Lessons in Mommyhood
How I learned to be a better mom and chef…
One beautiful spring day ages ago I put my baby girl down for a nap, while my other daughter attended the school across the street. I tried not to stand in the yard and watch my kid at recess, because that would be creepy. Honestly, I looked forward to school days, since I could catch my breath and attack items on my to-do list. Anyway…
That spring day I decided to cook some rice the old fashioned way, on the stove with just rice and water. Boil it, simmer it while covered and voila! in twenty minutes the perfectly fluffy grains of rice would be edible. I decided while waiting I would scoot out the back door and resume painting the house.
We didn’t have the money to pay for a painter, so I took the job for myself. I climbed the ladder, thinking I could at least take a few swipes while I waited for the rice to simmer. As I methodically dipped the brush into the can and carefully coated the sanded wood with fresh paint, I listened to the chatter of the children playing across the street.
Birds busily sang and chirped as they made their nests and courted each other, and I reveled in the sunshine. Suddenly a car alarm interrupted my reverie, and the alarm insistently sounded. Didn’t those things stop wailing after a minute or so? Why was this alarm ringing for over two or three minutes?
I knew! My A.D.D. ways had found me out yet again! I clambered down that ladder and swooped into the house where my baby lay in her crib. The smoke alarm rang out, and I quickly grabbed the burnt rice and took it outside. Then I ran to grab the baby, thinking how scared she must be by the sound of that alarm, and I hadn’t rushed to her side! I had been basking in the sun and painting.
I opened her door, and there she lay peacefully snoozing away. The alarm hadn’t woken her at all. I still felt like a terrible mother. How could I just leave that rice on the stove? How could I not realize it was my own smoke alarm? How could I have forgotten about cooking? Seriously. How?
If you only knew how many times I’ve burnt rice in the pan. Many pots have been scoured in hopes of saving money rather than buying yet another saucepan, but sometimes no amount of scrubbing could pry off the burnt bits. I had to toss some into the garbage.
My husband finally bought me a rice cooker. I didn’t like how that rice tasted, but by that time my whole family knew I was A.D.D. when it came to many things including cooking. I’d walk away from the kitchen to do one quick little thing, and it would snowball until I forgot I was supposed to be preparing dinner.
We laugh about my rice burning days now.
I think my daughter slept through the smoke alarm, because it was a common sound at my house. True, the alarm had been placed in a strange location, so it caught even a whiff of heat. Waving towels at that alarm happened several times a week, and I counted that as fitness exercises for my arms.
All my children must feel nostalgic when they hear a smoke alarm. I wonder if it reminds them of home. And me.
I’m amazed at the crazy things we do when we’re young, before we have a chance to recognize our shortcomings and blind spots. Once I knew I’d forget all about the kitchen if I stepped away, I learned to stay there. But it took years before I woefully decided not to multitask.
That is a whole other subject for another day. Multitasking. I don’t think we’re as adept at it as we imagine. One thing at a time. At least for me, especially while I’m cooking. And I’ve only ever needed to call the fire department twice in my life! One time involved cooking bacon and fixing my hair.
Mmmm. Bacon. I think a yummy BLT sandwich is waiting for me. Maybe I’ll write while the bacon sizzles.
Eh. Maybe not.
