cake One

     On Wednesday I went to the bakery with the photo, selected the cake, and paid for it.  That off my list, everything else was done and I could relax until Saturday. 
     My mother-in-law ran errands on that side of town Friday, I gave her my receipt and asked if she could make the pick-up for me. I swung by her house on Friday afternoon for a cup of coffee.  She told me the cake was in the downstairs fridge.  I smiled just seeing the large white cube taking up the entire shelf. The red and white bakery string was tied so tightly around the box that I couldn’t catch a glimpse.  I’d curb my curiosity until Alan's birthday.

     Saturday afternoon came.  We finished lunch, I went downstairs to the refrigerator, prepared with a knife, cut the string, opened the box, and began to scream.  My sister-in-law came running, peered into the box, and like we were playing a game of Simon Says, her blue eyes widened and her mouth hung open.

     After a minute of screaming at a photo of a Bar Mitzvah boy (and wondering who’s kid it was), I giggled uncontrollably thinking of the expression on the other anonymous mom opening up her cake box to find a photo of my son and husband in a ball bin.  The bakery was closed, I didn’t know whose kid it was, and we had company coming for dessert to celebrate my Alan’s 9^th birthday.  
      I ran outside onto the porch, expecting a panicked mother in a white suit to be running down the block in white patent peep toe platforms with my sheet cake.  But there were just the usuals, a father and son playing catch in the street, skateboarders making their way to the park, and people enjoying the unusually warm December weather.  No crazy moms, just the one standing on her mother-in-laws porch.

     My quick thinking mother-in-law took two prints that were posted up on the breakfront mirror and covered the bar mitzvah boy.  At least the message on the cake was right,  ‘Happy Birthday Alan’, maybe he wouldn’t notice.  It came time to sing happy birthday, my son looked at the cake quizzically, “You know ma, when I said I wanted a picture of me on the cake, that wasn’t what I meant.” 

     I removed the toddler pix that mom was careful to wrap in plastic, and his expression dampened,  his proud chest deflated like air out of an old balloon.  Everyone's first reaction to the cake was the same, wide eyes and dropped jaw.  Here my nine year old stood, tears welling in his eyes as he looked at a stranger in a suit and braces invading his cake.  We sang happy birthday to him, but it may as well have been to  the John Doe surrounded by blue icing flowers. 

     “I want to go home.” Alan whispered to me.

     “I’M GONNA SMASH THAT CAKE IN THEIR FACES TOMORROW!”  Mom said feeling the hurt of her way too serious for his age grandson.  I didn't know who to pray for, the bakery manager or my mother-in-law who was bound to be dragged out in hand cuffs if she didn't get a refund for the cake.

     My ill-timed humor and nervous laughter kicked in,  escaping me as I pictured someone’s Bar Mitzvah dessert table.  Decorated with all different types of cookies, fruit, pies, mousse, Napoleon-Alan and Joey.  My brain cells were howling amongst themselves, it doesn’t get funnier than this!!!

     But there Alan stood, crushed yet standing strong and tall.  The tears in his eyes disappeared.  Now I went into my own mommy panic.  If my nine year old son could be disappointed by a cake, how did he see his future?   If he was older would he have been able to see the comedy in the confection?  In his reality, it was the one thing he asked for, but didn’t get on his birthday. 

    “How could you NOT check the box before you left the store?!”  Joe yelled, more pissed off at the thought that somewhere else an outsider was cutting into his face.

     To add to the confusion of the day, Alan had a friend’s sleepover party to attend that night.          “Maybe you can bring a cake for me tonight.”  He asked.

     “It is your birthday, but it isn’t your party honey.”  I said. 

     “I know that.”  He lied.  A mechanical stare on his face.

      As Alan enjoyed his Saturday night with 20 other boys NOT sleeping, Joe ran to Carvel with the original photo and ordered a cake for Sunday.  I sent out a text to my sisters and sister-in-laws, inviting everyone over for a Birthday redo with pizza and cake.   

     Sunday morning pick up time was 10am, I received a text at 9:24 that Alan had enough.  After rounding up his things and thanking the birthday boy and mother we walked to the car.

     “You know mom,” he began, “all I really wanted was some attention, and now I have to wait a whole year.”

    Until now,  the mix up was funny, I thought it showed a kid how adults make mistakes more often than they believed.  To Alan, that ruined Happy Birthday moment represented his own feelings of substance-not sustenance.  The humor I found just a day ago left me and was replaced by an ache I could not possibly stand a moment longer for my nine year old man.
      Joe took the kids ice skating and I ran to Party City for Pokemon plates, decorations, and party favors.  With the kids out of the way, I could decorate and make party bags. 

     When the children walked in the door at 4, both of their faces lit up. Alan took a few minutes to notice the details, the posters, the plates, and the party bags.  He did a running  jump into my arms and smiled, “Thanks mommy.”

    “Are you happy?”  I asked.

     He nodded.

  “Do you feel special?” 

   “Yes.”  He smiled.

    “Mommies want their children to feel special all of the time.  It shouldn’t take a birthday for that.”
     That night, after the pizza and cake, after running around the house and playing with the cousins, after clean up, showers,and homework, Alan went to bed with a smile on his face.
     I closed the light and tucked him in, Alan said, "Can I have a party next year?"
     "We'll think about it."  I told him before closing the door.
     I now have 364 days before celebrating 'double digits.' To avoid a repeat of the epic birthday blunder, I already had the solution, one which I will never forget....

     Always ask to see the cake before leaving the store.

Birthday- take two.

    

What Would a Good Wife Do?

  

 

     I ponder the question, what would Alicia Florrick do if her husband came home with a pair of silver balls?  Where some of you may see this as a perverted riddle, I found myself faced with this exact dilemma just a few short months ago.   

     My hubby Joe wanted to lose weight although he continued to eat his daily party size bag of Wise Potato Chips into the wee hours of Frazier reruns.  I tried explaining to him, if he wanted to lose any of the gut he had been so public to complain about, high fat and starch was not the diet for a man who had no time for physical activity.  I was not the good wife, I couldn't be blindly supportive when I myself had so much to offer in the arena of diet and weight loss.

    I wish that I myself was a good wife, sweet, supportive, loving, sensitive, and self-sufficient.  But put me in front of a man who complains about weight gain for the first time in his life at the age of 42-and I have no sympathy. 

      On the subject of weight loss, I was a qualified non-professional.   I lost 16lb at the age of nine on a bet I had made with my dad.  No diet plan, just me, smarter food choices and exercise.  Then again at 18, again before winter vacation 2X, then pregnancy weight 2X.  Joe probably thought that since I had to do it more than once in my life, I have not earned my Victoria Secret wings (and without the help of a sharp knife and a skilled cosmetic surgeon, never will).

     Joe’s know it all mentality and my attempt to push my own experiences reminded me of our family trip to Aruba in 2001.  Joe had never been further than Mexico for a hot vacation.  His olive complexion and lazy mornings in had always been a good enough sunscreen.  Joe approached us on the white sandy beach in board shorts, a white t shirt, and mirrored Ray Bans (that I still can't get him to trade in for a pair of Tom Fords). 

     "I've got Banana Boat sunscreen, 30 or 50." I smiled to Joe.

      He shooed away any friendly offering of sunscreen, sunblock, or zinc.

     "Joe," my father warned him, "we're very close to the equator."

     "Equator, shmequator....dad, I'll be fine!!!"  He said laughing at the rest of us slathered in sun screen and taking cover under one of the beach huts. "I didn't realize I was marrying into a family of dermatologists."

      There was no skewing him from his belief that he knew everything under the sun, from fast cars to skin care.  We had fun that picturesque day in Aruba.  We went Banana boating, we went sailing, we smiled through two for one Pina colada  Happy Hour.  After the sunset, and a short lived nap, Joe awoke to the curse of the dreaded sun god.  He couldn't move, he said it even hurt him to blink.

    "Call a doctor.  I'm freezing and burning up at the same time."  He said through a groan.

    I touched his burning skin and he let out a yelp.  "What IS this?!"  Joe screamed.

    "It's a sun burn Joe."  I said semi-sympatico.

     Here we were fifteen years later, dealing with the same sunburn ignorance disguised as a fat ass.

     "Joey, it's midnight.  There are five servings in that bag......that's 750 calories....450 fat calories before sleep." I scolded him.

      He shook the bag, the truth of his skilled shake suggested there were only three servings.   It wouldn't bother me so much if I didn't have to witness him checking himself out in the mirror each morning.  "What the hell is going on with my ass?!"  Joe screamed the next morning looking at his profile.

     "It's Wise."  I said indifferently.

     "It's huge!"  He complained to me.  "I don't get it.  I've been eating the same way my whole life....I never had a problem..." Now he was hyperventilating.

     My inner goddess was thrilled.  In my single days, one of the requirements of my Mr. Wonderful was that he be tall, athletic, and weigh more than me.   What I ended up marrying was someone whose body frame made me feel like the before photo from a fad diet infomercial anytime we stood together.  

   The scales had finally tilted in my favor.  Joe walked into the bathroom.  I could hear the hateful body image machine scraping against the brown tile floor, followed by a painful sigh. 

     Joe went to get dressed, downed his coffee in one gulp, like a Kamikaze shot, and quickly left the house.

     That evening Joe walked in with a smile.  I was relieved to see that he wasn’t carrying the number that set him off in such a hurry that morning.   I offered to broil fish, cut up a salad and we’d go through his diet voyage together.  I began to explain the ins and outs of good nutrition.   Once I realize that he hadn't absorbed a word I said, I stopped talking about high fiber and healthy snacks.  I stared at him as he smirked me into silence.

     "I got the balls."  Joe announced.

     "Excuse me?"  I muffled in hysterics.

     "The balls.  I got those silver balls."  He flicked his earlobe, exposing the shiny silver ball, round and proud.

     The silver balls, otherwise known as the Sadkhin Diet uses acupressure points behind the ears combined with a strict intake of vegetables and milk.  Sure, I'd heard of it before.   Within the first ten days one can expect to lose 5 - 10% of their body weight.  It sounded a bit radical for a guy who'd never eaten a salad.

    Could I play the theme song for Saturday Night Fever each time he rotated his miniature disco balls from behind his ears?   Maybe I’d wrap a towel around my head and chant as Joe rotated his pair, O’Great Genie of weight loss, please grant me a body free of fat.   I wasn’t putting down his attempt to make a positive change, or was I? 

   Alicia Florrick would cut her husband’s vegetables and pour his milk.  She would stand behind him and push him to go to the gym.  She would perform Google searches looking for the best recipes for dieters following the Sadkhin Diet.  She would not be making petty jokes about all the ball rubbing her husband would have to endure.   Nor would she spew facts about Weight Watchers and how diet and exercise give much quicker results than diet alone.  She would not go to the lengths of playing Bee Gee songs every 2 hours… that would be me, Nazira Chabbott.

     Maybe I had a thing or two to learn about myself.  Help is when someone is asked to be useful.  Joe never requested my involvement in his weight loss journey.  Instead of being the sounding board he needed I was being pushy.  Diet is a very personal subject and each person has their own preference.    By Joe’s choice, he’d rub away the pounds with the balls of his choice. 

     So, what does a good wife do when her husband comes home with an extra set of balls?  My answer…  NOTHING.  Smile, congratulate him on making a choice to better himself, (try not to hate him for dropping ten pounds in two weeks)-and laugh silently when he goes back to BBQ chips at midnight.