For her seventh birthday last week, Chicken Little got two fancy dresses from her aunt. There exists a longstanding family debate that Little might actually be my sister’s daughter instead of mine. It’s true that at the time of Little’s birth all three of us were in the room. Still, I’m pretty sure I remember which one of us was doing the half-naked flopping around and groaning, and, for that matter, who came out of whom. Yet. Evidence points to the possibility that souls and/or lineage got mixed up in the moment.
My sister and my daughter look alike. Moreover, they share certain tendencies and personality traits that are decidedly well outside of my realm. A love of the glamorous life, for instance, like the spa, jewelry, shopping and fancy clothes. An affinity for cooking lovely meals, or cooking anything at all without losing it and screaming, for that matter (see Cooking With Children, The Graphic Novel). A willingness to wear heels. Ever. Anywhere. The two also share an old soul wisdom and Zen calm that is almost too much to take on top of the glamour and talent. I mean come on people. Are you human?
So, come Monday morning, the day after her birthday, Little rose as usual just after six a.m. She likes to leave plenty of time to not only roust her semi-comatose mother in a game of Uno and eat some oatmeal, but also carefully choose her clothes for the day and do her hair and makeup. Oh yes, of course: hair and makeup. Don’t you know, every outfit must be perfectly accompanied by a unique hairdo, a specially chosen nail polish, and whatever cosmetic touches Little can scrounge from my sorry collection.
In this case, the selected dress was blue, and the rest of the ensemble followed therein.
Chicken Noodle, on the other hand, rolled downstairs about 20 minutes before go-time, rumpled and grumpy and in yesterday’s clothes, which I knew from experience she had no intention of changing out of until Thursday at the earliest, let alone doing something wacky like brushing her hair, so why even bother asking. I managed to coerce her towards a toothbrush before we went out the door, but as I was busy making cold lunch and stuffing packaged snacks into backpacks and tending to my own pathetic attempts at self-adornment, I failed to notice some of the rest of what went down in our morning pre-debut until we were in the car en route to school.
At this point, I caught a glimpse Little in the rearview. “Are you wearing blue eye shadow?” Why I should be incredulous at this point is anyone’s guess.
“Yes,” my first grader replied, batting her eyes.
That being pretty much a done deal, I turned my faltering motherly attentions to Noodle.
“Noodle, you promised me a bath or shower this morning. That didn’t work out, so tonight, okay?”
“Noo, no, no!” she wailed, as if I’d asked her to jump into an icy lake with a bottle of castile soap.
“Alright,” I tried, “let’s go big picture here. How often do you think you should take a shower or bath?
“Once a month.”
“Okay, every ten days.”
“Every ten days. So what happens when no one will sit by you at school because you smell?”
(laugh) “That would be awesome!”
Advice welcome on either personality extreme. Sis?
These days in parenthood, the best conversations are spontaneous, child-generated and fleeting: a hilarious romp you’d better get in on while you can.
In the car, on the way home from Fred Meyer:
Chicken Noodle: Mom, did you kiss a guy and not marry him?
Me: Yes. I kissed several guys and didn’t marry them.
Me: You shouldn’t marry the first guy you kiss. What if you meet someone you like better later?
Chicken Little: Yeah, like what if you’re about to kiss a boy but he’s gross and a nerd but then you look over and there’s another guy, and, you’re like, wow, he works out a lot.
Noodle: And then you’re like, yo, I work out.
Little: And the nerd is, like, nerdy, and likes math.
Noodle: And you’re like, ugh, math! And you look at the other guy and you’re like, look at that eight-pack!
Me: So what kind of guy do you think you might want to kiss?
Noodle: (pause) A sexy guy.
Me: What does that mean?
Noodle: (pause) I don’t know.
(more giggling and Justin Bieber references)
Me: I like smart people. Smart guys.
Little: So—don’t fall in love with a nerd who loves math. Fall in love with a hot guy who loves math.
Problem solved. Is this the origin of mathematical model?
I’m teaching writing classes several times in the next few months.
I’ll be appearing with fellow “Brave on the Page: Oregon Writers on Craft and the Creative Life” authors at Deschutes Public Library, February 9 2 p.m.
I’ll be teaching Travel Writing for Fun and Profit and What Editors Want: Getting (and Keeping) Magazine Writing Gigs at the South Coast Writers Conference in Gold Beach on February 15.
I’ll be teaching What Editors Want: Getting (and Keeping) Magazine Writing Gigs at Nature of Words in Bend on March 5.
I’ll be teaching Travel Writing for Fun and Profit at Nature of Words in Bend on April 10.
I’ll be presenting at Travel and Words: Pacific Northwest Travel Writers Conference in Spokane May 18 – 19.
I’ll be teaching Magazine Writing 101 and Travel Writing at Willamette Writers Conference August 1 – 3 in Portland.
Hope to see some of you out there!
Thursday, January 16; 6:30 – 8:30 p.m.
The Nature of Words Literary Arts Center, 224 NW Oregon Ave. Bend, OR
Class fee: $30 per person
Ever dreamt of becoming a travel writer? This workshop will help you learn to think like a travel writer, pitch ideas to editors, break into the travel market, and bring place and experience to life on the page. Be prepared for a hands-on writing activities.
Nationally published writier Kim Cooper Findling grew up on the Oregon Coast and has lived in Central Oregon since 1995. Her work has appeared in Horizon Air, Runner’s World, Sky West, The Best Places to Kiss NW, Western Art and Architecture, High Desert Journal, and more. She is the author of Day Trips from Portland: Getaway Ideas for the Local Traveler, and Chance of Sun: An Oregon Memoir. Kim was the 2011 winner of the Oregon Quarterly Northwest Perspectives Essay Contest, is an ambassador to Travel Oregon’s Ask Oregon program, and is the editor of Central Oregon Magazine. She lives with her family in Bend.
Part II: Fire!
(See yesterday’s post for Part I)
Little leapt on top of me at six a.m. “Mom! Let’s make the chili! Chili! Chili! Chili!”
“Urghh,” I responded. I hauled myself out of bed and poured a cup of coffee, completely aware that I was not awake at all. But what did that have to do with anything? Dinner party tonight. Chili to be made. Excited culinary intern ready and willing to help.
I positioned Little over the crockpot on a chair next to the stove with instructions to spoon beans into the pot while I began ineptly doing six things at once. Chop onions, unwrap sausage, broil chicken, peel garlic, get the ugly pies out of the way so they don’t end up uglier or on the floor.
I lit the burner, pulled a skillet out of the cupboard and threw it on the stove.
When I turned back from the onions a moment later, flames were shooting from the skillet. Nice, healthy flames, maybe eight inches high, licking skywards a foot or so from my baby’s perfect self.
Now, as y’all know, I’m married to a fireman. And though I hadn’t actually seen him yet on this particular morning, I knew he was on the premises somewhere. Thirteen years ago, when I set fire to my grandmother’s kitchen on the day of her funeral (another story), my instant reaction was to holler his name at the top of my lungs.
But this time, I just sort of decided to leave him out of it. I mean, of course I’d started a kitchen fire at six a.m. After the antics of ugly pie day, this was hardly a shocker. How many people really needed to be involved in my little start-of-day drama?
So without saying a word, I turned off the burner, grabbed the skillet, threw it in the sink, flipped burning pieces of rubber in the opposite direction of my baby using the knife I still had in my hand (yes that makes perfect sense) while blowing out the flames.
“Wow,” said Little. “Cool!”
A few minutes later, roused by the exotic stench of burning rubber emanating from his kitchen, Captain Daddy appeared.
“Can I help?” he asked calmly, which in my experience typically means, ‘can I show up after you’ve solved whatever problem you created and point out all of the mistakes you made to create said problem?’.
“We’re fine,” I said.
“Mommy started a fire,” said Little, still perched over the crockpot.
Chicken Noodle wandered in and took in the scene.
“Little and I are going to write a book,” I said, waving my knife in the general direction of the half-chopped onion, the raw sausage and the pile of smoking burned up stuff. “It’s called Cooking with Children.”
Little shot me a look. “This was all your fault, Mom.”
“True story,” I admitted.
Noodle, who (like me) hates to cook but (like me) is the resident writer and illustrator in the family, knew material when she saw it. She struck a pose and spoke dramatically. “Cooking with Children: The Graphic Novel.”
Look for that one to come out sometime next year. But don’t expect the publication to be celebrated with a dinner party. At least not hosted by me.
P.S. In case you are wondering, Captain Daddy insists we put these rubber mat thingys between our pots and pans in the cupboard to protect them. One stuck to the bottom when I pulled the pan out threw it on the stove. Voila! Instant kitchen fire. Try it! It’s fun.