Flying Cheesy Dogs and the Art of Perfection

Makes you wanna cuss. And, I don’t mean “curse” in that polite and grammatically correct way. I mean cuss. In the vernacular.

The other night (seriously) I made “cheesy dogs,” the quintessential kid-friendly dinner composed of hot dogs stuffed with cheddar cheese and wrapped in crescent rolls. The parts are out of their respective packages and on the table with presto combined deliciousness in under 20 minutes flat. The pervasive opinion of the preschoolers in my house is that they are best accompanied by tator tots. No, preparing them probably doesn’t actually constitute cooking, and they don’t have much true nutritional value. But, they’re popular, and they can be a Mommy’s salvation after a long day of work.

So, last Friday I took full advantage of my own need for a quick fix at the end of a busy week. I made cheesy dogs. Eight of them. They were fresh out of the oven, and I was prying them from the pan with a spatula in my usual “grip with the pot-holder and scrape with all you’ve got” method. They always stick for some reason. The first one is the hardest to remove from the cookie sheet because of the close quarters produced by eight wrapped hot dogs arranged on about 180 square inches. Plus, the melting cheese always eliminates any space left between them.

I was holding with the pot-holder. I was scraping with the spatula in the upside-down position that almost always works. Almost. Before I could say “beefy jumbos,” cheesy dog #1 flew off the pan and onto the tile floor.

I told you. Makes you wanna cuss.

Don’t you just love the best laid plans? The table was set. Little Drummer Boy and Bug were in the living room announcing “I’m hungry!” I don’t remember, but I’m sure Baby Girl was on top of the coffee table. The week of a thousand heart-filled preschool parties was finally over. Tator Tots were on the table and ice in the glasses.

Just to recap: Cheesy dog #1 was ON THE FLOOR. And no one else was in the kitchen. So, what did I do? NATURALLY, I picked up #1 from the tile, blew it off and gave it a prominent location on the yellow serving plate. I popped those other seven suckers off the cookie sheet in short order, and “Dinner is served.” (Please send Martha Stewart Living subscriptions. Quick. And, Mama, just forget you read this.)

The bad news: Sometimes things just don’t work out the way you planned. The good news: No one has ever keeled over from a little grit on their cheesy dog. Honest.

Life isn’t perfect. In fact, perfection is an overrated and hopelessly flawed pursuit. And although I hate to play the role of the realist, realistically, a life lived in whatever moment of perfection I might enjoy is perhaps a life spent waiting for the other shoe to drop (or the other cheesy dog, as the case may be.) Perfection just can’t be maintained. And, TRYING to maintain it can be a nerve-racking, tension-filled, white-knuckle attempt. It’s simply not sustainable.

Sustainable perfection implies that the people achieving it are perfect. It assumes that those folks will always make wise choices, that they will always take into account and avoid the pitfalls (and clumsy spatulas) of life. It means they will never make mistakes, or at the least, they will always learn from their all-too-brief mistakes immediately and completely. Funny, I don’t see that person when I look in the mirror. I don’t know ANY people like that. In fact, the reality of those traits is pretty much universally disproved by the popularity of Wiley Coyote, don’t you think? Yeah, or at least by flying cheesy dogs.

Now, if you’ve never experienced your own cheesy dog epiphany, let me assure you that it’s coming. It’s a fact, and there is no fruit in denying it. The lesson learned from my own cheesy dog experience was that I can really shift my body a little to the left to block that whole flying off the pan thing, and this: Real life happens in the grit.

Thank God for the grit. It’s the stuff that lets us know we’re human just like everybody else, bound in a commonality of error. It’s the dust that reminds us of our own inherent needs, our own blessed short-comings. It’s the crunch that protects us from the trap of arrogant assumptions and exclusive palates. It’s the road-worthy flavor that ensures we are flexible and patient and willing to change and aware of the unexpected and able to embrace a surprising life.

Sure, plans are better made. They’re better laid with the best of intentions and wisdom and effort. They’re worth thinking about and following. But, from the poster child of plan Bs, let me just say that into every life a little cheesy dog must fall.

Blow it off and bon appetit!

The One About Hot Dogs

This past week was a busy one, made more complicated internally by changes to Quiver’s work situation and changes in our familiar routines. Over the weekend I had been feeling rather overwhelmed and generally behind in so many of the life plots (and attitudes) I need to be cultivating. It seems an odd time to be writing about hot dogs, but here we are.

Sometimes just a little change of plans, tossed with a pinch of spur-of-the-moment can create a much-needed shift in perspective. At some point during the middle of the afternoon (probably about the time I was reading and making mental notes for tomorrow’s final Geek episode of MeMyBook&Eye) I decided to ditch the leftover dinner plans and opt for more of a celebration mindset.

Celebration hasn’t really been at the forefront of our thoughts this week. We’ve been dealing with the emotional and physical ramifications of Quiver shutting down a business and beginning a new job. We’ve been busy with extra responsibilities beyond the normal routine. We’ve been challenged by some of the boy’s growing pains. We’ve been playing catch-up after new strides (quite literally) in Baby Girl’s growing independence. We’ve been cooking and cleaning and bathing and writing and laundering. We’ve been impatient with one another, with ourselves and with circumstances.

So, I decided an impromptu party was in order to lift our spirits and right our vision.

I realize that the word “party” conjurs up lots of different images. To adequately understand our version of a “party,” I’d better explain that we have family parties for just about anything. Usually the standard criteria for a party at the Montgomery house is a pretty sparse list: 1) something to laugh or jump up and down about; 2) something edible; 3) some form of decoration, be it new placemats, party paper plates, construction paper cut-outs hanging from the “chandelier”, table cloths, candlelight, etc. That about covers it.

Yes, I decided that tonight was an excellent time for our third “grill party” of the month–no time like the present. The plans made for extra excitement because we decided to have it in the BACK YARD where we could eat the whole meal OUTSIDE. Big fun. With catsup on top. The trappings of this party? Here’s the abridged version:

8 hot dogs + buns
1/4 bag charcoal + requisite lighter fluid
1 bag Cheetos
Sundry condiments
1 highly portable Pack-n-Play
1 blue checked tablecloth
2 $1 styrofoam airplanes
2 funky plastic things that spin and light up when you push the button
1 happy beagle
5 large marshmallows
1 coat hanger
1 bag mint chocolate cookies (in lieu of graham crackers and Hershey bars)
1 yellow lightning bug
4 “Lighting McQueen” party plates
Napkins (enough)
Giggles (uncounted)
2 tricycles
1 pink pair of pants (size 9mo)
2 porch lights
1 quick trip to the bathroom
The first “touch of Fall in the air” night this year
4 people I love (so much I can’t stand it)

Somewhere in between squirting mustard, fending off puppy paws, responding to the 637th “Mommy, watch this” and strategically planning my last bite to include part hot dog AND part bun–somewhere in there–I recognized again how much I have to be thankful for, how good I really have it.

Hot dogs with a side of renewed perspective. Who knew?

Morning Luxury

It’s funny how luxurious a morning routine can be. Over the past four years since our morning rituals began to involve a third (and fourth and fifth) party, our schedule has changed periodically. We’ve tried all kinds of permutations to discover a working combination of showering, ironing, dressing, eating, hugging and driving to get the work day started. Typically each trial and error session has given way to the next coinciding with new skills, or stages (or children) in our lives.

I discovered this week that we’ve been living in the lap of morning luxury, Quiver and I waking up with the daily anticipation of barely awake giggles, groggy hugs and more “help” getting to the car than we can handle. We divvy up the jobs, but still, there’s a perpetual full house participation. We’ve both had the opportunity to be involved in waking our children, getting them dressed for preschool, enjoying the plethora of voices and sound effects and conversations that so often are the backdrop of brushing teeth and eating poptarts. Each morning we’ve had the opportunity to double-team locating each child’s favorite tag-along stuffed animal and juicy cup, and to share the buckling tasks of three car seats.

Every day we’ve enjoyed a sometimes challenging, but familiar full family trip to daycare, a parade of little ones bearing nap mats or bottles or just the gusto of life as boys and a smiling Baby Girl. We’ve ALL traveled to each preschool classroom giving tandem hugs and kisses and “good days”, often distracted from signing our names to acknowledge arrival–first Baby Girl, then Squiggle Bug, and finally, Little Drummer Boy. Quiver and I have waved and blown kisses and eased ourselves into the transition of clients and offices with smiles on our faces and “spit kisses” on our cheeks, pulling out of the parking lot in different directions in preparation for the day’s work.

This week was different. I was reminded again of the blessing we have in just how much we do things together. Quiver has a new job with a local landscaping company that has meant some long hours and a few early mornings out of the house, meaning that he couldn’t participate in our normal AM routine–not so easy for a family man. At least not one from our kind of family. It’s odd to some, but we’re just the kind of folks who like to do things together. It’s not that Mommy or Daddy can’t adequately accomplish the morning requirements by themselves. It’s just that it’s so much more fun when we do it together. Anticipation of the change made us start missing Daddy during p.j. time the night before. And, we couldn’t help asking while pulling on the Transformer underwear, “don’t we wish Daddy was with us this morning?”

Tomorrow morning IF it’s raining–if he doesn’t have to leave the house at 6:30am–I don’t think I’ll complain about how long it takes him to put on his shoes, or the mud he’s tracked across the carpet. I don’t think I’ll insist that Little Drummer Boy go back to the table while I dry my hair or cut short his morning hug so I can hurry through blush and eye shadow. I don’t think I’ll tune out Squiggle Bug’s play by play of Old McDonald’s menagerie or rush him through the slow climb into the tall extended cab back seat. I think I’ll gladly take all the big brother help I’m offered for carrying Baby Girl’s diaper bag, or choosing a “cute” dress or providing some changing table entertainment (volume 10, and all). I think we’ll slow and take a closer look at the road construction crews and the pick-up trucks we pass. I think we’ll look for a front-end loader or a digger. I think I’ll linger with the good-bye kiss just half a second longer. I think I’ll crawl up into the lap of morning luxuring, sit a spell and smile.

Bittersweet Independence

The day, being what it is, has me thinking about independence. As I mentioned a few posts ago, there are all kinds of freedom wings being spread at our house. Baby Girl’s newfound joy (and speed) of crawling has added a whole new dimension to the other declarations of independence going on with her brothers. Her crawl usually involves moving with her left knee and her right foot so that she’s ready to sit back with the tiniest effort at a second’s notice to pop the latest find right into her mouth. Apparently, sitting is soooo 9-months. Her new-found independence at 10-months threatens to give Mommy a nervous breakdown, thinking of how infrequently I actually sweep and mop ALL the floors. Her independence has also injected a little wrinkle into Little Drummer Boy and Squiggle’s boy world of toys. It seems cars and trucks are just as interesting to Baby Girl as they are to her brothers, which can make the following realities problematic: 1) Coffee tables (even those found in barns) are just the right height for 10-month old standing; 2) Said coffee tables have heretofore been the domain of car races and tower building perpetrated by brothers; and 3) Where brothers are, Baby Girls should be. Two plus one equals three, and three can rock even the most lively of boy domains.

Yes, Little Drummer Boy and Squiggle are somewhat confused by their baby sister’s independent streak, half surprised that she’s suddenly popping up everywhere, and half perplexed that she doesn’t understand how to take turns. As for Hub and me, we’re just plain shocked (again) at how quickly day to day life changes. Much as we try to hold the reins and slow the gallop to a trot, time is still off to the races. While we take joy at seeing how each of them grows and gains new skills and develops new interests, we hold dearly those rare times when they are still so completely dependent on us, those times when we are their whole world–and they ours.

Independence. Its breaking free is a bittersweet moment. I remember that several months ago Little Drummer Boy went to AWANA all by himself for the first time. Hub normally helped the teachers with crowd control, but had another commitment that night. So, I dropped off LDB in his room and hoped for the best. He goes to preschool every day in the same building with a few of the same children. Still, the situation was different which makes LDB a little more sensitive. When I came back to pick him up about 10 minutes early, they were still having music time. I saw in his eyes that he was torn. It was his newfound independence confronted with the familiar security of Mommy. He was torn between doing his own thing with the songs and running to Mommy for a hug. What a jolt. My presence was actually deterring his independence, making him doubt himself.  He was suddenly self-conscious about doing the motions to Father Abraham, or opting out in favor of his own daydreams. There it was, the bittersweet reality of independence and the need for letting go that’s required to achieve it. His independence and my letting go.

I once had a conversation with LDB’s infant caregiver about the daily concerns of parenthood. I was a brand new parent and she was parenting a grandchild and a son who had made some wrong turns. Through our sharing of stories and sometimes tears, I remember commenting, “When I see him, I can hardly imagine him ever disappointing me. But, I know that one day he will. One day he’ll do something I don’t approve of, and that makes me cry just thinking about it.”

That day has long passed for us with Little Drummer Boy and Squiggle, and Baby Girl’s is coming. But, now I know that the bittersweet independence is tempered by a love that eclipses any disappointment, any white knuckle grip, any reluctance to fly, any insistence on soaring. Perhaps the best and most poignant metaphor for heart-rending independence is the father in Jesus’ story of the prodigal son, the father who freely and without hesitation gave an inheritance to be squandered. When the poverty of rebellion and forgetfulness came to fruition, he also freely and without hesitation gave acceptance–restoration to an independence gone astray. How I need that. How my babies need it. How we all need it.

Kids Are Baby Goats & Other Boy Musings

Yesterday morning I watched Squiggle, my 2 1/2 year old, relieve the patio of a significant portion of the ever-present pecan tree blossoms one handful at a time. “Blossoms” implies soft petals, lingering fragrance, and lovely hues. So, realistically, pecan tree “blossoms” might be a stretch.  Think an overwhelming volume of wispy things that dry up, die, and quickly resemble dirt.  Now you know why they so enamored Squiggle.  He spent the better part of our backyard visit methodically collecting them in various pots, buckets and dumptrucks. After apparently gathering a satisfactory amount, he alternated between creating very interesting pecan blossom sculptures atop the smaller garden pots and cooking up some pecan blossom soup. When it was time to go inside, amid the swoon of rare just-Squiggle-and-Mommy time and the joy of watching toddler imagination at work, one thought took root: WHAT is this fascination with dirt and dirt-like substances that permeates the hearts and minds of my kids? And while I have no reason to believe Baby Girl won’t soon follow closely in big brothers’ footsteps, at the moment when it comes to dirt and its fascination, “kids” mean BOYS–two of them.  Make that two little ones and one grown-up one to serve as instigator.

My MeMa would be scolding me right now.  She doesn’t like to hear children referred to as “kids.”  I suppose it goes a little too far toward slang for her no-nonsense tastes.  “Kids are baby goats,” she would say under her breath while shaking her head.  I don’t know how the term came to refer to baby people, but I’m convinced it began with a mother of boys.

We don’t have many goats here in Starkville (at least I don’t think we do,) but, ironically, my husband lived next door to one for a few years–rather he lived next door to an older man who owned a goat.  It was just after we started dating, and I have vague recollections of the goat standing on top of a huge pile of debris across the fence looking down at Hub’s white german shepherd/blond lab mix.  Yes, it’s a surreal picture–the goat holding court right there on Highway 25 between Skate Odyssey and the Wash Depot.  Hub tells me that the goat was quite rambunctious, bleating to the wind at all hours, putting anything lying around on the ground in its mouth, and hopping or climbing on everything it could find.  Hmmm.  It doesn’t sound that much different than our household.  Come to think of it, the goat scene probably wasn’t that much different than the Hub/college roommates scene next door.  Apparently, neither goats nor boys grow out of their baby goat ways.

Now–just like yesterday morning–on a weekly, sometimes daily (and yes hourly) basis, I find myself pondering the unusual phenomenon of boys.  And their love affairs with noise and movement and hopping.  And sticks and stones.  And other goat-like behavior.  And lions.  Frankly, it bewilders the adult mommy mind.  And, I am left to interchangeably wring my hands, scratch my head or be struck silent in confusion — not an easy task for a wordy girl such as myself.  Consider…

Bad guys. And all the really cool stuff they get to do and say. Captain Hook’s sword is always so much cooler than Peter Pan’s.  And, he gets to say Aaargh.  My mother still gets a chuckle out of Little Drummer Boy’s reaction to David and Goliath.  We were delighted to teach him the story of God’s little warrior felling the big, bad giant.  Only, LDB always wanted to BE Goliath.  After all, he gets to fall down and die.  Not to rewrite divine inspiration or anything, but the dude with the spear wins out over a few stones. This time.  Which brings me to…

Stickes and stones. And the affinity for all things related to rocks in the traditional sense.  You see, the modern rock vernacular–as in “Look, Daddy brought us milk.  Daddy rocks!”–is lost on boys at this stage of the game.  Little Drummer Boy’s response: “Rocks. I want to see the rocks.”  You see, in kid-land, don’t even bring it, unless you bring it with rocks.  And, boy can my boys bring it.  I recently counted 37 [that was 37, and yes, I counted] rocks left in the washing machine after a load of Squiggle and LDB’s clothes.  Not long after the discovery of pockets, Squiggle asked for my help one morning to get a hand in his.  It turns out the problem was a lovely, smooth and VERY clean stick that had been stored there last week and had subsequently weathered the spin cycle.  When putting jackets away, I’m regularly confronted with pockets full of sticks and stones and dirt.  A reminder of…

Secret hideaways. And the stuff stored there.  It’s not just pockets and rocks.  Squiggle doesn’t sleep in socks anymore because we went through a period when they kept disappearing.  On a rare pull-out-the-bed-on-a-dust-hunt moment, behind Squig’s bed I discovered two pacifiers poppies and twenty pairs of slightly dingy socks. [that was 20, and yes, I counted]. We lost Eyeore for a while–quite a gloomy mystery. I looked in every bag, on every shelf, in every corner, under every bed.  When my mother noticed a slight dip in the circus tent canopy over Squiggle’s bed, I realized that “under the bed” is for Mommy amateurs.  If you want to snuff out the secret hideaway, you have to set your sights higher.  Sure enough, there was Eyeore.  I’m sure his resting place was the inevitable product of some giggle-fueled, toy-slinging battle waged early or late when the lights were out. Ushering in…

Lions. And their roars.  Dueling roars, to be exact.  Little Drummer Boy and Squiggle practice theirs early on Saturday mornings, perfecting the art of just the right volume and ferocity.  It’s a familiar alarm clock which sometimes signals our approach into kid-land at the supper table, in the car, during bathtime, etc.  Last month, LDB’s preschool class put on an “art show” complete with museum signage, visitor guest logs and artist profiles.  I was shocked to read his profile under the question “what do you want to be when you grow up?”  I think it’s the first time he’s ever been asked that question, and naturally, the answer was “a hunter.”  WHAT? No offense to my tree-pattern clad Southernites out there, but I don’t know if I want my boys to get into the hunting thing.  And, I have the guns-are-yucky speech to prove it.  So, I quizzed LDB with a “what do you want to hunt?”  The answer: Lions. At the zoo. That’s my boy kid!

I can hear you.  You parents of mostly girls laugh in disbelief and mommy mockery, but just you wait.  You see, I’m a girl, married to a man who was once a boy, but has never quite shed the skin of his goat-like qualities. Shower and shave aside, he remains a connoisseur of hopping, only with a louder thud.  He continues his ways of coveting sticks and stones, only in larger quantities to fit in larger hands to share with smaller goats in training.  And, he has quite eloquently expanded his repertoire of lion roars to include all manner of sound effects from bats hitting balls out of the imaginary park, to tiny trucks and trailers catapulting off furniture with metal-crunching crashes, to unsuspecting plastic boats transforming themselves into submarines with a deafening bloosh.  It baffles me.  But, just you wait.  Before you know it, your little girl will bring home one of these grown-up baby goats like mine to muddy up your sugar and spice world.  No mommy is insulated from the universal truth that “kids boys are baby goats.”

A Mommy’s fate is to give in.  And to quickly learn to wield her trusty SuperGlue.