Going to Bed

Lying down. Closing my eyes. Sleeping.  In my now 5.5 years of marriage, 4 years have been sleep deprived, and yet I still function at a above average level, most of the time.  The people who receive my less than patient attitude is my family, which is sad.  I remember as a kid my mom yelling at me, and I seemed to inspire a special fury sometimes, but if that phone rang I remember my mom answering in the sweetest tone, a tone that made me long to be playing outside.

It seems that no matter the era, or place, in the end the ones we love seem to get our patience when it runs dry.  Lately it's my boys, and to be honest it has little to do with what they do. They are real young so to find fault with much of what they do seems unfair at best.  My oldest has a vivid imagination, and my younger boy has received that same gift, for whatever reason, likely age, my older boy must see a world that energizes him at night.  Either it is thoughts of what is happening, or what will happen when he sleeps, it is a struggle one night, and the next he is asleep before I have finished five pages from the book we are reading.  Some nights my slightly chillier visage is acceptable, heck even invited, and others only the warmth a mother brings will satisfy his racing mind.

I don't think kids realize that their behavior can actually pierce us as much as it does, I am truly saddened when my son yells that he doesn't want me to read, but wants mommy instead.  The sad part is I should play it more like the cat theory with him, ignore him and he will want me more, but it is hard when you feel slighted. While I know it isn't meant as a dagger, that knowledge doesn't lessen the pangs.

Being a parent seems like an exercise in memory, do you remember how you felt at that age when...Unfortunately I usually remember only after I do they thing I hated as a kid to my own children.  I seem to forget it makes zero sense to yell when I hope to calm a situation, much like it is pointless to slap a kid's hand and say "no hitting."  But that patience things hits me, and my kid memory doesn't kick in, and all of the sudden I am trying to yell at my son to stay in bed and "GO TO SLEEP..." yeah I'm sure he's relaxed to go to sleep then.

The dread two young children must feel for bed time approaching must be profound in their eyes.  Compared to the utter delight that comes over me as I lie down for the evening couldn't be more apropos. The thought of completing a day successfully brings a content quality to me, and to my young children, the thought of a day ending is missed opportunities, perhaps I'm the one doing it wrong.

 

Cooking : BHG Deep-Dish Chicken Pot Pie

There is little I could write about cooking that hasn't been put to page before.  Though I doubt that "love" needs anything new to add and people have managed to write about it since the written word was born.

Cooking seems a lot like running to me.  I know many people who get some sort of runners high, I don't get that, and I know just as many people who won't cook.  People love running or just put up with it, and they love cooking or just put up with it.  I love to cook.

While I have never taken a single class on how to cook I am the proud owner of a 4H Club gold medal in cooking for my pot stickers I made one year at "regionals." I have always really loved to cook, and can't imagine that changing.  My mom was my first teacher when it came to the kitchen and she imparted one thing on me that enabled me to "learn" to cook, and that was to follow a recipe.  By following a recipe I have now become pretty adventurous in the kitchen and am self taught.  This also means I have very little idea what I am doing in the kitchen so when it doesn't go to plan it sometimes bombs.  Granted the point of a recipe is that just about anyone could do it by following it step by step.  So I do just that, step by step, one at a time, I bake, grill, poach, sauté, and when all is said and done I think I succeed 75% of the time.

To make matters worse I make the biggest mess imaginable when I am in the kitchen.  If my food wasn't decent most of the time I think my wife would kill me for the dishes I dirty just to prepare food.  Being a novice as I am, I misjudge size of bowls I need, so I dirty 2 or 3, I misjudge how much food will really be made, regardless of what the recipe says for servings.  Granted this does mean my in-laws get the benefit of getting tons of food for dinner which I do think they appreciate.

Lately I have been cooking more than I have in the past, I seem to go through phases a lot, but I get so much out of preparing food for my family.  I just love watching ingredients transform into something completely different and more incredible then they are on their own. Sort of like a piano, it seems there are infinite possibilities what those 88 keys can do, watching what I can do with flour, water, salt and butter always seems to amaze me.  Creating food for me has given me a better appreciation of the past as well.  Perhaps there is a connection with a 90 minute prep time for dinner and family time.  By forcing me to slow down on my days off and cook, I have time to think a little, listen to some music that speaks to me, and even interact with my kids.  The kitchen at 4pm at our house is the heart of the entire house, where everyone is coming and going where electricity is in the air.  It is also known as the witching hour so it is either a hellish chaos, or like today, a energetic and life giving that is fun to be around.

Perhaps this cooking phase will pass, and I will look at cooking once again as a chore that can be fun, but tonight I made a Chicken Pot Pie that was awesome.  My kids and my wife all ate it and while our dinner routine is a mix between being a referee, a speed eater, and a nurse, occasionally I make something that works with our family dynamic and my kids eat and I eat at the same time and we all enjoy a good meal.  When it all works that 90 minute time investment seems more than worth it, and I feel like I have taught my children a little about nutrition, family, and value of doing something yourself (perhaps that is a bit ambitious but I can dream right.)

Pie N Burger

Drew turned four, and to say I am amazed by how fast time has moved is an understatement.  Four years ago my wife and I were in the hospital as she braved 24+ hours of labor to be ultimately met by a C-section, and brought this miracle into the world.  The way I remember things though intrigues me.


The night before Drew was born my wife and I went to a small diner.  It is one of our favorite places and we have fond memories of eating there, we ate dinner and later that night my wife, 41 weeks into being pregnant with our first, went into labor.  


So the day before Drew's birthday my wife and I went out on a date, and we arrived at that very same diner, but this was not a plan.  I didn't even think of that, but sure enough the flood of memories came to me in an instant.  Then I wish it was a plan.  If you ask me to mention specifics of the last 4 years of fatherhood, I'd hit and miss with details, but the one and only thing I do know is I have loved it, and this fascinates me.


In Drew's classroom for his birthday they did a "story of your life" and there was Drew declaring at one years old he remembered us reading to him and getting back scratches from momma.  I cried.  


My memory of that first year is far different, but I do know that his birthday will forever be tied to me, the day I became a dad, and the day I started my career (one year later) both started on that day.  I can remember a lot, and only a little at the same time about that first year, and sadly when you ask new parents or old ones for that matter about parenthood the overriding sentiment seems to be "tired."  


I am tired this is true.  I remember being clueless (I still am) and I remember being afraid and feeling small.  But parenthood for me is me meeting God for the first time.  Until that moment I held my son I felt big, like I was so important, much like any 20 something probably does, and as if someone hit a switch I shrank and God showed me how truly awesome life is. I held my son in my arms and I was looking at the face of God, a perfect pure child, and I felt completely overwhelmed with the incredible gift I had been entrusted with...I still am.


 I have witnessed a young child grow to the point of self expression, from nothing, and yet the minutia of details you would think I could recall with eerie accuracy, I can't.  In fact the minutia is a blur and my memory is more of feeling.  In some ways I regret not journaling and blogging more as my son was little, but part of me is happy I have my feelings mixed with photos.  While I lack a crystal clear picture I think some of my less than perfect memories are blurred even if that meant I loss the perfect clarity of the wonderful moments.


My son just turned four, and I hope he realizes how much of a gift he is to me.