Mom | A French American Life

Among the things I swore I would never do if I became a mom:

1. Be a stay-at-home-mom.

Two kids in quick succession and I stepped away from my career – albeit temporarily – to (gasp) stay at home. Don’t tell anyone, but I kind of like it.

2. Feed my kids “kids food.”

“What is this ‘kid’s food’ nonsense? They’ll eat what we eat, the way we eat it!” the old me used to say. This was reinforced when I married a man from France, where “kid’s food” doesn’t exist. I stuck to my guns with Thing 1, then came Thing 2: the pickiest eater in history. My son will boycott entire meals, toss food disdainfully to the floor, or, my favorite: spit things out then scrape off his tongue with his fingers like his mouth has been violated. I haven’t given up entirely, but I admit I experience a small panic, even indignation, if we go to a restaurant and there’s no kid’s menu. Or dip of some kind. He’ll eat it if he can dip it. “Blueberries and ketchup? Whatever.” My new mantra.

3. Allow my child to kick the seat back in front of him on an airplane.

I was once the person on the airplane who avoided kids if at all possible. Whose flight experience could be ruined by a seat-kicking child. Now – hello karma – that kid is mine. I get it, poor lady who chose the seat in front of my son. I feel your pain, really I do. But when my son’s car seat is in place (No Way can we go without it, our little Houdini will wiggle his way out of any restraints other than a five-point harness) his knees are folded uncomfortably into his chest. He’s an active, exuberant toddler, constantly on the move. When nothing else can move, he kicks. My husband and I spend entire flights blocking his feet, trying to minimize the assault on the seat in front of him. I’m forever grateful to understanding fellow passengers, and I’ve found that the most gracious ones are those who have kids of their own. They’ve been there, too.

4. Emulate, in anyway, Betty Crocker or Martha Stewart.

After all, it’s so anti-feminist. Cliché. Expected, even. I had better things to do than be in the kitchen.

Thing is, though, I like to eat. When I eat, I want the food to be good. I don’t have the wallet nor the waistline to handle eating out all the time, so… I learned to cook. To play hostess. To make a room cozy and inviting. I get giddy, even, at the thought of the wide range of things that can come from flour, sugar, and eggs mixed together.

So. Freaking. Girly.

Yet, turns out I don’t mind.

I actually love cooking. I suspect more than one person in my life decided they wanted to be my friend because of something they ate at my house. I’m okay with that.

Christmastime, the oven spends more time on than off, my hands grow chapped, and the floors have a fine coat of flour as I bake an array of treats then box them up for gifts. I love every minute of it. I even pulled a baking (almost) all-nighter this year. So I’ve gone from studying all-nighters to partying all-nighters to up all night with babies to, now, Betty Crocker all-nighters.

Here are the sweets of my labors:

Next up: Prime rib for Christmas Eve, and classic Swiss Fondue for Christmas Day.

I really love good food.

It had been one of those days. I was tired, overwhelmed, isolated. Another day at home with my two kids where my biggest accomplishment is finishing the day without poop ending up in anyone’s hair. I was feeling sorry for myself. Questioning whether staying home is right for me, or for the kids, and feeling jealous of my friends with jobs they can go to (escape to) and time for pedicures and happy hours. Wondering if the elusive “balance” I seek will ever be found.

Dinnertime came. My husband wasn’t home. Again. I checked my cell phone for a text message from him with some sort of explanation or ETA. Nothing. I’d spent most of the day eyeing the clock and counting down the hours until he would be home. Not, sadly, because I missed him. But because I desperately wanted help. Because caring for two so young can be exhausting on a good day. On a challenging day – God help me.

He’s been working late a lot these last few weeks. Family dinners, with all of us together, are a huge deal to me. Yet there we were, waiting, wondering. Again. My daughter asked me, “Where’s Papa?”

I did something I shouldn’t have done. I snapped out an irritable answer. “I don’t know where he is. Whatever. We’re not waiting for him. Let’s eat.”

She looked at me with her earnest, solemn blue eyes, and said, “Mommy, Papa wants to be here.”

This, from my 2 ½ year old. I caught my breath. The wisdom of her words, whether they came from true insight or simply innocence, hit me in a zen, pause for a moment and consider kind of way. She was right. My husband wasn’t staying late at work to avoid me, to dump responsibility for the kids on me, or because he “doesn’t get” what I’m going through, as the twisting tornado of irritation and anger forming in my mind was telling me. The simple truth was exactly as my daughter had stated it. He wanted to be there, with us. He just couldn’t.

It’s one of the things I love most about having kids. The way they slow down the frenzied pace life can assume, they way they remind me of what really is important. How easily smiles and happiness come to a child. How quick they are to forgive and forget. How pure and huge their love is. When I slow down and see the world through my kids’ eyes, I’m reminded that a hummingbird buzzing around a flower is an amazing and beautiful thing. That lying on my back and watching clouds float by is the perfect way to spend an afternoon. That Tigger stickers make excellent fashion accessories. That blowing raspberries is hilarious.

I need these reminders. I bury myself in expectations, projects, goals, all in the pursuit of “making something” of myself; “doing something” with my life. My kids remind me to just embrace the moment. To smile. To laugh. To enjoy. That I am lucky to be a part of a family that loves each other and wants to be together, even when we can’t actually be together. I realize, in watching my children, that sometimes the difference between a good day and a bad day can be as simple as an attitude adjustment on my part. I’m lucky that I can stay home with my kids and be such a huge part of their lives right now. I’m choosing this, not stuck with it, and it isn’t forever.

One morning a few weeks ago, I went into my daughter’s room to wake her up. She reached for me to pull her out of her crib and into a hug. Still holding her, I opened her blinds and was greeted by the typical San Diego marine layer coloring the sky a dull, listless grey. I wrinkled my nose.

“Eww. It’s kinda cloudy out today.”

She looked out the window. “It’s kinda sunny out, too.”

I pulled her into a tight hug as tears sprang into my eyes. “You are so right, sweetie. It’s kinda sunny out, too.”