Happy Mother's Day

Dear Mom,

I never understood how much you love me until I held my own daughter in my arms.

I didn't realized how important being a mom was to you until I started to struggle with my own identity as a mother, holding myself to your standard.

I never really understood what you meant when you said your children were the most important thing in your life until Kaitlyn became the most important thing in mine.

I never appreciated the pride that you had in all of my accomplishments until my daughter started to reach her own small milestones.

I am just starting to realize how much of yourself you have given me, through sleepless nights, crying sessions that leave you feeling helpless and so, so many messes to clean up. I know this is just the beginning and there is so much more to come.

But now I am beginning to understand where all of your patience and unconditional love came from. It's all part of being a mom.

So, for the first time with a true understanding of just what I'm saying, Thank You. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all that you have done and all that you have given me.

Happy Mother's Day.

Papa Pasta

Christmas 2010 I received a pasta maker under the tree. It was our first year together and although I love to cook for my family, a pasta maker wasn't what I considered a perfect "new relationship, first Christmas together" present. Lucky for him, there was also a sapphire necklace hidden under there and of course he designed it so that I would get my dander up about the kitchen gift while he waited to give me the bling. 

A year and a half later, we've tangled with the pasta maker only twice, both times with less than stellar results. Our pasta was dry, it didn't form into the pliable ball it was supposed to. Nevertheless, when I saw a ravioli making set at our local specialty shop, I had to have it. Today, while Kaitlyn was taking her afternoon nap, we decided to tangle with the pasta maker one more time with the ambitious plan of making ravioli. As it turns out, a lot of ravioli. 

Our cookbook says the general rule for pasta is 1 cup of flour and 1 egg per person. So I thought six cups of flour to make enough for us tonight and a ravioli dinner for friends one night. Six eggs didn't even begin to hold together the flour, so we added a seventh. Then, an eighth. By this time I was already sick of kneading the dough and it wasn't even sticking together yet. "I hate pasta!" I declared. I had also decided that perhaps I could live with the fall-apart ravioli we always got from the store.

Keith came along with his apron on and said, "Let Papa Pasta give it a try." Considering that his kitchen repertoire consists of spaghetti sauce, I was a little skeptical. Not long ago I also would have been mad about him trying to take over in what I consider my domain but tonight I poured a glass of wine and sat down to watch him work. Besides, the baby might wake up soon.

After five more minutes of kneading, the dough still wasn't doing anything at all so we looked to Youtube for help. Surely, someone out there must know how to do this! The first video we watched recommended an egg-flour ratio of almost 2:1! That solved our first problem. The next bit of advice was to drink more wine. That solved our second problem. 

Finally, after the ninth egg, we had dough that we could work with! Papa Pasta had succeeded where I surely would have given up. In fact, by this time I was playing with the baby in the nursery, apron discarded and forgotten. Through the rest of the night, we tag teamed with the baby care and pasta making. I made up a pumpkin ricotta filling, then he perfected the art of creating paper-thin sheets of perfect looking pasta. I served up our first batch in a brown butter sage sauce while he fed her dinner. There has never been so much teamwork in our house!

All together we made 52 ravioli and three servings of spaghetti while going through Kaitlyn's entire night time routine and cleaning up a dough covered kitchen. I have no idea where the name Papa Pasta came from but it's going to stick, and I might just give up control of the kitchen a little more often. Not only did I get a break but Keith was really proud of all that we accomplished. At the very least, fresh pasta will now be a staple on our menu.

Making mistakes, just like mom

This post was written for inclusion in the May blog carnival hosted by One Fit Mom. Today, participants share their funny, honest and even poignant confessions of how they are less-than-perfect parents (or parents-to-be). Please read to the end of the post to see the full list of links to other carnival submissions.

First things first, I love my mom and I think she was a great parent. When we were young she stayed home with us and took in other children to make ends meet. All of our meals were home cooked and our clothes were hand-made, a model mom and I strive to be like her in so many ways. But there was one way I always promised myself I would not parent like my mom, I would not ignore my child crying. When my brother was little, he sat in his high chair while my mom rummaged through the fridge to make yet another meal for her family. I have no idea where I was for this story. Suddenly he started crying, screaming his little head off, and she ignored him, wanting to finish her task. When she finally turned around she discovered that he had bounced his chair right over to the stove and stuck his fingers into the hot element. He still has the scars. To be fair, my brother screamed a lot and was a little hellion by all accounts but that story has always stuck with me as the one thing I would not allow myself to do as a parent. "Who could ever ignore their baby crying?" I asked myself. How judgemental we can be before we have children. 

Now, I've been lucky enough to have a daughter that doesn't cry very much. Usually she's very laid back and something has to seriously be wrong for her to get going. But recently she's been going through a clingy phase. It seems that I can't put her down for even a minute without a cry to get up again. So the other day as I was scrambling to get us ready for a walk, I put her down in the stroller and ran to grab a sweater. I'll admit that I took longer than necessary, checking it out in the mirror to see if it looked nice, even though I'd be putting on a jacket. As I decided whether I looked drab or fab, she started with her little cry. The same one I always hear when she wants to be picked up. "Just a minute!" I called, "Why can't mom have just one minute to look nice when I spend so much time making you look adorable?" I was frustrated with this new development. But still, the cry continued. Finally I stalked back into the living room to see my daughter hanging out of her stroller, little legs dangling and little hands hanging on to the sides for dear life! I ran over and picked her up, repeating "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! Mommy will never leave you alone again!". Immediately the story of my brother popped into my head and I regretted ignoring her cry for even one moment. Although she would have dropped only six inches, that's a long ways for a seven month old baby! 

I can't guarantee that I won't ever ignore my child's cries again, but at least I have a better understanding of where my mom was when my brother stuck his fingers in the stove. And now she always gets strapped in to the stroller immediately. I know that there will be other less than perfect parenting moments but for these times I have a mantra that I have often repeated to my daughter in times of stress, "I'm doing the best I can!"

Other submissions:

Cassie at Mama PhD 'N Training discusses her cloth diapering dilemmas, and how they might be interfering with the progress of her dissertation.

Carmen at I Love Being Mom shares the guilt and relief that came with the end of her breastfeeding relationship.

Quinn at Sun Flower and Sunshine (whose baby is due any day now!) confesses her third trimester diet debauchery.

Vicky at TGAW shares some of the hilarious mishaps of computer programmers turned parents.

Carli at One Fit Mom reveals an amusing list of her best, er, worst parenting transgressions.