Category: Slice ‘o Life

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The Historical Nature of Tonight’s Taco Dinner

I am a 46 year old woman and tonight while I was cooking dinner for my family, I turned the kitchen radio up louder than my toddler’s rambling so I could hear the roll call of a woman being nominated for President of the United States of America for the very first time.  More than once, I put down my spatula to walk over to the counter near the radio so I could lean in and listen closer.  My eyes welled and it wasn’t the onion I was dicing.

I am surprised by my reaction, honestly.  My tears and pride and just overall sense of being a witness to history are unexpected.  This candidate, the one with breasts and a uterus, was not my first choice.  I feel resigned to her representing me more than elated she is representing me, but still, something about her nomination gives me pause and a sense of purpose that I have not felt before in this election cycle.

These words tonight are not about encouraging you to vote for my candidate of choice, though, you know, sure, that would be cool.  More so, these words tonight are about my need to recognize the little girl I once was who always imagined this day was possible and what it would look like when it came.

As a young girl, I used to plead with my parents to allow me to stay up late to watch the news.  I have always, even as a young girl, been intrigued by politics and political players.  Local and national, politics was something that was talked about loudly and often in our home.  We watched political conventions in our home as a family, we talked about things like the death penalty, gun control, reproductive rights, the ERA.  I always had opinions, I always learned something when I watched and listened.  My insights, even in young childhood, were always welcome.

As a ten year old girl, I saw Chicago elect its first woman mayor. Jane Byrne was brash and tough as steel.  I admired her.  As a fourteen year old girl, I saw Geraldine Ferraro, the first woman Vice Presidential candidate, lose in a landslide that was attributed to Walter Mondale attaching a woman to his ticket.  I knew she was smarter and stronger than he ever would be.  As a twenty-three year old young woman, I got to be one of the voters who elected Carol Moseley Braun as the first female African American U.S. Sentator.  Progress was upon us!

These moments are not insignificant to me.  They have shaped me.

Jane Bryne, Geraldine Ferraro, Carol Moseley Braun, Hillary Clinton
Jane Bryne, Geraldine Ferraro, Carol Moseley Braun, Hillary Clinton

And now, tonight, as I cooked dinner, I came to the realization that as a 46-year-old, I am doing exactly what my Mom did as a 46 year-old wife and mother in 1980– cook dinner for her family.  What I was certain would transpire in my life has not.  I have not broken any glass ceilings.  I have never lived in a high rise.  I have never been a high powered career woman who excels in her field.  Mission not accomplished.

My ten year old self and my fourteen year old self and my twenty-three year old self, I worry, might be disappointed in what I have become. I mean, I was going places, people.  I was going to do and accomplish great and important things.  Because, well, I was smart and strong and being a woman in no way relegated me to being a wife and mother cooking dinner every night for a bunch of ungrateful kids.

Exhale long sigh here.

So, forgive me, if I take a few minutes to breathe in and feel the impact of what has transpired today in Philadelphia — the nomination of a woman to the highest office America can offer.  Commander-in-Chief. FLOTUS to POTUS.  And despite having spared my own head the impact of any glass ceilings, having never needed to ride on an elevator to my front door, having never conquered any corporate jungle, I am here, cooking dinner for my family, tearing up over one mission having been accomplished.  Today.  Tonight.  Right now.

Ninety-six years ago women got the right to vote.  It’s been a long road of cooking those dinners and breaking those ceilings to get here today.  So many women have contributed to that in some way, shape, or form.  I am one of them, if only in small ways.  You, no doubt, are, too.

My life is a good one.  It is not the one I imagined — I mean who in the hell imagines changing diapers at 46 years old?  But it is a good life.  It is full of love and challenges and smiles and ideas and discoveries and companionship and taco dinners with my boys.  It is a life where even when the first woman who has a real shot at capturing a nomination for President does not get my initial support, because, well, there are a lot of things that need doing.  But now that she has and now that we’re here, I will pause and give the moment the respect it deserves.

I owe that to my ten year old and fourteen year old and twenty-three year old selves.

I’m with her.  And by “her,” I mean my previous selves who knew this day would come, knew it was not some fantastic dream, knew that, of course, a woman is qualified to lead this beautiful, if wounded, country of ours. I am with every suffragette who sacrificed more that I can even imagine.  I am with every young Millennial gal who, perhaps, does not quite realize why today is an historical day.

History was made as I was making dinner.  That’s pretty damn cool. Congratulations, ladies.  Well deserved.

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15 Wedding Gifts Still In Use After 15 Years of Marriage

So the husband and I celebrated 15 years of marriage last week.  It was lovely, actually.  We spent a weekend in the small town where we got married, showed the boys the opera hall where our ceremony was held,  had a spontaneous vow renewal, enjoyed a fancy dinner and show.  Really lovely.  And, then, you know, it’s Monday again and the chaos of day-to-day life resumed.

As I was emptying the dishwasher, it struck me that I was putting away dishes and glasses and silverware that were gifted to us for our wedding.  I took a quick survey of the things in our lives that we use regularly that we’ve had for 15 years.  Sure enough, there were 15 of them.  BLOG POST.

When you get married, or commit matrimony, as my Dad always used to say, so much of the focus is on the wedding day and not all the days that will follow.  Equally skewed are the things we register for when we get married — fancy things that rarely get used and sit tucked away in their original packaging.  I took some flak for not registering for china or silver, but I don’t regret it for an instant.  I love to use these things and I love that they’ve been part of our day-to-day lives for fifteen years.

What better gift to give than one that gets used?  Think about that, brides-to-be, as you prepare for your own wedding.  My advice to you is to spend as much time thinking about the marriage as the wedding.  And grateful thanks to all who gifted us these things.  We think of you often!

 

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A Boy’s Bouquet

Is there anything sweeter than a bouquet picked by your child?  Very likely not.

My son picked me a small bouquet this morning in the meadow behind his grandparent’s home.  Yes, there is a meadow adjacent to their backyard.  Life is good when you live near a meadow.  You get to see the seasons in their full glory.  Nature is not something you need to drive to to see or experience.  It is lovely.

This morning my husband and boys were outside kicking a soccer ball around, sitting by the the little stream that is just waking up after the long winter, enjoying the fresh air.  I could hear them through the window, giggling away.

A while later my older boy found me inside and told me to close my eyes, “I have a gift for you!”  I did as I was told, only opening them when assured it was time.  The loveliest little bouquet greeted me.  Anchored by a bright gold dandelion surrounded by three smaller purple flowers.  It was perfect in every way.

We hugged and kissed and I thanked him again and again.  Then I rested the little bouquet on the dresser.  Water wasn’t necessary, as this bouquet would start wilting within minutes.  That’s the nature of bouquets, isn’t it.  They die and die fast.  I grew up with a Dad who was not fond of gifting flowers.  He saw no point in wasting his hard earned money on something that would die so quickly.  I don’t honestly know if that bothered my Mom or not.  It always made me sad.  I love flowers, including bouquets.

bouquet

The joy of my boy gifting me this smallest of bouquets is so much larger than the tiny blooms and will last much longer than the flowers themselves.

Sure enough, just a bit after snapping a photo of this transitory blessing, the flowers had started to wilt.  They are curling in on themselves now, already fading.  Their quick burst of perfection is a metaphor for childhood itself, isn’t it?  It comes, blooms brighter than one can imagine, and then, if you look away for just a moment too long, *poof*, it is gone, fading.

But, like that little wilting bouquet, this is not sad to me.  It is exactly as it is supposed to be.  Life unfolding as it should.  A beautiful, wondrous burst. Nothing wasted, nothing other than exactly what it should be.