childhood memories

I think I have mentioned before that parenting is like a slow water drip against the forehead, a quiet and incessant silent scream. It is also a “V” for VICTORY, and a communal shout among us of winning a round: whether discipline, dietary, or watching our kids make the RIGHT choices at the RIGHT time.

We are hitting the Teen Years no harder nor softer than most: for all the ten FUCKING AMAZING RIGHT DECISIONS my child makes, he makes two radical face-palm-what-were-you-thinking-wait-I-guess-you-weren’t decisions.

Sigh.

We are lucky, we really are. So far, he still talks to me, and so far, I have a pretty good estimate of what is going on in his head/day/month/year/life. More so than most. I want to still believe we are close.

The stuff that matters, he is there. He is with me. He lets me in. I live in terror of him growing silent and withdrawing. I know from experience. Silence is the worst. Silence means you have lost them. I went silent. Then it went kinda sideways.

The stupid, inane, annoying, “please just listen to me and respect the rules ‘cause they are there for your protection” stuff is the stuff that he pushes boundaries on. I should be thankful, but it still annoys the fuck out of me. I have the latest tech. I can shut down his phone. I can block him from wifi. I don’t want to, but I am a little bit at the end of my rope.

I just want him to understand that as parents go, I (like to think) I’m pretty cool. Easygoing even, as ‘cool’ is not a ‘cool’ word for parents to use any more. I understand. I really do. I remember my earlier years vividly, and swore a personal promise to myself a long, long time ago to never ever end up like my parents.

That these stupid “boundaries-for-your-protection” things are annoying, but if we all play by the rules, then we get less and less and less boundaries.

Looking around at the peer group, I really, really am thankful. There is no illegal, harming or habit-forming behaviours going on with him. I am thankful.

But it’s complicated.

So tonight, off we go to bed, trying to right the wrongs of the fucked-up parenting decisions that came before us, wrestling with our own demons and previously well-laid paths, aiming to stay tuned in to our kids, giving them an open dialogue and a platform to be them, all the while blocking the wifi signal, confiscating the TV, and threatening the Worst. Possible. Teenaged. Threat:

The flip-phone.

I was blessed with a childhood full of unique experiences. I was fortunate to be exposed to many unusual situations that were not typical for a child.

My grade four year found my Mom and I transferred to Toronto for work. It was a new adventure, a new school, totally new climate and a much bigger city.

Toronto found us hunting for a home, and a new space to set down roots. Mum was in the hotel industry, and while we hunted, the company put us up in one of their properties right downtown. We were steps from Yonge Street, and the giant spinning vinyl of Sam The Record Man.

I discovered a new school, set in such an urban environment that the play-yard was on the roof and classes were set in a three-story brick building. This was very urban living.

We ate most meals at the hotel. Every evening after work and school, we would come down to the main dining room, an opulent space overstuffed, plush and heavily draped. The kitchen packed my lunch for me daily: a bountiful selection of sandwiches, pastries, fruit and cheese: far too much for a 9-year old child. totally blessed.

I never had the palette of a child: part of my exposure to my Mom’s workplace meant the unusual and the uncommon.

A regular starter at dinner was steamed artichokes dipped in butter. We would begin our meals with these earthy beauties, steamed a deep green, accompanied by a heavenly swirl of clarified butter. We would slowly peel off layer by layer, revealing the tender hearts: saving the heart of the matter until last.

The children had never experienced steamed artichokes, and we experimented with them last night. I set out dishes of clarified butter, along with a balsamic vinegar aioli.

The younger one took a stab at peeling off the fibrous layers to get to the little nibble at each petal base, and flatly rounded at me with a quick but firm “No.”

The elder one tolk a stab at it, and discovered the unctuous plant-based umami of the inner layers. It became a conundrum. He couldn’t figure out if he liked or didn’t like it. But he kept going back for more.

The elusive artichoke had bested another generation…and won.

And, it was (of course) gluten-free.

Another Gluten Free Foodie

Cooking & living GF, and learning what it takes to raise a Celiac child

It’s complicated…

Artichokes and other memories…