Photo credit: Christina McPherson Photography
We are coming upon Easter, that time of year when we celebrate the greatest miracle of the Lord by dressing middle aged men up as creepy bunnies and letting them loose at our malls. It is also the time of year when a new mom can really shine, as she approaches one of the first major holidays with her little one. {If you do not celebrate Easter just mentally insert your own holiday into this post and really, you won’t be missing anything.}
It is time for new moms everywhere to step up to the plate (and I do not mean to your own dinner plate), and host a holiday. If you’re the sort of person who has for years been able to whip up a candied yam at the drop of a hat you are probably not concerned about this. I have night terrors about candied yams. For the sake of full disclosure I am not *technically* hosting Easter, but I am providing the following dishes, with Brian’s help: Rice Pilaf, Asparagus, Brussel Sprouts, and 3 bottles of red wine. Not impressed? This is what happened when we hosted Christmas Eve:
The disposal got backed up on all the things I didn’t know you were not supposed to throw down the disposal, and we had some overflow, if you will. You know you’re doing a good job of hosting when your toilet plunger makes its way right next to your passed apps. I think you can see that we are not up to the task of hosting major holidays.
The thing is, I always assumed that once I had a baby the homemaker/holiday-hosting gene would emerge, just as post-delivery hemorrhoids would emerge. These were givens, I thought. In that light, I pictured myself setting up crafty holidays, with cute Easter baskets and a baby dressed in some sort of festive holiday-themed clothing. (Note: As I am typing this I am realizing that we do not have an Easter basket OR an outfit for Nolan).
Anyway, this week I’ve had a few experiences that seriously call into question my long-held belief that once I became a mother I would also become a woman. A woman capable of hosting holidays, if called upon. For years I’ve shown a distinct lack in the womanly arts, as they were, and felt pretty confident that once a little baby was expelled from the old womb I too would experience a re-birth, but instead of as a fetus it would be as Marmee from Little Women. Or at least as Kris Jenner. But this week all of my visions of lady grandeur have come crashing down around me. You see, I already have a 6 month old baby, and therefore should be well into the swing of womanhood at this point. Instead I seem to be taking steps backwards.
It started out this past weekend, when Brian was vacuuming Nolan’s room. Brian’s vacuuming triggered me to remember that I have not vacuumed the baby’s room since his birth we moved into the house a YEAR ago. I do “clean” his room by taking moist tissues, and sometimes when I’m ambitious moist handfuls of Scott’s toilet paper, and wiping up the loose dust around the edges of the room. But this “doesn’t count” according to most moms and also according to the board of health.
Watching Brian move that vacuum with the grace of a rhythmic gymnast, I decided that I too should do some real cleaning. I was all, “I’ll take it from here, Brian,” and I could clearly see the look of love and adoration in his eyes for his homemaker wife. And I was doing awesome, really awesome, until I realized that I don’t actually know how to use our vacuum.
Right away Brian could see that something was amiss. He was watching me a little too closely, and it seemed unlikely that he was staring so intently due to finding my cleaning prowess enticing in some way. I had to consider that he was maybe noting a flaw in my method. I panicked and feigned not seeing Brian so that I could continue pretending I was a woman, but eventually he had to intervene. “Lizzie, that is an attachment on the vacuum. The attachment is what lets you get into those corners and small spaces.” Of course I know that Brian, I was just pretending to have no idea how to operate our vacuum. I was just kidding by trying to shove the overly large head of the vacuum into tiny spaces that it could never possibly fit in to. What do you think I am, an idiot! Secretly I was relieved he said something. I’ve never known what that attachment was! I didn’t even know how to detach it from the body of our vacuum! I think we may have a very complicated model, which you can be the judge of based on my photos.
I must admit that once Brian showed me the glorious power that our machine is capable of, I felt alive and on fire with a passion for cleaning! This feeling came and went in a burst, but for a few amped up minutes I busted from room to room sucking up all the dust that has been making itself comfortable for the past year. Scott’s toilet paper, as we all know, is the BEST, but it just doesn’t compete with the vacuum, even when damp!
And then, on Wednesday I found myself scrounging for breakfast foods, as I so often do. I came upon a slice of bread (bakery bread I think! It was the nicer type of bread with little specks of actual bread-materials that make it look more real than the smooth white bread that I also enjoy). Anyway none of that is the point. I shoved a piece of bread into my mouth with the grace of a starving baboon. A few chews in and I could taste that something was “off” yet I continued to chew. I then paused my jaw muscles to better assess the situation, and yes, something was off. I still did not spit the bread out. I just chewed more slowly hoping that I had been mistaken. Finally I thought to look at the bag of bread which was sitting right there. It was entirely overrun by mold. Mold, mold, mold. I reluctantly spit the bread out. Upon reflection it should not have taken that long for me to spit the bread out. Marmee and Kris Jenner would never make that mistake.
My biggest defeat of the week came on Thursday. I was visiting some former students, in order to lead them in an egg cracking competition that my family is known for. I will get into the details of this at a later post, but the key thing to know is that the game is basically that you hard boil some eggs, jazz them up with fancy colors, pair off and then smash into one another until one egg gets crushed and one is victorious. It’s run like a tournament for personal acclaim, in keeping with the spirit of the resurrection of Christ.
It’s glorious and I was excited to run this activity.
Come to find, it is REALLY important that you fully boil your hard boiled eggs. It was to my surprise that of the 30 eggs I brought into school for the competition, not a-one of ’em was actually cooked. Oops! This resulted in exactly what you would think, which was a roomful of teenagers smashing their mostly raw eggs into one another, causing an explosion of egg junk all over the classroom. When I think about it I did feel some trepidation that maybe I was not boiling the eggs properly, but who messes up such a basic task? Not this mom! (In case that line confused you, it was this mom who messed it up).
I felt like Chunk, when he recounts the time he vomited in the movie theater causing all of the other patrons to also vomit, while almost having his hand blended off. Goonies contained a lot of life lessons if you watch closely. In addition to the Chunk/hand lesson there is also the very clear message that opera singers are not to be trusted. Thank you Speilberg.
When reviewing all of the data, I have to concede that the simple fact that I own have a baby does not mean that I have achieved the status of woman. I hope that you can look yourself in your recently cleaned mirror and say that you have indeed reached this status. Those of you without children and those of you who aren’t women are most likely more womanly than me already. If so, congratulations. If not, put down your half-assed Easter basket and meet me for a drink.
Have any holiday disaster stories? Have a husband who is more of a domestic goddess than you are? Comment below! Nolan and his thighs would appreciate it.
Please note that this is NOT the first time we have vaccuumed! I usually vaccuum when Liz is not around because she reacts to it like a golden retriever would…runs away from it at first, then slowly creeps towards it with her head tilted and a puzzled look on her face before jumping at it in an act of attempted dominance and finally cowering away in defeat…
That being said, I should clearly stop spraying her with a water bottle when she gets near the stove…
I would like to defend myself but the above statement is true. Touche, sir.
I love you Liz! Your posts are fantastic!
I think Beverly Hospital should hand out free subscriptions of Martha Stewart Living with each baby….
Erin that is a really good idea. I had had a similar thought, but I was envisioning Field and Stream magazine. Your idea makes more sense.
I don’t know how to use the vacuum, make anything for dinner more complex than grilled cheese, and actually had to Google candied yams to be sure I knew what (dish? Side? Dessert?) you were referencing. My family and friends are fully aware of my shortcomings in the housekeeping department and seem to love me anyway. That said, I too secretly hoped my Martha Stewart gene will be expressed one day post partum, however, your hilarious blog post leaves me in doubt. Thanks for the great read!
Ps- your hubby’s rendition of you and the vacuum left me in tears.
Mia, just a little tip: the key to a good grilled cheese is good bread and good cheese. I wanted to pass this gem on, as this, too, is one of my culinary specialties. We would probably get along, you and me.
ps I have no idea what candied yams are either! I know they are a thing that sounds fancy and edible. Otherwise, no clue.
Brian, try positive reinforcement. If Liz cleans something (anything), give her a reward. I find hot wings & pasta with siracha sauce work well. If she cooks you some chicken, hand her a glass of house red wine (2nd cheapest is her preferred blend). God speed. — Your sister in law, Catherine
Catherine- How dare you. Also, yes, this is accurate. Pavlovian principles work best for me.
Oh Liz, I can relate to this post way too much. I don’t even know where our Easter baskets are, much less if I ever actually bought one for child #3 (who will be 3 in October). Incidentally, I love bread. And eggs. And what sounds like a spectacularly fun egg GAME.
Also, I do have a fun vacuuming song I could lend you. I made it up as a kid to convince myself that I really “wanted” that particular chore. I still hum it to myself as an adult. It makes the task so much more lovely. *Note: It does not actually enhance the results of the chore. My vacuum sucks lately. (And not in a good way…)
Amanda I’ll be looking for you to sing this next time I see you. I need all the help I can get, audio or otherwise.
Liz, if it makes you feel any better, my kids are teenagers and I have minimal knowledge as to how to use our vacuum and no idea how garbage leaves our house. And while I enjoyed those younger years, my mommy self is thankful that Easter baskets and egg hunts are things of the past.
I always wonder how the garbage gets out too. It’s like it’s there one day, gone the next….one of the great mysteries of domestic life.
I actually think Amanda made up the song (something to the affect of “I love to vacuum, to vacuum..” ) so that we would try to beat her to it, never happened. Also, I am sure Matt would add greatly to my poor attempts at domestication. I think I block them out in an attempt to continue to have an over inflated self esteem that is based on very little substance.
Ha! Meghan, I really like the “inflated self esteem based on very little substance.” That just made me laugh out loud.
Liz, I regularly feel as you do. I cannot even handle the simplest of culinary feats, that is a grilled cheese sandwich. Sean regularly reminds me that it’s a staple meal for a good mother. However, I can’t seem to manage. I too can count on one hand the times I vacuumed Henry’s room, and by vacuum, I mean, swept up a bit. And he’s two! I am also acutely aware of the fact that I mop very infrequently for someone with two dogs, a cat and a toddler.
But, wait! There’s hope! I have been told that the woman gene doesn’t really activate until you have your second child. I’m going to cling to that, whether or not there is any scientific backing for this theory.