Crank It Up

It is a known fact that no matter how loud I crank the Clash, as long as I am driving a minivan I am not cool. Even if I know all of the words to the song. Even if I am singing it at the top of my lungs. But this does not stop me. To the dismay of my children, if the right song comes on, I will crank it up. In the olden days, before cell phones, I'm sure people would see me and know that I was singing at the top of my lungs, even if the windows of the car were rolled up. But these days I just pretend I'm on the phone. Crazy, right?

I am not above riding around the block a couple of times to hear the end of a song, even if it will make me late for dinner. This is especially true when it's "Twofer Tuesday" on the classic rock station. I like the old songs because they are full of memories. You will not see me at a Bruce Springsteen concert today because I can guarantee that he will play music written after 1985. This may sound crazy to you, but it makes perfect sense to me. Those new songs? They don't hold me. They have no memories attached.

This doesn't mean that I never listen to newer music. Over the years I've discovered that I like lots of different types of songs. About thirteen years ago, the husband went to visit his family on the other side of the world for about three weeks. I had to take care of the baby girl child and the baby boy child by myself. This was hard because the baby boy child, who was about four months old at the time, didn't like to be by himself. EVER. He always wanted to be held. But one night, I managed to get him to sleep in his crib. For hours. Bliss. I had rented Pieces of April and got to watch the entire thing, uninterrupted. And when it was over, I had fallen in love with Stephin Merritt's music. The Magnetic Fields. The Sixes. When I hear that music, I think of the time when my children were babies.

We lived in an apartment building when the kids were first born, and we had a neighbor with two teenage daughters. I remember that one day she told me how she still loved to kiss her daughters' toes. At the time, I thought that was really strange, but now I understand. It goes so fast. They won't let you kiss their toes forever, you know. The other day when I was at the bus station, I saw a mother with her little boy on her lap. He was fast asleep, sprawled across her body with his head on her shoulder. He must have been about five. I could remember how that felt. The weight of that little body, the rhythm of his breathing. My kids are too big to sleep like that now, although I think the girl child tried to recently. It didn't really work out. After all, she is bigger than me.

I was shopping for a baby gift last weekend, and I found myself getting a little weepy in the infant section. I looked at all of the sippy cups and tiny socks, and realized that this part of my life was over. My kids are big now. They are stinky in a way that is not the same as baby stinky. Sure, one day I might have some grand kids, but it will be different. Maybe it will be better, who knows? After all, you can play with grand kids and then give them back to their parents. But there's something to be said for those other times. Those times you think you'd like to forget about. Like when it's the middle of the night and the girl child is crying and you pace the floor with her and when you wake up in the morning, you're sitting upright on the couch with a sweaty baby on your chest, and baby boogers are caked in your hair. And you don't care. Honestly, there's nothing quite like it.

So I was wondering why I got so emotional in the baby section the other day. After all, it's not like I haven't bought baby gifts in the last year or two. But perhaps, things have changed in my life. Perhaps that is what is different. These days, I officially have two teenagers. The boy child doesn't mind sleeping in his room anymore. In fact, he spends a lot of his time in there with the door closed, doing his homework at his desk and chatting with his friends on Skype. I miss him. He used to sit in the living room to do his homework. Sometimes, I call him into the living room just so he can hang out with me. Even if we're doing different things, like reading and watching TV. Just so we can be in the same room. The girl child still does her homework in the dining room, but now she has a boyfriend. We used to spend time together on Saturday, but now I drop her off at her in-laws, and she spends the day with her boyfriend. If I have custody of them, sometimes we go out together, but now it is the three of us, not just us girls. These are good times. I am lucky to have the girl child and her boyfriend. And I now have my blissful time alone, but I will have plenty of that in only a few years. I don't really need to have that time alone now. I am ambivalent.

The girl child tells me that some of her friends think I'm cool because I enjoy listening to the music they like. When we ride in the car, the girl child brings her ipod and we connect it to the cassette deck. Yes, I still have a cassette deck in my car. Stop laughing at me. Anyway, she plugs it in and we sing along to the Fray and Panic at the Disco. I like being a cool mom. They just better not ride with me on a Tuesday.

After: Diet

I've finally gotten to the "After" phase of my purification, but I'm not quite ready to post the "After" picture yet. My three week program ended two weeks ago. That three weeks consisted of a total of twenty-one days, in case you weren't counting. I don't know how many hours or minutes, but when I first started the program I was considering making the calculation. It seemed like a long stretch of time, but it went faster than I thought it would. The first ten days I couldn't eat anything but fruits and vegetables. I struggled with that a bit, but it got better. I discovered that I really like to eat kale chips. Kale chips are addictive. The kids like them, too. I had to keep the chips right next to me during dinner or the kids would try to grab them. Luckily, I'm quick with my fork. By the way, you don't eat kale chips with a fork. The fork was for protection. Of the kale chips. Not the kids. Kids get too close to the kale, they get hurt. Just sayin'.

I cooked a bunch of really nice side dishes throughout those three weeks, but no real main courses. The girl child kept wanting to try everything, like wild rice sauteed with mushrooms, and mashed butternut squash with sweet mayan onions and apples. I told her to eat her own food and leave mine alone, but then I wound up letting her have some. I am a sucker. I never quite got the hang of making an all veggie meal though because I wasn't allowed any beans and very little brown or wild rice. I got a cup of lentils a day. I don't understand how those folks on the purification blogs that post all the food pictures do it. They must have a lot of time on their hands to figure out all those good recipes. Anyway, on the eleventh day, I was allowed lean meats. I thought that "meat day" was going to be much more of an event than it turned out to be. I was happy to have the protein back in my diet, though. It made it easier to eat with the family.

It is very important that I've learned to pronounce quinoa. The girl child thought it was hysterical that I didn't know how to before, but she had never seen how it's spelled, so what the heck did she know? She is a know-it-all, that girl child. Anyway, I have been needing to say quinoa quite a bit lately, so now I can say it with confidence. Keenwa. Why don't they just spell it like that? Anyway, I say quinoa because I've gone gluten free, and a lot of that stuff is made from quinoa. I'm not a purist, though. In other words, I cheat. But I'm the only one who suffers if I do, so that's OK. My family went out for chinese food to celebrate the lunar new year recently, and I paid for that big time. I won't be doing anything like that again soon. But it's not like I have a condition that will make me super sick if I eat something I'm not supposed to. I'm very lucky in that respect. I've got a bunch of different kinds of corn and quinoa pastas hanging out in my pantry now, and a pretty tasty organic gluten free multi-grain bread. I ate my first slice yesterday. I toasted it. I burned it. Seriously, have I forgotten how to make a piece of toast in five weeks? That is just pathetic. But, maybe it's better that way. I'm trying to stay off the carbs.

Mostly carb free has it's benefits: at the end of the three weeks, I lost eight pounds. Eight. Count ’em! one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight. Oh wait! I've been in post-purification mode for two weeks, and the pounds are still gone, so you can count ’em again! one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine. Oh, did I go up to nine that time? Well, yes, yes I did. Because yesterday the needle on the Hello Kitty scale went down one more pound, I'm happy to say. A very nice side effect of purifying. A very nice side effect, indeed.

But, the most important aspect of the purification is how it makes me feel. I'm not belittling the weight loss though. Really. I'm not. But my energy level these days is incredibly high compared to the way it was in early January and before, and I can attribute that to my new diet. My skin is better, and so is my digestion. The diet consists mainly of fruits, vegetables, lean meats, and beans. I've cut out most dairy. I've discovered gluten free chips and crackers and am trying to stay away from them because they taste really good and I can eat an entire package. Oh, and then there's the dark chocolate. The doctor said that dark chocolate is good for you. I'm not sure if that's such a good idea, but you can see why I keep going back to him. I think he is a very smart man.

There are a lot of recipes out there that I can try, but I'm having some fun making up my own. I tried one the other day that I'll share with you. I call it Faux-lafel. I've discovered that my faux-lafel will not be the only one out there—the name is not exactly original—but I don't think anyone has the copyright on it so I'm calling mine that, too. I kind of ripped off the recipe from the ingredients label of a veggie burger they make at my local grocery store. I bought a package and liked it so much I decided to start making the burgers myself, but then I realized I could roll the mixture into balls and pan fry them. The rest of the family liked them a lot. I think they would be better for everyone than real, deep fried falafel, so next time I'll be making the faux.

I'm also going to share one of my fave breakfast ideas with you. Since it's been really cold out, I've wanted to eat a hot breakfast. I used to eat oatmeal, but I wasn't allowed to eat that for three weeks. What could I make easily at work that would be warm and satisfying when I could only have fruits and veggies? And then it came to me: a "baked" apple made in the microwave. Not bad. Enjoy!


"Baked" Apple

Core the apple, sprinkle some cinnamon, and place into a shallow bowl. Cover with a paper towel and cook in the microwave for two or three minutes until the apple is soft and there's a yummy syrup at the bottom of the bowl. Eat. Carefully. Don't burn the roof of your mouth.

Faux-lafel

I use a food chopper I got from Pampered Chef* to chop all of the ingredients for this recipe. It makes life a heck of a lot easier. All the quantities can be played around with to your taste. I faked it myself, so you can, too.

1 can organic chick peas, drained and mashed
1/2 carrot, chopped fine
3/4 bell pepper (red, yellow, orange, green or a mix of all), chopped fine
1/2 medium onion, chopped fine
1/2 zucchini, chopped fine
2 large white mushrooms, chopped fine
1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped fine
1-2 teaspoons cumin, to taste
salt and pepper to taste
flour and panko crumbs if you eat gluten; gluten free flour and cornmeal if you don't

Mix together all ingredients in a large bowl. Form into patties (makes about 5) or into 1" round balls. Pan fry in grape seed oil until golden brown. Tasty!

*I have to give a plug to my pampered chef guy, David Meenan, aka the Broadway Chef. If you live in NJ and want to have a party, you should call him. My party was a long time ago, but he sang and did Riverdance on a cutting board. He is a hoot.

Koyaanisqatsi

Last semester at school, the girl child studied Romeo and Juliet. She talked about it a lot. This afternoon I was thinking about the part where Juliet makes the case that the only thing that matters is what things are, not what they're called. You know, the "rose by any other name" speech. I think this is generally true. But . . . maybe not for everything.

Take this blog for example. It's called Commuter Mom. It's called that because I'm a commuter. And because I'm a mom. You know, a commuter mom. It was initially supposed to be only about that. And then life intervened. I started writing about my fibromyalgia and about my childhood and about weight loss and now I wonder what else is going to come out of my head and into my blog. So now, I'm thinking that maybe the name is kind of deceptive. Maybe people will go to read it thinking that it's going to be about commuting or parenting and it'll be about sticks of butter. Wha?

As you've probably surmised, I'm thinking about changing the name of the blog. I was going to call it "Koyaanisqatsi." I know this word because of my considerable grasp of the Hopi language, from which this word is derived. But the more I think about it, I realize that my readers might not have such an extensive Hopi vocabulary. Maybe I should choose something in english. And anyway, the name's already been used as the title of a documentary. Executive producer Francis Ford Coppola. Music by Philip Glass. I wouldn't want to cause any confusion, right?

"Koyaanisqatsi" means "life out of balance" (that's the subtitle of the movie, too). It's also been translated as "chaotic life," "crazy life," "life in turmoil," "life of moral corruption and turmoil." It could be "a state of life that calls for another way of living." You know kind of like my life. Sort of. Because, my life has been out of balance. And recently, I've begun to attempt another way of living.

I will not be calling the blog anything using the words "chaotic life." Apparently, that title has been taken by a homeschooling mom, a chick that blogs about her family (cute kids), and a twenty-one year old that likes to talk about everything that happened to her that day, including things I'd really rather not know about. I just gave each of them two hits on their blogs. It's the least I could do. I think I'll skip going the "moral corruption and turmoil" route. To those that would drop by to see what's written under that title, I'm sure my blog would only disappoint. I'm kind of into calling it "Life Out of Balance." Like last week, when my accupuncturist said I had too much Yang. That's out of balance. Right?

So, what do you think? Should I change the name? You got any ideas? Although this is not a democracy, I wouldn't mind a few suggestions. Please send me your comments. You can post them on the blog or on the facebook page. I would love to hear from you!

Like Buttah

I measure lost pounds in sticks of butter. Last month, I lost eight pounds. That is eight boxes of butter, thirty-two sticks. I see the sticks lined up like fenceposts, like street lamps along the road. The road is long, with sixteen sticks on each side. The boxes stack in a pyramid, not quite perfectly. I need more boxes to make the pyramid stable, but I am still proud.

I can relate to sticks of butter. I can picture what I want to lose. A stick for the upper arm, maybe two, one quarter-pound each. Each thigh could take two, the stomach six. I add them up as I go. Another ten boxes should do it. Another ten will make it right. This means forty more sticks. I've already lost thirty-two. I can do another forty. Why not?

I imagine the pounds of butter melting away. This imagery works for me. It also sounds kinky. We will not go there.

I think of the people who lose over one hundred pounds and I imagine that number in terms of sticks of butter. The boxes would fill a refrigerator. I am in awe.

Permanent Record

One of the first things I told my kids when they started school was that there was no such thing as a "permanent record." I know, I suppose that if you brought a switchblade to school or some drugs, you would probably acquire a record pretty quickly. But that would probably result in a police record as well. When I say permanent record, I mean the one in which your frequent tardiness or other miscellaneous infractions are recorded, the likes of which I highly doubt a future employer would bother to consult when considering you for a job. Why the threat of it continues to exist beats the heck out of me. No one will be stressing the boy child or girl child with that one.

Years ago when I was in junior high, the lunch aides came out to "the field" where I was hanging out during recess and tapped me on the shoulder. They got my friend, too. We were to come with them. We were in trouble. I was confused. I never got in trouble. Yeah, sure, I was sitting out at "the fence," the area next to the high school track where the "cool" kids hung out, talked and smoked cigarettes. But I had quit smoking at the ripe old age of fourteen, and I was just sitting there. Turns out, my friend and I had been accused of leaving a cafeteria tray under a table. Both of us had brought our lunches that day in brown paper bags, the only cool lunchbox at the time, but apparently that wasn't enough to excuse us. They separated us; I was led to the gym with the principal, my friend down the cafeteria hallway with a teacher, presumably to show him where we had been sitting. The principal told me I had to tell him who did it, or my friend would get detention for two weeks and it would go on her permanent record. Her permanent record. Man, that sucked. I held out for as long as I could, was even late for class, but eventually I caved. I gave the name of the one who had done it, one of the tougher cool girls who had been sitting near us in the cafeteria that day. The name that the boy who had given our names to the principal had been too chicken to give. Because he knew what would happen.

I was shunned. I was a snitch. Did that principal know what he had done? I had been living on the periphery of the cool crowd, too socially inept and self-conscious and immature to really fit in. I was not invited to all of the parties. None of the boys were interested in going out with me. I only wanted to be accepted. But now, it was all over and unfortunately, I had no other friends to turn to. I had been a victim of that cruel shift that often takes place during middle school, when childhood friends drift in different directions. Ultimatums are given. Choices are made. Ill-advisedly, I had blithely tossed away my close friends who rode bikes and flew kites, joined school clubs and sometimes even still played with dolls. Instead, I chose to learn to blow smoke rings. I tried my first joint. My first beer was purchased by someone's older brother and consumed in the woods. I looked and acted like I was ten. I looked like an idiot. Looking back, perhaps the principal had just been trying to do me a favor. Nah . . . he was just a jerk.

Thirty years later, I found myself in that same hallway leading to the cafeteria, fighting flashbacks of my middle school years. We had moved back to the hometown a few years earlier to be near my mom. My junior high had become an elementary school. The classrooms that had housed shop class and home ec were now the kindergarten rooms. My home ec teacher had hated me. She thought I was hopeless. I had forgotten to put the flour in the chocolate chip cookies. Who could blame her? I gritted my teeth and led the girl child down the hall, past the place where one of the popular girls had made fun of what I was wearing, and everyone had laughed. A picture of the former principal hung high on the wall, sneering down at me. I fought the urge to run upstairs to the second floor girls' bathroom to light a cigarette. I didn't even have a cigarette. I forced a smile and made myself push open the classroom door, and there it was. A kindergarten. Complete with blocks and legos and picture books and a throng of teeny tiny adorable people. I could get used to this.

Eventually, I no longer thought of the gym as the location of the many humiliations I suffered those two long years when I was unable to make a basket or climb a rope. When I walked into that room, I no longer pictured the principal threatening my friend. The gym became the place where the girl child won a trophy at the school spelling bee, reciting "f-u-r-n-i-t-u-r-e" so quickly that the moderator could barely keep up, and earning a spot in the regional tournament. It became the scene of carnivals and chorus concerts and awards ceremonies. And on Halloween, the high school marching band crossed "the field," right past "the fence" to the blacktop, where the little ones and their teachers, every one in costume, paraded in a circle while the moms and dads and grandparents laughed and took pictures.

Those childhood friends tossed aside so long ago eventually became friends again. The cool kids? Well, the cool kids are no longer cool. They are just . . . nice. We all meet on Facebook. We admire photos of each others children and grandchildren, celebrate each others successes, give each other encouragement, mourn with each other. We tell each other stories, confess crushes from elementary school. Sometimes, someone will post an old photo. A young girl, leaning against a car. I realize that I don't yet know the woman she has become. I am starting to. But this girl? I know this girl.

These friends are special. More than any other group of friends, we share a unique history of how we came to be. It is a history with a soundtrack. It is the Partridge Family, The Fifth Dimension, The Monkees, The Beatles. I can see the boys playing air guitar to Smoke on the Water. Taking Care of Business transports me to a school cafeteria. The Grateful Dead comes on the radio and there is only one girl I think of. It is an eclectic mix. It is Led Zeppelin, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, and Bruce Springsteen. It is the wailing of Jackson Brown and the symphonic, etherial sounds of Renaissance. And so many years later, it is our permanent record.

Half Full

My cat is a pessimist. He is a "bowl half empty" kind of guy. I know this because almost every morning at about 4:30 am, he meows like crazy to be fed. On most days, this habit of his does not bother me because I get up at that time anyway. On the weekends, however, I tend to get a bit testy when I get to the kitchen, only to find a bowl mostly full, but with a small circle of blue plastic bottom showing through the kibble. This, I have discovered, apparently renders the bowl . . . empty. I suppose it's a cat thing.

It is the boy child's responsibility to feed the cats. He rarely remembers to do so. He rarely gets in trouble for not doing his chores. Someone else always feeds the cats or gives them water. I'm not sure why, but the boy child seems to get away with things the girl child never could. I think it's because, even though he's thirteen, he looks younger. We sometimes cut him more slack. We probably shouldn't. This causes the girl child a great deal of frustration as you might imagine, but since she's an angsty teen, we tend to ignore her. This frustrates her too, but we can't seem to help ourselves. Anyway, the boy child looks younger and even still has some baby teeth. About a year ago he lost a tooth and the girl child, in that way she has, asked, "You don't still believe in the tooth fairy, do you?" The boy child looked her in the eye and replied, "Don't ruin this for me." He was kidding, but at that moment we realized that maybe he had missed a few of the little pleasures of childhood, simply because he had gotten there too late.

At my age, being mistaken for someone younger is a compliment. It makes my day. When I was younger, though, I always wanted to look older. The girl child is often mistaken for someone older, and she thinks it's kind of cool, although not all the time. She was taller than me by the time she was twelve. She looked mature. And, people expected more of her. It was more noticeable when she was younger, when people wouldn't realize that she was still in elementary school and not a hormonally challenged middle school student. She is often reminding people that she is only fifteen, that she has just started high school, that she hasn't experienced some things yet, and that she really isn't ready to. I heave a sigh of relief. The husband and I have considered ourselves extraordinarily lucky that she has a good head on her shoulders, because having a fifteen-year-old that looks twenty-two could have been  something a great deal different from what we have. A mature looking girl child with a knack for Photoshop? What could possibly go wrong?

When I was a teen, I always envied the girls that looked like the girl child. They were all grown up. They had boyfriends. They wore real bras. I was short and skinny and basically built like a ten year old boy. When I was young, clothes for children looked a lot different from clothes for teens and adults. I did not want to wear Danskins anymore, nor did I want to wear Buster Browns. I was a teenager. Seriously. It just wasn't fair. It has not always been easy for me to relate to the issues of the girl child, but I try. She finds certain clothes in her size, like bathing suits, either too matronly or, at the other end of the spectrum, too sexy and mature. In the last few years we have found the stores that might carry the one or two options in between. We hope they stay in business. Otherwise, we might have to  open a store of our own. Call me if you want to invest.

And then there is the boy child. Yesterday afternoon, after realizing that the boy child had outgrown his snow boots, we went to the mall. Nothing like waiting until a blizzard is upon you to try to find snow boots, right? It wasn't easy. Plus, the boy child is on the cusp of child-size and grown-up size. He wants the grown-up styles, of course. He is thirteen. It becomes a treasure hunt. I am ready to spend too much money on something he likes. I don't want to, but I want him to feel comfortable in his clothes. This, I can relate to. This, I understand. We finally find something we can all agree upon at a reasonable price. I thank my lucky stars for Totes.

I have friends that are having babies. I know a few with toddlers. They are adorable. You can dress them up however you like. Well, at least some of them will let you dress them up. I look at my children and they are so big. And smelly. Babies are smelly, too, but in a different way. My kids are so grown up. They talk about sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll. They go places by themselves. I have to let them go. When they were little, I sometimes caught a glimpse of them as teens. It could be an expression, a phrase, a camera angle that resulted in a vision of what they would look like, who they might become, in just a few years. But now, occasionally, when I'm not paying attention, I catch a glimpse of them as young children again. I watch the boy child with his lego, concentrating on whatever he is building. I see the girl child in her pjs and her glasses, with no makeup, and I see the little girl I knew. I see the boy child and the girl child share a piece of cake, competing for every bite, especially the last one. Sometimes I insist that I get it. I have that power. And I can be a child, too, you know.