It's official

Every one of J's classmates has now had/invited us to a birthday party. Ok, I may be missing one kid... two, tops. The parties have varied from simple to elaborate, but none have just been a craft at home followed by cake, which is the extent of effort and expense I could manage if I had thrown such a party.

You see, J did not have a birthday party including her classmates. I honestly thought, back in September, that this type of thing was anomalous. I mean, who can really afford gifts from themselves, along with 'jump zone' party with pizza, cake, and a goodie bag for 18 kids plus parents? How is a parent going to top a party with ice skating lessons for all attendees, or a magician who puts on an hour show and also makes balloon animals, for their 5-year-old? (By the time they're 10, what...are they going to rent out the Maryland Zoo?!) Surely it would only be a handful of invites for the year. Or not, as the case may be.

God bless J - it hasn't occurred to her that she is the only one who has not had such a party. The age of kindergarten has its advantages, after all. But what happens next year, or the year after that? I have often written about my concern (ok, fear) of keeping up with the other more affluent families at this school, along with my need to support certain values for J. As with her foray into lacrosse, I just didn't think the birthday thing would come to bear so soon.

I have to keep my eye on the end game, while making J feel included, socially accepted, and...well...not abnormal. Hmph. My stomach hurts.

Haven't we all

I absolutely love some of the books J and I read at bedtime. Junie B. Jones? *shudder* Princess stories? No way in hell. Mary Poppins, the original version? Now you're talking. From Chapter 6 - Bad Tuesday:

'"Shall I let out the water?" he enquired in the rudest voice he had. There was no reply. "Pooh! I don't care!" said Michael, and the hot heavy weight that was within him swelled and grew larger. "I don't care!"'

(we all know that hot heavy weight, don't we?)

'[And Michael] was a little astonished at himself.... But he was not astonished for long, for he began to wonder what he could do next.... he ran away with Miss Lark's angry, outraged voice screaming in his ears, and his body almost bursting with the exciting weight of that heavy thing inside him.... And all that time he was enjoying his badness, hugging it to him as though it were a friend, and not caring a bit.'

You just don't get that kind of real, true emotion in today's sugar-coated stories - not that I have found anyway. Best of all, J seems to love it as much as I do...

On passion and fruit

My mother was a larger-than-life person. She dominated every room she was in - either by her conversation, or simply with the sheer force of her emotions. My brother inherited her mayor-like qualities. My daughter carries on her ceaseless chatter.

She was a passionate woman. She laughed loudly. She loved deeply. She took things personally. She would say things like, "I forgive, but I never forget," or, "Never stop dating your spouse - it is so important." She would give the world's longest lectures when my brother and I would bicker a little too much. I can remember her saying, "Life is a two-way street," but I have no idea why. She was so intense when she said it, however, we would just nod knowingly. We just wanted her to finish so we could get out of her storm.

When I was very young, she loved to throw parties, as I am certain I have written before. Music would fill the house while we prepped and cleaned. Mom would give me hosting advice that I would not be able to use for twenty years, such as, "When your guests arrive, you fix them their first drink, showing them where the bar is. Then they can make their own drinks after that." She always made a point to finish getting ready well in advance of the appointed hour so she could relax and get ready to smile for her friends. She would lay on the floor in the living room, listening to the Hollies or Credence Clearwater Revival, singing to herself.

Then my brother and I would be ushered upstairs with snacks and soda - a party of our own. We were discouraged from coming downstairs, even if we were fighting. I would sometimes sneak down anyway, undaunted by the scene greeting me at the bottom of the stairs. I would weave through the crowded living room, dark except for candles and firelight, to find my father sitting in the corner (he might have been chatting with someone, but he was so introverted...he didn't really enjoy the jocularity). The smell of liquor hung in the air along with cigarette smoke. Above it all, I can still clearly smell my dad's whiskey sour and my mother's perfume.

I would yell over the music into Dad's ear a description of some minor transgression of my brother's. With a hug and his assurances that CB would be disciplined in the morning, I would return upstairs to watch the rest of Sonny and Cher, satisfied. As I passed the coffee table, pushed off next to the sofa to make room for dancing, I would see the usual assortment of hors d'hoevres - a port wine cheese ball covered with nuts, a crudite platter, bread sticks, shrimp dip.

For smaller dinner parties, Mom would rearrange the furniture so the coffee table was directly in front of the fireplace, surrounded by pillows for sitting. The '70s-yellow fondue pot would sit in the center, surrounded by meat, vegetables and bread cubes. After dinner, there would come dessert, of course, and one of my mother's favorite desserts was brandied fruit (to be served with champagne). I get a headache just writing that. This time of night is when my brother and I would hear the most uproarious conversations, the loudest laughter.

I love to remember this aspect of my mother's complex personality. She was so confident in a crowd, so happy to shower guests with what she felt was the best of everything. I guess I inherited these traits from her.

As I was leafing through a new cookbook this morning, looking for inspiration for my own Mother's Day meal, I was greeted by a recipe for brandied fruit. And I smiled. If I can picture my mom in heaven, she is that 30-something version of herself - the woman who regularly went to 'exercise class', the one who had just the right jewelry for every event, the one who showed me how to spray perfume on my pulse points as I watched her get ready for her party. The excitement radiated from her as she set her bottle of Chanel 22 down and rubbed her wrists together. "Your husband will love the way this smells when he kisses you," she would say with sparkling eyes and a conspiratorial smile.

I love you Mom. I hope you're having a party tonight, that Daddy is helping you get ready, and that all the guests will be as happy as they were in your home 30 years ago. Happy Mother's Day.

Holding on

At 6, she still wants me in the bathroom with her.

At 6, she still wants me to hold her for just a minute before I go downstairs to make breakfast.

At 6, she will still take an invisible 'love' from me to put in her pocket for safekeeping til she gets to school.

At 6, she will still let me hug her before scampering onto the bus.

At 6, she is still delighted by everything new thing she learns.

At 6, she still thinks it's funny to burp at the dinner table.

At 6, she still wants me to dry her off (and snuggle in the process) after her shower.

At 6, she still wiggles and fidgets uncontrollably at bedtime.

At 6, she still asks for one more giant hug before I turn out the light.

Thank you God for 6.

Such is life

My vegetable garden has evolved slowly over the past 5 years or so. When I first started, I only grew peas and herbs - the former because J and JBL love peas, and the latter because we use herbs in cooking frequently and hate paying through the nose for them at the grocery.

From there, I gradually added plants until last year, when I had a decent-sized plot (6' x 10') that included peas, parsley, basil, rosemary, jalapenos, cherry tomatoes, plum tomatoes, string beans, carrots, cantaloupe, and watermelon.

Unfortunately, I have no idea what I am doing, so my success rate is mixed at best. The cherry tomatoes took over their space and that of the beans. This was providential - as it turned out, I was the only one who wanted to eat the beans anyway. Based on 3 full rows (planted a second time when there was little action after 4 weeks) I received exactly 4 anemic carrots. The peppers and basil floundered in the shade of both tomato plants. The melons went wild - I ended up wrapping them around the perimeter several times - but didn't actually produce ripened fruit til September. I spent my days shaking my head in consternation while either watering or weeding.

The only plus (well, besides watching the whole process, which was cool), was that I found JBL and K actually enjoy home-grown cantaloupe after actively dissing store-bought melons for years.

This year I am taking a pared-down approach. No melons. Only plum tomatoes, and only 2 plants at that. Ok, maybe 3. Lettuce in place of beans and carrots. Same herbs and peppers. That's it.

So far, the cool weather veggies are all that I have planted. The peas are going gangbusters, as always. I could write a whole post on the various trellising systems I have employed, but it would bore us both to tears. Let me just say I have found success this year with rabbit fencing, and will use it also for the tomatoes in place of those ridiculously ineffective wire cones.

The lettuce, on the other hand, has been fickle. I have now planted two full rows twice and have only a handful of plants to show for it. Oh, they're vigorous little things, but what about the others? It is beyond frustrating to have no idea when my efforts in the garden will come to...ahem...fruition.

Easy enough, you may say. You plant seeds, and amend the soil where needed. You water when it doesn't rain enough. Sometimes the seeds grow and sometimes they don't. But you don't understand. What does that do to you? I for one am more than troubled when I plant something and I just...fail. Without adequate reason. But such is life, my mother used to say. Such is life.

So out I will go this week, finally buying shrubs for the west side of the house (hello Steeds Holly and Silver King Euonymus!), and perhaps purchasing annuals for my front-porch containers. I will think and plan and hope and plant. In the garden, at least, I am not paralyzed by fear of failure...