Lacking Mom-Magic? Don’t Worry, Your Kids Will Be Alright!

I was reading this article on parenting earlier, and the whole time I was thinking “yes, yes, YES!” It was about how the author was sick of making her kid’s childhood magical. It struck a chord with me, particularly as I was just thinking about how much of a failure I was for not having an elaborate birthday party planned for my eldest daughter’s 6th birthday next month. Actually, let me re-phrase that. I wasn’t feeling like a failure so much as panicking over how I’d come up with something so very special for her that all her friends would think she’s the luckiest kid on earth. As I was waiting for her to finish school, I read this article and instantly felt relieved. Thank goodness there are other parents out there who are sick and tired of always trying to entertain their kids, make things over-the-moon special and picture-perfect in every way. She’s 6. She should be happy with a cake, balloons and her friends coming over to trash our house for an afternoon. That’s what I got as a kid, and I thought it was awesome.

The article mentioned the kind of feelings I can relate to. Panic over having to come up with awesome ideas that will not only entertain my kids, but make them smarter and better people. I fear that they will have a horrible childhood if I don’t scour Pinterest looking for cool Easter crafts and baking ideas. I worry that if I don’t have them signed up for every sport and extracurricular activity going, they will miss out on something. At times I have thought that it’s my job to make every moment magical and special for them.  If I can’t keep up with all the other moms, will my kids become future sociopaths and monsters who end up facing a life imprisonment? Sometimes I work myself up enough to think the answer is yes.

The article states that we spend entirely too much time planning elaborate games/crafts/parties/activities to entertain our kids. I agree, because really, my parents didn’t do half the stuff I see on Pinterest and Facebook, and I think I turned out OK. In fact, there are a whole bunch of us poor adults wandering around aimlessly with no memories of our moms creating magical boats out of juice boxes, or planning elf on the shelf hiding spots to make our eyes pop out of our heads. We didn’t have parents who played with us 24/7 and made everyday an adventure for us. We had parents who set us free instead, to find our own adventure. We were allowed to be alone, and we created our own games and sources of entertainment. This parenting style seems to have gone the wayside, and I think that’s a shame. When I think of my childhood my parents are somewhat of an afterthought. What I remember is my sisters and brother, and my cousins and our whole world that we created by ourselves, outside in the trees, or on the beach at our rickety cottage. I remember special occasions most because of the “kid table” that had it’s own pecking order. We were our own community. We were our own world. I think that was what made my childhood magical. We were left to interpret the world in the way a child naturally does-with magic. Now everything is set out with a plan and a lesson. Structure, structure, structure. Parents are defeating the purpose when they try to force a “magic” that comes naturally to their kids.

Earlier I was planning out what kind of Easter craft I would do with the kids this weekend. I think I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again, I HATE crafts. My daughter loves them. I usually find something online, and try to re-create it with the kids. When theirs (and naturally mine as well) don’t work out as planned, I get upset that I failed to create the perfect craft memory with my kids. Even writing that makes me shake my head. Yes, that’s ridiculous. I know. So this time I collected a bunch of paper, markers and some cute Easter stickers from the dollar store. I’ll drink my tea and watch them do crafts. They can do elaborate arts and crafts at school or at daycare and that doesn’t make me a bad mom at all.

All that aside, I do think it is a parent’s job to make things special for kids sometimes. I have very fond memories of some of the stupid and pointless things my parents did to make things fun for us. I remember my Dad telling us stories about a mythical magical monster named “fuck-a-loogie” who lived in the closet. I’m not even kidding. Leave it to my father to use a swear word in his magical monster’s name. He’d tell us the story and then when he left “fuck-a-loogie” would appear wearing a rope mop-head for hair with a clementine in his mouth. One time he even appeared in our window. It freaked the crap out of us, and we LOVED IT! As a side note on that: Clearly I get my twisted sense of humour and childhood memory-making skills from my dad.

When I asked Natalie what her best memory is so far, she said this: “Remember when you were driving and you ran over the 911 sign?” Yeah, so she remembers when I was sleep deprived, with three kids in the car (Millie was only 10 days old at the time), and I mowed over the 911 number sign at our house. She didn’t even mention the trips to Disney that cost us several thousands of dollars. Proof that kids don’t give a damn how much money you spend.

My kids will be OK. They have plenty of “magic” in their lives. Natalie once asked me if I’d take my hair out of the messy ponytail it was in. When I asked her why she said: “so we can see the eyes.” When I was wasn’t getting it, she said: “Mom, you said you had eyes in the back of your head. That’s where you hide them right? In your ponytail?” Clearly they aren’t lacking in the imagination department. That’s good enough for me.




How Eating Does More Than Just Fill Your Belly – Food & Family Traditions

Last night we had a little dinner for Amelia’s birthday. I kept with the lasagna tradition again this year, and it was great. My in-laws and family always comment on how much food I serve, and how it interferes with their diet regimes. It always makes me laugh. No matter how hard I try, I am unable to serve the correct amount of food for the number of people I’m serving. If I’m supposed to serve 19 people (like last night) I will undoubtedly make enough to feed 30. I can’t help myself. It made me start thinking about how important food is to me. It’s probably one of the things I’m most passionate about. I’m not talking about gorging on McDonald’s burgers, but filling myself and the people I love with great food. For me, food is the ultimate comfort. A great meal with all the fixings is how I show people I care for them, it’s also how I create memories. I love cooking for many reasons. I love it because it allows me to express my creativity and feel accomplishment. As a child we had many traditions that were based on food. Events were always celebrated with certain meals. My mother’s food was one thing that always made me happy. Although many of her recipes are very simple, they became the backbone of all of my childhood memories. These memories flood back to me when I make certain foods. For instance, my Grandmother always made a frozen yogurt pie in the summer with berries from my Aunt’s farm. It reminds me of the summer, of the cottage we had when I was a kid. It reminds me of my Grandma. Now, I make it for my kids. They love it because it tastes like heaven. I love it because it tastes like my childhood. One day, when they are old like me, they will make it and think of their childhood. I think that’s really important.

As my kids grow up, I want them to have the same love of food that I have. I want them to understand how important it is to celebrate life with great food and drink. I also want to teach them how to cook, instead of pouring instant pre-packaged food into a pot to be warmed. I believe in that. So many kids I know can’t cook for themselves. I find this really sad. I remember cooking with my Father and Mother from a very young age. My Dad always made everything from scratch. I don’t even remember a time when we had caesar salad dressing from a jar. It always came from the food processor. Many of the staples of our diet now come from recipes I watched my Father make. He never poured over a cookbook. He just made food. He went to his happy place, and poured himself into whatever he was making. I cannot remember my Father and I ever having any conversations about anything of importance. In fact, the only conversations we ever had were about food. As I left from the last meal he made for us, he and I discussed making soup. As I was walking out the door, he didn’t say goodbye or nice to see you, he said “make sure you roast the garlic first.” It made me laugh, because after all those years, I still had no understanding of him. Until now. He wasn’t emotionally available to us kids like he probably should have been. As I get older, I realize that he did the best he could, and on some level, I can appreciate that. He showed us he cared by fussing over our food. He poured his love into that food, and fed it to us. It’s the only way he knew how. I finally get it.

Now that I’m an adult, I see that I’ve inherited many of my father’s personality traits. I am hot-tempered, and extremely passionate about the things I believe in. I also love food. I will always be the girl who sings while she’s making salad, and raves about her own delicious achievements. Food is powerful stuff. I can’t imagine celebrating a birthday, anniversary, or random Sunday family dinner without massive amounts of love-filled food. I hope that one day my kids will be making the same bruschetta that my Dad taught me to make. That one day they will sit around a table with their own family, sharing the recipes that they watched me make throughout their childhood. Hopefully I’ll be around to join them. After all, someone will have to remind them that they have to grind salt into the garlic before they added it to the tomatoes. 🙂


Leftovers from last night: Arancini, bruschetta and my very first attempt at making my own bread.