Years ago, my in-laws played host to several students that were part of the local high school’s foreign exchange program. One such guest of the family was Gustav. At the time, Gustav didn’t strike me as being particularly insightful. Frankly, my biggest memory of him was that we all just wanted him to take a shower.
But now that I look back on Gustav’s brief time with us, I’ve come to appreciate him, or at least something he once said when describing my mother-in-law’s cooking - “Not really a meal, not really a dinner.”
You see, with Anne’s hectic schedule, she frequently relied on quick-cook meals such as salads, a piece of grilled chicken & a microwaved baked potato for dinner. Good, but unfussy fare requiring minimal prep time. Apparently, this type of cooking wasn’t to Gustav’s liking. The other exchange students told us that Gustav’s mother would prepare elaborate multi-course meals for him every night, so it’s not surprising that Anne’s off-the-cuff cooking style left him wanting.
Gustav is long gone, but I’ve found that ”not really a meal, not really a dinner” lives on. It serves as an easily understood metaphor for all things squishy or underwhelming - like this blog, for instance . Some more examples:
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Ashley Judd Films
While I can see that she’s a talented actress, so many of her films seem like drawn out Lifetime Movies of the Week - only with her boobs showing. The films she’s chosen don’t seem to have enough meat to make great film, but they’re good as entertainment. See what I mean? Not really a meal, not really a dinner.
The Presidential Race
John McCain - not really a meal, not really a dinner
Mike Huckabee - not really an appetizer, meal or a dinner - just gravy
Mitt Romney - not really a meal, but listed as one on the menu
Hillary Clinton - not really a meal, not really a dinner
Barack Obama - dinner*
John Edwards - 8×10 glossy of supper on the cover of a cooking magazine
*I don’t want to get too political here - that’s not what Raw Drip’s about - but just let it be known that I think Obama is probably both a meal and a dinner. Whatever you call him, I think it’s nice to have another choice on the menu.
Morning News Shows
Granted, I grew up in the Jane Pauley/Bryant Gumble era of morning news shows, but didn’t they use to spend more time on, well, news? Remember news? That was the stuff that used to be brought to us several times a day, providing important information about global events - not just stuff happening in the U.S.? These days, the morning news reader only gets 60 seconds every half hour to brief us on the day’s news so we can get back to important information like the latest trends in hemlines. With today’s “news” focus squarely on entertainment without, lets face it, actually being all that entertaining, I’m left with that “not really a meal, not really a dinner” feeling…
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See how “not really a meal, not really a dinner” just works? It smartly captures the subtleties we often struggle to describe - the difference between a meal & a dinner, between art & entertainment and between seeming different, but sounding the same.
So here you go. Take Gustav’s term and use it freely- it’s my little gift to you. I only ask that you cite Raw Drip as its source so, maybe some day I can pay for a meal, maybe even a dinner.
My mother-in-law once put it best, “A child is born with the instinct to the kill themselves, and it’s your job as a parent to stop them.” Sounds ’bout right to me.
Whenever Dick and I talk about the prospect of a third child, I always secretly imagine having another boy. Don’t get me wrong - I adore and love my children equally - really, I do (the dog is my favorite, truth be told). But, I worry about Adam. He’s prone to rash decision-making, gross underestimation of his physical capabilities, and a fascination with turning anything he finds into a shooting weapon. He routinely exhausts himself running, kicking and jumping and then climbs to dizzying heights, leaping with abandon only to crash to the ground, injured. Five minutes later he’s up and at it again. Surely these are signs of someone who’s not long for this world. So while he’s warm, sweet and utterly irreplaceable, I think it might be nice to have what I call a “back-up boy” - just another one waiting in the wings in case Adam succeeds in his mission to kill himself.
But, just when I’ve determined that the next child should be a boy, I waffle. Having and raising Tabitha is wonderful. Her gentle, quiet nature veils a brilliant mind that effortlessly grasps concepts far beyond her two years. When I imagine another daughter in the house, I start to think how great it could be to have a house full of caring, bright women - my own sort of ”Little Women” clan at my feet - with me the wise and steady hand guiding them to greatness. Besides, with the dog neutered and clearly loyal to me, another woman around the house means we’ll have majority rule when it comes to restaurant selection.
But there’s a downside to all this female bonding - more women in the house equals more competition for resources such as clothing, food & jewelry. I don’t get jewelry all that often from Dick so the thought of any competition for my supplies concerns me. An even more serious downside of daughters would be the heartbreak of watching as they emotionally climb to dizzying heights and leap with their hearts, only to crash to the ground, injured. Great physical leaps are foreign to me having been a reader, sketcher, couch-potato type all my life. I think that’s why the “back-up boy” idea holds a certain allure. Being a woman, I know what it’s like to scale emotional heights and make those leaps and the thought of being so close to all of the fear, guilt and self-doubt again is pretty terrifying. Stopping my boys from climbing trees seems easy when compared to the prospect of stopping my girls from emotionally killing themselves.
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As Dick was driving the kids home from daycare the other night, our 2-year old, Tabitha, muttered from the back seat, “I not kill you today” followed by spooky little girl laughter. Creepy. Later at home, Dick relayed her Bond villain statement to me saying how pleased he is with the quality childcare $2,000 a month buys these days. Daycare is a bit of a scapegoat. The fact is a lot of parents might be worried about such disturbing utterances from a 2-year old, but Dick and I know that neither Tabitha’s threat/promise nor any of the questionable behavior our children exhibit has as much to do with the quality of daycare as it does with the viral nature of life, itself.
Without ever seeing or talking about guns in our home, Adam builds them and plays “shooting” every chance he gets. Instead of saying, “Where did we go wrong?”, we try to chalk it up to the fact that, somehow, they manage to pick this stuff up despite our best efforts. So, my take on parenting is a little different than my mother-in-law’s since, as far as I can see, my job is to help them avoid injury and use the delay to prep them for the impacts I can’t help them avoid; it’s a stance that recognizes the futility in believing I can really stop them now that they’re on the loose.
Ugh. It’s all too bittersweet for me. Before we start working on a third kid, Dick and I should stop second-guessing ourselves and make peace with what seems to be our live and let live parenting style. The fact that our boy practically kills himself to have fun while our daughter threatens to kill others to have fun is of little consequence when we are steadfast in our belief in the benefits of gentle guidance over iron rule in raising decent people.
Or maybe, we’ll just abandon the third kid idea and get another dog. In fact the more I think about another dog, the more I like that idea. I could use another mute player on my team - someone fiercely loyal and with no affinity for designer accessories.
Dick and I have noticed that our 2-year old, Tabitha, is making huge strides in her ability to communicate with us. No longer are her thoughts expressed in bits and pieces - a few words strewn about. Now her thoughts are connected with a delicate little narrative for her parents to cling to when deciphering requests. Still, while she communicates her desires more clearly, many of our conversations are of the circular, unproductive variety usually reserved for weekly one-on-one chats with one’s micro-manager. These conversations are exhausting, leaving me and Tabitha emotionally spent and Dick and Adam utterly confused. Take, for example, last night’s conversation with Tabitha at the dinner table…
Me: “Do you want some peas for dinner?”
Tabitha (suddenly bursting into tears): “I don’t want peas!”
Me: “Whoa, honey! Okay, okay, no peas. How about some chicken?”
Tabitha (sobbing uncontrollably): “I don’t want chicken.”
Me: “What would you like, then?”
Tabitha (still sobbing): “I want…I want…I want peas.”
Me (spooning peas onto her dinner plate): “Okay, calm down - have some peas.”
Tabitha (tearfully staring at her dinner plate): “Mommy, I don’t want peas on my plate.”
Me: “Well, where do you want them, dear?”
Tabitha: “In a bowl.”
Me (moving peas from her plate into a bowl): “No problem, sweetie here you go - peas in a bowl.”
Tabitha (bursting into tears again): “No. No. I want chicken!!!”
Me: “Why are you crying, again?”
Tabitha (sobs): “Because I’m crying…”
Me: “Well, uh, you don’t want peas - only chicken, right? Do you want your chicken in a bowl or on your plate?”
Tabitha (still crying, looking hopeless): “I don’t want chicken. I want a banana.”
Me (handing her a banana): “Alright. Do you want me to help you peel it?”
Tabitha (pouting): “I don’t want you to do it. I want Daddy to do it.”
Dick (whispering to me, as he peels the banana): “What’s wrong with her?”
Me (to Dick): “I don’t know, but I’m pretty you must have done something to upset her.”
Dick seems fairly mystified by Tabitha’s constant mood swings. I’ve tried explaining to him how sometimes we women just want everyone to shut up and listen - to be with us as we’re sad and miserable - and not rush in to rescue us with silly things like logic or reason. Besides, this is the easy part, I tell him. Tabitha’s teen mood swings will pale in comparison to this stuff. Consider these moments the rumblings of an awakening volcano.
So dear Tabitha, let me assure you, it may not seem like it, but Mommy has spent years prepping Daddy for you with my own share of spontaneous emotional outbursts. He’s still confused by it all - definitely a work in progress - so be patient with him and know that you always have a special place in Daddy’s heart, even if Daddy’s brain can’t figure out what’s going on with you.
Raw Drip is one woman's raw, wry, fresh, and cheeky take on parenting, relationships, life, and other important stuff. I started writing Raw Drip because my friends are scattered all over the place and as a working mother with two toddlers I have no time to talk to them on the phone, meet them for a cup of coffee - or bathe regularly. Instead, I sit my stinky solo self down at my computer and write about all the things I used to talk with them about - and then I share it all with you - my fan base, my readership, my loyal drips.
Some of you have asked about the site name, Raw Drip, what does it mean? The name was inspired by the freshly perked cup of coffee I was drinking when I decided to start writing. I guess people see the word "raw" and just assume that the name has something to do with porn. It doesn't. I also don't write about: raw meat storage, raw food dieting, photos of people in the raw, or an obscure Japanese band named Raw Drip.
So dudes, if you've inadvertently stumbled upon my site while surfing for porn, my apologies. Unfortunately for you, you've landed in a place that's all chick-chat, with occasional penis references thrown in just for fun. At Raw Drip, the truth is harsh. But if you're man enough to handle it, keep reading. If not, move it along...
There. Are we all clear now? No porn here.
Happy Reading!
Samantha
Big Drip, Mom, wife and training geek