Get Your Head in the Game

There isn't a day that goes by that I am not inspired to try something new.  My ideas rarely become a reality, but at times I become so passionate about them, I can feel my new found plan right at my finger tips.  My husband has learned to listen to my ideas and dreams, knowing (and at times, hoping) that they will probably remain ideas and dreams. 

During the course of our marriage, I have suggested to my husband that I  pursue the following:  The FBI, accounting, the medical field, broadcasting, and journalism.  These are only a few of my engaging suggestions, and while he would support my pursuit in any such area, the problem has been consistency.  If I wanted to be a personal trainer one day, the next day I had the fabulous idea of becoming an in home nanny.  The nanny idea, incidentally, lasted about three minutes. 

Admittedly, part of my issue is contentment.  But then there's also the fear factor.  Trying something new just isn't easy.

A few weeks ago, however, I followed through and decided to try something new.

I joined a basketball league.

When the opportunity presented itself, I almost passed it by for many reasons.  First, the games take place on a night of the week that is just plain inconvenient.  Second, and perhaps most significantly, I haven't played basketball in a while.  Oh, in ten years.  But there was something in me that really wanted to go for it.  So, I did.

This week, we had our first game.  I'll admit, I did not walk into the gym with my head held high.  There was no sign in me of a confident, fearless athlete.  Instead, I walked into an unfamiliar facility with my knees shaking.  But, as I browsed around watching a few athletes do their thing, I talked myself into the fact that I could hold my own.  I could play and they wouldn't know, not for a second, that I was rusty at the game. 

And then I got a glance at the rest of the team.  It was then that I was forced to face an undeniable fact: I was not prepared for my new found adventure.

The other players carried gym bags filled with basketball- type equipment.  I carried in my diaper bag that I conveniently identify as my "purse."  While they pulled out special socks and shoes, I pulled out my kid's diaper and a barbie.  There weren't many laughs that ensued.  I guess I wasn't helping in getting our "heads in the game." 

The other players wore basketball shoes (I suppose this should not have taken me by surprise).  I, on the other hand, wore my glaringly white Wimbledon Tennis shoes.

And then, of course, there were the long basketball shorts.  I didn't have those either.

So, I shook off my nerves, and unfolded the shorts that I had folded over like I do at the pool, and introduced myself to the team.  Right away I made clear to the girls that I was excited to play but that it had been a while since I was competitive on the court.  Immediately, another team member chimed in:

"Oh, I totally understand.  It's been like six months for me."  I decided to not even attempt a joke about the TEN years it had been for me.

Once we were formerly introduced, we began shooting around.  My Wimbledon Tennis Shoes did me alright.  I was making basket after basket and, quite frankly, feeling pretty good about my game.

Then the whistle blew.  As soon as the ball was in the air, I panicked.  I couldn't recall which basket was ours.  So I just began running.  Thankfully, the whistle blew - almost immediately.  I felt a great amount of relief that I would have a second to gather my barrings. 

But then I realized....the referee was speaking to me.  "Take off your ring!  You could poke an eye out!"  After a failed attempt to be sarcastic about the true size of my diamond in the middle of a competitive game, it occurred to me that perhaps I was out of my league....on so many different levels.

None-the-less, I ran back with a renewed sense of competitive spirit - and fouled twice within the first five minutes.  I decided that while the competitive spirit was good, it would not be in my best interest to foul out in the first half of the game.

Because I run long distances, I wasn't sure why, only ten minutes into the game, there weren't other players wheezing like I was.  So I called out a sub.

While sitting on the bench, I did three things simultaneously:  I watched the Post players so I could remember what in the world I was supposed to do; I reviewed for myself the essence of the game:  sprint, rebound, shoot;  and then I listened to a "fan" strongly urge our players to consider various plays to run.  And then I began to laugh.

What in the world was I doing?  I asked myself the question out of humor, not disappointment.  It was humorous to me that I joined a group of young athletes whose weakest player had gone a whole six months without playing basketball and still scored within the first several minutes .  It was laughable to me that I was wearing the same shorts I wore to the pool earlier in the day, and it was even more funny that I thought I would join in and show everyone else how it was done.  Really, what in the world?

But I laughed out of humor, not disappointment.  I had more fun in that hour than I had in a long time, even though I did come home with a stiff neck.  And while I disappointed my son who thought I would be on T.V., I was proud of myself for trying something new.  I even scored six points.  I will admit, however, that even with that small boost of confidence, I still bought new shorts.

Creativity

I’m not creative, nor ever claimed to be. 

There were simply other gifts that were saved for me. 

My daughter, however, is quite inventive.

She makes things from nothing, with no real Incentive.  

On one occasion she needed a cast. 

An idea came to her unbelievably fast.

A long sleeved shirt became sleeveless in minutes.

I gave credit where due, but that reached my limits. 

On another day she threw a big bash. 

With no real decorations, she made her own stash.

So she cut and she tied and created a sight! 

But it was momma picking up till’ well past midnight. 

And then just recent, she took a long “trip.” 

She packed clothes and toys and a suit for a dip. 

They were off to the Beach, with nothing to lack…

It only took me three days to unpack. 

Then one day, trying to get my shopping done,  

The kids acted up, so I thought I’d have fun. 

I changed my voice and called myself Daisy.  

My kids laughed, though others thought I was crazy. 

It occurred to me, then, in the middle of the store:

I’m OK with the messes; there will no doubt be more. 

My daughter’s an example of a great way to live.   

Perhaps she's teaching me… how to be creative…

Two Ears and ONE Mouth

Sometimes I talk too much.  I often remind my kids that God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason.  But, I don't always follow my own advice.  More often than not, folks just need a listening ear, but instead of following this logic, I too often try to encourage people with my words, rather than listening to theirs.  

My husband is good at talking to people.  It's an important part of his job.  What my husband does, that I often fail to do, is listen carefully, getting the full story.  Then he speaks.  He waits and makes sure that he understands the big picture of a person's situation. 

Not long ago, I found myself engaged in a conversation with someone who I knew had surgery fairly recently.  What I didn't know at the time, however, was the kind of surgery this friend endured.  When it was too late, I discovered, thanks to my knowledgeable husband, that it was bladder surgery.  My half informed conversation with this person went something like this: 

"How have you been since the surgery?" 

"Fairly good.  In fact, I had a good week, but then had an accident this weekend, kind of setting me back a bit." 

Again, being uninformed, I assumed this meant a car accident.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," and then tried to think of comforting words just for her and her situation.  "You know, I've had a lot of those and although it's been a while, just remember that it happens to us all."  And then I hugged her as if my words of encouragement would soar through her anxious spirit. 

At the time, I was glad to be able to give her cheer with my words. 

Only now, I wish I would have listened....

It's a Curious Thing

It's a curious thing to me.  My daughter decides to play "school" with her younger brother, and curiously he does every single thing she tells him to do.

When Ella deems it time, Jrod opens his workbook and does every page she puts out; no matter how long it takes him.  When it's recess time, he goes out in the 100 degree heat and runs laps until Ella tells him to stop.  And then, when it's time for music class, Jrod sits at the piano and works even harder when Ella raises her voice and exclaims: "that note is staccato not legato!"  She even asks him to do finger strengthening exercises (whatever that is) and....he does it. Curiously. 

It's interesting to me because my simple requests, such as putting dirty clothes in the hamper, get regularly ignored.  But Ella asks him to do finger exercises (telling him to "ignore the pain") and subtraction problems, and Jrod's working before she can finish her directions. 

Their "game" entertains them for an entire day, so I don't disrupt them until it's time to eat.  And these "school" lunch times are also curious.  It's the only time Jrod actually eats.  Ella comes upstairs, introduces me as lunch lady Louise, and explains that whatever gets placed in front of them is what they will eat.  Done and done.  Jrod will eat everything that lunch lady Louise places in front of him, a rare occurrence.  Maybe I need to change my name to Louise for dinner time. 

There are times when I find myself experimenting with Ella's little tricks.  Could it be that she's figured out the nuances of parenting at the age of eight?  I'm thirty-one and can't accomplish with Jrod nearly as much as Ella seems to be able to during their "school" time.  Maybe I could try growling (I heard Ella do this at one point during the morning). 

But then I considered something this morning.  My sisters "curiously" did the same thing as Jrod.  They used to do everything that I told them to do.

There were times that I'd be lying around watching cartoons and out of pure and utter laziness would ask one of my sisters to get me a cup of water.  The initial response was not only reasonable but completely deserved:  "No."

But then I would come back at them:  "I'll time you.  And if you get a really good time, I'll throw a carnival for you."

Before I could share with them the "fine print" on my offer, one of my sisters would be racing up the stairs gathering me a cold drink of ice-water.  When my sister would return, she'd fine a piece of paper taped to my door:  "Due to unforeseen circumstances, the carnival is canceled for the day."  They were never mad at me - only at the unforeseen circumstances.  Curiously, this kind of occurrence would happen over and over again.   

When we were younger, my sisters and I would have our own "school" days.  And, like Ella, I was always the teacher.  And, like Jrod, neither of my sisters would ever question my role.   Only we had the school at our fingertips.....literally.  My sisters and I would cross the street with my dad on Saturday mornings, and while he studied upstairs, we entered the world of make believe downstairs.  My game, though, was all too real.

There were times when my younger sister would actually cry when I didn't give her a good marking for the day.   She would be dismayed when my other sister would receive two stars on her "work" and she would only get one.  Bekah, my younger sister, was like Jrod.  Whatever I said, she did. 

This was an unfortunate reality for Bekah.  Once I realized she would not question me (Erin would always give me a little lip), there was no going back.  It was even better when I realized that Bekah had a fear of being sent to the Principal's Office.  So on one particular day, as her teacher, I decided she didn't listen well enough and off to the Principal's office she went. 

And, of course, I was the principal as well as the teacher.  As we walked down the quiet hallway, I explained to Bekah what she did wrong and why she was going to the dreaded "office."  She was very apologetic, but I told her there was nothing she could do at this point.  With that, she began crying.

Once we reached the office, I quickly switched roles and put on my Principal face.  Sitting Bekah in a chair in front of me (picture Jack Bauer and his prey awaiting the torture that was inevitable), I simply pointed to a door in the back of the room:

"Rebekah," I used my Principal voice," do you know what happens to kids who get sent to the Principal's office?"

"No," she was totally shaking in her boots.  "I've never been sent here before."

"Well, Rebekah, when you get sent to the Principal's office, you go into that back room.  And in that back room, Rebekah, there is an electric chair.  They electrocute you when you get sent to the office."

"No, no, no....!"

I realized at this point that my sister truly did not know where the line between real and make believe existed, so I told her that she would not have to enter the closet room as long as she "behaved the rest of the day. "

She thanked me profusely and once I was her teacher again, I took her hand and led her back to the classroom where I gave her five minutes to complete the math problems I had written on the chalkboard.  And she did them.  Curiously.

Later that week, during real life school, my sister Bekah was practicing for a musical with her class.  One of the boys was being disrespectful, so the teacher sent him to the Principal's office. 

There was silence as the "real" teacher reprimanded the student.  Silence, except for my sister.  No one in the room could explain or understand her wailing and subsequent yelling, "No, please!  Don't electrocute him!"

I believe this experience had a profound impact on Bekah's view of me as her valiant, older sister.  She never did play my games quite like she did before the Principal's office experience.  In fact, she would come at me at times and say, "You're not my boss," something Erin learned earlier on.  Without a doubt, I thoroughly enjoyed the many years that passed before my younger sister actually figured out that indeed, I was not her boss.

So, enjoy it, Ella.  Enjoy the curious fact that Jrod will do whatever you tell him to do.  One day, however, he will have the same eye opening moment as your Aunt Bekah.  And when that comes....well....Lily, you better watch out.  

Teaching Tact

Most children are not socially graceful.  "Tact" is not something they come by naturally.    It's one of those areas that most parents don't think to provide instruction for until the opportunity presents itself.  And, unfortunately, when confronted with the urgency of teaching children how to say something in a graceful way, an uncomfortable situation has usually already occurred.  

My children do not merely lack social grace, they are, at times, just plain socially awkward.

Today, while jumping around at Monkey Joe's, Jrod made a friend who he thoroughly enjoyed playing with.  After a while, he lost his little buddy, so he asked if I would help find him.  I didn't know who in the world I was looking for, so I told him to spend a few more minutes looking.

He returned discouraged and told me that he "looked in every possible place there ever is or was."  So I told him that his buddy probably went home.  Jrod then pointed to a family sitting a few feet from us: 

"That's his mom and dad."

"Then ask them where your friend is." 

So Jrod meandered over to the couple and stood right in front of them.  "Excuse me.  I'm looking for your boy.  The one in the orange shirt, with brown hair, yellowish teeth, shorter than me, and he is of colored skin.  But he's not of the black kind, he's of the white kind."

It was one of those moments in life that you wish you could just pause and rewind.  I saw a commercial recently that portrays people in awkward situations.  They don't know what to say or do, so time freezes, they have a bite of a particular candy bar and, BAM!  The light bulb comes on and the situation is resolved in a smooth and satisfactory way. 

If only candy bar freezes were real in life.  But they are not.  So there I was starring at my boy confronting the adults, and I was desperate to think of a good way to explain my son's interpretation of their flesh and blood. 

I thought of three things I could do or say, knowing none of them were truly satisfactory.  My first option was to tell them that my son was definitely talking about another boy in an orange shirt.  Secondly, I thought I could just laugh and say, "Oh kids."  Pathetic; there's no doubt. 

I watched my son turn and skip away when he received no response from the adults.  So I went with my third option:  I pretended that I didn't know my child.  I walked in the opposite direction beckoning Lily to come and "jump over here" as if she was the only blood connection to me in the entire facility. 

Who would have thought that I would have to teach my son to not describe another child as having "yellowish teeth."  And when would I have ever considered to instruct him that it's not necessary to refer to races using the phrase "of the kind."  We're human beings, for heaven's sake, not aliens. 

None-the-less, the opportunity awkwardly presented itself this morning, so I did some instructing on the way home. 

Directionally Challenged

For me, simple is never simple.  An “easy” recipe turns into hours of nightmare and clean up, and there’s usually never much to show for it.  As I wrote earlier, the birthday cake, made especially for my two year old, was ruined in a massive way.  After careful review, I discovered that I left out the sugar and did not bake it for the appropriate amount of time.  The result was a doughy, bland, something or other.

I have an instruction- following problem.  My husband has suggested that I might benefit from some sort of a group therapy:  “Hello.  My name is Katie and I can’t follow directions.” 

This fact, however, has been my reality before a husband and children. And for each failed attempt through the years, there has been what I might have considered a good and descent explanation. 

As a child, I did not follow directions well in school. There wasn't a report card sent home that did not criticize my choice of social hour.   I tried to defend my behavior to my parents by explaining to them that God made me talkative.  I needed to be the person He wanted me to be.  That pretty much went nowhere.    

 I went through purgatory in a ninth grade classroom during my first year teaching.  There is no doubt that I was purposefully given the chattiest children in the entire school.  Each day I would publicly apologize to my teachers through the years while simultaneously giving my “if you talk again when I’m talking” speech, trying my hardest to put the same fear into them that the teachers tried to put in me.  I was about as successful that first year as my former teachers were with me. 

When I was ten, we visited my grandmother during a holiday vacation.  She instructed me to “trim the tree” on one particular day while she was gone shopping.  I heard that part of the directions, but missed the part when she told me where to find the ornaments.   I did just what I thought she asked. I followed my own version of her directions and turned her nicely framed artificial tree into something quite different using the shears I found in the garage.  I argued with my parents telling them that I heard MOST of the directions. 

During the end of my sophomore year of college, I stayed up all night cramming for an exam for which I was not prepared.  While shoving information into my brain minutes before the exam was passed out, I missed the all-too important announcement that anyone with an “A” was exempt from the exam.  I didn’t listen carefully and spent an unnecessary three hours on a written exam. 

When my professor asked me why I stayed, I just looked at him bewildered.  He then went on to tell me what I missed three hours before.  I told him I didn’t hear his instructions because I was trying to learn as much as possible.  He told me that I didn’t hear his instructions because I had procrastinated.  He was right. 

And then it wasn’t long ago that I purchased two bookshelves for my daughter’s room.  I wasn’t picky, so I chose the ones that seemed the easiest to put together.  Instead of taking the much needed time to follow the instructions, I threw them away and went with my constructional “gut.”    

What my husband would have put together in less than an hour, I completed in three hours.  And when presenting my accomplishment to the family, there was no hiding the large hole in the back of the first bookshelf and the chipped wood on the second.  These happened only after I put the first shelf together backward. 

The end result of this project was nothing short of ridiculous.   I tried to explain to my husband that the instructions were more difficult than they needed to be, and for that reason, I had decided I would be better off without them.  He said nothing.   All he had to do was point to the hole. 

A few days ago, I discovered a cultural phenomenon with directions that even a person like me can follow.  It’s called Red Box.  Stick your bucks in, walk away with some movies for a night, and stick them back in any Red Box the next day.

When it was time to return my DVD's, I went to a convenient location, walked up, pressed “return,” and let the machine suck in my first movie.  It was taken without a problem.  The second DVD was taken in the same way but almost immediately a warning came up on the screen:  “This box cannot read this DVD.  Please remove from below.” 

I blamed the machine for being insufficient and stuffed the second DVD back into the machine.  The same message came back up.  I literally began hitting the machine when I noticed something.  The machine was blue.  Red Box boxes were….red.  I backed up and saw the title, “Movie Cube,” strewn across the top. 

I declared Movie Cube unsatisfactory for stealing my first DVD.

Impatiently I got in the car and slammed the door.  Ella asked me what was wrong, so explained the whole situation and how ridiculous it was that Movie Cube would take my movie and not return it.  I was willing and ready to keep going on my rampage, but Ella interrupted me:  “Mom?  Aren’t YOU the one who put the wrong DVD in the wrong box?” 

And there you have it.  I was brought back to reality through my eight year old daughter.  No excuse here, folks.  Simple things are only simple… if you follow the directions. 

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.