Help! I Need Somebody...

"Mom, this is divine!"

Do you know how many times I have heard this phrase during my 17 years of cooking meals for my children? Probably one and it was the other night. I know I have made mini chicken pot pies before but for some reason this go round they were considered exceptional.

I have never claimed to be a good cook. I don't even like to cook but I have come to be proficient at it over the years. I have a few go to meals that my kids like for example:  kilbassa casserole, Rachel Ray's pasta and trees (broccoli) and corn flake chicken nuggets that supposedly rival Chick fil A's.

Cooking meals for my family has not always been easy but it was a precedent set by my mother. We always had home cooked meals growing up even when she started back to work full time when I was in high school. I loved her Oven Fry chicken, stuffed flank steak and of course her meatloaf. I was called up to help prepare these meals in order to get the food on the table for when my dad got home. We ate together as a family. It seems back then things were a little less busy.

These days, my husband gets home from work after we eat and after the kids are driven either to work, to basketball or to dance. Who has time to cook? It would be so easy to eat frozen Aldi chicken fries every night of the week and, to be honest, I think my kids would be ok with that until probably day 4. Then they would ask for Lunchables or frozen pizza to break up the monotony - not one of my home cooked meals previously mentioned.

I have been trying to get in a groove with managing our housework since I started my new Monday through Friday job. It has been a challenge. Getting the shopping done on the weekends and doing some meal prep doesn't always work out. But this week, I went back to 1989. I gave my oldest son some things to do before I got home from work since he is off the bus and home first.  I got on board the time machine from my youth and did it old school.

On Monday: I asked him to please peel a few potatoes and carrots and put them in a pot of water. (I used them in the pot pies.)

On Tuesday: Please boil some water for noodles and please cut up the kilbassa in medallions. (I used those in the kilbassa casserole.)

Do you know what a difference his help made? Sharing the load these past few days has made me appreciate the help I have available and also manage to have nice stress free meals to enjoy in the evening. (It also helped me to get a little nap in on Tuesday when I wasn't feeling well.) I think overall it has been a win-win for both of us and I have noticed my son seems, shall I say it...happy to help? 

For years I have been searching the Internet for ways to get my kids to be more helpful. I've tried Mom Bucks, which was simply a reward system with the kids receiving a ticket, when they did chores on their own, that they could redeem for a prize. FAIL. The kids never did things on their own and I never bought prizes.

I've tried having a small dry erase board in each room with a list of chores to do that should be checked off each day. FAIL. The kids lost some of the markers that went with the boards and if I didn't look at the boards each day, I didn't know if the check marks were from today or three days ago.

Don't get me wrong - my kids do dishes and take out the garbage, when asked,  but I have been wanting to go beyond those boundaries. I don't mean to sound like a crotchety old man who walked to school both ways uphill but when I was their age I ironed clothes, including, for some reason, my dad's hankies. I scrubbed the floors. I used a Brillo pad on pots and pans. My kids don't do any of these things although, I don't iron any more either. (The hankies did me in I guess.)  I think I took it easy on my kiddos but I am seeing there is still time and I can right this ship of fools.

So lift the anchor and set sail. Who knows where this new course will take us? Maybe one day, my son will make an entire dinner by himself?

I'll keep you posted.

Royal Exit

Could you do it?

Could you walk away from everything you've ever known - all in the name of love?

That is what Prince Harry the Duke of Sussex is apparently doing. Giving up life as an active member of the royal family to live a more common life.

You may not care about this story and that is ok. I have mentioned before, my fascination with the British royal family began with the wedding of Harry's parents Prince Charles and Lady Diana back in 1981. I was almost 7 years old - an age perfect for a good princess story. Keep in mind, back then there was no Elsa and Anna, no Belle or Jasmine no Ariel or Rapunzel. I partially blame a lack of Disney princess variety in the early 80s on my royal attachment.

But watching that royal wedding on television, at such an early age, made an impression on me. The beautiful cream colored dress, the handsome prince, the kiss on the hand - it seemed like a dream worth admiring. A dream that wasn't a cartoon. Of course when you are 7, nothing is what it appears to be and, looking back on it now, there were subtle signs that things were not going to turn out happily ever after. But no one imagined the tragic turn it would take.

Sixteen years later, there I was again glued to the television. This time watching the coverage of the horrible car crash in a Paris tunnel. The princess was gone. It was hard to wrap my head around how what started as a fairy tale could end so badly. As hard as it was for common folk across the pond to fathom, it was the image of two young boys walking behind their mother's casket that united everyone in their grief. Grief that was instigated by the paparazzi and their desire to get the next hot photo.

Now fast forward 23 years. Both Diana's sons are married and have children of their own. The oldest, William, is on track to one day be king of England and his wife is the textbook would-be queen - all the things expected of a princess, upper-middle class upbringing, family ties to British aristocracy, content to work and promote a variety of charities.

On the flip side, you have the youngest son, Harry, who has been bumped so far down the line of succession, by his nephews and niece, that it is unlikely he will ever be king. He has a wife that is not your typical royal - former American actress, divorced, of mixed heritage with divorced parents.

Both women, Kate and Meghan, have had run-ins with the media. Lawsuits have been filed against British tabloids for publication of intimate photographs and invasions of privacy. Although both sons are on high alert and are very protective and pro-active about living with this constant media intrusion, considering the high price they have already paid, Harry is in more of a position to do something about it. He and his wife have only been married almost two years and it appears that now, with a young son in the mix, he has had enough. He is ready to make a break from the royal life he has always known and give his family a chance of something more common, something more safe.

It is hard for everyday people, like you and I, to think giving up millions of dollars, giving up servants, and giving up mansions is a good choice. But the things that come along with it, for members of the royal family, seeing nasty or private things printed about your family, being secretly followed when on vacation by unscrupulous photographers, it doesn't seem like the kind of fairy tale anyone would choose.

Just this week, negative comments flooded social media surrounding a photo of Meghan out with baby Archie. The poor kiddo looked uncomfortable in the baby carrier his mom was wearing and lots of people shared their criticism. The poor girl cannot get a break. I would not have wanted to be photographed when I was learning the ropes with my little ones. Especially the time I had to nurse a baby on the beach and the cover up blew off, or the time my husband fell while carrying our baby as he was running to the car in the rain or the time my kid threw a tantrum in the grocery store because the lady at the deli counter did not offer him a piece of cheese.

Being a new parent is hard and hopefully this young couple will have greater freedom to be themselves and make mistakes, that don't light up social media, when they officially step back from royal life and spend more time in Canada.

I know this royal stuff isn't something everyone cares about but rooting for a young family is something anyone can get behind - no matter what the backstory is. So here's to Harry, Meghan and Archie. May they experience all the simple joys of being a family, without all the fanfare/baggage of being a royal. Harry didn't choose to be a prince but he did choose to be a husband and father. I don't know about you, but I like where this fairy tale is headed.

Where's Mine?

I wanted it. I needed it.

The cheesy goodness was about to be mine after running a limo service all Sunday afternoon.

My husband and I made an executive decision to order a pizza for dinner since there had been no time to prepare a meal. For as busy as our weekdays are, with work and school, the weekends are even worse.

In fact, I wouldn't even call what we have a weekend. It is more or less two days without work spent in my van. It's not quite an Uber because those drivers get paid in cash. I get compensated by getting to spend extra time with my teens, and the real joy is wondering which teens I'll be transporting - Jeckels or Hydes.

Anyway, I digress. Although our Sundays are usually busy, this past one had a few extras tacked on. By the time I got home it was around 6 p.m. My only desire at that point was to sit down, watch an episode of The Crown, on Netflix, and enjoy a warm, crusty, cheesy bite of heaven.

So there were only 4 pieces left when I got home. It was ok. Only my daughter and I hadn't eaten yet. Once she opened the box she said, "I'm probably going to eat all of these. I'm that hungry." (Keep in mind she had only had a small lunch five hours earlier.)

Then my youngest walked in the kitchen and said, "I'm still hungry."

Slowly with each cut - the pieces were disappearing. My cheese reward was getting further and further away from me. Finally, there was just a mere sliver of green pepper pizza left. My youngest reappeared.

"Do you want this?" I reluctantly said, knowing what the answer would be. And then it was gone.

Ordering pizza has been something we have done occasionally for decades. It's always been a large, one topping pizza. Sometimes half with pepperoni and half with green peppers. But at some point along the way, as the kids got bigger and their appetites grew, our order pretty much stayed the same.

Although, as with most things I have bought consistently over time, sizes have changed. Look at a package of Oreos - way smaller than 20 years ago. A "Family Size" bag of potato chips certainly has shrunk over time and don't get me started on Twinkies!

 The pizza we get now is called X-Large but it only has two more pieces than the large. Now the term X-Large sounds huge and should be able to feed 5 people but alas it does not. (Although my family does consist of two adults, two teens and one 8-year-old who, depending on the day, may actually want to eat.)  If we went back in time, like to the olden days when I was a teen, an X-Large pizza probably fed 10 people. It was probably that big. But when you consider inflation, downsizing and global warming - pizzas certainly have shrunk. (Except a Vinnie Pie of course.)

So it seems that maybe I was already bitter before PizzaGate 2020 but, when I looked at the empty box, all I saw was red. Actually the box was brown, but you understand the metaphor. And with all rationality out the window I did what any 45-year-old woman would do.

"I'm going to my parents' house," I exclaimed as I slammed the door and made my escape.

I called them from the car to see if they were home and sure enough they were. I asked if they were up for a visit and of course they were. I didn't get into the hows, whats or whys over the phone of what had happened with the pizza - it seemed childish at this point as I had already begun to cool down. But my parents must have been able to sense in my tone something was amiss.

 When I walked through their door there was already a glass of wine sitting out for me in the living room. It was a sight that almost made up for the cheese depression I had just experienced. It makes my heart happy to still have people in my life that oftentimes can anticipate what is needed before it is even said. Moms often take a backseat and just a little "Hey, you matter too!" Is needed amidst the chaos of family life.

So there are a few lessons that we can all take away from this pizza fable. 1. You can never order too much pizza. (It will be eaten. If not today, then definitely tomorrow.) 2. A glass of wine is not a substitute for a piece of pizza but it can help you forget that you wanted one. 3. There is no place like home - even if it is your childhood one.

Auld Lang Syne

I am normally an optimist when starting a new year.

I have been the kind to reflect on the year gone by, assess what needs to be changed and make a game plan on how to make things better - looking forward to starting with a clean slate on January 1. A perfect year ahead with no mistakes in it.

But I didn't do that last year. I along with members of my family spent the final days of 2019 waiting for a loved one to die. The call eventually came at 3:48 a.m. New Year's Day. Once the ball had dropped, all the celebrations had died down and a peacefulness spread across the land, my uncle took his last breath. He had been quite ill so his passing was merciful but nevertheless sad and nevertheless not the way you want to begin a new year.

We had about a month to prepare. The news came early in December that weeks were all he had left. The news did not seem real. I have always been a glass is half full kind of gal but how do you spin news like this? When you are dealing with death in your face, fast and without justification, it's hard to make sense of it all. Especially during the holidays. A time when you are supposed to be...happy.

At first it didn't seem like the hospital team's assessment of days to live was correct. When I visited my uncle in the hospital on December 18 it seemed like he was far from death. Yes, he seemed tired and his motor skills had declined but he was able to get up and slowly walk around. We were able to have a conversation, which looking back at it now is heartbreaking. I am not sure if he was sugar coating information for me, maybe thinking I didn't know his prognosis, but he said doctors were still trying to figure out what was going on. But I knew the truth. I knew the cancer had spread.

Hearing Christmas songs on the ride home from the hospital that day seemed like a cruel joke. This holiday season, going present shopping, making cookies - it all lacked the spirit. I went through the motions - trying to block out the black cloud hanging over my family. It made me realize how hard holidays can be for some people and that they are not always Norman Rockwell portraits and that is was ok.

But there was something that kicked in on Christmas Eve. Gathering with my family at church - the hugs were a little tighter, the handshakes a little firmer, the walk to the car arm and arm with my dad, a little more cozy. All was calm - all was bright.

Grief is an individual experience and within my immediate family we were all dealing with the pending loss in our own way. I found myself looking at old photos remembering fun times with my uncle  - especially when I was kid. He was the fun uncle - the cool uncle. He drove a Camaro that looked just like one of the Matchbox cars my brother had in his collection. It was the sleekest most amazing looking car and for this little girl who didn't know her Dodge Dart from an Alfa Romeo it was something that took my breath away.

On the day before my brother's first holy communion,  I guess my parents needed to get a few kiddos out of the house so they could get party ready and my uncle came to the rescue. Years before booster seats were a thing, my bro and I were living our best life cruising up and down the streets of McKeesport in my uncle's newly waxed, black Camaro.

The greatest thing about this memory is that somewhere there is video to prove it actually happened. My uncle, while driving mind you, was manning a video camera, narrating our trip down Grandview Avenue. The cherry on the top, the song that came on the radio to get us home, Hot Rod Lincoln by Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen.

My uncle had a mini gym in my grandparents' basement. He was into body building and wrestling and, as kids of the 80's WWF generation, it filled my brother and I with a sense of pride to have our own big muscle guy among our relatives. At one time, I thought Bruno Sammartino was related to me because of all the magazines and photos of him that could be found at the little house on Freeland Avenue.

I remember my brother and I jumping on my uncle's bed, listening to the White Album, a request by yours truly,  while he lifted weights. My grandmother would prepare a breakfast of champions for him each day - a six egg, pound of bacon extravaganza which was a marvel to behold.

These memories of a happier, healthier time are what I prefer to keep in my head right now. Although my uncle was 12 years younger than my dad, he looked a lot older in his final days. I keep looking at a favorite photo from my childhood - the one that sat on my grandparents' television of my uncle running Pittsburgh's Great Race in 1979. I was only 5 when the picture was taken so I didn't quite understand the full significance of running a 10K, but having run a few 5Ks myself in the last five years I get it now and it makes the photo even more of a treasure.

So I didn't start the new year feeling excited about what might lay ahead in the days, weeks, months to come. I did start the year replaying a pocket full of wonderful times from years past that are helping ease the loss at this sad time. I know that the memories I make in 2020 will be added to a mental comfort quilt that will see me through on those rough days which will be scattered along the road ahead.

James"Jim" Bishop running the Great Race in September 1979.