Out of the Darkness, and into the belly.

You may have noticed that there has been a significant decline in the number of food-related posts in recent months. There is a reason for that. My daughter, once an enthusiastic foodie with no limits to her culinary prowess, made an executive decision to embark on an elimination diet of sorts. One might argue that she was employing the preemptive tactic of identifying potential allergens in an attempt to prevent a surprise bout of anaphylaxis. I would wholeheartedly disagree before slapping one in the face.

Can I be blunt here?

She was being a jerk.

Yes, kids can be jerks. Yes, even mine. It takes one to know one, after all. There was absolutely no rhyme or reason to her new and constantly shifting palate. Except that, without fail, every single thing I put in front of her for dinner - including things she had never before tried and things she would normally beg for - would be met with "I don't like it". She even turned down sausages. Repeatedly. I mean come on. Lunch and breakfast were marginally more successful, but even the snacks suffered. Whatever it was that I had brought for a snack was precisely the item she did not want any part of at that moment. If I brought three options, those were the three options that she didn't want.

Now. I'm not a pushover in general with the girl, and when it comes to food I can be quite Stalin-esque. You might not have picked that up, because I've never really had to flex my dictatorial muscles with this one. She's been so easy with food. But the minute she started to pull back, it was all I could do not to dig my heels in and bring down the iron curtain on the issue. But, as much as I've always said that I could not tolerate a picky eater, I absolutely do not want to create a war zone around food. It took every ounce of restraint I had to let her not eat, to let her claim to dislike foods that I knew she liked, to not give in to her whiny demands for different food, or send myself through the window after another round of the always exasperating "I'm full (take plate full of food away)…but I'm HUUUUNNNNNGRYYYYY" juggernaut. Yes, that's the word I meant to use.

So I think I've made it clear enough that E has been a pain in the ass in the eating department. The point of this exercise, you may be surprised to learn, is not to complain endlessly about the trials and tribulations of three year olds, but to offer you a shred of optimism among all of the wasted food.

On two wondrous, shiny occasions last week, we made progress!

First I made Pasta E Fagioli, an Italian pasta and bean soup, with absolutely no confidence that it would be well received. Now typically, the more preparation that goes into a dish, the less E will like it. So why, you ask, would I spend ages chopping and dicing when I know she's going to turn her nose up at it? Well, the truth is, sometimes I can be selfish. I love to cook, and I love to cook lots of different things. I love finding a new recipe. And as disheartening as it is to have my efforts repeatedly balked at, I simply cannot give in and open a box of KD. Besides, she doesn't like that either. So I made it, and figured she could pick out a noodle or two, maybe a chunk of tomato, and then fill up on crackers. I couldn't even be bothered to put them in a bowl, I just plunked the bag down in front of her. I've really been beaten down by this whole thing.

Anyhoo, would you believe that these words came out of her mouth?

"This is soooo delicious! Thank you for making me this delicious dinner mama! This is the best soup I've EVER TASTED!" 

I'm sorry. What was that?

She ate the entire thing. Quickly! (If there's another thing you should know about E, it's that she eats like  an old French dude tucked into the back booth of a Parisian bistro. She lingers.) And people, she didn't even TOUCH the crackers.

Round 2: Chicken. Since my finicky feline started her war on food, she has insisted that the only chicken that will pass her lips is "Foolish Chicken". Foolish Chicken is a restaurant down the street that serves BBQ chicken and ribs. Yes, it's delicious. But I will not be ordering a roast chicken from them every week just to satisfy my daughter's protein requirements. Essentially, after several attempts at home, she's looking for chicken thighs swimming in butter and bbq sauce. But, given her penchant for sausages and eating butter by the spoonful, I would really like to stick to white meat as much as possible.

So again, I walked into this next meal without a shred of conviction that I'd hear anything resembling appreciation from my little food critic. It was mexican night and, what with E being something of a deconstructionist, her meal was presented in small piles of ingredients, rather than assembled into wrap form. I used chicken breasts that had been poached in lemons and limes and cut into strips. Not even close to Foolish Chicken. And do you know what she did? She grabbed the strips and dipped them into the salsa and guacamole like they were breadsticks! She even went for seconds and thirds!

Once again I am reminded of the sage advice I received years ago while entrenched in the haze of sleep training:

"Everything is a phase. Maybe it's bad, maybe it's good. But it won't last forever."

So true, as evidenced by E's reaction to the Pasta E Fagioli leftovers this evening:

"I don't waaaaant soup. No thank you. Nooooo soooouuuuup!"

Out of curiosity, when does the "Let's cook for mom!" phase begin?

The Potty Lectures

Lecture A
Lecturer: E
Audience: Mom
Tone: Just the Facts

A long, long time ago, there were only corals on the beach. The whole beach was corals. Then they died and turned into shells. That's how it happened.

…2 minutes later...

Lecture B
Lecturer: E
Audience: Dad
Tone: Dramatic Flair

A very, verrrrry, long, looooong time ago….the beach had only corals on it. Then…one dayyyyy…sadly…(sigh)…they all died. It's true.

The Day E Babysat her Uncle Timbo

E's Uncle Timbo is not really someone you would label as a "kid person". He doesn't have any, doesn't want any, and hasn't spent a lot of time hanging out with any. He doesn't dislike them…at least I'm pretty sure he doesn't…they just run in different circles.

Having said that, when I was pregnant with E, Uncle Timbo got pretty darn excited. So excited, in fact, that he even got in on the pregnancy photo shoot action, as witnessed below:

He asked us all kinds of questions and promised to babysit all the time. He gave us loads of baby name ideas. For a boy: Tim. And for a girl: Timella, Timeka, Timberbell…it was a pretty long list, actually.

But when E was born, I think reality was a bit of a sucker punch for him. The Excitement became The Fear. He would hold her if we made him, but mostly he would interact with her only while she was safely ensconced in someone else's arms, or strapped securely into a bouncy chair. Having little to no baby experience to draw on, he was very apprehensive about breaking his very small, very precious niece.

As she has grown, Uncle Timbo has come out of his shell a bit more. Fortunately for him, E is more active verbally than physically and, what with him being mind-bogglingly intelligent about a startling range of topics, they have had some truly entertaining discussions with each other. But still not much one-on-one time.

And then...

Last weekend the Cowfam went to Toronto, where we attended a wedding. A wedding to which our little one was unequivocally banned, as they sometimes are. Now typically this wouldn't be a problem as J's parents would have gladly stepped in, except for the small snag that involved them being in the middle of a three-week hiatus in the South of Spain and Morocco. Very rude, I know. That left but one option outside of actually paying a stranger to care for our child (do people actually do that?!?), and that option was Uncle Timbo.

When we first approached him, he seemed more than happy to oblige. Not much in the way of specifics were discussed, and everyone seemed pretty comfortable with the idea. Then came the emails. And the phone calls. Eventually, J asked me if I thought it would be better to drop E off in Kingston with my parents for the entire four-day Thanksgiving weekend instead. I said no. Uncle Timbo would be brilliant, even if he didn't know it yet.

And, guess what? Brilliant.

We elicited E's help by suggesting that she babysit her Uncle for the night, seeing as he had never babysat before. She was very fond of the idea, though she admitted to being a bit nervous. So we left them to their own devices, confident in the knowledge that they would take care of each other.

In the almost four years that I've been feeding my daughter meals, I have never once thought to make aliens and octopi out of weiners. J and I absolutely wither in the face of Timbo's story reading skills.  And though I might have preferred her entire lifespan to be devoid of Spongebob Squarepants, I bet every time she sees that obnoxious yellow blockhead, she will think fondly of her Uncle Timbo.

When we left the next day, E gave Uncle Timbo a hug that he described as "literally the best hug ever",  and there's a reason for that.  It's because he gave her the very best gift he could give her, and now they have memories that belong to just the two of them. And that's a big deal.

Nice work, Timbo. You're a natural.

The Sounds of Silence

Overheard at dinner Chez Cowfam last evening…

E: Okay guys, we're going to play a game. It's called the Listening Game.

J: How about we play the Eating Game?

E: No. This is called the Listening Game, and I'll tell you how it works. So. You close your eyes - and you can put your hands over your eyes if you want, like this - and you have to be very quiet…

M: This game is awesome.

E: …quiet, mama…

M: Oh, sorry.

E: …and you listen.

J: Maybe you can eat while we're listening.

E: I can still hear talking...

M: Yeah, dada. Geez.

E: I can still hear talking…

…silence…sweet, blessed Baby Jesus silence...

E: Goooooood, guys. Okay, open your eyes. Now. What sounds did you hear?

J: I could hear your chair moving -

E: Well, my chair wasn't moving.

J: Well, I could hear it. And -

E: No. You couldn't.

J: And I could hear the fish tank bubbling.

E: Yes! Good!

M: I could hear cars outside.

E: Yes! Good, mama!

M: What did you hear?

E: Oh, I wasn't listening.

Gimme a J!

I haven't done a good ode to Dada in a while, and it just so happens that the last couple of days have produced quite a bit of material to his credit. He's a pretty awesome dude, as it happens.

It all started this morning, when instead of the usual creaking of the bedroom door to alert me that E was awake, I heard her little voice from her bed instead, just like the good old days. But, unlike the good old days, the voice was calling "Dada?" And then a sing-song "Daaaa-daaa!" Hm. Dada slept at the hospital last night, so he was not going to be answering her call. I went in, and she hid her disappointment fairly well. In any case, she wanted to see Dada, and the idea of waiting until after school seemed like FOREVER. It was sweet. She informed me that she REALLY wanted Dada to be there to pick her up from school so that she could show him the bugs in her classroom that I got to see yesterday. A couple of crickets and a really cool blue horn worm. I told her that we could arrange for Dada to pick her up, no problem. And that made her happy.

At dinner time, Dada showed us a card he had received from a patient today. It was an older gentleman who had been hospitalized last month for pneumonia. He is Vietnamese, and understands some English but doesn't speak much. Regardless, J did his best every day to spend time chatting with him so that he could understand what was happening, and to make sure that he was alright. His family would visit him often, and J would take the time to explain everything to them as well. When was the last time you wrote a thank-you note to a doctor? What if I told you that this is actually the second thank-you note he has received in his modest 14 month career? And that he's also received a note from an attending about how much the medical and nursing staff enjoyed having him rotate with them? I'm about as proud as he is special.

But the very best part of the day, maybe the week, and quite possibly the whole month, came when E began asking J about what he did to help the man who wrote the card. This developed into her asking what he did last night at work, and started probing for details about injection sites and bacterial infections and poorly-controlled diabetes. For every answer, she had another question, and for every question, Dr. Dada was only to happy to give a more detailed answer. It was, I think, the cutest thing I've ever seen. 

Parenting WIN!

Yesterday, walking to school, a car backed up from an intersection to give us room to cross the road. Before I had the chance to do it myself, E looks at the driver, throws her arm in the air in an exuberant wave and shouts "Thank you!"

I felt like Mom of the Year, and not in a sarcastic way.

Let it Grow

Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better.

It's not.

~ Dr. Seuss (The Lorax)

My backyard is about 70% weeds, the remaining being a mix of scattered dirt and grass, with the odd shrub and vine creeping over from the neighbour's yard in a valiant attempt to improve a rather dismal situation. As for the front yard, well, there are fewer weeds, and a lot less grass, giving it a distribution of about 70% dirt. A few chunks of groundcover, as well as a rather unfortunate (in that it had the misfortune of being transplanted into our yard) rose bush have succeeded in knocking the dirt percentage down about 10%.

It's quite the sight really, but not in a good way.

Every day, or almost every day, for the past several weeks, I've been trying to get this landscaping situation under control. I water the plants, I pull some weeds, I rake up debris. I water the plants, I pull some weeds, I rake up debris. Sometimes I chat with the plants, maybe sing a tune, doing my best to encourage them even though I possess no inherent gardening skills whatsoever. Or singing skills, for that matter. Chatting, though? If chatter were all they needed I'd have a rainforest on my hands. But, I digress.

Sometimes, while I'm filling bags with weeds or clearing fallen leaves away from my new groundcover, I feel really good about the progress I'm making. Every weed I pull is one less weed, every day I remember to water is one more day without killing something. I like that E sees me taking care of our home and gets interested in it herself. I like knowing that I've decided to do something productive with my time that will have lasting impact.

Other times, though, particularly when I take a look at the big picture, it starts to feel pretty futile. The front yard is still primarily dirt. The backyard is still primarily weeds. They both look pretty terrible, and it will be a long, long time, even with daily weeding and watering, before either of them will be something I'm not terribly embarrassed about.

And it occurs to me that my gardening is drawing great parallels with life.

And so I get back out there, and I weed. And I water. And one weekend, I bring my whole family and we work together and we put down grass seed. And we water. And we wait. And we feel good, not because it looks perfect or even good, but because it looks promising.

Why it's better to have a dumb kid

At dinner…

E: Can you imagine an elephant sitting on an egg?
M: Wouldn't that be crazy?
E: Anyways, it's just a book. It's not real.
M: I guess.
E: Like fairies. Fairies aren't real either. You told me that, right?
M: Um, yeah. I guess I did. *mental self-flagellation*
E: But wings are real, right?
M: Sure, it's just wings on people that aren't real. *STOP TALKING! STOP TALKING!! YOU'RE ROBBING HER OF THE MAGIC OF CHILDHOOD!!!*
E: Yeah. Why aren't fairies real mama?
M: Hey, want some ice cream???

Seriously though, the jig is up for Santa this year, isn't it? I just can't see her getting through the whole season with Santa and the elves and the flying reindeer and a bag big enough to carry every present for every kid in the world and the Grinch without popping the big question. You know the one. I can't even say it. And if I can't even say it, how the heck am I going to answer it? With a lie? Lying is bad. Even E knows that. That's why you're not supposed to have to have this conversation until their little brains are big enough to understand how sometimes it's cool for parents to lie to kids. Right? Oh man. I'm not ready.

FALLing behind

Note to self: The farther North you travel, the earlier autumn happens. I thought I had that sorted out after last year, but it went and caught me by surprise again last weekend. Friday was a gorgeous and sunny summer day. Saturday it rained for the entire 24 hours. And on Sunday morning when I woke up, it was Fall. Just like that. Which made for an outstanding day of apple picking at Mountain Orchards.

Once again we went picking with E's friends C & C and their new brother C. (Once you start a pattern, you can't very well break it for the third one without adding to the the list of how the third kid misses out.) This time there were more than 3 apples remaining, and we were able to fill our own bags instead of buying the pre-picked bags and feeling like we should have just gone to the grocery store. I gave E her own 10lb bag and took one for myself, which means that we walked out of there with 20lbs of apples for our little family of 3. Totally reasonable, right? You can't do that at the grocery store without looking ridiculous. What may be more ridiculous is plunking those apples down in the middle of the kitchen and simply walking around them for the first two days while trying to wrap my head around how I could process 20lbs of anything into something that we could consume in its entirety without running out of the house screaming frantically: NOOOO! MOOOOOORE! AAAAAAAAAPPLES!!!

When I did eventually address them, I started by cramming almost half of them into the produce drawer of the fridge, just to make the job more visually feasible. Then I tossed the other half into a giant colander for a little rinse,

and decided to tackle them a dozen at a time. Manageable chunks, that's what's important.

The first two dozen apples were peeled and chopped and piled in the slow cooker with some cinnamon and cloves. Let me tell you, as someone who has been making applesauce for a few years now by cooking a half dozen or so at a time for about 20 minutes on the stovetop, slow cooking them is where it's at. Depth of flavour people - it means something. Wow. 4 hours later my house smelled outrageously delicious and the applesauce was too.

Now normally, all the peels and cores go into the compost, but being that the peels are so good for you I always have trouble throwing them away. Usually I munch on them until my intestines start to cramp up, but this time I did a little googling and discovered that the peels are actually high in pectin, meaning that you can make jelly from the peels and cores without having to add pectin. What luck! I've never made jam or jellies before, but this seemed too good to be true…

…and it was. As convincing as that might look up there, we ended up with what I optimistically refer to as apple syrup. Wouldn't set. For all you jam and jelly novices looking to break into the practice, let me offer these words of advice: Make sure to use a thermometer you can trust. My thermometer was very expensive and worked very well for a while, until it didn't. And now that it doesn't, and I know it can't be trusted, I still cling to the hope that it will be good enough to prevent me from having to buy another one…which may be well and good for my yogurt making (not exactly an exact science), for candy and jam-making, it just won't cut the mustard. I'm going to give it one more go by adding some powdered pectin and reboiling, but I may just have to admit defeat on this one. Besides, I'm sure there are a myriad of uses for apple syrup, no?

So I was up to 2 dozen apples on that first day of processing, and once I had forced each of us to eat one (did you know they can be eaten raw?!) and threw a couple more into Nigella's apple bacon mashed potatoes, I decided that 29 apples in one day was enough for any girl.

To be continued...

Good talk

After a day that was mostly successful but littered a little too liberally with non-cooperation and not quite enough listening, and definitely too much whining, we had a little chat on the car ride home.

M: E, I'd like you to think a little bit about how today could have been more fun if you had just co-operated a bit more and listened a bit more.

E: --silence--

M: I think that you know how you're supposed to behave and how you're not supposed to behave, and today it seemed that most of the time you were doing those things on purpose, even though -

E: Shhh…I'm thinking.

M: Okay.

E: Hey mom, what did Dory say to Marlon about her term loss?

M: That she suffers from short term memory loss?

E: Yeah. Well, I suffer from short term memory loss too.