Chores are the new Play-Doh

When my ex and I split, I often filled my kid-free days with the never-ending chore list that seemed even grander when there was just one parent doing everything. I wanted to spare the kids the rush of errands from Trader Joe’s to Costco and Walgreens so that when we were together for those condensed hours each week, it was quality time. We'd read and wander to the park to play baseball. We'd blow bubbles and squish Play-Doh between our fingers.

To be fair, I'm sure I also enjoyed that those trips were easier when the kids weren't there. No one to buckle, no one to push in a cart, no one asking for this and that. It was quicker, stealthier shopping.

My kids are much bigger now. They can open car doors and buckle themselves into their seats and wander off to find capellini and edamame and cereal, if need be. But those opportunities for them to help with shopping and cooking didn’t happen very often for a few years as I navigated the hectic life of single parenting with graduate school. And I think my attempts to spare them the minutia of life did them a disservice.

When they arrived at my house on transition days, the refrigerator was full, the shower had shampoo, their clothes were washed. Sure, they have had chores for years, so it wasn't as if they didn’t contribute—they put their clean clothes away, they tidy up their toys and their rooms, they load and unload the dishwasher and sort darks from lights. But removing them from the household shopping equation created kids who didn't appreciate the efforts involved in keeping a house stocked with necessities and supplies.

And on days when I needed them to accompany me to the shops, they'd complain: “Why do we have to go with you??!!” I accidentally created kids who believed that everything happened while they were off at school or with their dad. They erroneously believed that their time shouldn't be wasted on shopping or picking up prescriptions. They erroneously believed that their time was exclusively for themselves. My response to their complaints: “This is part of being in a family.”

My internal voice said the antidote for those complaints was to make them go on more errands. So I started saving the trips to the grocery store and the drug store until after I picked them up from school. That gave me more time during those precious few childfree hours to work and to study. It also got them more involved (again) in helping out.

It was a slippery slope, though, because middle-schoolers actually have a bunch of homework. And between homework and extracurricular sports, they don't actually have much time left in their day for just being at home, together, relaxing. So this summer, we are doing more family tasks. They are bringing their dirty clothes to the garage, learning to use the washing machine, planning meals, writing the shopping list, chopping tomatoes, making bruschetta, cleaning up. We are going on more errands together.

It’s not Play-Doh, but we talk about meals they want to learn how to cook. And when we're at the store, I'm teaching them how to pick produce and to look for expiration dates on milk. There’s still family movie night, cards, and reading, but this is a new way for us to have quality time together. It’s all part of slow process of helping them become self-sufficient, independent young adults.

The carnivorous husband

My husband is a carnivore. And that has been really hard for me, a vegetarian of more than 25 years. Until we moved in together 18 months ago, I had not lived in a household where the refrigerator stored ham and chicken and other meaty things for more than half my life. The first time we had Thanksgiving together and my step son waved his greasy fingers around, I seriously doubted whether or not my relationship could endure. I cringed at the idea of animal molecules embedding themselves on the walls or on my plates or my cloth napkins. Gasp!

Yes, that is absurd. But decades of vegetarianism and Peter Singer’s Animal Liberation, and Fast Food Nation, and Super Size Me solidified my viewpoint on loving animals and not eating them, not just because a plant-based diet is healthier, but because factory farms and slaughterhouses are horrible places and overproduction of cows and other livestock contribute to global warming.

Until recently, I even believed that eating meat was a character flaw similar to smoking cigarettes. When I was first dating after my ex and I split, I was unsure if I should even date men who were not vegetarians. Then I reminded myself that I had been married to a vegetarian for 10 years (and with him for most of 20 years), and well, that didn't work out so well.

Fortunately, I am still willing and able to grow as a person. My husband is kind, understanding, generous, affectionate. He listens, reaches for my hand when we walk, and talks me down from my own special brand of crazy on days like these. He is tall and handsome and sensitive. He sang at our wedding because he knew it would make me happy. He often skips shaving because he knows that I think stubble is sexy. He does laundry, walks the dog, and helps the kids with homework. He always kisses me before his first bite of his carnivorous dinner. He introduced me to the joys of sailing and is a patient teacher. He laughs easily and often and even occasionally joins me at my Monday night dance class because he knows I love having him there. When he doesn’t join me at dance (which is most of the time), he entertains Meat Monday. And often, he does so by cooking on the grill in the yard, thus minimizing meaty smells in the house.

So I can say with all honesty, that my husband and my marriage are far more important to me than a cow. And with that, I’m going to suggest we go to his favorite restaurant this weekend for barbeque ribs. I, on the other hand, will be having the baked potato and a salad.

A reason to love...

This bowl filled with amazingly delicious strawberries is another example of why I will live in California forever. Things like this are plentiful at the grocery stores. Even in February. We ate them outside where the sun was shining and the temperature was a delightful 70-some degrees. Again, in February. I love California.

Accomplishing more in less time

Because I have a limited amount of child-free work time each week, I want to maximize the ratio of butt-to-chair and finger-to-keyboard efforts. As a result, I barely leave my desk when I am home alone.

This effort to maximize my work time is reminiscent of an old habit from when I was employed full-time in an office that was not attached to my living room: I've started eating at my desk. I microwave leftovers and eat behind my keyboard, barely conscious of the fact that I've lifted and lowered my spoon 17 times before my bowl of lentil stew is empty. Pangs of hunger are gone, but my palate barely remembers the taste. This is a very important reason as to why I NEVER bring a bag of anything to my desk.

I mentioned my working-through-lunch habit to Photographer Friend a couple of weeks back, and she told me that she always takes a full-hour lunch break. My initial thought was that seemed decadent when there is so much to accomplish in such a short amount of time. But the reality is that taking a break boosts productivity.

As a result, I will give this a try. It won't be this week (since I'm trying to pack the house for our move). And it won't be next week (since I'll be trying to get us unpacked in the new house). But I like the idea of a mandatory break. A few minutes to reflect on what I've accomplished. Or maybe I'll use the time to read a book. Or flip through a magazine. Or maybe I'll just stare off into space as I savor my leftovers.

What a pig

There are no more cookies. I just double-checked and it's true. I ate all of them two days ago. I thought the best way to get rid of those last four jumbo cookies was to just eat them all at once. Then they would be gone. It worked. There were gone. And I felt sick. And then later that day when I went to get more cookies, I was angry that I had eaten them all at once and not saved any for later.

Since there are no cookies, I scoured around looking for something to eat that would serve as a decent substitute for chocolate cookies. What I found was a jumbo container of Ovaltine. That's chocolaty. And it's practically good for me. It's fortified, you know. Then I found a mostly-empty, 64-ounce Costco-sized tub of plain, whole fat yogurt. And I mixed a generous helping of Ovaltine into the yogurt. It was almost like soft chocolate ice cream. Almost.

What is wrong with me? I can not buy anymore cookies or ice cream or chocolate or candy (or Ovaltine, apparently) until this whole emotional-eating thing passes and I can walk through the kitchen with my hands at my side and my mouth closed. I look forward to the day when I can throw food in the garbage, when leftovers from my kids' plates do not equal an extra helping for me. I look forward to the day when I don't squeeze my muffin-top after every meal.

The sicko lactation diet

Okay, here's the real reason I breastfeed: I can eat lots of food and still lose weight. But that's not all. I can use the breast pump in lieu of exercise. For example, this morning while Baby in Chief was asleep I pumped five ounces. Five ounces equals 100 calories. I don't think there is any other way on the planet I could burn 100 calories in about five minutes. Perfect. Now where's my chocolate croissant?

Eating vicariously for two

It's already been established that every woman I know on this planet is pregnant with their subsequent baby. As a result, something strange and mysterious is happening to my waistline.

I'll readily admit that one of my favorite parts of being pregnant and the subsequent nursing-fest that ensued for nearly 22 months was all the food. The glorious food. The pastries and cakes and cookies and ice cream and cheese galore and heaping-helpings of everything--including seconds.

So now I'm surrounded by MILFy-esque women who are chowing down. They are looking gorgeous in their early- and mid-maternity beauty and they are feasting in the spirit of motherhood. They are feasting because their bodies demand it. They are feasting because if they don't, they'll be puking instead. And it's just not fair. So I've been indulging, just a little here and there.

I had given up desserts of all kind not that long ago for wardrobe-related reasons. But now that everyone is feasting, my will power has been ditched along with the spermicide in all of my girlfriends' bedside tables. It's as if my body is gearing up for a pregnancy that does not exist...unless my stomach knows something that the rest of my body doesn't know about.

In the meantime, I'm thoroughly enjoying the culinary delights that go hand in hand with pregnancy--without the pregnancy, without the morning sickness, and without the exhaustion.

But if I keep going at this rate, my skin will be glowing from all the fatty foods, my closet will be overtaken with my pregnancy gear, and my belly will be bulging--not with baby--but with good old-fashioned motherly flab.