The real problem with Jessica Seinfeld's cookbook

So, I am in Barnes and Noble, or as my family refers to it, My real home, and I spy a cute-as-a button cook book. I love cook books, and by several new ones a year. I am not capable of passing by one that looks even slightly interesting. This one was definitely interesting. It had kind of a retro 50's look to it, with an old fashioned looking drawing of young woman, hair up in a perky pony-tail, winking at the viewer as she held some sort of platter or plate. I picked it up and browsed quickly through it. I realized very quickly it was one of those gimmick cook books to get kids to eat disguised vegetables. So not for me. I don't have time to make box brownies right now, there is no way in hell I am gonna whip up a batch from scratch just so I can throw some spinach in them. I put the book back and continued my shopping without much more thought about it.

After B&N I went to Costco. Why, yes, I did go through the book department. Sure enough, there was Miss Saucy Pony Tail and her tray of I'm guessing slightly slimy brownies.

"That's odd," I thought. B&N and Costco almost never push the same cook-books. Still, didn't think much of it. When I saw the book at my grocery store, my brow crinkled a little. Being an aspiring author myself, I really admired her marketing department.

When I came home from the gallivanting, I put away all my stuff and watched Oprah, or as I like to call her, "The black Dina Lohan". Guess who was Oprah's featured guest? Jessica Seinfeld. Why Jessica Seinfeld? Well, it turns out, Jessica Seinfeld wrote the cute cook-book.

Hmmm....who knew? I settled in to watch it, and found my self agreeing with some of what she said about kids resistance to eating vegetables. A lot of what she said makes sense. And she is just as cute as her cook book. I can totally see why Jerry Seinfeld left that fourteen year old he was dating to take Jessica away from the guy she was married to while she was on her honeymoon. Any way, the whole thing was kind of cute. I was a little dubious about this Jewish American Princess being down in the trenches every night feeding her kids. I started to buy it though when she relayed her peaceful Sunday nights, catching up with Jerry while she steamed her veggies and turned them into puree. I could picture the scene of urban domesticity. I pictured a mostly white well lit kitchen, with Jerry on the other side of an expansive counter, as they talked about the triumphs and challenges of their prospective weeks.

"See," I told myself, "The rich are just like us, except for the wife stealing and borderline pedophilia." I was happy about this in a weird sort of way. Something about the triumph of maternal will over materialistic trappings. I was happy to think of her taking responsibility of her children's meals, not just picking them, but the actual act of cooking it. I was surprised because most mothers I know would hire a chef to at least help out with the cooking, if not take it over completely, if they could afford it. This includes me, and I love to cook.

I was buying it, like I said, until a couple of days later, when Oprah showed the audience Jessica Seinfeld's 'Thank You'. Twenty-one pairs of shoes. Twenty-one pairs of very expensive, high end shoes. That just blew the whole facade wide open. No woman who can afford a Forty-two shoe thank you is going to risk her three hundred dollar blow-out steaming vegetables for her kids, when she can afford to buy someone to do it for her. No, I didn't mean pay someone. So what's the point? Jerry Seinfeld got paid, um....682 trillion dollars for the syndication of 'Seinfeld', and he still does stand-up most weekends. He had that gig with American Express, and now he is in a kid's movie. I mean, I'm pretty sure she's not thinking about going back to work to ease up a little of the financial pressure on him. I am also pretty sure she doesn't even know where her kitchen is. There is nothing that rings true about Jessica Seinfeld sneaking veggies into her kids food. Maybe they are a close knit family, maybe they even eat together, but I can not imagine that they are eating food prepared by the sweat of Jessica's pretty unlined brow. I applaud her self-promotion, and at least it is something useful, and potentially good, rather than potentially harmful, (Please note, Britney Spears' mother is writing a parenting book.) I just wonder why. I have to admit, I wish I did believe it, but I don't. Apparently she has a great cook, and a caring one. One who cares enough to sneak vegetables into her kids food.

Breathing Underwater

I saw "The Abyss" many years ago. I didn't particularly like the movie, but there was a scene in there that I have thought of many times. The scientists in the movie made a way for the explorers in the movie to breathe water. The person had to get over there natural resistance to taking water into her lungs in order to be able to breathe. At the time, when I was about 18 years old, I thought of how hard it would be to fight that urge. Everything in you would fight taking the water in, but for these people, it was the right thing to do. Much of parenting has been like that for me. From the time my kids were little, throwing fits in the grocery store because they wanted gum or candy, I have had to fight what was natural to do what was right. My natural response to my kid crying is to...Stop the crying! If my child is unhappy, every cell in me wants to make them happy. Of course, this is a bad idea. It is a terrible parenting strategy to never allow your child to be disappointed. But it is not natural. I have to fight some pretty strong urges to tell my child no.

I thought it would be easier when my kids got older, but it's not. It is much harder. Now I am not only dealing with my child's disappointment, but I like my older kids, and I want my kids to like me. When I disappoint them by telling them no, I run the risk of losing their admiration and affection. They are also able now to tell me with their completely backwards logic how my decisions show my lack of trust in them. This is the ultimate betrayal to my teenagers. How dare I not trust them. I always say I trust them, but How do I explain to them,

"I don't trust the environment we live in. I don't trust that your friends parents love their kids as much as I love you. I don't trust your youth and inexperience. I don't trust your ability to make a good decision every single time. I don't trust the risk taking genes that I passed on to you. For my XX13, I don't trust your ability to blend in. You are too beautiful, and you attract too much attention. XY17, I don't trust how easy-going you are, and how much you don't want to disappoint anyone."

Yesterday, XX13 asked to go to a Halloween party at a friends house that I don't like, with a group of friends I don't like. I gave a soft no. You know, "Aw, Honey, I'm not sure, we'll have to see. We can talk about it tomorrow." I hate that. I want her to go, I want her to be happy. But I want her to be good. I don't think these kids are good. Ultimately, I guess it is true. I don't trust her. I don't believe she can be who she needs to be with these kids.

Same day. XY17 has been out with his friends. I expected him home around 12 o'clock, but at around 11:45 He calls, asking if he can spend the night at a friends house whom I barely know, and whose parents I have never met. If I say yes, I will get, "I love you Mom, good night." If I say no, I will get a curt accusation of lack of trust. He will get off the phone, possibly with out even saying good-bye. Just as it is unnatural for me to express my love for my children by disappointing them, it is unnatural for my children to accept it as love. I know what is right, but what is right is not, in this, or any other area of my life, what is easy. I have to believe that somewhere deep down, my kids know that this is love. I hope, and I really mean, hope! that my XY17 is secretly grateful that I delivered him from possible temptation. I think that kind of thinking is less likely for XX13. The scariest thing about my girl is, I don't think she wants a way out of temptation. I think she wants to stand right on the edge of it, like a campfire, feeling the warmth of it on her face, feeling a thrill when a flame flickers close enough for her to feel uncomfortable heat. That scares the Hell out of me! And because of that, I will continue to try to breathe underwater. I will continue to risk anything to be a good mom and keep my kids safe.

Ummm.... That last post ended abruptly. I finished it, but I don't know where the ending went. So any way.....Go back to it, I added on.

OK, so here is another thing. If you are sick of hearing about my mother/mothering issues, read another blog. I am working through some things.

My mother-in-law, who is about a 7.5 on a scale of 1 to 10 wanted to take XX5 today. We didn't know when MIL brought it up that the kids would be home from school today because of the fires. I agreed, assuming XX5 would be thrilled to spend the day with her grandparents. Even when I found out the kids would be home, I still figured she would be happy. The X's and Y's and I would just be cleaning, and I get a little testy when I clean, so I figured she would be happy to be out of the line of fire. In the words of the Grinch as portrayed by Jim Carrey,

"WRONGO!"

She was at first calmly resistant.

"Aren't they coming over to spend the night tomorrow?"

"Yes, Baby, they are."

"Good, I'll just save up all my happiness for seeing them then."

She didn't even look up from her book. I explained that we would not be having any fun at all. I was sure this was true, because, like I said, cleaning.

"I don't care. I want to stay here."

As I kept trying to talk her into it, she began to realize it was less than optional. Then, she began to get upset. Really upset. She started crying like she was going off with strangers. My MIL's phone wasn't working, so I couldn't even call her. She was on her way to pick XX5 up. In desperation, I turned to Xy17, who is XX5's super-hero.

"You have to talk to her," I told him, sure he could make her excited to go. He did. She would do anything for him. I should have known it would be a short lived victory when, while looking through some old pictures she came across a picture of a dog that we owned before XX5 was born, she started crying and saying she missed him. Actually, I did know, but I was hopeful. She was wiping her tears when the Grandparents walked in. She seemed cheerful, and was fine when I put the car seat in their car and strapped her in. I walked inside and started barking orders at the other X's and Y's. Thirty seconds later, MIL came in and asked,
"Can you please unstrap XX5, she doesn't want to go.
Apparently, as soon as I left her sight, she began crying. My MIL does not take rejection well, so I was expecting Hell to pay.
I was pretty irritated, but I didn't want to make XX5 feel bad. As promised, we did nothing but clean and yell at each other. As the day dragged on, I looked at XX5 and thought,
"I bet she's sorry she stayed home," but as soon as I thought it, I knew it wasn't true. She would rather be here with me on a boring day, than with anyone else on any other kind of day. This is just one of the many things I don't understand. I know it is normal, but it is not normal to me. I would have happily marched off to a play date with Joan Crawford and Michael Meyers, machete in his hand, to get out of the house I was raised in. I remember, one time, Evil step-mother commenting how I always wanted to spend the night away. Well of course I did! Between the Always Drunk Father Figure, and the Always Screaming and Cussing Mother-Figure, I would rather have been anywhere else.
And so, when my baby wants to be with me, I think I have done something wonderful, to raise a daughter that wants to be with me, but deep down, I know that is not true. Deep down, I know that my extraordinary is everyone else's ordinary.

I have a headache today.

I hate cleaning. I love writing. I love reading. I hate paying bills. I hate being the grown-up. I hate being responsible for the house being clean and dinner being on the table. I hate when my 17XX acts like a sarcastic buttmunch, I have to say,

"I understand and am happy that you are individuating, but you must treat the members of your family with respect." I want to say,

"Pull your head out of your ass, you spoiled little shit!"

When my 13XX wants her friend to come over because it 'so important' to her friend that I like her, I want to say

"If she didn't have such a trashy mouth on her MYSpace page, maybe there would be a chance in Hell that I would like her." but instead I say,

"Sure, she can come over, I'll find out what is important to her, and she'll see what's important to me, and we will get along fine."

The truth is 13XX deserves better. But I can't tell her that. She will take the trashy mouth's side.

When my kids are bitching at each other, I want to join in and scream the loudest. Sometimes I do.

I hate how often I want a glass of wine around 11 o'clock in the morning.

I hate that 10XY is a puzzle I can never figure out because the rules change daily. Sometimes I am not supposed to come within 18 inches of him. Other times I offend him because he sat next to me on the couch and I don't pull him over to me. I love him so much, but I don't think I love him well.

And now, I must leave beloved writing for hated cleaning. If I won the lottery, the first thing I would do is hire the most anal-retentive live in maid in the whole world.

Books

I am a reader and a writer. These things are as much a part of who I am as my heart, and kidneys. My earliest and best memories are of book. A set of Disney books, four large volumes, divided by category; Fantasy, Nature, American History, and Tales from Other Lands. Hundreds of stories were safely kept in those volumes. There were also 'Little Golden Books'. The pictures of Eloise Wilkins made me imagine a better life, a life wear daddies wore sweaters, and mothers were kind. Children were apple cheeked and dogs didn't bite when you pestered them too much. I graduated to Phyllis Whitney's books, written especially for young people. I was proud, because they didn't have pictures. They took place in Scotland, or on a boat, or in the desert. I read constantly. My aunt would laugh and say that I was the only kid she'd ever heard of that would bring a book to read while she watched Saturday morning cartoons, and I did. When I say books changed my life, I mean it. They exposed me to a world I didn't know existed. You can't desire what you don't know. The stories gave me something to desire.

It is the same today. My definition of 'story' has expanded to include good movies. When I read a good book, I'm gone, I'm in another world. I don't read nearly as much as I want to, but I still read at least two or three books a month. That is quite a bit less than the two or three a week that I would like to read, and will when I am an eccentric old lady.

Tonight, when I got home from class, Roser told me I had the night off. He would put the XX5 to bed and take care of homework. I came upstairs and ran a bath and grabbed the newly purchased "Paint it Black" by Janet Fitch, the author of "White Oleander". She is unbelievable. She is the type of author that makes you curse sleeping, and children who need to eat at regular intervals. Her books are dark and bitter and satisfying, like the burnt piece of fat on a grilled steak. She makes me want to write, just to have something in common with her. I want to stay in her sad bleak world. I want to create a world for someone else, and have them want to stay there, to give that gift that I have been given so many times.