Madame von Meatball: How it All Began

Holy schmidt, I found my old recipe book.

Does everyone have something like this at one point or another? A notebook or composition book with recipes torn from magazines and newspapers, some pasted or taped in, some loose? This was mine. I'm looking through the pages as if looking through an old yearbook.

Oh my God, the eggplant rollatini. I made this dish for the first time when Jeeps and I were dating, at his parents house in Ridgefield. I laugh to think about this now. I just went over with a grocery bag of ingredients and the recipe torn out of Redbook magazine, took over their kitchen and made dinner one night. Thank God my future in-laws were such groovy people. I really need to make this again...

*Gasp* The nectarine-kiwi tart! I never made this but I had aspirations to. I mean look at it, is that not divine?

And then, from myriad of clippings tucked between the pages, I found this:

This, my friends, is what I wrote down one day in the spring of 2001, when my mother came over to my house in Croton Falls to teach me how to make meatballs.

We were a wreck.

Not because of anything bad between us. We were just on shaky ground. Two years prior, we had closed the dance school my mother had run for over 30 years, the school where I had grown up, and where I had taught with her for 9 years. We lived, ate, drank and breathed the school. I'm sure it wasn't all we talked about, but it seemed like it was all we talked about. 

Now, suddenly, our common thread was tied off and clipped. Suddenly there were awkward silences between us. I felt like I had to get to know my mother all over again, and she me.

I was also in the grip of serious post-partum depression. I was twelve pounds underweight, fighting terrible anxiety attacks, trying to deal with going back to work, trying to figure out motherhood as well as daughterhood.

My mother came over to cook. I know she was upset and scared for me, but she was so gentle. She didn't offer advice, she didn't try to fix it. She just came over to cook.  

We made meatballs in gravy. I think we may have even made spanikopita that day, too, but I mostly remember making meatballs. 

I remember asking her, for the first time, "Did you want to have a lot of children?" (There is just my brother and me, but I wondered what her vision of a family had been when she was young). I remember her drinking a cup of coffee and furrowing her brow before she responded, as if this was the first time anybody had asked her. We talked about children. We talked about mothers. We talked about food. Together, stumbling, we began the steps of a new dance.

It was the day my mother began to become my friend.

I make meatballs by rote and instinct now. I don't need these pieces of paper anymore. But I'm going to keep them forever because they are more, so much more than a recipe.

Class

Panda is tired tonight. It's near the end of the week and this is her third dance class. She yawned the whole way to the studio, sighing, "I don't think I can do this." I remember that feeling.

Twice a week, I would leave school early and take the train into the city, and then the M104 bus up to Carnegie Hall for ballet class. Some days, particularly February days, it was the last place I wanted to be. To an inner monologue of "I can't do this, I'm so tired, I really don't feel like doing this," I would, like a robot, put up my hair, put on my shoes. I'd put my left hand on the barre, put my feet in first position...and just do it.

Just like Panda's doing now. Little by little, the class is taking her. After opening tendus and plies, her little sweater gets peeled off, her bottom lip starts to twist in concentration, the gears are turning. She's in the game.

And I remember that often, those days would turn out to be great classes. You took class, and class took you. You didn't think you had it in you to do anything, but somehow you found your best.

Like Panda just found hers. And a double pirouette.

Compost Mumbler

Since we're revealing all our dirty secrets... ...we were, weren't we?

Anyway, since we were, this is often what you will see by my kitchen sink during winter: Composting in winter is a bitch.  Taking it out to the pile in frigid weather is bad enough.  Add 3 feet of ice-encrusted snow and it's a real party.  I hate it.  But since so much of what I cook involves veggies that must be peeled and trimmed, and since we're rolling in organic eggs thanks to my neighbor, the bucket fills up pretty quick, as do the secondary containers I fall back on.  Eventually it all has to go out.  The pile is pretty much buried in snow, really I'm just feeding the raccoons and possums at this time of year.  But better in them than in the garbage.  It's all for the greater good.

You've Got Issues

I don't watch TV, nor do I go to or watch a lot of movies. I don't even remember the last movie I went to. I've never tried to coherently explain my cinematic aversion. I don't know why when Jeeps suggests we go out to a movie, or rent one, or stream one on Netflix, something in me just squirms in reluctance. Not fear, not phobia, just an overall sense of "Eh?"

But why not go to a movie? Well...

1) There are just other things I'd rather be doing.

2) If I have the opportunity to get away from the kids and the house and go out with my husband, sitting in a dark room watching some other couple's story seems to defeat the purpose. There are exceptions. One very memorable date involved us going to a movie but having an hour to kill before it started. We ended up getting Wendy's and sitting in the car, eating and listening to A Prairie Home Companion on the radio. This was spontaneous and goofy and fun. Really. And I think the movie was Fellowship of the Ring.

3) I hate doing nothing. I must have some weird, Puritan streak because when I'm sitting idle with my hands doing nothing, I go crazy. The best solution is to knit while I watch a movie but this presents a problem in a movie theatre, and also at home because certain people who live here have to watch a movie in complete darkness. Don't ask me why, that's their post.

4) Movies are water, and I am a sponge. I am a radar dish. I pick up everything and I internalize everything. If it is a horror flick or thriller or some truly intense subject matter, I emerge from the theatre or living room a neurotic, anxious mess. I'm not kidding. I do not deal well with disconnection.  I have to take half a Klonopin after parties to unwind. After a movie like Saving Private Ryan or Schindler's List, I need a full tablet and therapy.

5) If it is lite, romantic fare, it's a different kind of neurotic mess:  I come out of the theatre a complete sap. I am either in the throes of infatuation, or knee-deep in a girl crush, suffering acute house envy, or have just assumed the persona of one of the characters and go around living his/her life for weeks.

Case in point:  You've Got Mail.

Ugh, You've Got Mail. This movie kills me on five thousand levels. Please, join me in my utter self-indulgence, let me detail them for you. [Editor's Note: there's no food in this post. Move on if you want.]

The Ephrons. I love Nora, rest her soul. I love Delia, I even love Amy, I love all things Ephron

I've had a thing for Tom Hanks since Bosom Buddies

Meg Ryan. 

(*Facepalm*)

Meg Ryan. She is so beautiful and charming in this movie, I want to kill myself. Cinematically speaking.

Rather, Meg Ryan is beautiful in this movie, and she makes her character charming. Let's talk about that. Let's bullet-point that, shall we?

• Her name. Nobody gets my name right. Nobody spells Suanne right, nobody says it right. I would never change it. I was named after my mother's college friend who warned them, pleaded, begged them not to name me Suanne. But they did. So it's my name. But sometimes I fantasize about what it would be like to be named Sara or Michelle or...(sigh)...Katherine. In You've Got Mail, Meg Ryan's character is named Kathleen Kelly. Do I need to go on? I didn't think so.

• Her style. That short little blonde flip, so casually messy: to die for.  er clothes: the schoolgirl, Talbots chic. The cardigans, crisp white shirts, pleated plaid skirts, tweed pencil skirts, a jumper over black turtleneck, opaque black tights, a classic trench coat. It sounds dowdy in writing but it is adorable. She doesn't wear high heels once in this movie! And her pajamas...(sigh)...it's really not fair that somebody over the age of ten can look so cute in pajamas.

• Her apartment. That Upper West Side brownstone with the parquet floors, the crown moldings, the built-in bookshelves, the bit of stained glass, the window seat, the chintz, the flowers in vases, the patchwork quilt on her bed...(head on desk in puddle of self-indulgent despair). Apartments like these do not exist in real life. OK, maybe they do, but nobody I know lives in a place like that. I will never live in a place like that. And it seriously is not fucking fair.

• Her shop. The Shop Around the Corner. A children's bookshop. Exposed brick, red-and-white striped curtains, pendant lighting, posters and pictures of books, shelves and shelves of books, Christmas lights festooned. The very first scene of her opening her shop in the morning and entering and what does she do? She changes the water in the vase of roses. During the weekly story hour, she perches on a child-sized chair and reads to the group wearing a peaked princess cap. That is my shop, dammit, and it sucks that it closed down in the movie and sucks that little shops like that continue to close down everywhere. That's a different post.

• The tea party. I searched and searched but could not find a clip from this particular scene of Meg Ryan, Jean Stapleton and another actress having a sumptuous cream tea together, but you can just imagine that it is near and dear to my heart. [Editor's Note: can I just insert one small political rant here?  If for no other reason, the so called Tea Party can go fuck itself because they are making it very difficult for me to search the Internet about MY idea of a tea party. Thank you.]

• Her handkerchiefs. Rather than tissues, Kathleen carries a handkerchief that her mother embroidered with daisies and her initials.

• Her love of daisies. "They're so friendly. Don't you think daisies are the friendliest flower?"

So all these things, plus Starbucks and email and bouquets of freshly-sharpened pencils and a happy ending in Riverside Park, contrive to make You've Got Mail one of my favorite vices because I just want to crawl inside the damn thing and live it.

Many many many thanks to Julia at Hooked on Houses, a fabulous blog about real-life beautiful houses and beautiful houses you may have lusted over on the big screen. All the lustful You've Got Mail images came from her beautiful post about the movie. 

A similar but equally yummy blog is Sweet Sunday Mornings, dedicated to production design at the movies, so you get costumes, hair-styles and props as well as set design.

Nursery Supper

Nursery Supper is the meal one partakes with the nanny, in the nursery, while the adults of the household dine in state downstairs. I cannot seem to arrange this in my own household. Probably because I'm one of the adults and I can't be in pajamas in the nursery while my children dine in state. I simply haven't the servants required.

The closest I came to this concept was Playroom Supper, back before house renovations and we had this nifty room off the living room that the kids played and watched TV in. To all intents and purposes it was a nursery, less the sleeping quarters, and though I would not change a thing about the new configuration of the house, I find I do miss that little room. It was cozy, cheerful. Christmas lights were tacked around the windows all year long. The kids' artwork hung on the walls. It had a wicker couch and a little table and chairs, and on nights when Jeeps was working late in the city, I would serve Playroom Supper, and we'd eat at the little table and watch Rachel Ray or House Hunters (this was back when I had control of the TV).

More often than not, what we ate at Playroom Supper was scrambled eggs. Because Rosamunde Pilcher said so in Coming Home:

[Diana] came to settle herself in the corner of the nursery sofa, close to the fire. 'Do you girls want to come down for dinner, or do you want to have nursery supper with Mary?'

"'Do we have to change if we come down for dinner?' Loveday asked.

"'Oh, darling, what a silly question, of course you have to.'

"'In that case, I think we'll just stay up here and eat scrambled eggs or something.'

"Diana raised her lovely eyebrows. 'What about Judith?'

"Judith said, 'I love scrambled eggs, and I haven't got a dress to change into.'

"'Well, if that's what you both want, I'll tell Nettlebed. Hetty can carry up a tray for you.' She reached into the pocket of her pale-grey cardigan and produced her cigarettes and her gold lighter. She lit one and reached for an ashtray.  'Judith, what about that beautiful box you brought with you? You promised you'd show it to me after tea. Bring it over here and we'll look at it now.'"

I, too, love scrambled eggs, not only for myself to enjoy but as my favorite fall-back for dinner on those nights when I can't think of a thing, or the kids just seem too tired to contemplate anything more complicated than eggs and toast. When I hear friends tell of children who don't or won't eat scrambled eggs, I try not to look horrified. No judgement on them, it's just that I don't know what I'd do. Cold cereal, I guess. Bread and milk? My very dear friend Francie served waffles and fruit salad for dinner the other night. She's one of my food heroines.

In Home Cooking, Mrs. Colwin devotes an entire chapter to nursery food, which I could happily transpose here and force you to read. But I won't do that, I will just put it in a china plate with the letters of the alphabet around the rim, and spoonfeed you the brilliant essence:

"A long time ago it occurred to me that when people are tired and hungry, which in adult life is most of the time, they do not want to be confronted by an intellectually challenging meal: they want to be consoled...

Of course I do not mean that you should feed your friends pastina and beef tea (although I would be glad to be served either). But dishes such as shepherd's pie and chicken soup are a kind of edible therapy. After a good nursery dinner you want your guests to smile happily and say with childlike contentment: 'I haven't had that in years.'"

Children cannot resist this kind of food because, I feel, it is trustworthy. It is solid, dependable and, most of all, recognizable. There are no tricks with a scrambled egg. Nothing fishy about a meatball on top of pasta. And if it is a perfect bite-sized meatball for their little mouth, so much the better. In fact, with kids, the smaller the food, the better. They are born noshers. If life could be served on a cracker or picked up with a toothpick, what a wonderful world it would be.

Last night's lid potatoes illustrate this perfectly. When I serve my kids nursery food, their manners materialize, unprompted and impeccable. They turn downright lovey. "Oh, Mom, this is delicious, I love this dinner. Thank you."

Who can resist?

Coffee, tea...or should we just dance?

Dancers have a notorious reputation for being klutzes.  Offstage. Onstage we leap, turn, sustain, flow, tie eighteen movements into a single phrase, and navigate amongst each other with seamless, split-second timing.

Offstage we can't navigate the six inches between the couch and coffee table without banging a shin.

Or in my case, we can't get up from our desk.

I had a brilliant idea this afternoon to do a post about tea, specifically tea parties and the institution of British "high tea," replete with illustrations and excerpts from some of my favorite books.  Really, I was excited about this.  So excited that I got up from my desk to go over to the Mac where I house all my scribbles, so I could quickly jot down a couple notes.

OK, I jumped up from my desk.

Awkwardly.

Really awkwardly.

So awkwardly that I banged the desk with my hip, thus causing my Oy Vey coffee mug, which was half-full of cold coffee, to topple over.

Into my laptop.

My work laptop.

(Ugh, my stomach).

I yelled out a string of four-letter words that caused Pandagirl and her playdate to go utterly silent upstairs.  I pulled the plug and turned the laptop upside down as the fan whirred on, sputtered, coughed, and then died.  The screen went blank.  I howled to Panda, "Get the hairdryer!"

No, really, I said that.  I was slightly insane at the time.  It didn't help.  I might as well have yelled, "Get the tortilla!" like Jessie in Toy Story 3.

I had killed the laptop.

[Editor's note - there is no food in this post.  If you've gotten the jist by now and wish to leave ERT, it is perfectly understood.  Please do come again soon.]

I pinged my boss to tell her I had suddenly gone out of pocket.  I pinged Krista because when I am out of pocket, she is my gateway back in.  And then I braced myself for Helpdesk Hell.

I don't understand why there is not a touchtone option for "If you have spilled a beverage onto your laptop and need immediate therapy and a replacement...Press 2, dumbass."  Instead you wind up at the call center in India, with technicians who cannot go off script if their lives depended on it.  "How may I help you today, Ms. Laqueer?"  My last name is not Laqueer but that's often what it gets twisted into.  Don't ask.

"I spilled a cup of coffee on my laptop and killed it," I replied, hoping a little black humor would help this guy find his humanity.

"I'll be very happy to help you resolve this issue.  Can I get some information first?"

YOU HAVE MY INFORMATION!!  It's right in front of you on your screen from when I entered in my employee id seven commands ago, you automaton.  Very simple.  Laptop dead.   Need new.

Half an hour later I have a ticket # and have been cheerfully told that IT technicians do not work past 5:00 and someone will probably contact me in the morning.  "Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

Yes, you can help me clear space on the wall so I can bang my head against it.

(Ugh, my stomach).

So anyway, that rearranged my entire evening.  Took Panda to ballet class, completely distracted and snippy because in my head, while I am hoping for the best, I am preparing for the worst by taking mental inventory of what could be lost, what I can reconstruct, what I can retrieve from the server, what I can get from my teammates.  And kicking myself because I did have a few personal scribbles and a couple love letters in my c:\ drive that I kept nagging myself to move over to the MAC or at least put them on a CD.  I never listen to me.

What?  A love letter, come on, don't you have one somewhere?  Please, don't give me that look.

After I dropped her off I found myself with an iPhone full of notes (and not about anything fun like high tea!) and a lump in my throat.  So I did the only reasonable thing and walked over to the nail salon to get my eyebrows waxed.  See that way I could lie down and let the pity-party tears drip out the corners of my eyes while blaming it on the lady with the wax and tweezers.

I'm brilliant in my self-punishment.

Groomed and chastised, I went back to the studios to watch the rest of Panda's class through the one-way mirrors.

They were doing adagio at the barre to a piano arrangement of "True Love" from High Society.  I grew up on ballet classroom piano music.  Something about it either instantly soothes me, or makes me want to get up and do grands battements.  Tonight I just sank down on a bench and finally let go of my breath and my shoulders, and I just watched my daughter.  She was having a great class.  She got invited to this intermediate-level class by her teacher back in September, and she is the youngest in the class by a good three years.  But she is holding her own.  She's young—she fidgets and loses focus and is often looking in the mirror when she ought to be looking at the teacher.  But something was definitely clicking tonight.  And she was so sleek and pretty in her black leotard and tights, her hair pulled back smooth with a purple headband and a few wisps over her forehead, earrings sparkling.

I let go.  And let go a little more.  Some things cannot be replaced.  Some things lost can be found.  Some things turn out better when you start over.  Some love letters are better off unsent.  And, I am just finding out, when you search Google Images for "Dancer falling"...you get a lot of pictures of dancers who are falling, but still look like they are dancing.

[Editor's note - thank you for sticking with our baby on a hard day's night.  There will now be food.]

And I came home to find that Jeeps had made dinner.  The perfect dinner.  And I ate all of it.

IMG_2776

Winter Thankfuls

Woke up to 3 inches of ice on the driveway, on top of the massive weight of snow and ice on the roof that is making Jeeps a nervous wreck.  This called for double-shoveling which is one of the most despairing conditions of the season:  you have to break the ice with a garden spade, and then shovel it away.  You also have to find somewhere to put it...not easy when you have ten-foot high snowdrifts now shellacked in ice. There's nothing for it, short of waving cash at passing plows.  It may come to that. Lest I go completely off the deep end and lose my schmidt, I will find things to be thankful for.

I am grateful...

That my husband works tirelessly to take care of us in so many ways.

That the roof is, as of this moment, intact and there is no errant water dripping into the residence.

That I have children of an age that I can confidently leave them alone in the house while we go shovel.  They know how to entertain themselves, get their own breakfast, wipe their own tushes, properly contact 911 and turn the TV on and off (mostly on).  Whether or not they fight each other to the death is a trivial matter.

That I work from home.

That nobody here is [that word that rhymes with 'ick' that I do not dare speak aloud]

That I had the foresight to go grocery shopping last night because to be housebound with no garlic is a terrible thing.

That there is power so I can have coffee now and cook later.

That my friend Claudia offered to take Pandagirl for a few hours at her house if the roads permitted.   I don't think they will permit but I appreciate the offer and am comforted that so many of my other girlfriends are going out of their collective f**king minds.

That my parents are safely in Florida and do not have to deal with this.

For Tracy Effinger and Kathy Coffee-Meyer and Karen Voight and everyone at the Firm who works out my upper body with no mercy, so I can actually lift shovelfuls of snow and ice.  I just wish I had done lower body last night.

For my friend Ilyse who graduated massage therapy school.

For the flock of robins that keeps coming to my yard and I feel wretched for not having anything to feed you.

For iPhoto organizing my photos by month so I can look back at March and April 2010 and see that there will be grass, daffodils and tulips soon.  Very soon.  And someday the view from my window will look like this again:

Lunch Advice for the Young at Heart

I work from home. Sounds like an anachronism, right? My husband also works from home. Now it gets interesting.

Anyway, working from home allows me to be there not only for my kids, but for my other girlfriends who are working mothers. Which is why today, our eleventy-first snow day of the year, I had five (5) children in my house including my own: three 10/11 girls and two 6/7 boys. (Since they are all into animal hats, they are identified as such.)   

Having my kids occupied with play dates actually makes it easier for Jeeps and I to work, we just have to stick our heads upstairs every now and then to gently remind them to stop screaming, or please not to run around near the artwork, or to suggest maybe it's a good time to go outside. Please. Now. Out.

You wouldn't believe what five jackets and five pairs of snow pants sound like in the dryer, nor how much food five kids can pack away, especially after playing outside in the snow. But my girlfriends are swell enough to have sent them over here with provisions. You can guess what they wanted for lunch. What do kids always seem to want for lunch?!

Someday I'm going to make mac n' cheese properly from scratch, but today it was Annie's to the rescue, along with some Nathan's hot dogs. But here's what was interesting. Around my dining room table sat five kids under the age of twelve, happily munching away their lunch, and talking about food. 

A large part of children's conversation seems to be survey-based: who like this? Who likes that? Raise your hand if you...? And true to form, these kids were polling each other about food. I was actually surprised to hear some of the commentary. I mean, there were the things you would expect: Brussels sprouts—disgusting. Lima beans—vomitrocious. 

"I have never eaten a turnip," offered up Koala, her tone clearly indicating she intended to continue on this way for life. Then Cat ventured, "I tried spinach. Spinach is actually pretty good."

"I love spinach pie," Panda swooned.

"I love spinach and pasta," replied Koala enthusiastically.

"Who likes Pierogies?" sang out Redman.

"I'm Polish, are you kidding," retorted Cat.

Koala: "What are Pierogies?"

Cat: "Pasta pockets with potatoes and cheese"

Koala: "Oh, they sound like gnocchi, have you ever had gnocchi? It's awesome."

Panda: "No." (Ahem, she's had gnocchi, she didn't like it, but there is nothing like a friend to up one's food game. Note to self: try gnocchi again)

Cat: "Who likes chili?"

A chorus of "Meeeeees."

Redman: "Who likes potato pancakes?"

Chorus of "Mmms," and then both Koala and Cat comment how much they liked the potato latkes at our Hanukkah party. But not the soup.

Dog (brother of Koala): "Who likes meatballs?"

Forest of hands raises above the table, followed by commentary on whose mother makes the best meatballs, and whether tomato sauce should be referred to as "sauce" or "gravy." 

(By this point, I am hiding in the kitchen writing this shit down.)

Panda: "Who likes tuna cakes?"

I cringe a little, thinking this will be induce a mass gag-reflex. But Koala asks politely, "What are they?"

Panda: "Well, they're..... OK, so like, you know how you make meatballs and you put in breadcrumbs and parmesan and an egg and seasonings and stuff? OK, so you do all that, but you use tuna fish. And you make little patties and you fry them in the pan. They're really good."

Koala: "Oh. Sort of like fish tacos?"

Redman: "Tacos are my favorite!"

Pause, and everyone yells, "Spaghetti tacos!!!!"

On and on it went, it was terrific! And here's something else impressive: Koala has tree nut allergies. For dessert I cut up some strawberries and grapes, and put them out with some cookies Cat brought—shortbread, and Chips Ahoy. I went back downstairs to work. A few minutes later, Koala comes downstairs with the wrapper from the shortbread cookies. She points to text in an enclosed box: Not suitable for people with nut allergies.

"That means me, right, I shouldn't have this." 

She wasn't really asking a question, she just wanted the second verification, but I was really impressed with how she knew to stop, think, and consult. 

"What about the Chips Ahoy?" I asked. 

"Those are fine, I have those all the time." She smiled and skipped back upstairs. A minute later, I heard Panda instructing her friends to bring the dishes over to the sink, leaving me with a sort of lump in my throat. In such an age of hover- and helicopter-parenting, I'm a firm believer that if you give them rules and guidelines and basic training, and then benignly get out of their way...the kids are all right.

I also believe in an alternate schedule instead of snowdays.  I would have no problem sending the kids to school from 12-6PM on a day of inclement weather.  Then again, easy for me to say that because I work from home.

By the way, I had two hot dogs for my lunch and they were awful good, but they made me thirsty as hell.  The kind of thirst that can only be truly assuaged by a beer. But I was working. Once you start drinking on the job, it's a fast road downhill.

Shtupping on the job is permissible. But only on lunch hour. On non-snowdays. With your spouse. Not with your employee/er. Or the poolboy.

This post was over 2 paragraphs ago, wasn't it?

(*Ahem*)

I'm going home with a what?!

Friends of ours have a month-old baby and regularly post pictures to their website. Jeeps and I were looking at them last night and among them was that classic picture of mom and dad leaving the hospital with the newborn in the carseat. Remember that?

This is a universal moment of new parenthood which only happens with your first child. You remember it. You dressed the baby, which took half an hour. You put the baby in the carseat, which took another half hour. You signed miscellaneous papers and got your shit together and made your way down to the lobby. All the while thinking:

They're not really letting us go home with a newborn, are they?

But maybe some nurses accompanied you down, and they smiled and cooed and waved. And you smiled and cooed and waved back, all the while thinking there was no WAY they were REALLY going to let you leave...with a newborn baby. You were sure that the minute you put a toe outside the automatic sliding doors, a cacophony of security alarms would sound and a steel cage would slam down, trapping you within. The nurses would release the cage in hysterics, high-fiving each other in the glee of having caught another sucker. Then you'd be off for vigorous training and certification before you'd be allowed to take custody again.

But no, they let you go home. With a baby.

And you drove home at 20 mph, frequently checking the rearview mirror, or probably one of you rode in the backseat, who are we kidding. And you arrived home and brought in your precious bundle in the carseat (thinking damn this thing is heavy and klutzy).

And you looked at your spouse. And looked at the baby. And looked at your house. And you said:

"So now what?"

I remember saying "I guess I'll go upstairs and unpack." And then I looked down and picked up the carseat with Panda and added, "And I guess I'll take you with me..."

In Case of Emergency: Add Water

Redman was pitching a fit tonight about dessert. Or lack thereof. Whatever. You ever just reach the limit? The well of patience is dry? The tank of tolerance is empty? The needle on the Give-a-Fuckometer barely moving? I walked by where he was sprawled on the stairs, with, it so happens, my bottle of water in hand. I made a last polite request for him to go get into pajamas and brush teeth. He gave me a double-lungful of grief.

So I dumped the bottle out onto his head.

Wow, was he mad.  He howled, "Hey that's not nice!"  I didn't say anything because I was biting the inside of my cheek hard to keep from laughing.  But hey, he got up off the stairs and got moving and a minute later he was laughing through the tears and in another minute it was all laughing.  And he brushed his teeth and I told him to get three books and meet me in my bed, and he got three books and met me in my bed and we read and he's asleep up there now. So all's well.

But tell me honestly....do I suck?