A Tale of Two Aunts and Two Recipes: Life Lessons Learned in the Kitchen

This is the tale of two aunts. Two dearly departed aunts who both had a profound impact on my life. It is the story of two women with seemingly nothing in common, the similar paths they carved through our family, and the recipes they left behind.

First, my aunt Nabila, my mother's sister. She was a force to be reckoned with, not that anyone would dare to reckon with her. Widowed at an early age with three children, she was a determined businesswoman who doggedly rose to the top against the most incredible odds. You think it's tough being a woman in a man's world? Try being a Christian woman in a Muslim man's world.

She lived high above the city of Cairo, Egypt on a mountaintop, which only seemed appropriate because nothing, and I mean NOTHING could take her down. Not diabetes, not cancer, not hepatitis, not anything. The more life threw at her, the higher she seemed to rise.

Her career took her around the world and I'm guessing it was on those travels that she developed her passion for the finer things in life. She surrounded herself with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, Swiss watches, and French purses. Her home was a palatial spread of marble floors, ornately carved furniture and hand-woven tapestries. "Less is more" was not exactly her motto. She was definitely the only one at my son's 2nd birthday party in a beaded evening gown.

Like all good Egyptian women, my aunt Nabila loved food. Any gathering at her Cairo compound was sure to include dozens of giant silver platters piled high with grilled this and roasted that, enormous porcelain tureens of steaming soups. But unlike most Egyptian women, I never actually saw her cook anything. I'm certain she could cook, she just chose not to, preferring to take a supervisory role over her army of help.


On one visit to the States, she was supervising the cooking of rice before a family get together. Now, if you've never been fortunate enough to experience Egyptian rice, let's be clear- we're not talking about any boil-in-a-bag, grains of bland, sticky, white nothingness. No, Egyptian rice ("roz") is a different story. It's always nutty and fragrant and buttery, sometimes spicy and usually mixed with little bits slivered almonds or raisins or pinenuts or bits of vermicelli-like noodles that have been sauteed in some secret blend of what I can only assume contains unicorn powder and fairy dust.

"The rice, it needs some salt," my aunt Nabila loudly declared, even though she hadn't been in the room when the initial dose of salt was administered. But I wasn't about to argue with her so I dutifully got out the salt.

"How much?" I asked, calibrated measuring spoons at the ready. "A teaspoon? A tablespoon?"

"Enough so that it tastes delicious, but not so much that it is tastes salty."

Ummm.... OK? This non-recipe felt like so much in my life- chaotic, unruly, unpredictable. But I dutifully put in "some" salt and threw "some more" over my shoulder to ward off the potential Wrath of Nabila in the event I had over or under delivered on my duty.

"Now add the water," she ordered. "And make sure you put enough."

We sat and talked for a few minutes as the pot simmered away, and then in an attempt to show her how dedicated I was to the cause, I got up to stir the rice. I lifted the lid and was lowering the spoon when all you-know-what broke loose.

"NO!" she boomed, and jumped up next to me. My aunt Nabila was no small woman, and this was no small feat. She grabbed the spoon from my hand and shook it in my face. "You never, ever stir the rice while it is cooking," she admonished. "When you begin, you mix, you season, you stir. But once you put the water in, you close the lid and trust. If you stir, if you shake, if you don't have faith, it will fail."

At least then the rice and I would have something in common, I thought to myself, feeling more like the black sheep of the family than ever over my obvious lack of riceability.

As it turned out, the rice that night was delicious: not too salty, just fluffy enough. Not shaken, and definitely not stirred. All it needed was a little faith and a whole lot of luck.

My aunt Nabila passed away in June of 2010 after a prolonged illness, and to this day, every time I make or eat rice I think of her. Maybe life isn't really like a box of chocolates- it's more like a pot of rice. You need to do what you can, mix it up while you can, and then sit back and trust. Let the water work its way in, let the heat build up and have faith that those hard grains will magically be transformed. It was more than just the way she made her rice (or delegated the task to others), it was the way she lived her life.


Then there was my aunt Dianne. She married my mother's brother and found herself plucked out of Flint, Michigan and plopped down smack in the middle of a Big Fat Egyptian family. She was young, energetic and beautiful, someone I saw as a big sister figure from the very beginning.

Where Nabila was larger than life and more than a little bit intimidating, Dianne was warm and sunny, cheerful and calm. I think we both felt the chaos of living between two worlds, the Egyptian and American culture clash, and perhaps that's why we got along so well.

She was in many ways my refuge. An older, wiser friend who had been through many of the experiences I struggled with, many my own parents couldn't relate to. She'd tell me stories about high school dances, learning to drive on her dad's lap, baking cookies with her mom.

And that became our favorite thing to do together: we were the family bakers. At Thanksgiving, she taught me to make pumpkin pie with flaky homemade crust. "Always keep the butter cold," she explained. At Christmas, we'd churn out cookies and treats by the dozens. Shortbread, chocolate chip, Snickerdoodles and 7-layer bars, to name a few. We'd page through her cookbooks and recipe cards, lovingly handed down from generations before. Seeing those dog-eared pages, I could easily picture her as a child, standing over the counter with her mother or even grandmother, following the same steps and getting the same results. We'd measure everything out precisely, mix to exact specifications, and set the oven timer to bake the recommended amount. It was so deliciously predictable, and I hungered for every bite.


Our favorites to bake together were the raspberry thumbprints. Sweet, buttery pillows of delight that would be tasty enough on their own, but just to make things extra special, you press your thumb into the soft, squishy dough and fill that imprint with tart raspberry goodness. We'd bake a batch, she'd brew some coffee for herself and a hot cocoa for me, and together we would feast. "Sometimes you just can't afford to save dessert for dessert," she'd say with a wink, and pass me another cookie.

Dianne passed away in May 2011 after a brief but intense battle with cancer. As she slipped away from us in the spring, I found myself wanting to bake more than usual. To experience that sense of order, that deliciously magical process by which powdery flour and chunks of butter become food. I will always wish we could have shared one last cookie, but I hope she knows how much sweeter my life is because of her.

They were two aunts with very different, and yet somewhat similar stories. One lived like a queen in a palace in the Middle East, one came from the humblest of homes in the Midwest. Where one was hard, the other was soft. One loud, one quiet. One salty, one sweet. But both were beloved by all who knew them, both were tough as nails. Both were strangers in a strange land, fighting in their own way to find their way the best they could. Both had three children: two boys, one girl. Both loved their kids with a Mother Bear-like, animal ferocity. And both left me recipes I'll cherish the rest of my life.

Now I find myself in a kitchen of my own, with a family of my own: two boys, one girl. Beautiful children who have brought out the Mother Bear in someone who once thought herself a failure of a cub. I've learned from the best that in life, you must stir while you can, you must take the savory with the sweet, you must always make time for dessert, and above all, you must always have faith.

Now it's my turn to see what I can cook up.

Egyptian Rice (all measurements and times approximate)

1 c. vermicelli

1 tbsp. olive oil

1 c. long grain rice

1 c. onion, chopped

2 1/4 cup chicken stock or water

salt and pepper to taste

Break the vermicelli into 1-inch pieces (or use an Arab or Indian brand that is already broken up). In a wide non-stick skillet, saute onion in oil until translucent, and remove from pan. Saute vermicelli pieces in leftover oil till golden (this happens mroe quickly than you expect it to). Add onions back to pan and add rice; stir to combine. Pour in boiling stock, stir. Add salt and pepper to taste. Cook over very low heat for about 20 minutes. Do not stir. Fluff, eat and enjoy.

Raspberry Thumbprint Cookies

1 cup of butter (2 sticks or 8 ounces), room temperature

1/2 cup of sugar

2 eggs, room temperature

1 teaspoon of vanilla extract

Pinch of salt

2 cups of flour

1 cup of chopped nuts (optional)

3/4 cup of raspberry jam

Cream the butter and sugar on high speed for about 3 minutes. Separate the eggs. Add the yolks and vanilla extract to the butter mixture. If using nuts place the egg whites in a shallow dish on the side and whisk them until bubbly and frothy (the egg whites will be used to keep the nuts on the cookies). Add the flour and salt. Mix until just combined. Place the dough in the fridge for 30 minutes and preheat the oven to 350F. Roll the dough into balls about 1 inch in diameter. If using nuts, dip the balls into the egg whites then roll them into the nuts until covered. Place the balls on parchment lined cookie sheets. Press down with your thumb to make a small well in the center of the cookie. Do not press too hard or the cookie will fall apart. Fill with 1/2 teaspoon of jam. Bake for 12-15 minutes or until slightly firm. Allow to cool for a few minutes on the cookie sheet to firm up before moving them to a wire rack to finish cooling.

Yes, There Really IS a Santa Claus

Dear Santa,

I know, I know- this is really last minute and I'm sure you're swamped right now. I realize that it is already Christmas in the Solomon Islands and you don't have a lot of time to check your messages, so I'll do my best to keep this brief.

First, I should begin with an apology. I know we haven't exactly been BFFs the past 30 or so years, so you're probably a little surprised to hear from me at all. It's nothing personal, Santa, and I don't think I ever stopped believing in you, but at some point I did stop believing in me.

You probably remember, I wasn't the happiest, most well-adjusted little girl on the block, and somehow I started thinking at a very young age that the whole "magical Christmas" thing was just for other people to enjoy. Sure, we had a tree and presents galore, and my parents certainly did the best they could as immigrants who were new to this whole western Christmas thing. They never dreamed of a white Christmas in Egypt and I'm pretty sure flying reindeer are not indigenous to the region. In fact, because Eastern Orthodox Christmas is January 7th and not December 25, the holiday always seemed like one more confusing bump on the road that first generation children tread: one more thing that separated "us" from "them."

But I'm not sure that's what put the North Pole-like chill in our relationship. Somewhere in years of watching those I love exhaust themselves with last minute shopping sprees for things we neither wanted nor needed, the giant cooking ordeals for food that is inhaled in 15 minutes flat, I seemed to acquire a rather sad tradition of my own: a knot in my stomach that showed up right after Halloween and wouldn't loosen up until early January. Great for avoiding those holidays pounds, but that's about it.

Then, Santa, you started bringing me these really cool gifts. A wonderful husband who loves me, holiday baggage and all. Three little miracles to deck our halls (and undeck them, and scribble on them with crayon, etc). The chance to create our own family traditions, and to approach the season with joy instead of dread.

So I just wanted to say thank you, Santa. I know I don't have this whole magical Christmas thing down just yet, but I think we're doing pretty well. We've been baking and singing and dancing and laughing by day, driving around looking at lights and snuggling on the couch watching Christmas movies by night. No doubt, it's exhausting being one of your helpers (and I certainly could have done without the Christmas virus currently moving through our house) but I'm loving every minute of it. Last night I went to bed in tears, and for the first time I was sad that Christmas was almost here instead of wishing it would just be over already.

So Santa, I really don't need you to bring me anything this year. You've given me ability to enjoy the holidays, so what more could I ask for? But since you do seem to be a very literal kind of guy, I'd just like to clarify a few things:

The whole "all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth" concept really need not apply to babies. If last night is any indication, we're going to need a whole lot more baby Tylenol in our stockings.

And just so we're clear, my kids do not actually want a hippopotamus for Christmas. It's just a song. One that they will not. stop. singing.

Ditto on the the partridge, the turtledoves, and the french hens. Our zoo runneth over.

Not to be picky, but if you're giving out five rings I'm really more of a platinum than a golden kind of girl.

And those maids-a-milking? I've pretty much got that department covered, but do they do windows?

Just some suggestions, Santa- I'll leave the details up to you because you really do know best.

Safe travels, and there's a good chance I'll see you later tonight (see above re: virus, teething baby).

Your (new) friend,

Mona

PS- you know that "I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus" thing? I checked with my husband, and he says it's OK. So pucker up.

Thanksgiving Mornings

I've always been a morning person, but never quite like this.

That's why it's 5:30 am on Thanksgiving and I'm wide awake.

My first day off since starting a new job, and I'm wide awake.

One husband and three children snoring away, and I'm wide awake.

There's nothing but the occasional sound of the furnace to disturb me as I sit writing by the glow of the baby monitor. It is by far my favorite time of day.

In the years B.C. (Before Children) the early mornings consisted of a cup of tea, a daily devotional with my breakfast, and a quick workout before heading to work.

One child only changed the routine a bit. Even before he was sleeping through the night, even when I was working crazy hours and only had a few to sleep, I almost always found a way to get up early and get that time to myself before getting to the rest of the day.

Two children made it tougher. Two children and a collection of part-time jobs that had to be stuffed into whatever free moments could be found made it next to impossible, but still, most days the morning routine remained in place.

Now, with three children and a new full-time job, mornings are a little bit different, but I cherish them all the more. Forget about "bright and early": two mornings each week the mere goal of getting to work by 9am requires a visit to the Dark Side. It goes something like this: get up at 5am, wolf down that tea and breakfast, gobble up a devotional, fly through the shower, throw on some clothes, nurse the baby, wake and dress and feed the two older ones, change clothes because inevitably baby's radar has detected the presence of dry clean only clothing and thus has spit-up, get everyone in the car, go back into the house to change a diaper because baby's radar has detected the need to leave the house and thus has pooped, drive 20 minutes in the wrong direction to preschool/daycare, give at least 4 rounds of goodbye hugs/kisses to each of 3 children, drive 45 miles to work, make milk for baby in the car, walk 3 city blocks to office carrying a laptop, a purse, a lunch bag and a breast pump to arrive at my desk and "start" my day. Phew.

But in the midst of what may seem like chaos, there are moments of bliss. Moments that make it all worthwhile, moments that I savor so deeply I actually wake up even earlier so as not to miss.

First, the baby. My sweet littlest little one is already five months old, and nine nights out of ten will sleep through the night. He no longer "needs" that early morning feeding, and would sleep right through it if I didn't get him up. Maybe he doesn't need it, but I'm just not quite ready to give it up. So on those mornings I creep into his room and take a few minutes to just stand watching in silent awe. As big as he seems the rest of the day, in the early morning hours he's just a tiny spot in the middle of his crib. A perfect little bundle of warmth and love, curled up on his belly with his arms tucked underneath. Every once in a while he lets out a little sigh or a tiny giggle and I pray that sweet dreams are filling up his little head. I pick him up and hold him close, trying to memorize the feeling of his fuzzy little head on my chest and his tiny fingers wrapped around my thumb. If I can just hold onto that feeling, I tell myself, it will get me through the day. Maybe if we both hold each other tightly enough, we can stock up on the love we need to weather the time apart.

Once he is fed and back asleep, it's on to the next child: my oldest, my four-going-on-12-year-old. He, too seems far too big for his age during the day, too grown up, too mature, but in the early morning hours the proportions seem to fall back in place. It's amazing to me that this big boy with his long, lean limbs that stretch across the bed was once a tiny bundle in the middle of his crib.

Sometimes when I come in he's all askew: arms on one side of the bed, legs in two different directions, head nowhere near the pillow and Thomas blanky tangled up in a heap on the floor. I can't help but laugh at the jumbled sight. But most of the time he's a bigger version of the boy in the room down the hall: flipped on his tummy, arms tucked underneath him, breathing slowly in and out. We share a special wake-up song, some silly tickle time, a few snuggles for good measure. I hug him close before he goes to brush his teeth, inhaling his sweet smell. Maybe if I hold him close enough he'll stay my little boy forever.

Last it's on to wake a tiny princess from her sleep. My 2-year-old ball of sass: she is funny, she is feisty and she is SO 2 years old. But in the mornings all I can see are her tiny little toes peeking out from the bottom of the blanket and a wild mane of hair sticking out the top. She sucks on one thumb and twists her hair around the other, never motionless, not even in her sleep. When I wake her, she smiles. Her sassy side doesn't get up this early, so she's still all cuddles and giggles and hugs and kisses. I pick her up and brush her hair out of her eyes while we rock together in her chair. Maybe if I hold her tightly enough she'll know how much I love her, sassiness and all.

The rest of the day is a blur. The new job is still so new, with so much to learn. Evenings are so busy, with meals to prepare, dishes to wash, laundry to do, baths to take and bedtime stories to read. By nighttime it's all too much for me: I'm too tired, too worn out, too worried. Worried about the kids, worried about the parents, worried about the job, worried I've forgotten something I should be worried about. Sometimes I just lie awake waiting for morning.

And so on this Thanksgiving I give thanks for mornings: the lazy ones, the crazy ones, the hazy ones.

Yes, I've always been a morning person, but never quite like this.

On feathers and letting go

When October hits Michigan you can usually count on a sharp chill in the air, dragging out the sweatshirts, and maybe even some frost on the grass. But not this year. This year we've been blessed with nearly two straight weeks of sunshine, temperatures in the 70s and even 80s and extended time with our shorts and t-shirts. In the heat of the afternoon, if you ignore the changing leaves and close your eyes you can almost trick yourself into believing it's still July, so that's how we've been acting: going barefoot in the grass, soaking up the sun on the deck, and eating ice cream in the afternoon.... just because.

Late last week we decided to head to one of our favorite spots for people and duck watching: the Mill Pond in downtown Brighton. With the big kids back in school, we found we had the place virtually to ourselves (not counting the feathered population). We spent a glorious few hours there just watching the ducks go by, playing tag around the rocks and savoring sweet treats from a local shop. At one point, my 2-year-old became quite preoccupied with picking feathers out of the grass and throwing them into the pond.

"Here you go, Mama!" she said, holding a feather out for me. "This one for you!"

So I slipped it in, somewhere between the lollipop wrappers, my cell phone, a 4-year-old's pet rock and a kleenex of questionable cleanliness, fully expecting to throw it away when we got home.

But somehow that feather made its way out of my pocket and when I got in my car the next day, I found it sitting on my seat, waiting for me. And as silly as it may sound, I think that feather was trying to tell me something.

You see, I've been walking around with my head in a bit of a fog lately, and not just the usual sleep-deprived-mom-of-three variety. It's been a heavier, heartier fog, the kind that comes with a major life change.

Tomorrow I'll be starting a new job, a new career even. It's an unexpected opportunity that came along at the most unexpected time, the kind that makes you sit up from the couch where you were happily nursing your baby boy and say "Maybe I should turn my life upside down and figure out a way to make this work thing work!"

It's been two and a half years since I left the full-time work world, not completely by choice. Like many moms, I faced a situation where the financial and emotional cost of having children just didn't compute with anything I'd be bringing home. Since we're blessed to be able to make ends meet on one salary, I decided I'd give the whole stay-at-home-mom thing a try.

It lasted all of about two weeks. That's when I began accumulating part-time job after freelance gig, working nights, middle of the nights, weekends, and many places in between. I felt guilty when working, guilty when not working, guilty when thinking about how guilty I felt about working or not working. Guilty for secretly loving the times I left the house for work, guilty for not wanting to spend every waking moment with my kids, guilty for wanting more. Guilty for being more. Or not being more. Guilty for being me.

So when this opportunity came along I weighed all the options, considered the pros (including an arrangement to work two days/week from home) and cons (including dragging a breast pump around the rest of the time), and eventually decided to give it a try. But instead of alleviating the guilt, it seemed the decision has only intensified it. Now I feel guilty for pursuing my own passion, guilty for leaving my kids, guilty for the seismic change this decision, MY decision would bring about in our family routine.

And then there's the fear: fear of failing at this new venture, fear my kids won't love me anymore, fear my husband and I will become strangers, fear of forgetting that grown-ups close the door when they use the potty... er... bathroom in public, fear that maybe, just maybe, I'll end up with exactly what I've wanted and then what will I complain about?

Between the guilt and the fear and the stress and the thoughts and the decisions and the blah, blah, blah... I'm over it! I'm over myself. I'm over the over-analysis and resulting paralysis. It's time, in the words of my favorite running shoemaker, to Just Do It!

So as this new chapter begins, I will carry that feather with me to remind me of sweet, carefree days- the ones we've already had and the ones that lie ahead....

To remind me that our hearts and minds don't need to be so heavy....

That time does fly, but if we don't get so hung up on the clock it will take us on a pretty amazing ride...

And that we need to let go of the guilt and the fear and all the rest, because deep down, we're all meant to fly.

This too shall pass

I made it almost eight weeks.

Eight weeks into life with a newborn, a toddler and a preschooler. (That's three kids ages four and under, if you're keeping score.)

Eight weeks which also included 3 birthdays, one anniversary, a large family wedding and a new job working from home.

Eight sleep-deprived weeks of nursing a baby on the playroom floor while refereeing a fight between two toddlers over a plastic caterpillar that neither one cared about until the other touched and it became the most important toy EVER....while working from home.

Eight socially-deprived weeks that lacked what had come to pass for stimulating adult conversation, as no one in the confines of my home cared to ask if I preferred paper or plastic. And did I mention I started a new job working from home?

Yes, I held it together for almost eight weeks before having a massive, Chernobyl-style meltdown. Or maybe it was more like a Category 5 hurricane: bands of tears gathered strength and eventually morphed into ugly sobs. Flailing arms and angry words carved a path of destruction through the house. I took shelter in the bathroom shower, where finally alone, I sank to the floor and curled up in a ball. Seconds later, I heard a gleeful giggle and looked up to find my 2 year old with her tiny button nose pressed against the glass door.

"Mama so silly!" she laughed. "Why you have you clothes in the bafftub???"

I opened the door and brought her into my cave, burying my head in her soft, wavy hair. I was just about to tell her something deep and meaningful about how sorry I was for the Mamapocalypse she just witnessed when she got very still, looked right into my eyes and yelled "BEEP BEEP!" as she pushed on my nose and ran away with a squeal.

I took a deep breath, gathered up my thoughts and my weary bones, and silently repeated the words that lately have become my mantra: "This too shall pass."

It's been comforting during these past eight weeks to remember that these tough times won't last forever. That there will come a time when my services are not quite so in demand at every moment of the day. A time when everyone in the house can wipe his/her own bottom. Now that's something to look forward to.

But later that night when I dragged my tired bones to bed for the four hours that currently constitute "nighttime" I stared at my sweet baby boy's tiny chest moving up and down as he slept in his bassinet and it hit me: this too shall pass. All of it.

This is most definitely our last child, so this time around when the baby phase is done, it's done for good. No more diapers and wipes, but also no more gummy, toothless grins or naps on the couch with a tiny little body swaddled against my chest.

I know that there will come a time, sooner than I might expect, that the little boy who begs for just one more, PLEEAASSSEEE one more hug at bedtime will be embarrassed by the very thought of embracing his mother in public....

That his constant stream of talk from the backseat of the car that never, ever seems to end (no, I do not know the name of the driver in the lane next to us on the highway, and I'm really not sure how many pieces of brick it took to build our house, or the name of the dinosaur with spiky things on his head) could someday be replaced by grunting and the sound of thumbs texting "OMG, my mom is sooooo annoying."

That the little girl who is right now attached to my side for 95% of her waking hours and can not seem to start a sentence without "Mommy!" will one day put her hands on her hips and roll those big blue eyes skyward with an exasperated "Moommmm!" because I have said/done/breathed the unthinkable.

That the kids who sob at the door on the rare occasion I leave the house to go somewhere very exciting like CVS will one day ask me to drop them off a block away from wherever their friends have gathered so that I do not risk contaminating their images with my inherent lack of cool.

That the baby boy who keeps me up all night with feeding and crying might one day keep me up all night with worrying and crying.

That I will no longer be able to pin my lack of muscle tone in the abdominal area on children unless I legally adopt Ben and Jerry.

That the boo boos will one day be too deep for bandaids and too painful for me to kiss away.

That the kids who right now seem to need me for everything one day won't.

Yes, all of "this" too shall pass, and when it does, there's no getting it back.

And as difficult, as demanding, as exhausting as it can be, I know that I shall miss it when it does.

An anniversary promise to my husband

Recently some family friends told us they will be renewing their wedding vows in honor of their 10th anniversary. They are doing it up Las Vegas style, complete with the drive thru wedding chapel and all the essential Elvis accoutrements. That, and the fact that today my husband and I celebrate our 8th anniversary (and by "celebrate" I mean he is at work and I am at home with our 3 kids), got me thinking that maybe we could use a little renewal of our own.

"Renewal," however would not be the right word, as we never exchanged vows in the first place, at least not in the traditional Western World sense. We were married in a traditional Eastern Orthodox ceremony in which there is no exchange of vows. It is a ceremony rich in symbolism and packed with ancient traditions, none of which include the bride or groom speaking a single word. (But you do get to wear a very cool cape and a crown, which allowed my husband to finally live out his super hero fantasy.) There's no discussion of having or holding, we don't actually believe that death will do us part, and because the sacrament is considered to be between God and the couple, just showing up constitutes your "I do."

So we did, 8 wonderful years and 3 beautiful children ago. And we still do. But what relationship couldn't use some freshening up around the edges, a little spritz of marital Febreze if you will? So while they're not traditional vows, I thought I'd take this occasion to examine a few issues and make a few promises to the one I love.

So here we go. I, Mona Shand, being of sound mind (OK, I realize we're already off to a shaky start, given the toll that the 4 nonconsecutive hours of sleep I am currently getting each night is taking on my already tenuous grasp on sanity) and body (and 5 weeks after giving birth to baby #3, let's not even go there), do hereby promise:

To continue to stick it out in sickness (our own and that of others, which of course includes but is not limited to stuffy noses, earaches and heartaches, diapers of pooptastrophic proportions, boo boos and ouchies, bruised knees as well as egos, and that disgusting green gunk that showed up on the baby's sheets, and the exact source of which we're yet to identify), and in health (especially those 3 days in winter when everyone in the house is actually healthy at the same time), for richer (I think it's best if we just focus on being rich in love, because let's face it this economy stinks) or poorer (did I mention I stopped at Target today?)

And I promise that:

I will always be your wife,

I will love you all my life.

I will love you in the rain,

I will love you on a train.

I will love you at our house,

I will love you with a mouse.

I will forsake all others here and there,

I will forsake all others everywhere.

And I also promise that next time we're at the library, I will get myself some books that were not written by Dr. Seuss.

I promise to love (OK, how about "try to appreciate"), honor (OK, maybe "not mock so loudly"), and cherish (OK, that one's a stretch) your inexplicable fascination with UFC wrestling matches on pay-per-view.

I promise to try much harder to obey a Closed Door Policy when it comes to the bathroom, because as close as we are, there really are a few things that should be left to the imagination, and when I said I wanted to know what was going on "inside" I really meant your head and heart more than your intestines. And there's just no justifiable scenario in which a grown woman should ever turn to a grown man and say "Mama has to go potty." I'm also guessing my giant pink plastic shower cap doesn't exactly make you want to have or hold so maybe we should try to return that time in our lives when there was a tiny bit more mystery and a whole lot less hair removal cream between us.

And I hereby promise, before the dearly beloved gathered here today (which at 4am include one stuffed moose, 2 teddy bears, a naked baby doll and a basket of dirty laundry) in the warm glow of our love and my laptop, from this day forward, to do my best to focus on the better and not the worse, because my life is so much better and Lord knows I never dreamt I'd find someone to put up with the worst of my worse. So that means more listening and less talking over you. More days when I don't use up all the good, squeezy, super tender hugs and kisses on the kids and leave you with just the little pecks. More "Thank you for putting away the laundry" and less "Where the *&^) did you put my blue tank top?"

Because I couldn't and I shouldn't and I wouldn't imagine a life without you in it.

No I couldn't and I shouldn't and I wouldn't for a minute.

(But I can and I should and I will follow through on that whole "reading books that don't rhyme" thing, I promise once again.)

So, unless anyone gathered here has any objections (Zip it, Moose.) I'm going to go ahead and kiss the groom.

Just as soon as he comes out of the bathroom.

Happy anniversary, my love.

Bringing Home Baby

There's nothing quite like having a baby to make you lose all track and all concept of time. I took my watch off in the delivery room, as per the nurse's orders, and haven't put it back on since. In fact it's still tucked in my purse, right alongside other things I haven't touched since the big arrival, like my favorite lipstick and one of the many rolls of Tums that got me through a whole lot of heartburn.

Partly the watch has stayed put because I fear it will scratch the baby in all the picking up, putting down, changing, rocking, bouncing, and cuddling my watch-wearing arm is once again engaged in. And partly it's because time, as measured by my watch, just doesn't seem to accurately reflect the current state our life.

By the clock and the calendar, our baby boy is two weeks old today. Two weeks? How can it be that I have soy milk in my refrigerator that has been with us longer than this sweet little creature? Maybe it's the 13 nights of sleep deprivation, but I already have trouble remembering a time he wasn't part of our family. His movements, those jerky arms and legs, the way he rests his left arm against his head... it all just seems so familiar. Granted, he and I did spend 40 weeks together in rather close confines, so technically this I guess this is week 42 of our lives together. But even that doesn't seem like long enough. No, there is definitely something about having a child that reaches beyond the weeks, months and years. Something that makes you say with absolute certainty, "I have always known you."

This is our third child and my husband and I are much more relaxed in our role as parents. The "baby" side of the equation, while still a physical and emotional ordeal, is infinitely easier than in the past. I no longer need my watch to count every minute baby's been nursing or to mark the exact time of the last poopy diaper. What I do need is a third arm to work a puzzle with a 4-year-old and a 4th arm to help a 2-year-old dress her doll while nursing said baby from the comfort of the playroom floor. And as long as I'm dreaming, how about a 5th arm to make dinner, a 6th to get that unidentifiable sticky gunk off the kitchen floor, a 7th to tackle various forms of DNA in the laundry basket and an 8th to type should a coherent thought actually enter my sleep deprived brain? Apparently I want to be the Octomom.

The weight of it all began to set in shortly after the euphoria of delivery (and that lovely epidural) wore off. I sat stoic in my hospital bed, listening to the doctor explain that for the next several weeks I should really just devote myself to caring for the baby and leave everything else to "everyone else." I double checked the painkiller prescription she scribbled out to see if by chance it included housekeeping and babysitting services. Seeing none, I tearfully turned my attention to the discharge instructions she handed me before saying goodbye. Surely they contained some words of wisdom to help navigate what would lie ahead?

"Resume your daily activities at home when you feel ready. Let comfort guide you." Really?? Comfort??? If that's going to be my "guide," we're in big trouble. We'll just skip that one.

"Avoid heavy lifting (anything weighing more than your baby) until you feel up to it." Once again, this could prove problematic, and not just due to the combined weight of roughly 56 pounds of children who have patiently (and not so patiently) waited several months for a bona fide Mommy cuddle. The burden of physically lifting the three of them is still far lighter than the weight of lifting of their little spirits, of carrying their hurt and shouldering their hearts. My arms, already weak from several months of gym neglect, nearly fell off at the thought.

"Nap when possible. Sleep when the baby sleeps." I'm not even going to go there.

"Keep baby away from second-hand smoke." Well finally, there's one I can do. Second-hand smoke, consider this fair warning: I am your arch enemy. Baby, since I seem to be incapable of doing much else, I will devote myself to shielding you from second-hand smoke. Now if only I could do the same for off-handed comments that leave a sting, split-second reactions that go wrong, and smoking hot tempers.

Feeling more terrified than ever, my husband wheeled me out of the hospital and into the bright sunshine of the outside world. Hands shaking, heart quaking, and head throbbing, we tucked the papers away and loaded this precious miracle into our car. And then, we did the only thing we could: we went home.

Back to our same house, but a whole new home.

The place where we'll have to make our own rules to get by.

The place where time now means nothing.

We'll just have to take it one day...one long, short, mixed-up, confusing, messy, exhausting, but wonderful day at a time.