Why motherhood will end war

Today I sat on a plane to Memphis, Tennessee, next to a young man bound for two-week's leave from his post in Iraq. He was on his way home to surprise his mama. You gotta love that.

Michael is 19, has been in Iraq for 9 months and has 9 more to go on this tour. He showed me some photos on his My Space page of Kuwait and Iraq, and shared some chocolates he had picked up in Germany on his way home. (Those Germans know their chocolates. That was some fabulous stuff.)

Talking with Michael made me realize two somewhat life-altering things.

First, I'm old enough to be his mother. That was truly an ah-ha moment - and not in a good way. I'm used to thinking of my self as mother to my 8 and 3-year-old kids. But technically, I could be the mother of a 19-year-old kid, on his way home to surprise me.

That thought led to another thought: I wanted Michael to stay home, go to college, find a nice girl, have some kids and find a way to add to a peaceful, caring world. I wanted him to be safe. And although I've never met her, I'm pretty sure his mama feels the same way.

I bet the mothers of soldiers all over the world feel that way, too. Yes, we are proud that our sons and daughters are brave and are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the ideals we believe in, but we'd much rather they didn't.

Suppose that all the mothers in the world put their collective feet down, and said, with one hand on a hip and the other brandishing a cooking implement that suited their culture,"You are NOT going to go out and get into fight with those other kids! And if I hear about you doing anything like that, you'll wish it WAS world war three!"

I bet we'd have one helluva peaceful planet.

Godspeed, Michael. May you return safely.

The Fountain of Youth

As I mentioned before, at my house, we're obsessed with the urination habits of our 3-year-old son.

By weekday, he's a well-trained, cotton-undies wearin' kind of guy. I picture him at pre-school, standing next to the other boys at a row of pint-sized urinals, giving and getting high fives for solid bulls eyes.

But at home, he becomes like a spoiled cat. Urine is weapon used to show displeasure, and he's not afraid to use it.

This morning, I told him that he needed to get dressed before he came downstairs. He stripped off his jammies and pull-up happily as I went downstairs to answer the phone.

Over the next several minutes, I frequently called up the stairs, "Are you getting dressed?"

Answers varied from "not yet," to "in just a second." (Hmm, wonder where he learned that one?)

Eventually, I went to check on him, and found him happily playing with a toy shark and one of his favorite CDs submerged in a sink full of water. Still nothing on down below.

I took him to his room and saw the puddle on the floor.

"Is that water?" I asked.

"Nooo."

"Did you pee on your floor?"

A sly grin.

"Why did you DO that?" (loudly)

"Well...I didn't want to get dressed."

Guess he showed me.

I shared this story with friends this evening, and one jokingly suggested a clothespin to stem the tide. Can't say I didn't think about it. But instead I admitted defeat for the moment and wrote a haiku in honor of my worthy opponent:

Water on the floor
A boy's discovered power
The fountain of youth.

Want more haiku? Check out  Haiku and Food to Suit Your Mood. It's simple recipes for the body and witty haiku for the soul. 

The Subconscious Deadline

In order to get my child out of the house on time, I move up the deadline of dressing, eating. and brushing teeth. The kitchen clock runs 5 minutes ahead of itself.

Accepting that I will want to snuggle in for at least 10 minutes with the warm body of my husband in bed every weekday morning – I set the white noise on the alarm that far ahead of the actual alarm to get me to the lala state of feeling but not knowing.  The deadline of rising is moved up to fool myself.

During the month of August, I won a large battle to relocate my daughter to Asheville, NC, and marry my high school sweetheart.  I could do nothing to move that clock ahead; it took 1 1/2 years to just be heard in front of the judge.   I had 1 week to move us and our furniture up here, merge it with someone who already had 3 children, and get my daughter settled into a brand new school.  (Did I say get it on the moving truck and unpack? Did I tell you I also got married?)  After that deadline, which would not budge, I had the due date of October 1 to contend with:  the birth of my second cookbook.  Could I move it back?  I did not dare.

So in 6 weeks, basically, I developed and tested and edited and blurbed 140 recipes.  That is a lot of energy expended along with settling down, getting married, and transitioning a child from private to wonderful public schools.  I pretty much said, “Honey I love you but we’ll catch up after October 1.”

In some ways, having that work deadline helped me not freak out about all of the other personal issues that were swirling around.  I was able to claim absolute tiredness under the guise of all that physical recipe testing.

So, after all of that trauma that I put my family through with my book deadline of Oct. 1., I read the contract again today, because I wanted to see the format I was to send in the manuscript.

And the deadline is October 31, not October 1.  All of the theatrics of “my having to work” and “y’all have to go out for dinner “was for naught.

Or was it?  Did I unintentionally move that deadline in my head to October 1, knowing it would keep me in work up to my eyeballs and I would not have time to worry about what sofa went where?  It was almost a ploy for me to help me keep my sanity.

And I will tell you that nothing feels better than to finish a major project 1 month before the deadline.  I like pushing deadlines ahead; that way you are ready for everything that comes along.


- A. Diva