As any young wife/mother can attest to, establishing oneself as a capable hostess for family gatherings can be hand-wringing, tear inducing and, occasionally, disastrous.

I thought I’d already been through this. Once, twice… now three times.

I’ll never forget my first husband’s grandmother railing on me about having put a WHOLE stick of butter in the mashed potatoes. I’m not sure if she was worried about the extra fat or the calories but, perhaps she should have been more concerned about the pack of cigarettes she was smoking as she wheeled around her oxygen tank.

Then, there was my previous mother-in-law who brought everything but the kitchen sink to every special occasion that I hosted… right down to the salt and pepper.

I’m sure neither of them meant any offense, but their actions and comments weren’t exactly resounding votes of confidence in my domestic abilities.

Now here I am… at 43 years old… once again feeling that I need to prove my hostessing skills to my husband, to a new set of in-laws, and, now, even to my kids.

Call it whatever you want — insecurity, immaturity, silliness — the fact remains: every second wife/stepmother has some self-doubt about whether she might fall short of the original Mrs. and her domestic goddessness.

Deep down inside, I know that I have nothing to prove… that it is just as much Rick’s responsibility as my own… and … who really cares that all the plates match anyway?

But last week, when we firmed up plans to have Rick’s extended family to our house for Easter, I started to flip out. It was a gradual process: a little bit more each day, starting on Monday, until by Sunday morning, I was in full-fledged panic mode.

And then the crises began. They were little bumps… no more than blips on the radar … but to me, the whole meal was falling apart.

The girls, all perfectly capable of helping me, all disappeared for the entire morning to “get ready,” leaving me to stew over the thirty potatoes that I was peeling alone and the table full of Easter cookies that still needed to be iced.

Then, Rick’s oldest daughter Kristin texted to let us know that she would be bringing her partner’s preschoolers along. I’m a “the more the merrier” kind of person, so I was thrilled that they were coming, but I hadn’t planned the meal with small children in mind. I didn’t even have a place for them to sit. Our kids’ table was more like a teenager table and was already full with my five and their cousins.

Rick’s answer was to use the coffee table and let the little ones sit on the floor.

Shortly afterwards, I realized that I only had 8 full place settings of silverware, not nearly enough for the 18 people that were about to converge on my dining room.

Rick’s answer was to use salad forks.

Then there was the matter of the 15 pound prime rib — $115 worth of meat – that, according to the thermometer, was completely done less than two hours after I had put it in the oven. It couldn’t possibly be done, could it?

My house is never clean enough. I never have the right guest towels or the perfect decorations. And, no matter how hard I try, I am never ready when the guests start to arrive. Sunday was no exception.

But the girls got back in my good graces by helping ice the rest of the cookies and cleaning up the laundry room.

We set up a second kids table. Rick was sent to a friend’s house to borrow a card table and chairs.

We did have enough silverware. Rick made a trip to Meijer (for the second time of the morning) and bought 12 new place settings. Of course, I found the extra forks in the back of … where else… the silverware drawer… before he got back with them.

And the prime rib was close to perfect. (After we took it out and put it back in four times.)

Before baking

At the end of the day, I felt validated as an adequate hostess. No one complained about the too-buttery mashed potatoes and no one brought their own condiments. Maybe next time I will be a better pre-party role model because Gracie has vowed to NEVER EVER host the family gatherings when she grows up. Hopefully, she will change her mind before she is 43.

I get the daily Columbus Dispatch for three reasons:

1 – It somehow makes me feel like a grown-up to open my front door first thing in the morning and see my newspaper laying there on the porch steps. (At 43, I shouldn’t need more proof of my maturity than the wrinkles that keep popping up, but I’m still feeling about 17 on the inside.)

2 – The crossword puzzle.

3 – Joe Blundo’s annual Mildly Entertaining Fantasy Easter Egg Hunt. http://www.dispatch.com/live/content/life/blundo/egg_hunt.html

Easter egg hunts have always been a tradition at my house. Every year from the time that Gracie could barely toddle around, I have loaded the kids up in the car on a damp Saturday morning and headed off to some community Easter egg hunt.

The thrill is most certainly the hunt… that and trying to retrieve more eggs than the next four-year-old. Because it is not the reward in the actual eggs: typically candy that they don’t need (or like, for that matter) or little plastic toys that are important for about 5 minutes and then just become more household clutter to be cleaned up and thrown out in the next garage sale.

It has become somewhat politically incorrect for me to allow my tweens/teens to battle smaller children for plastic eggs. Even Lauren (who fits right in mentally and would LOVE to go on an egg hunt) looks a bit out of place as she towers over the preschoolers.

Thus, Joe’s virtual egg hunt has been a welcome diversion at our house for the last few years.

The hunt is simple: A few weeks before Easter, every day for ten days, Joe posts a riddle describing the location of a virtual egg. The idea is to figure out which central Ohio landmark contains the “egg” and send him your answers at the end of the contest.

The first year I went so far as to drive the kids way out to Battelle Darby Creek Park to research the location of one of the eggs. The kids didn’t quite understand why we were looking for an egg that wasn’t really there.

This year’s clues are all in now and we have until April 1 at noon to enter the contest. I think we’ve got all the answers and I’m ready to send the email. As for what we might win, I have no idea. Because… still, it’s all about the hunt.

The latest study shows that all of us middle-aged women have three choices:

Gain 1.5 pounds per year.

Go on one of those four letter word things.

Or exercise 60 minutes per day, 7 days a week!

Wow! That’s a lot of exercise… all just to stay the same size. And so unfair! Why don’t guys have to endure this kind of torture?!

And as for you younger than middle-aged women. I’ve got news for you. That baby on your hip is going to be in middle school before you know it; the size four jeans are going to be in the “skinny” clothes box somewhere deep in the crawl space, and you will be wondering – just like I am – where the years have gone and where the pounds have come from.

From personal experience, I believe that this study is fairly accurate. There are the obvious variables: genetics, workout intensity, variations in caloric intake. But overall, I’ve discovered that if I want to eat like the strapping farm girl that I am, I have to exercise like the strapping farm girl I used to be.

I just happened to read the latest exercise advice on the same day that I was making a decision about whether or not to go ahead and try to run in the Capital City Half Marathon.

That pretty much pushed me over the edge. I’m doing it. Stress fracture, bleeding bunions and all! (Ok, they’re not really bleeding. I just liked the alliteration.)

So… I have four weeks and five days to bump my training into high gear and push my miles up to 13.1. I’ve already paid for it! I want to wear the t-shirt knowing that I EARNED the t-shirt. And I don’t want to be a chunky middle-aged momma statistic.

Capital City, here I come!

Less than twenty four hours until I’m going to be hauled off to jail “for good.” It’s not too late to donate and help me raise bail!

https://www.joinmda.org/westervillelockup2010/csnide

Your 100% tax-deductible donation will help the Muscular Dystrophy Association continue research into the cause and the possible cure of the 43 neuromuscular diseases they cover. Your support of the MDA Lock-Up will also help MDA provide medical equipment, clinic visits, support groups and a magical week of MDA Summer Camp for the families served by the Association in our local area.

It will also get me out of jail.

Jack and Lauren were the only of my children who volunteered to contribute. Jack’s a little unsure about this whole thing and thinks that I might just be serious. As for Lauren, she just says whatever she thinks I want to hear. The other three are fairly certain that I’m not really going to jail and would happily be self-sufficient for a few days even if I was. WOOOHOOO! No mom means no bedtimes, no chores, no manners reminders and no phone Nazi.

So consider a small donation. Because, regardless of what the girls think, they really do need me. Who else will stand outside the dressing room at Plato’s Closet holding an extra fourteen items while they try on the allowed six? Whose mascara would they steal? And, most importantly, who would do their laundry?

We finally sat down to dinner at about 8 this evening. For the life of me, I can’t seem to get dinner on the table before that.

Two very big personalities were missing tonight: Susan was at a fundraiser for her Renaissance Club and Jack was on a COSI overnight field trip with his fifth grade class.

Jack has been bursting with excitement over this field trip for weeks now… and the anticipation over the last two days has been nearly unbearable. This morning he told us that this was going to be the longest day of his life.

But with the excitement was also a bit of apprehension.

Jack has never been particularly fond of being away from … well… from me. As an infant, no one else could hold him. No one else could feed him. No one else could put him to sleep. (Of course, I’m exaggerating a little. But he was deeply attached to me… far more than Gracie had ever been.)

By the end of his third year in preschool, I had learned that if I could just pry his little arms off of my leg and run from the room, he would stop crying.

I think that was harder for me than it was for him. I would sit in my car and blink back the tears.

You would think that we would be over that by now — particularly since he spends half his life with his dad in a different house.

But he’s still a bit tentative about new situations. So when the request for COSI overnight chaperones came home from the teacher, he begged me to sign up. I told him I would think about it, promptly set the paper aside, and accidentally-on-purpose forgot about it. Of course, by the time I “remembered” again, the chaperone slots had all been filled.

I was relieved… and guilty.

So when I dropped Jack off at COSI at around 6 this evening I was happy/relieved/assuaged/mollified to see that he was on cloud nine and he made no attempt to wrap himself around my legs. I, on the other hand, got in my car and pulled out of the parking lot with a lump in my throat.

I told myself that I was being silly and it was high time I let go.

I was fine until our dinner conversation turned to Jack and what he might be doing right about then.

Rick asked me what kind of snack I sent for him. We were talking about Jack, after all…Jack, the most food conscious person I’ve ever met. Jack, the child that remembers the time, date and place of events based upon the meal or snack he had there. Jack, the boy who asks me what’s for dinner before he’s finished with breakfast.

And suddenly, it occurred to me. I didn’t remember seeing anything in the paperwork about them eating dinner at COSI.

I turned to Rick, “You don’t think that I was supposed to feed him before I took him, do you?” Being a late night diner, it had never even crossed my mind.

He was too surprised to buffer the truth for me. “Oh, I’ll bet you were.”

Grace said, “Yeah, I read the paper and they give them a light late snack, but no dinner.”

Being the least consoling person on the face of the planet, she continued by assuring me that she had been on this trip three years ago and they most definitely did NOT serve dinner, just a little snack. “You’re going to have to take him somewhere great tomorrow when you pick him up.”

And there I sat, eating one of Jack’s favorite meals, smoked sausage and homemade macaroni and cheese, thinking that the “little” guy was going hungry.

I tried to tell myself that they would have snacks, that the other kids would share, that he would be fine. But I just kept picturing him distraught and hungry, wondering why I didn’t feed him dinner ahead of time, wondering why I wasn’t THERE.

Rick could see my wheels turning. He knows me too well. “He’ll be ok, Cindy. I’m sure it will be fine. I could call the teacher and double check for you.”

I burst into tears.

At that point, I think Rick had already decided that he was heading downtown to take Jack a cheeseburger… just to make ME feel better.

So he searched our paper strewn dining room table and found the field trip instructions with the phone number.

Turns out, it was a false alarm. They DID feed them dinner, after all. I knew that. Of course, I knew that. I read the paper carefully. Twice.

It must have been my mommy guilt playing tricks on me.

Next time, I’ll be the first to sign up as a chaperone. And, I’ll even bring snacks!

If nothing else, being a mom/stepmom to three teenage girls keeps me on my toes.

Last week, I asked 107.9 for four tickets to the John Mayer concert so I could take all three girls. I hate to ask for anything, but occasional concert tickets are my “payment” for blog writing and the girls were dying to go see one of their heartthrobs.

The girls have forgiven John Mayer for his racist, kiss-and-tell interview (They are fickle. They’ve even forgiven Chris Brown.) and had been talking about the concert. So I was just sure they would do back flips the minute I told them that we were actually all going to get to go.

But this was the response:

“Well… what time is it exactly?”
“Well, who else is going?”
“Well, um, I really kind of wanted to see Alice in Wonderland with my friends this weekend.”

Really?! I finagle FOUR tickets to John Mayer and this is the thanks I get!

But, like I said, teenage girls are fickle and, frankly, there is no pleasing them. Maybe it was just that they didn’t want to go to the John Mayer concert with ME.

I convinced two of the three that “this is going to be great” and that I wouldn’t embarrass them.

I took another friend — a friend MY age – and Rick stayed home with Jack. Unfortunately for Rick, three weeks ago, I promised Jack that I would take him to his school’s “talent” show that same night. Poor guy endured four versions of “The Climb,” three renditions of “Party in the USA,” a couple of Taylor Swift’s “You Belong to Me” and one memorable “Pants on the Ground.”

And I got to see John Mayer for the third time.

I’ve been a fan for years, but I was turned off by his recent interview. I don’t have his most recent CD so I’m not familiar with his newer music. And, unlike the girls, I don’t think he’s particularly good looking, nor do I think that he is the best singer in the world.

But the minute he took the stage I remembered why I like him so much.

He picks up the guitar and starts to play and I just melt. And…from the looks of him, I think he’s been working out.

I took one look and announced to the girls that Rick is going to have to get his guitar out and start playing again. There’s just something about a guitar player…even for us moms.

So much for not embarrassing them!

Today I’m on a rant about insurance companies and schools. Since I can only focus on one pet peeve at a time, I will leave the health reform/insurance debacle to our oh-so apt legislators and concentrate on something closer to home.

I have had one or more children in the same school district for over sixteen years and this year I finally realized that the school system believes that all families have a blooming money tree in their backyard. (I’m not picking on any school district or any one person in particular. I’m just saying… as a general rule, this seems to be the case.)

It’s not the academic or the pay-to-play fees that break the bank. It’s the pictures, the fundraisers, and the recommended-but-not-required apparel. (All a blog for another day.)

Today, I’m ranting about sports’ physicals.

On Monday, “they” refused to let Caryn run on her first day of track practice. Her physical had expired on the 6th. It was the 8th.

It’s a dilemma that I’m faced with every year. Our insurance… for which we pay dearly… covers ONE well-child visit per year. So, when the physical expires mid-sports’ season, I have to jump through forty six hoops to try to get the pediatrician to perform a new one and complete the paperwork on THAT DAY! (Funny, I’ve found that pediatricians work on their schedule, not mine.)

But the real problem is that there is no concession on either side…not from the school to allow a couple extra practices and not from the insurance company to allow an early physical. (Hmmm… sounds a bit like our lawmakers.)

We had already scheduled a physical, but moved the date up a week to get Caryn in on Tuesday. When I went to the school to pick her up, I confided in the secretary that this rigidity was a bit of a pain.

Her answer: “Well, you should just eat the cost and get it done during the summer.”

EAT THE COST?!!! I already pay for insurance… which covers well-child visits at 100%. And I should just EAT THE COST?! I have FOUR children who participate in sports year-round so there ISN’T a season that wouldn’t cause a conflict. But, more importantly, I ALREADY PAY FOR THESE!

I know, I know… the school offers a $20 physical once or twice a year. Surely, I can afford $20.

But it’s $20! That’s 20 times 4… That’s $80!

I wanted to say to the secretary, “Take $80 out of your purse. Now, go flush that down the toilet.”

I didn’t. I bit my tongue. Turns out, she was the “they” that wouldn’t let Caryn practice. Oops.

Regardless, I have to wonder… do “they” spend the tax dollars they collect with the same freedom that they seem to want to spend mine.

Oh, but that’s an entirely different topic for another day. So, for now, take this advice if you have pre-schoolers: Somehow, regardless of their birthdates, get all of your kids on the same well-child visit schedule and have it done every year on Christmas Day. I think that should take care of the problem… unless, of course, they play college football.

When Rick and I met, he was already an experienced father.

Four children: the oldest in high school, the youngest in kindergarten. He’d seen sleepless nights with infants, experienced the thrill of a toddler taking her first steps, threatened to pull a loose tooth with pliers, and chased the bogie man out of many closets.

What he hadn’t experienced and what he didn’t know he was missing, was Jack. (i.e., being the father of a boy)

Rick was accustomed to children who read books, colored in the lines, and played in their rooms quietly.

Boys are different.

They do things like waddle up to you at 3 years old and whack their head on your knee, “fix” the side of your car with a screwdriver, and insist upon drawing on the walls no matter how many times they’ve been put in time out (or had their hands smacked).

I did everything I could to raise the kids in a gender neutral environment, but boys and girls are just wired differently. They learn differently. They think differently. They play differently.

Boys are happiest with a stick in their hand and a tree to hit. And in a pinch, they’ll even have snowball fights with themselves.

So I have to agree with the old nursery rhyme that boys are made of snakes and snails and puppy dog tails. But as for the sugar and spice and everything nice portion of the saying… well, perhaps the author just hadn’t experienced teenage girls yet.

Cindy is about to be “locked up” courtesy of the Muscular Dystrophy Association! Please help bail me out! https://www.joinmda.org/westervillelockup2010/csnide.

The plea went out over Facebook, through LinkedIn, via email… and still I’m short… short by A LOT!

Last week my delightfully delegating husband routed a call to me that was meant for him. He heard the first few words…chamber of commerce, Old Bag of Nails, community, event…and decided that the call should be directed to the “marketing girl.” (Yes, that’s what they call us in the IT industry, no matter how old we are.)

I agreed to be arrested…(They don’t really give you much choice.)… and spend an hour in “jail” at the Old Bag of Nails Pub on March 25. It actually sounded like fun: an hour at a restaurant, a little donation and I will have done my part.

Perhaps I should have asked exactly how much my bail was going to be BEFORE I said yes. I got the email a few minutes after hanging up the phone and almost fell off my chair. $1600?! I’m supposed to raise $1600?!!!!! Thanks Rick!

My friends have been greatly amused by my plight.

From my Facebook:
“Isn’t life with Rick prison enough for you?”
“I think a little jail time is just what you need.”
“From the looks of things you may be doing some time.”
“I’ll send you a cake with a file in it.”

And from my supportive ex-husband: “YEAH, right! Enjoy jail!”

I hate to see what would happen if I really did go to jail.

So, here I am badgering, begging, pleading, groveling for donations.

It’s a great cause. And, although I don’t have first-hand experience with Muscular Dystrophy, Lauren’s disabilities have made me acutely aware of the challenges faced by victims and families of any disorder or disease.

Your 100% tax-deductible donation will help MDA continue research into the cause and the possible cure of the 43 neuromuscular diseases they cover. Your support of the MDA Lock-Up will also help MDA provide medical equipment, clinic visits, support groups and a magical week of MDA Summer Camp for the families served by the Association in our local area.

It’s easy to give. Just go to https://www.joinmda.org/westervillelockup2010/csnide.

I appreciate your support. But Rick and the kids will be the ones who truly thank you. Who will do the laundry if I don’t make bail?

Hmmm… on second thought…

The latest thing in kids’ end of the season sports’ celebrations is the “dessert banquet.”

These really don’t make sense to me as they usually occur between six and seven in the evening… at precisely the time that you would be eating supper. I’m not sure who has time to get home from work, prepare a meal, eat and get to these special events by six in the evening, but I don’t. So instead of feeding my family a balanced evening meal, I watch as they devour a plate filled with fudge brownies, cupcakes, chocolate chip cookies and the ever present “Congratulations on a great season” cake.

Kids are kids. They don’t pick up one or two servings as they walk through the buffet line. They heap their paper dessert plate with all the treats that will possibly fit. And ten minutes later, they go back for seconds.

Long ago, I gave up on monitoring the kids’ intake at these occasional calorie fests. I doubt that they are permanently damaged, so I go home and make a real dinner for myself and anyone who isn’t stuffed full of sugar.

So, what do I take to these banquets? Well, my spoiled kids ALWAYS request that I make fruit pizza. Not only is it just as calorie and fat laden as the fudge brownies, it takes twice as long to prepare and costs six times as much.

But every time that I SWEAR I will never do it again, I find myself taking home an empty platter and someone has asked me for the recipe. Ahhhh… the highest form of flattery … being asked for my recipe.

My version of fruit pizza.

For crust:
1 package refrigerated sugar cookie dough

Put the cookie dough roll into the freezer for a few minutes so it’s easier to slice. Cut the cookie dough in approximately 1/8- 1/4” slices. Place slices close together (they don’t have to overlap) on 14” pizza pan which has been covered in aluminium foil. Bake at 350 degrees for 17 minutes (until golden brown). Remove from oven. Cool. Remove aluminium foil from back of big cookie and place on serving platter.

For sauce, cream together:
1 pkg (8-oz) softened cream cheese
1/3 cup sugar
1/2 tsp. vanilla

Spread evenly over crust.

The kinds and amounts of toppings are completely up to the cook’s taste. I use sliced strawberries, bananas, kiwi and pineapple. (all of them fresh) Be sure you drain your fruit very well. I usually cut it up and lay it out on paper towels to absorb some of the excess moisture.

Approximately
1 cup strawberries
1 cup bananas
1 cup kiwi slices
1 cup pineapple pieces

Arrange the fruit slices in whatever pattern you like… or none at all if you are in a big hurry. Sometimes, I overlap the fruit pieces and sometimes, I don’t.

Warm 1/2 cup orange marmalade in microwave for about 30 seconds to make it easier to spread. Glaze the fruit evenly with the marmalade. Refrigerate.

This is best if it is served relatively quickly because the crust will get soggy.