Expectations Vs. Reality

My expectations and my realities do not always match up.  I have found this particularly true when it comes to cooking.  

Like many engaged women, I had high expectations for myself as a housewife.  I knew that I would be teaching when we were married, but somehow my job never hindered the visions that I had of my husband coming home to a happy wife, a clean house, and hot, delicious dinner.  

Ten years ago, on the eve of saying my “I do’s,” I panicked.  I don’t know why it had not occurred to me until that moment, but I suddenly realized I didn’t know how to cook.  I had never cooked a meal in my life.  And when I say never….I mean never.  I tried making a cake in college (using a boxed mix) and failed miserably.  How does one mess up a recipe that calls for merely eggs and water?  

So, in a state of desperation, I ran up the stairs into my parent’s bedroom.  I told my parents to wake up – it was urgent.  They quickly sat up.  As soon as my father realized I wasn’t in their room wanting to call of the wedding, he went back to sleep.  My mom assured me, half asleep, that I would figure it out.  

I went back downstairs with a renewed energy.  Yes, I could do it, I told myself.  How hard can it be to cook a meal?  My husband had been a bachelor for ten years before we were married, so I knew that was in my favor.  My cooking would be compared to Raman noodles and cold cereal.  So, I fell asleep convincing myself that there was no need to lower my expectations.  

Shortly after the honeymoon, however, reality hit.  And somehow, reality and my cooking expectations were so far off that I didn’t just have to lower my expectations….I had to bury them.  

The first night in our house as husband and wife, I called my grandmother.  She was a good cook, and I figured she could tell me how to make a meal.  After doing some long distance investigation, she realized that the ingredients I was working with were very limited.  So, she patiently walked through the only recipe she could think of using the ingredients that I had.  Dinner for our first night together was going to be stuffed baked potato.  

I don’t blame my grandmother for my failure.  Looking back, how could she have known that I didn’t know how long to cook a potato?  

I baked the potato for fifteen minutes in the oven (which was preheating for ten of those fifteen minutes).  Once they were “done,” I put them to the side and began making a white sauce that would eventually top my baked potatoes.  The sauce only had three ingredients: milk, butter, and flour. 

Instead of adding two cups of milk to two tablespoons of flour, I added two cups of flour to two tablespoons of milk (if you haven’t done this before, this is a great way to make paste).   

We sat down at the table.  I “plated” the meal for my husband and put the following in front of him:  a baked potato, hard as a rock, topped with thick, white paste. 

Because we were newly married, there was absolutely no honesty when it came to my cooking.  “It’s good, honey, but I had a late lunch.  Can I save mine until tomorrow?” 

I wouldn’t admit the failure, even to myself, as I stuffed every last bite of the pasty, raw potato into my mouth.  And then I got sick.  

My expectations were to blow him away with amazing meals night after night.  Reality, however, was that my husband got Raman Noodles.  And so that he wouldn’t become sick of the noodles, I added in the occasional frozen TV dinner.  

When I married Chris, I knew I was marrying a pastor. He was already involved in youth ministry and by the time we were married, he was moving into an associate pastor role in the church we were attending.  So, I knew that unless the Lord directed him otherwise, a pastor’s wife I would be.  

Growing up in a pastor’s family, I saw my mom take meals to Sunday lunches, bring meals to people who were sick, and hosted and fed big groups of people.  So, I knew that in many ways, cooking coincided with church business.  It was just a fact.  

I had high expectations in this area: instead of bringing Jell-O to the Sunday lunches, I would bring the casserole that everyone would rave about.

Within the first month of our marriage, I worked up the courage to have a friend over for dinner.  Since it was my first time hosting dinner in our house, I wanted to make something incredible.  The problem was that my repertoire was very small.  It basically included microwaving frozen meals and boiling noodles.  

I remember very clearly walking nervously through the grocery aisles trying to decide what to fix.  Then I found something that seemed remarkable at the time – a bag of bean soup mix.  It read on the front “just like home-made.”   

For me, it was perfect.  I thought through the possible ways that I could mess it up and could come up with none.  So, I purchased the soup mix.  And that was it.  I hadn’t considered sides, desserts, or drinks.  No, all I went home with was the bean soup mix.  At the time I thought my plan was brilliant.  

That night, after welcoming in our company and seating them at our table, I began pouring the soup into individual bowls.  It didn’t occur to me until that moment that I had nothing else to serve with it.  I didn’t let this bother me, however, because the soup looked good and it smelled delicious.  Unfortunately, I had not tasted my bean soup.  

For the last ten years, the mistakes I’ve made while preparing food have varied, but there is one that stays consistent – I do not taste my food while making it.  My husband is baffled by this fact.  To me, it’s clear as can be:  if I taste my food, and it doesn’t taste good, what then?  What would I do?  I wouldn’t know what to add or subtract.  Instead, I allow my victims the first bite.  If they fall dead, well then, we’ll order pizza.  

When all the bowls were served, Chris prayed, and we dug in.  I waited for everyone else to try it first.  I waited so that I could smile without food in my mouth when I was praised for the meal that sat before them.  I looked at Chris as he blew and ate.  I could literally hear the crunch.  Almost simultaneously, then, I heard crunching all around me.  

Considering that perhaps I was just hearing things, I took a bite myself.  Sure enough, the beans were not beans, but nuts.  I had not soaked the beans for the bean soup (which I later found clearly stated on the back of the mix), and so we sat around the table crunching through our “nut” soup.  

My husband, who was just dying to make fun of my “nut soup,” sat as politely as possible.  I was horrified.  I thought about inviting our company to go get Chinese, but, just like the baked potato incident, my pride got in the way.  My husband decided, for the sake of his future existence, to say nothing as I sat and crunched away as if all was right in the world.  

But, of course, he couldn’t completely hold back.  Chris brought me his half eaten bowl and whispered in my ear, “Can I have more…..of the broth?”  

My expectation was that I would be “that” cook.  I would be the cook that all the church ladies talked about; the one that gets seventeen slots in the church cookbook.  Yes, that was my expectation.  Realty, however, was making reservations at restaurants for friends we were getting to know.  

My youngest turned two, two weeks ago.  So, I made a cake.  I’ve done this before, and it’s turned out quite well.  Feeling adventurous (and not having any major food problems in the recent future), I decided to try a new recipe.  

The cake looked lovely.  When I set it in front of my two year old, she said very simply, “yuck.”  I took it from her, chastising her ingratitude at the time that mommy put into making her a cake.  

And then my oldest daughter chimed in, “Mom, this is totally gross.”  I still didn’t believe that my cake had failed.  I watched my son take a bite.  He stopped, took one more lick of the icing, and then threw it in the trash.  My mother, the only one who couldn’t tell me the plain, hard truth, took a bite and said, “Oh, it’s so good.  I’m just going to leave it on the counter because I’m so full from dinner.”  

After ten years of marriage, there is no more dishonesty when it comes to cooking.  Granted, my husband will, at times, soften the comments if needed, but on this occasion it was not necessary.  He told me the way it was:  “It’s bad, honey.  You definitely left out something.”  I looked at the cake and considered for just a moment that it wasn’t as bad as they all made it out to be.  I took a big bite.  There was no holding onto my pride this time.  For the sake of my children's health, the whole cake went in the trash.  

My husband will admit, quite freely, that my cooking has improved remarkably over the years.  I’ve even pleasantly surprised some folks with some down-right good cooking.  But what I’ve had to do is adjust my expectations.  When newly married, I expected that my family would eat (and love) every meal.   But now that I’ve adjusted those expectations, I have embraced reality.  And reality is that not every meal I make is going to get eaten.  In fact, not every meal I make is edible.  Yes, I can say with certainty that I cook most days, my family eats it some days, and usually no one gets sick. 

The Look

During Jr. High and High school, my alarm clock would go off every morning at 4:45 a.m. My sisters and I played sports throughout the year, so in order to fit in piano practice, which would have been impossible after school, we would pile into the car at 5:30 a.m. and make our way to the church where my father was pastor. Each of us took a piano around the building, we would practice for an hour, and then head off to school.

There were a few constants on these horrifically early mornings: First, my alarm always went off, and I would always stay in bed. The alarm was really useless, considering it was my father who did the actual waking up. Second, my father made my bed. Yes, this was a constant. I didn’t make a bed until my first day of college. At least I did it then.

Third, I made myself a nutritionally, satisfying breakfast each morning which included two strawberry pop tarts. If we were out of pop tarts, which was rare, dad would grab at the opportunity to give us his own version of a nutritionally, satisfying breakfast. He’d bring us Dunkin' Donuts.

Indeed, for six years, none of these morning rituals changed. But there was one more practice that occurred each morning during our early morning drive to the church. Dad would always turn down the radio, tuned into KMOX, and begin praying. It was never a rote prayer, but there was one part of his prayer that was the same each and every morning. Dad would pray for our future spouses.

Now that I have three children of my own, I have a new understanding for why Dad prayed for these unknown men so consistently. And I have become oddly suspicious, due to my own parental perspective, as to whether those prayers were intended not only for his daughters, but for the well being of the men who would spend the rest of their lives us.

My oldest daughter is now eight. It was exactly at her age when I developed my first crush. Like some kids, I got so nervous around this young man that instead of talking to him, I just ignored him. About half way through the school year, however, my teacher switched our desks around and low and behold….prince charming was placed in the desk right in front of me.

I knew this would be my best chance at actually talking to him. But, for the first week of our new seating arrangement, he was gone on vacation. I lamented the whole week, but I also came up with a plan. My plan was bold and well thought out. My plan was to speak to my crush.

The day he returned I tried on several occasions to make my first move, but, of course, the teacher kept getting in the way. Since I had a “negative” on my report card when it came to paying attention in class, I knew I had little chance of slipping in a quick conversation without getting chastised. So, I patiently waited until the appropriate time. Just before the teacher rang the lunch bell, I began feeling the butterflies. I knew this was it. My time had come.

When the bell finally rang, I tapped the boy on his shoulder. He turned around and looked at me with zero anticipation. And then I finally spoke to him. “So, you went on vacation with your family?”

“Yep,” still his lunch was clearly more appealing than me.

“Um, you’re really tan.”

“Thanks.”

“So, was it sunny?” The thing is, I knew as soon as the sentence came out that I had put the nail in my coffin. His groupies, however, just confirmed the end of my prince charming pursuit with their jokes: “No, it was totally rainy and snowy and that’s how he got so tan.” And here lies another constant: Where there are boys, there is immaturity.

Granted, I threw the pitch and deserved what came to me, but I never planned out another conversation with a boy – ever again.

My sisters and I didn’t date a lot. In fact, I was told by a fellow classmate that we probably would never get asked on a date because our father was a pastor. I didn’t understand this until the first time I brought a boy to the house.

My father’s interest was not in how polite they were or in how sweet they appeared to be. No, my Dad’s first interest was, of course, whether or not they were a christian. But it did not end there. The second point of interest was whether or not they knew the five points of Calvinism. And last, but certainly not least, he was over ambitious about finding out their Eschatological view. If a boy didn't know what that meant, my dad would suggest that we talk about it in the car. It was always my job to convert them to historical Pre-Millennialism.

And I wonder why we didn’t date a lot.

But for many reasons, it mattered to me what my parents thought about potential relationships. On one occasion, I stood at the front door saying good-bye to a date that I knew my parents didn't like so much. So when he leaned in for what would have been my first kiss, I panicked. He kept leaning forward, eyes shut, and I did the only thing I could think of. I ducked.

Yes, I ducked. And yes, it was awkward, and we spoke very little after the front door experience. I suppose there just wasn’t much to say.

In fact, the few dates I brought home never really got much interest from my parents. I think, whether I would admit it or not, I was always waiting for that certain smile from my dad. That look that said, “Yep, Katie, this is the one.”

When I was twenty, I finally got the “look." And it was the only time it mattered. With Chris, I got that certain smile from my father that I had been waiting for. So after twenty years, many awkward moments, and a lot of questioning and wondering, our prayers were answered, and in such a beautiful way.

Last Friday I visited Ella at school for her birthday. When lunch was over, I bent down to kiss her good-bye and noticed that she crying quite freely. This was unusual for her, so I took a moment to talk through why she was so upset. She explained that she didn’t want me to leave; she wanted to go home with me.

I hugged her and sent her back to the line. This is about as sympathetic as I get when there’s only two hours of school left. I was pretty sure the tears were because of a spelling test that afternoon and not so much about the need for her mother's embrace.

I watched as Ella walked in line with every girl in her class surrounding her, hugging her, and rubbing her back. I laughed at the predictable scene. And here lies another constant: where there are girls, there will be drama.

It was then that I felt a little tap on my back. I turned and there stood a fellow classmate of Ella’s - a cute red- headed boy. He spoke to me with total and complete confidence:

“Are you Ella’s mom?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I just want to let you know that she’ll be just fine. This kind of thing happens all the time. In fact, I’ve experience this type of situation from time to time.”

His words were so misplaced. I felt like they should have been coming from a teacher, so, for a second, I had to hold in a laugh. “Well, thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem. Yeah, it’s definitely happened to me before. I cried and I cried. But you know, Mrs. Polski, you just have to trust Jesus. And you have to believe that in the end, Ella is going to be just fine.”

He looked away from me for a second but then kept going, which I was actually hoping for. It was a perfect counseling moment…and I embraced every one of his eight year old words.

“OK, so we’ve just finished lunch now. I’d say by the end of recess she’ll be over it. She won’t even remember that you’re gone. Don’t worry. Really, you can go ahead. I’ll keep my eye on her.”

Ella's not into boys yet, but if this conversation occurred with red-head ten or fifteen years from now? Well, I just may have given Ella the "Look." Until then, I will constantly be praying.

"Long List" Trip to Walmart

I don't like going to Walmart. I'm thankful we have such a place, don't get me wrong, but I don't wake up looking forward to this kind of outing...especially when my list is long.

I've tried the "long list" trips with all three kids and it's always very interesting, to say the least. But a mom's got to do what a mom's got to do. It's just too bad that long trips to Walmart and three restless kids don't go hand in hand.

Yesterday morning, in a somewhat usual fashion, I spent a few minutes planning out my day. A "long list" trip to Walmart was included in that plan...with all three children. Half way through my morning, however, I realized that if I diverged slightly from my well thought out plan, I just might have enough time to get to Walmart with only Lily. When I realized my new found plan would work, I swept Lily up, Pj's and all, and we rushed off to get done what needed to be done.

I felt optimistic at this point. In fact, I felt even down right happy. I was at Walmart with only one of my children. Even though it was a "long list" trip, it would be easy; I was certain of that.

We started our "long list" journey on the far side of the store - the side with all the toys. I had to. At the top of my list was "five girl's birthday presents." Two of them were for my own girls who share a birthday in the same week. Until she knows better, poor Lily doesn't get much more than a can of play-doh.

Maybe I'm one in a million, mom's you can attest, but finding cheap but decent birthday presents is not an easy task - especially when looking for five of them. We spent close to thirty minutes in the toy section, and this was only the first thing on my list. Finally, only partially satisfied with the various gifts, I made my way out of the toy section, but made one huge mistake.

Lily is obsessed with dolls. It's somewhat humorous, maybe a little frightening, that at the age of two, she lives vicariously through them. If she's crying, she says the baby's crying. If she's hungry, she brings me the baby and tells me the babies hungry. If she has a dirty diaper, so does the baby and so on and so forth. So I thought nothing of the particular aisle I turned into, until I heard Lily screaming, "my babies, my babies!" I stopped, another mistake, and noticed that the aisle I chose to use for my departure was filled with baby dolls.

I couldn't do it. I'm usually a softy in situations like these, especially when my children's wants coincide with my sanity, but with the prospect of purchasing five other presents, I wasn't about to throw another doll into the mix. So I hurried on, and that's when the demon entered my daughter's body.

She was not strapped into the cart, so within seconds, her body was hanging over the front handle. It took all my force to pull her back, push her down, and buckle her in. But that was not the end of it. Every once in a while, these demons decide to pay this sweet little girl a visit, and when they do, her body is completely taken over. The high pitched squealing, the drooling, the uncontrollable rage. Some parents call these temper tantrums. I'm convinced otherwise.

I walked down the cleaning aisle looking at the next five items on my list. I tried to ignore the possessed girl in the cart infront of me, but when the kicking started, I realized it was going to be difficult to push the cart, so I grabbed the first thing I saw: a bottle of dish washing detergent. It was as if that bottle was an exorcist itself. Lily began to calm down. She was intrigued, and for whatever reason, it kept her entertained, and I could move on to the next item on my long list.

I'm not entirely sure how long she was holding the bottle after figuring out how to open it. I never noticed. I never thought she would get it open. I've made this kind of mistake before. Several months back, I gave Lily a bottle of nail polish to play with simply so that I could get dressed. Of course, the bottle was closed, but my wise child, Ella, came running into the bathroom informing me that Lily was holding a bottle of nail polish. The conversation went like this:

"Mom, Lily has a bottle of nail polish! We need to get it from her!"

I responded calmly and confidently, "Ella, honey, I know, but mommy needs to get ready and it's keeping her happy. Besides she can't get it open."

"OK, but I'm not really sure a one year old should have a bottle of nail polish." I walked out of the bathroom with my hand on Ella's back, thinking how sweet it is that she's so conscientious. It didn't take long to see the red trail. I screamed for help with the thought that my baby girl was bleeding.

"Mom," Ella said, calmly as can be, "she opened the nail polish."

So no, this isn't the first time I've made a stupid decision in giving my child something in order to hold on to my sanity, but it may be the last. I heard a slight gag, which is what caught my attention. Lily's eyes were squinting and then she opened her mouth. I am not exaggerating when I say that bubbles began to come out. At first, I admit, I started laughing at the sight of bubbles flying out of my child's mouth. I thought she might float up along with them.

But then I looked at the bottle. Realizing how much she drank, I turned the bottle over. I didn't have to read much. One word glared at me: "Toxic." I began to panic. No one else was in the aisle at the time. So, not knowing what else to do, I went with my instinct. I took my finger and stuck it down my daughter's throat.

It worked. The problem was that she kept throwing up and throwing up and throwing up. I knew she had thrown up enough to get the soap out, so I began pushing the cart toward the paper towel aisle. I smiled at folks as I passed because I wasn't sure what else to do. A few glanced at me then at my daughter who sat in the front throwing up on herself.

This aisle was also empty. I tore open a roll of paper towels and began cleaning up what I could. I put the half used roll in the back of my cart, wishing that it was full with my "long list" items, and put the wad of vomit covered paper towels and clothes in the front of the cart - there were no trash cans in sight. Within a minute after throwing up, Lily was fine. She wanted the soap bottle again. When I said no, there were red flags waving, warning me of another posesssion. I was afraid she would start throwing up again. I knew I couldn't handle that, so with nothing on but a diaper, I let her out of the cart.

I felt like one of "those" people. The ones who don't know that their zipper is down, but everyone sees it. The ones who have toilet paper stuck to the back of their shoe, but are clueless. Those people who have something monstrous in their teeth, but no one tells them. The difference, however, was that I knew. I knew I stood out. I knew their were glaring eyes. I knew I had a naked daughter walking through Walmart, smelling like puke.

We made our way to the baby clothes. It took a while to find an outfit because my child was not contained. She thought it would be more fun to play hide and seek. I was not enjoying the game. I finally clothed her, pulled myself together, and looked at my list. Still on number three, I had a whole page of items to get. I wasn't giving up. I told myself to press on. I could do it. I only had one child with me.

She didn't want to get back into the cart after tasting freedom. So, I decided to let her walk behind me. At her rate, it would take us another three hours to get everything, so I began walking ahead, grabbing what I needed, running back to Lily, pushing her along, and then repeating the process. I thought this was working fine, but apparently one of the Walmart attendants did not agree. "Ma'am. Is this your child? She should probably be in the cart."

That really burned me up. But I quietly submitted and picked up my daughter. I made the attendant stand and watch as the demon entered her body again. It's quite a sight. The employee clearly felt bad, but she probably realized she wasn't an exorcist, so she walked away.

I made my way through several aisles. When people starred at the kicking, screaming, foul smelling, drooling child in front of me, I simply smiled back. In reality, though, I wanted to yell over the loud speakers: "What in the world do you people want me to do, huh? I can't spank her here, or I would be given over to child services. I can't let her out or I would either lose her, another possible child services situation, or be criticized. So, people of Walmart, give a mother of a strong- willed two year old a break!" But, since I couldn't do this, I just smiled.

I couldn't keep pretending. The screaming became unbearable - even to me - and there, in the middle of the shampoo aisle, I lost it. A couple standing in the aisle looked at me and my possessed child and the woman shook her head. And I lost it. I knelt down beside the cart and started crying.

And then it happened. Empathy. A touch of sympath, and a gift of candy from another mother. A sweet woman - I couldn't look her in the eye because I was so embarrassed - was kneeling down beside me putting her arms around me and showing me, hidden in the palm of her hand, a packet of candy. "I have four of them (clearly not referring to the candy), and this works every time."

I stood up, finally looking at this Angel in the face, and thanked her.

"You'll be fine," she continued on, "but being a mom is the hardest job out there."

She was sent from God, and so was the candy. The demon left Lily and was replaced by sweet, sweet sugar. And with some simple encouragement from another mother who probably knows all about posession, I got through my list.

In the check out line, I ran into an old friend. The drastic difference between the two of us as I stood in one aisle, my friend in the checkout line next to me, was astounding. She was cleaned up, dressed nicely, and her son was sitting calmly in the front of the cart. I, on the other hand, due to my quick change in plans, had not showered, combed my hair, put on make-up, and was wearing mismatched socks (which I noticed during my breakdown in the shampoo aisle). My eyes were swollen and red and Lily, well, Lily looked like she had wrestled with a demon...literally.

"Um, so how are you?" She said. I was honest and admitted that I wasn't having the best of mornings, just in case she saw this as normalcy, but I continued conversing, not caring in that moment how I looked...or smelled. I had accomplished the task at hand. I was finished with Walmart and had nothing to complain about.

I was so ready to get out out of the store, and so was Lily. Two hours later, I was checked out. I opened my purse to get my keys....they were not there.

I stood in front of the exit door, so close to freedom and yet so terribly, terribly far away. Lily began crying again wanting to go "out." I told her with all the calmness I could muster that "momma wants to go out too, but momma can't find her keys to get us out of this cottin-pickin' place!" It didn't come out so calmly.

The greeter at the door asked me if I needed any help. While emptying my purse onto the floor of Walmart, in the hopes that my keys were at the bottom of my junk filled bag, I told the greeter that it would be helpful if she could find the candy lady. I don't think the greeter knew how to respond. I mentally replayed my request. Yes, I sounded like a schizophrenic. I started to laugh. Gathering my things, I walked out the door with no plan, but I was finished.

When we got to the car, I found my keys in the ignition. The outing was thwarted from the very beginning. Once loaded up, I looked in the rear view mirror at my daughter who was sucking her thumb and rubbing her foot to her cheek, as she does when she's tired.

"Lily," I said, "Momma loves you."

Lily smiled. Thankfully, she won't remember these sort of adventures. But I will, which is why Lily and my "long list" will not accompany me together to Walmart for a long, long time.