First, warm-up.
Start by locating a shelf in your house that needs decluttering. For this example, let's use a bedroom closet. Be sure to have a box labeled "Goodwill" (or the charity of your choice) at the ready.
Stand directly in front of the shelf. Using a step stool or chair, reach your arms up to grasp an item worthy of donation (e.g., an old Smith-Corona in need of a nonexistent repairman, an old photo album filled with Pokemon cards, or a box containing a hot pot that was last used when Michael Jackson first moon-walked across the TV screen).
Slowly lift the object off of the shelf and hold until you feel the muscles in your arms and back start to throb.
Replace the object to its original spot when you think you hear your spouse or child approaching. Repeat twice and place the item in the box.
Next, cardio. You have a couple of options here—pushing a vacuum, waxing your car, or scrubbing the kitchen floor.
For this example, I'll choose the latter because it has the added bonus of getting a facial when you hold your face over a bucket of steaming water.
Remove all moveable objects from your kitchen—chairs, table, children, etc. Remember to lift with your legs!
Get two buckets. Fill one with water and a soap that is strong enough to get petrified egg yolk and permanent marker off of your linoleum. Fill the other bucket with steaming hot water for rinsing.
Snap on some rubber gloves and pull out a scrub brush and big fat sponge. I recommend sliding a butter knife in your back pocket to have handy should you come across a lump of dried gum or some unidentifiable caked-on gook.
Starting in the corner farthest from the doorway, dunk the scrub brush in the soapy water and vigorously work it over the floor. When you feel the muscles in one arm take on the consistency of Jell-O, switch hands, but don't forget—constant movement is key.
As you rinse the soap off of the floor, remember to hold your face over the bucket to open and cleanse your pores.
When the entire floor is done, dash to the nearest mirror so you can admire your healthy glow.
Lastly, cool down. I recommend a leisurely activity like, say, dusting.
Find a soft cloth (old cloth diapers or swatches of fabric cut from old bridesmaid dresses are ideal).
Run it across any dusty surface—coffee tables, ceiling fan blades, half-finished craft projects, or the box of VHS tapes, the majority of which contain every highlight of your oldest child's young life and about 10 minutes worth of your youngest's.
Congratulations!
Your house is now cleaner, your waistline is trimmer, and your to-do list is shorter, but best of all—you'll look stunning when you pull up to Goodwill.
CHAPTER NINE
You Are What You Spin
~ A Largely Relative Question ~
Dear Plate Spinner,
I noticed you label your family as "relatively large." I have friends who have anywhere from one to seven children and I am acquainted with a family of nine children. What does our culture consider a "large" family?
Jennifer (mother of five and one on the way)
Dear Jennifer,
Thank you for your question! With five children, I used the qualifier "relatively" because I am well aware that, compared to the size of some families, five children may seem like a drop in the bucket, while, for other families, the thought of having five children may send them into a fit of delirious laughter.
I don't know what our culture considers to be a "large" family, but if you experience any of the following, it's pretty much a no-brainer:
— When people learn of the size of your family, they typically exclaim "My, you must have your hands full!" or "There's a special place for you in heaven!"
— When you try to book a hotel room for a family vacation, the person taking your call suggests that you reserve a block of rooms.
— When shopping for a vehicle that will fit your entire family, you find yourself at a shuttle bus dealership.
— When grocery shopping for the week, you can usually be found pushing one cart down the aisle while pulling another behind you.
— When one of your younger children comes home from school complaining that the teacher called him by every older sibling's name before getting to theirs.
— When making a recipe that is supposed to serve four, you double or even triple the ingredients.
— When your grocery bill is the largest expense on your monthly budget.
— When attending a religious service, your family takes up an entire pew.
— When you find yourself changing out dishwashers and laundry machines as often as the oil in your car.
There may not be a cultural norm when it comes to family size, but no matter what the size of your family, certain plates must still be spun—meal planning and prep, house cleaning, child-rearing, career tending, homework monitoring, and financial management, just to name a few.
Members of large families can extol the virtues and drawbacks of their size just as members of smaller families can. What I do know is that the size of my family is just right for us.
Now, if I could just get Rob, argh, Russ, uh, Dan, geez, Chris, ugh, I mean James, to make his bed, I'd be happy.
~ Meal Planning ~
Well-documented research suggests that if families would simply sit down to have dinner together each night, a maelstrom of social, economic, and environmental ailments would be eliminated—everything from teenage angst to global warming. Is it the nutritious meals or maybe the stimulating conversation?
Whatever the reason, the merit of sit-down dinners was certainly not lost on my parents. I have fond memories of eating with them and my older sisters and brothers. Every single night.
Now I've heard of people who can survey the scant contents of their pantry shelves and miraculously whip together near-gourmet concoctions much to the delight and amazement of their family and friends. I'm not one of them.
In those pre-microwave days, my mom, in the few frenzied moments she had between arriving home from work and my dad walking through the door expecting a hot meal, was somehow able to whip together a meat and potato combo hearty enough to satisfy his 6'5" appetite. Little was said at these meals. I learned early on not to make eye contact with my older sister who, at every opportunity, made the goofiest expression on her face to try and get me to laugh. The first time she did this to her naive little sister, I laughed so hard I spilled my milk and fell backward in my chair. Some fun.
So, what's caused this cherished family event to land a spot on the endangered species list? Is it our constant lack of time? Maybe. But, with the advent of microwave cooking, time is no longer an essential element in putting three square meals on the table. Let's face it. We don't want speed. We just want more time. There's a difference.
In my house, our schedules are not the only thing straining at full capacity. We have one woefully small refrigerator. It harkens back to the days when we were a four-person family. It can hold a gallon of milk, a carton of juice, a dozen eggs, a pound of butter, and a loaf of bread. In the produce drawer, I can squeeze an apple and one or two pearl onions. The freezer can hold a box of fish sticks, one mini ice cube tray, and a twin-pop. Nonetheless, it still works like a charm and we are loath to part with it. But, I digress.
This simple four-step plan can help transform you from a harried working parent who crawls through the door after a long commute with just enough energy to curl up in the corner with a cookbook in one hand and the pizza delivery guy's number in the other to a meal-planning, plate-spinning pro:
1. Identify easy-to-make meals that do not require:
a. ingredients you cannot pronounce without having taken four semesters of conversational French in college, and
b. more than 15 minutes of prep time (not including shopping).
2. List all of the ingredients you need to make meals for the next two days (or more if your fridge has a capacity of at least 24 cubic ft.)
a. Make sure you don't alread
y have these items before you list them. The average spice rack does not need more than one container of coriander.
b. Scan the grocery store ads to see where you can get the ingredients for the best possible price (especially important if you're saving up for a larger refrigerator). Match the items pictured in the ads against the items on your list, like a culinary game of mahjong.
3. Determine how far in advance you can make each meal. Some food items, once prepared, can survive a day or two in your freezer very nicely. (Note: Tuna salad is not one of them. Trust me.)
And, for what it's worth, my fondest family mealtime memories all stem from the nights when my Dad would burst through the door, stressed after a long hard day, see how tired and equally frazzled my Mom was, and tell everybody, "Get in the car! We're going to Hamburger Heaven!"
On the drive home, in the cavernous back seat of the family sedan, I would relish the last of my root beer float, knowing full well that it beat having to sit silently at a tense dinner table trying to not make eye contact with my sister who was determined to show me her latest rendition of "see-food."
~ The Grocery Getaway ~
Yes, I've heard of people who can survey the scant contents of their pantry shelves and miraculously whip together near-gourmet concoctions much to the delight and amazement of their family and friends. I'm not one of them. One of my heaviest, not to mention slippery, plates to spin is grocery shopping because it spins perilously close to my meal-planning and coupon-clipping plates, the latter of which I often let fall.
With five boys whose appetites range between a ravenous "there's-nothing-to-eat" teenager and a finicky "I-only-want-popcorn" preschooler, I know the cashiers at my local grocery store better than some of my extended family members.
My husband is the coupon clipper and sales scout, but I am the list maker. While it's not often that my list actually reflects what he's scouted and clipped, I proceed with my plan undeterred.
Often, I'll bring at least one of my five boys for some quality time with Mom so we can talk without interruption on the drive to the store. This is how the conversation typically goes:
Me: "So, how's it going?"
Son: "Fine."
All is right with the world.
Deciding which son to bring is simple. When they see me head for the front door, coupon clutch securely in the crux of my elbow and car keys in hand, they pop up from their seats in the living room like so many prairie dogs popping up through the grass on a hot summer day.
"Where ya goin'?" they ask in unison, their gaze never leaving the TV.
"Crazy," I matter-of-factly reply, just to see if I'll get the usual "Oh, can I come?" from any of them in reply.
The one who has managed to peel his eyes from the TV is chosen as a reward for their über-sharp listening skills.
Any one of my older three boys is preferred to their younger siblings. They can go fetch things that I forget without me having to leave the line. They can go to the bathroom by themselves if nature calls during the midst of a harried tour of the produce department that leaves me wondering since when did the definition of "fresh" include words like "bruised" and "mashed." They truly earn the quarter I dig out of my pocket for a quick spin at the gumball machine.
Not so with my younger two. They bring their own special joys to the grocery shopping experience—namely, grabbing things not on my list off the shelves, opening cereal boxes before they are purchased just to find the prize, and charming the deli counter lady out of a free piece of cheese. All this from one of those innocuous, cumbersome plastic nightmares that are supposed to seamlessly integrate the adult shopping experience with a child's sense of play and parental modeling. The car cart.
But my favorite time at the store is when the crowds have long gone and the boys are home in bed. Free to concentrate on my list, I rifle through the neatly categorized coupons filed in our kitschy clutch. As I peruse the aisles, I often find myself entering a Zen-like state, honing in on the targeted items, freely associating them with their place in the weekly menu, smirking at my inventiveness, all the while singing along to the old adult contemporary hits inevitably warbling from the store's speaker system.
The stock boys are used to seeing me blindly pushing my cart with my eyes glued to the shelves, singing perhaps a little too loudly to Taylor Dane's "Send Me a Lover" as if it were ladies night at the karaoke bar in aisle five.
~ Brown Bag Blues ~
Transitioning your family from a summer schedule to a decidedly hectic school schedule has the potential to make even the most seasoned plate spinners whimper in anticipation. While adapting to the rigors of jam-packed schedules can cause stress levels to spike, it only takes three simple words to send me over the edge—brown bag lunches.
When I was a kid, my siblings and I walked home for lunch where we'd dine on white bread, butter, cheese, and liver sausage sandwiches, prepared by our well-intentioned German grandmother. While I can feel my arteries harden at the memory, coming up with enticing and healthy options for my children's lunches is about as easy as lifting a pickup truck with a spoon.
Between the ever-confusing food pyramid, touting all things healthy, and the junk food infiltrating the media, hot lunch programs, and vending machines, our lunch bag menus have become, well, rather rigid.
My lunch prep plate has traditionally spun around a pantry stocked with fruit cups, snack bars, animal crackers, and not one, but two types of peanut butter—crunchy and smooth. In the fridge, there are always plenty of cheese sticks, baby carrots, and fresh fruit. Not especially trade-worthy, but a veritable cornucopia of nutrition. Yet, when consumed on a daily basis, they elicit yawns in each one of my boys.
Not averse to variety, I've occasionally peppered their options with bananas instead of jelly, graham crackers instead of animal crackers, and sliced cucumbers in place of carrots. But, still, they yawn. Pressured to come up with some real change, I waited for the opportune moment. The last day of school.
Food choices notwithstanding, our routine during the last school term worked like a well-oiled machine. Before the boys headed off to bed, we transformed our kitchen table into a lunch bag-stuffing, sandwich-making assembly line that would make even the busiest sandwich shops envious.
The older, taller boys would bring items down off the shelves while the younger ones laid out slices of bread and opened the peanut butter and jelly jars. At one end of the table sat the heavier objects—fruit usually—and, at the far end, open lunch bags into which they would deposit their choices. In between, they'd make their sandwiches and squeeze them into plastic baggies.
On the last night, when the glumness with which they normally faced this task was pleasantly outweighed by their euphoria over the approaching break, I casually asked them what they would like for lunch during the next year.
Despite the absence of confetti falling from the ceiling, you would've thought they had just won the lottery. Suggestions ranging from "anything but peanut butter" to "pepperoni slices" were volleyed back and forth, but none had the promise of peanut butter's easily stockable, buildable, and repeatable solution the plate-spinning project manager in me yearned for.
~ The Best Laid Plans ~
Last September, I surrendered to an irrepressible urge to get fit. That I announced my intention on my blog and tracked my progress there helped considerably. I ran my first-ever 5k in November.
Yet, as notable as this accomplishment was, it was not prominently featured on last year's resolutions. It didn't even make the top five. I checked.
Those resolutions that did top the list remain, for all intents and purposes, unfulfilled, and for very good reasons.
Case in point, resolution #2: Laugh a whole lot more. Foolishly, I didn't baseline my tendency to laugh, so I was unable to generate quantitative metrics for this one. Then there was #4: Be a positive role model for my kids—way too subjective. Finally, #5: Make a concerted effort to name your fears, stare them down, and conquer them. While I single-hande
dly conquered my fear of using the self-checkout lane at the grocery store, with coupons, my fear of heights remains a biggie. In this, I am learning to love myself for the chicken that I am.
So, as the New Year dawns, my list of resolutions is freakishly short. There is one thing, though, that must be included—sit down dinners with my family.
With our disparate schedules, mealtime in my kitchen resembles eating at a greasy spoon (minus the greasy spoon). Like a short-order cook, as soon as whatever quickie meal I've prepared is ready, I yell "Order up!" and start dishing out the grub to whoever is ready with a plate and an appetite.
As such, the same guilty conscience that prompted me to dust off and strap on my running shoes last fall, is now prompting me to gather the clan together each and every evening to enjoy a hot, nutritious meal.
Most working parents know this is so much easier said than done. There's the meal planning and cooking. Then, there's the battle against kitchen table clutter. Piles of school stuff, junk mail, newspapers, and magazines spring up on our kitchen table faster than dandelions in May.
But on this, I remain firm. Like the annual goals I have to submit to my manager each year, resolutions should be measurable and challenging enough to help me grow as a professional, but not entirely unattainable. Unlike the resolutions I set out to conquer last year, I think this one fits the bill.
It's certainly measurable. I can track how many nights we sit down to eat together. I can generate percentages and track trends. Heck, I can even generate a flashy, multi-colored chart, just for kicks. However, it has yet to be determined whether the challenge lies in the meal planning and prep or wrangling my gang to the table to eat together. And if this family dinnertime thing doesn't work out, there's always resolution #2: Train for a 10k.
The Plate Spinner Chronicles Page 9
