A Parent

Last weekend, Peter shoveled away some snow, pulled out the smoker, and shredded a serious piece of pork into carnitas for dinner. I made the fixings, Peter opened up the beer cellar, and we welcomed first and second generation friends into our house for a winter-in-Chicago-kind-of-sucks gathering.

After dinner, we were sitting around, half of us with babies suctioned to our chests, and my friend Greg turned to me and said, 'isn't this crazy, we're parents.'

Looking around the room it was. Five years ago we were at Corby's drinking too many beers, eating one more chili cheese dog, and making arguably bad decisions. Now little lives and bed times (namely mine) depended on us.

I don't know if hadn't registered to me or if in actuality no one had said it to me in the ten months that Mary has been around, but the positioning of Greg's comment threw me off. I didn't just have a baby, I was a parent. A parent. And in that there was something that made me hold Mary a little closer. The statement was weightier; filled with more responsibility; and way more stressful.

After you get married, the world expects you to have a baby. So you do. And we did. But having a baby is easy. It means decorating a nursery, taking cute pregnancy photos, picking out miniature outfits, planning first birthday parties, bath time, play time, and nap time. Sure you complain about sleeplessness, but somehow never feel that tired. Babies are hugs, squeezes, cuddles, smiles, coos, crawling, cruising and milestone after documented milestone recorded in a perfectly organized scrapbook.

This week, Greg's comment resonated more than ever. I did not just have a baby. I was a parent. And for the first time ever, I forgot to eat. (Just the M&Ms that I had stashed in my glove compartment, but in my world that says something.)

Being a parent means poo and diaper rash and potty training. It means saying no. Meaning no. And enforcing no. It means car safety and passive driving, ear infections and antibiotics, wanting to be there for baby, but knowing you have a job to do so Day Care it is. It means your mouth comes second; and on an airplane, despite what the stewardess might tell me, it means my air mask can wait. It means asking for help, accepting help, and realizing defeat. It means planning for the future, monitoring the budget, and denying yourself the shoes, bags, and clothes that deep down you really want.
It means no time.
It means worry and anxiety.
And it means good enough is the passing grade.

The problem for me and many in my generation is that we all want babies - the chubby little cherubs pasted all over Pinterest. But we also want careers, not just jobs. We want to mothers, not just moms. And we want to remain these unique, celebrated individuals that we've spent decades cultivating. We don't just think it's all possible, we think it will all be easy. And when it's not, we (or maybe it's just me) panic a little bit.

Being a parent is realizing that life isn't easy and it's not perfect and there's never just one solution. It's exhausting, emotional, and sometimes painful. But with that said, I wouldn't trade in my role for anything. Because the laughter after an ear infection, the moment of pride and relief after a heavily anticipated meeting, and the group hug at the end of a tough day are some of the sweetest notes in life.

Big hug, to me.

Lo.

A Saturday Routine

Yesterday, Livia was showing me how she could stand in first position, do plies, pose in an arabesque and leap across the carpet with a grand jete. Her aunt had given her some of ballet's fundamentals, but in a couple months she would be able start taking classes in her neighborhood. I could sense her excitement about the upcoming opportunity to take the steps she had learned and weave them into a routine that she could perform in living rooms across the Western Suburbs. 

It made me think about my experience dancing - the first steps that I learned - the anticipation I felt as my teacher started piecing them together - the thrill I found when my movements started to make sense - and my pride in knowing with absolute certainty all the fancy footwork and armwork to match. After a while, improvisation and swaying from my prescribed routines started to confuse me. I needed the precise rhythms, measured spaces and calculated cues. Without them, I felt lost.

This notion of strict choreography started to seed itself in my day to day activities as well. I embraced knowing what came next. But when I met Peter, all the solo acts that I had memorized and perfected, were no longer relevant. I needed to start developing duets.

However, trying to establish a new routine with a partner who prefers improvisation is quite difficult. While he thrived on the riffs, scats, and jam sessions in life, I tried to tame the dissonance with structure. There were times when we just flopped.

In the end, we learned to compromise and take turns leading. Some days, we used my choreography, but set to songs that I knew Peter would like. Other days, we would wing it, constantly changing keys, tempos, and direction all in the name of creating something different. To my surprise, both ways worked and both ways made the performers and spectators happy.  

Peter and I tend to be really good together on the weekends, and yesterday was no exception. I must say it was one of our most successful routines - one that combined both of our styles and possessed all the right elements. Sure, there were some trials leading up to its execution: a steady rain that made us soggy; a cheese shipment delay, detouring us from one theme to Peter's love affair with the pig; a goal line stand controversy; and a cider press conundrum. But the show, good food, cheers, and juices went on - another little thing I taught Peter about show business.

And it went a little something like this. 

5,6,7,8 ...
A good read. 
Followed by a good run.
A special frittered breakfast.

 

Then a couple chores and some stokes of the smoker. 

Quick chasse into the shower. 
Chopping, slicing, pestling, chilling.
Brendan, enter stage right. Stoke, stoke.  
Brises or jumps, followed by plies to the beat of hole finding, pass grabbing, quarterback scrambling, helmet hitting, fumble recovering, field goal kicking, touch down scoring, and goal line standing.
Bill and Meghan, enter stage left. Mira and Livia scurry in. 
Slicing, smashing, pressing, apple foam tasting, bottling. 

 

 Shredding, eager forks noshing, stacking, Carnitas consuming, stomach satisfying. 

Little bow. 
Bravo!

The crowd wanted an encore of apple fritters, so I've included it below. 

Lo. 

Apple Fritters (makes about 8 fritters)
Adapted from Pioneer Woman

1 apple, cored and sliced into 1/8 inch rings
1 cup flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
Pinch of salt
1 egg
1/2 cup milk
1 tablespoon melted butter
Vegetable or canola oil
Powdered sugar, for dusting

In a medium bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and almond extract.

In another medium bowl, beat eggs. Then add milk and melted butter. Gently fold the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients.

Heat oil over medium high heat until about 375 degrees. Keep this temperature consistent. Drop each apple slice into the batter to create a thin coat. You made need to coax the batter along to stick on the apple slices evenly.

Drop battered apple slices into oil, perhaps three per batch. Fry for 1-2 minute per side until golden brown. Keep a careful watch over them as they can quickly burn. Remove from oil and set on a paper towel lined plate to dry. Repeat process with remaining apple slices. Serve immediately with sifted powdered sugar.