Dalai Mama Dishes

by Catherine Newman

Catherine Newman cooks for the family

Dalai Mama Dishes

Catherine Newman cooks for the family

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Thanksgiving

Posted September 07, 2007
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Ever wonder what Catherine sounds like? Listen to her read this blog entry.

I love Thanksgiving leftovers -- I truly do -- and nobody can get more economical, kid-friendly meals out of a turkey than me. Only it's the hottest week of the summer, and I've had the oven on all day. The children are sweating and listless, craving popsicles and fruit salad, and I'm feeding them a big bubbling casserole of shepherd's pie for dinner. And I'm frantic.

I can't complain -- or I shouldn't -- but I am. I want to. Writing is my dream job. But here I am, multiple deadlines panting in my face, a turkey browning in the oven, dozens of pounds of potatoes, white and sweet, in various stages of mashing on the counter, and cranberry sauce everywhere. It sounds fun and it is: the recipes are turning out great, the kids wander into the kitchen to help me wash herbs, friends cycle in and out of the house to taste things. And also it's not. My heart is pounding. I keep remembering other work I need to do, other odds and ends of writing that need starting or finishing. Our family's finances are a beached whale, and its tiny eye is looking at me desperately, only everybody else seems to be playing volleyball. Sure, I'm getting plenty of mileage out of my Summer Thanksgiving jokes, and I'm aware that the stakes here are low: it's not exactly the ER; it's turkey nachos. But my heart is pounding nonetheless.

It's funny when a buzzword issue becomes your own, actual issue. I'm realizing that the self-help aisle overfloweth with books on stress management, and here I am, a person with stress to be managed. It's like that picture book my kids used to love, Pigs Aplenty, Pigs Galore, where the person's house is overrun with pigs who sleep in his bathtub and order dozens of pizzas and muck around entitledly everywhere. Only instead of pigs it's stress, which has drunk all our milk, sapped all the fun. There was a shy knock on the door, I opened it, and a wave of anxiety crashed over my head and flooded our house.

I snap at Michael when he asks innocently after the gravy. ("The leftovers are not for eating!" I hiss absurdly -- a sentence that has likely never before in the history of the world been uttered.) I snap at him about our filthy bathroom. Worse, I break my own rule about encouraging him to take care of himself, and I snap at him about the soccer game he plays in. Even though I encouraged him to go. Even though all I was doing anyways was eating sweet potato muffins with the kids while he played. Even though he is always gracious when I want to run or meet a friend for a drink. I read to him from the script of the beleaguered, overwrought, self-important working person, and I make myself sick. I guilt-trip him and am flooded with guilt. I am, if I may speak in cliches, ashamed of myself.

And with the kids? I'm beyond agitated. I'm like one of those dead bugs set inside a hard cube, encased in the resin of my own distraction. Or else I'm a kite on a string, and the children are struggling to reel me in. My absence and my presence feel equally treacherous. Ben has had a cough and a fever all week, and though his friend Ava has, with the same symptoms, started on Zithromax and recovered, our doctor is having Ben's body tough it out a little bit. Which is okay, since he's mostly lively and cheerful. Only he's also fragile, and I am maybe forgetting to smile enough. I want him to take a cool bath before bed, and he doesn't want to. We argue about it, I explain how it will help his body with the fever, and then I finally put my hands in the air and say, with neither patience nor anger, "Okay. You win. You don't have to take one." And Ben bursts into tears and climbs into the tub.

Maybe we should think about childcare this summer. We still keep the kids home, because both of our work schedules are flexible enough to do it, but I don't actually think it's working now. If I say "In a minute, honey!" to either child one more time, they will likely pack up their satchels and become train-riding hobos. I talked to a close friend yesterday while our kids played together in her wading pool, and she described the way she's had to rethink her relationship to a particular emotional distraction in her life right now. "My kids really weren't getting what they need from me," she said, and I nodded and blinked. My kids really aren't getting what they need from me.

I am so grateful for my beautiful family and my happy life. But honestly, it's only the writer in me right now that wants to end with something about Thanksgiving. Because I'm sure I can find grace in this moment, but I just don't really have the time.

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Thanksgiving

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About Catherine Newman

Catherine Newman is the author of the memoir, Waiting for Birdy: A Year of Frantic Tedium, Neurotic Angst, and the Wild Magic of Growing a Family, available online and in bookstores nationwide.

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