Remember the Waltons? We were not the Waltons, not by a long stretch. However, sadly, I didn’t always remember that. And this brings us to the Cookie Fiasco of
1987, a most tragic affair from which we all continue to suffer a little PTSD whenever holiday cookies are mentioned. It all began when I had a vision of the five of us—Cartier, age 18; Gavin, 12; Samantha, 8; and John, 5---baking and decorating Christmas cookies together. You can already see where this is going, can’t you?
A quick reality check might have saved us all, but I never administered that check, Mr. Reality and I sometimes reside on different plains, as it were. I should have sensed trouble when I cheerfully announced this feat and Cartier rolled her eyes and sighed deeply. She was a pretty good sport for an 18-year-old being held against her will. Perhaps I should have seen how wrong it could go when Gavin, the 12-year-old who featured himself to be a creative artiste, began to chatter about what great designs we could make if only we had more colors and some food paint. Sense should have taken out a bat and hit me over the head with it when Samantha--only 8 but bossy enough to earn the nickname “Queenie” from her older sister—grabbed an apron and began to tell the other three what to do and how to do it. Poor John, as always, stood there, looking around and hoping that it wouldn’t end as badly as he knew it must. He was only 5 but always wise beyond his years. His only comment was, “Maybe we should just play Monopoly!” He knew a disaster when he saw it.
But no! I had had a vision of us standing around the kitchen table, decorating the cookies that I would bake. There would be joy and laughter as Christmas carols played in the background. From time to time, we would stop and sing along to a favorite, perhaps “Frosty the Snowman.” You can see how deluded I become from time to time, can’t you? I mentally write these wonderful little scripts, and then no one else follows the plot I’ve written. It’s as if they are all on different page, and besides this, they all take direction poorly!
The night before the fiasco, I made sugar cookie dough, rolled out some and cut out various shapes, using the new cookie cutters I’d purchased for the occasion: a Santa, reindeer, tree, star, bell and snowman. I envisioned a tree with green icing having silver beads carefully applied; a Frosty with raisin buttons and chocolate chip eyes and nose, a bell with bands of different colored icing. I must have been delusional.
The next morning, I baked those cookies, put them on drying racks, placed four cookie-covered racks at the four stations I’d set up at the table. I filled bowls with chocolate chips, raisins, and silver beads and placed them in the middle of the table, easily within reach of the four stations. I strategically placed the shakers of multi-colored, green, and red sprinkles next to the bowls. In additional bowls, I put out white, green, red, and yellow icing I’d prepared. Next, I placed spreaders at each station aside a plate. This was a well organized disaster; you may be assured of that.
I then retrieved my pastry chefs from various locations in the house. Cartier had to have the phone pried from her hand, which exacerbated the snit she was in. Samantha rounded up the other three. “Okay, you guys. Mom says come to the kitchen right now,” she ordered in her Queenie take-no-prisoners tone. Gavin came willingly, and John followed with a hang-dog look, going to a doom he knew awaited.
As they entered the kitchen, I beamed, explained how this wonderful experience would go, and turned on the Christmas carols. “This is going to be fabulous,” Cartier mumbled, her lips dripping with disdain as she sat at her stool.
“I get the green icing and all the silver!” Gavin announced.
“I’ll be the boss of the decorations,” Samantha admonished followed by, “John, you sit over there. That’s my seat.”
“Good times, Mom,” Cartier groaned.
It didn’t take but minutes for everything to go so terribly wrong. Gavin and Samantha wouldn’t share. Shocking, I know. “Mom! Make Gavin stop hogging the silver things.”
“Mom, John’s eating the chocolate chips!”
“Moth-er, if you want me to waste a Saturday night playing like I’m John Boy Walton, make Gavin stop hogging all the decorations.”
“But Mom, I’m making a beautiful Christmas tree like the one in Rockefeller Center! I need all these supplies. Besides, Cartier’s looks boring.”
“As if I care,” she returned as she slapped yellow icing onto a bell.
The bickering intensified, and someone grabbed a bowl from someone else, and red icing splattered onto the wall. “Look what you made me do!” screamed Gavin.
And things went from bad to worse. Right in the middle of “Silent Night,” I shouted, “We’re supposed to be having fun!” An explicative might have been inserted.
“Not my idea of fun,” Cartier groused.
“Well, it’s Gavin’s fault,” Samantha retorted.
“Everything’s always my fault. You blame me for everything!” Gavin shrieked.
John came up to me and said, “I’m sorry, Mom. This is not turning out, is it?”
My response was, “Everybody out! Get out of my kitchen! This was supposed to be fun!” I was not up for Mother of the Year, that’s for sure.
All four took this as a cue and bolted from the kitchen, leaving me standing amid the decorating ruins. I saved the six or seven cookies that were somewhat decorated and put them onto a clean plate. I then dragged over the trash can, and, in a few grand gestures, dumped out the remains of one of my many “It seemed like a good idea at the time” projects. Just for emphasis, I tied up the trash bag and stomped out to the garbage barrels with it, heaving it in with tears in my eyes and disappointment in my heart.
I wish I could tell you that I learned some kind of lesson from this debacle, but I hadn’t and still haven't. I could tell you about the Great Christmas Tree Adventure of 1988 or the Wonderful but Misguided Tour of Christmas Lights Idea of 2005, but that would be too painful. My children would be happy to regale you with all the ugly details, as they love telling and retelling the “Remember when Mom” tales. I’m just glad their psyches have healed. Mine hasn’t.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Shattered Childhood Dreams
I, like everyone else, soon learned that if something sounds too good to be true, it is. My earliest recollection of this sad fact of life involved my trying to acquire the necessary equipment to facilitate life as a spy. I had previously wheedled a magnifying glass from my grandmother, but I needed more. And then one day, I saw a magic decoder ring advertised on the back of a Superman comic book. The moment I saw it, I just had to have it. Mom warned me, kindly, that it wouldn’t work as it was described, but I knew better. Surely Superman wouldn’t allow false advertising in his comic. No. It was undoubtedly the real thing. I just couldn’t believe my luck. I had stumbled upon something fantastic, and not just any old ring but a ring that decoded magically. I saved my allowance and even did extra chores to earn more. Once I’d accumulated the necessary funds, Mom took me to the post office to buy a money order. I carefully clipped the order blank, put it and the money order into the envelope, licked the flap, and sealed it. I painstakingly addressed the envelope and dropped it into the mail slot.
After one or two days, I began to haunt Mr. Bonner, our mailman, every afternoon. “Is it here yet?” He’d smile and shake his head. “Be patient,” he’d say. “Give it time.” It took over two weeks, and I had nearly despaired, but it came. Racing inside, I eagerly ripped open the packaging and took out a very cheap-looking plastic ring painted silver. “I’m not worried,” I reassured myself. I concluded that it was designed to look cheap so that evil spies would not recognize its true purpose. Sadly, it took less than a day for my belief in the ring’s powers to be thoroughly dashed. There was nothing magic about it. It didn’t decode anything, and it broke while I was riding my bike.
I wish I could say that that was the last time I had to learn a lesson about distinguishing fantasy from reality, but no, it was not. I’d seen cartoon characters safely “parachute” from high places using an umbrella several times. Bugs or Daffy might be fleeing some adversary, and then, suddenly, reach what seemed to be an impasse. When all seemed hopeless, out of thin air, an umbrella would appear. The character would then pop open the umbrella and gently float through the sky, descending gracefully to the ground. I dreamed about this, imagining the freedom of floating through the air, the touch of a gentle breeze brushing my face. (I have always been susceptible to magical thinking.)
And so, not having learned the lesson of “too good to be true” from the decoder ring, I decided I could master flying. I snatched Mom’s green umbrella from the stand, climbed the apple tree next to the garage, and hoisted myself onto the garage roof top. (I should note here that this was no ordinary climb since I had to do it while securing an umbrella under my arm.) I stood there, surveying the yard and garden, looking for the largest clearing in which to land. I knew I would need lots of room to make a safe descent since I would obviously waft a bit in the air currents, just as the cartoon characters did. Having made my choice, I held the umbrella aloft, popped it open with a flourish, and without hesitation, leaped off the roof.
I did not waft. I did not float. What I did do is fall, swiftly and awkwardly, and hit the ground with a thud that nearly jarred my teeth loose. Gravity, not air currents, had prevailed. It was anything but a soft landing. Why I didn’t break something must have been a testament to all the milk Mom made us drink. Although the landing knocked the breath out of me, I must have yelled pretty loudly on the way down because as I began to struggle to catch my breath, Mom came flying out the screened porch door.
In the fuzziness that was my stunned thought process, I heard Mom shout, “What the devil just happened?” Needing pity, I burst into tears, but she was looking at the inside-out remains of her green umbrella lying to the left of me. There was a long pause, and then she said, “I don’t see any blood. Can you stand up?” Hands on her hips, she looked at me, incredulity and a bit of wonder on her face. “Why is my umbrella broken? What were you doing, Karen?”
I tried once again for a pity party, marshalling up fresh tears. It was a no go. Mom came down to my level, looked me dead in the eyes, and demanded, “Karen Pugh! Tell me, right this minute, what did you do?”
I gave the most logical explanation I could master under the circumstances, but I evidently wasn’t all that convincing. Mom stood, slowly shook her head, and sighed deeply. “It’s a wonder you didn’t break your neck.” (Neck-breaking was a possibility for many things I did: riding a bike with no hands, running on the stairs, swinging on a rope swing…. Any deed of daring-do precipitated the same question from Mom: “Are you trying to break your neck?”) After learning of my most recent neck-breaking-possible deed, she just shook her head, patted me on mine, and said, “What am I going to do with you?” I fervently hoped the answer was “nothing.” She walked back toward me, said nothing more, picked up the umbrella remnants, and carried them out to the trash barrel.
This was a lesson I did learn the first time and immediately. When a six-year-old jumps off a garage roof, assuming she will float through the air, she won’t. Once I’d pulled a Road Runner sans an anvil on my head, the dream of my flying was forever shattered. From that day forward, I’ve done all my flying in a plane piloted by someone else. It’s the only way to go, believe me.
After one or two days, I began to haunt Mr. Bonner, our mailman, every afternoon. “Is it here yet?” He’d smile and shake his head. “Be patient,” he’d say. “Give it time.” It took over two weeks, and I had nearly despaired, but it came. Racing inside, I eagerly ripped open the packaging and took out a very cheap-looking plastic ring painted silver. “I’m not worried,” I reassured myself. I concluded that it was designed to look cheap so that evil spies would not recognize its true purpose. Sadly, it took less than a day for my belief in the ring’s powers to be thoroughly dashed. There was nothing magic about it. It didn’t decode anything, and it broke while I was riding my bike.
I wish I could say that that was the last time I had to learn a lesson about distinguishing fantasy from reality, but no, it was not. I’d seen cartoon characters safely “parachute” from high places using an umbrella several times. Bugs or Daffy might be fleeing some adversary, and then, suddenly, reach what seemed to be an impasse. When all seemed hopeless, out of thin air, an umbrella would appear. The character would then pop open the umbrella and gently float through the sky, descending gracefully to the ground. I dreamed about this, imagining the freedom of floating through the air, the touch of a gentle breeze brushing my face. (I have always been susceptible to magical thinking.)
And so, not having learned the lesson of “too good to be true” from the decoder ring, I decided I could master flying. I snatched Mom’s green umbrella from the stand, climbed the apple tree next to the garage, and hoisted myself onto the garage roof top. (I should note here that this was no ordinary climb since I had to do it while securing an umbrella under my arm.) I stood there, surveying the yard and garden, looking for the largest clearing in which to land. I knew I would need lots of room to make a safe descent since I would obviously waft a bit in the air currents, just as the cartoon characters did. Having made my choice, I held the umbrella aloft, popped it open with a flourish, and without hesitation, leaped off the roof.
I did not waft. I did not float. What I did do is fall, swiftly and awkwardly, and hit the ground with a thud that nearly jarred my teeth loose. Gravity, not air currents, had prevailed. It was anything but a soft landing. Why I didn’t break something must have been a testament to all the milk Mom made us drink. Although the landing knocked the breath out of me, I must have yelled pretty loudly on the way down because as I began to struggle to catch my breath, Mom came flying out the screened porch door.
In the fuzziness that was my stunned thought process, I heard Mom shout, “What the devil just happened?” Needing pity, I burst into tears, but she was looking at the inside-out remains of her green umbrella lying to the left of me. There was a long pause, and then she said, “I don’t see any blood. Can you stand up?” Hands on her hips, she looked at me, incredulity and a bit of wonder on her face. “Why is my umbrella broken? What were you doing, Karen?”
I tried once again for a pity party, marshalling up fresh tears. It was a no go. Mom came down to my level, looked me dead in the eyes, and demanded, “Karen Pugh! Tell me, right this minute, what did you do?”
I gave the most logical explanation I could master under the circumstances, but I evidently wasn’t all that convincing. Mom stood, slowly shook her head, and sighed deeply. “It’s a wonder you didn’t break your neck.” (Neck-breaking was a possibility for many things I did: riding a bike with no hands, running on the stairs, swinging on a rope swing…. Any deed of daring-do precipitated the same question from Mom: “Are you trying to break your neck?”) After learning of my most recent neck-breaking-possible deed, she just shook her head, patted me on mine, and said, “What am I going to do with you?” I fervently hoped the answer was “nothing.” She walked back toward me, said nothing more, picked up the umbrella remnants, and carried them out to the trash barrel.
This was a lesson I did learn the first time and immediately. When a six-year-old jumps off a garage roof, assuming she will float through the air, she won’t. Once I’d pulled a Road Runner sans an anvil on my head, the dream of my flying was forever shattered. From that day forward, I’ve done all my flying in a plane piloted by someone else. It’s the only way to go, believe me.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)