Chasing Superwoman

by Susan DiMickele

  I know we would have finally bonded after I became a mother. Sure, she probably would have given me her share of criticism, but I would gladly take it to have her back. I can hear her saying, “Miss Prissy is always off traveling while Doug takes care of those poor kids at home. And did you hear about that nanny who fell asleep in the attic?” But she would understand my deep love for my children and would feed them in my mother’s kitchen, telling the same stories over and over again. In the end they all would love her, and she would teach them the importance of family values and community.

  When Doug says that the girls and I have D’Ercole blood, we take it as a compliment. I pray that my girls will have Grandma’s determination, independence, and zeal for life. Grandma had all the traits to be a great lawyer in her time—articulate, clever, and tenacious. She could have held her own with Sassy Shelly and even rivaled Jock Jill in the courtroom. I’m just thankful she made an even better grandmother and mother.

  So many of the women who came before us would have been successful career women in their time. Like Grandma, they were working mothers in every sense of the word. They modeled their faith by putting their families first and, unlike us, they didn’t complain about having more time for themselves or needing their own “space.” They were proud to be mothers first and modeled rich community. We have so much to learn from their generation of Superwomen.

  TEN

  The Bread of Life

  Do not work for food that spoils, but for food that endures to eternal life.…

  I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty.

  John 6:27, 35

  Unlike Grandma, I will never be a domestic goddess. I hate to clean. I can’t even tell you the last time I pulled out an iron. I’m terribly disorganized and can barely keep up with the kids’ schedules, let alone my personal mail. And I hate to decorate. The last time we got a new couch, Abby had Vaseline smeared all over it within an hour of delivery (and, no, we didn’t buy the fabric protection plan). Maybe I’ll decorate when the kids get older. For now, why waste the creative energy, time, and money?

  I may not clean, sew, organize, or decorate. But my roots have taught me the central importance of food in my family life. How could I ever live with myself if I relinquished the fundamental God-given right of preparing daily bread for my family? The women in my family were largely judged on the food they put on the table. Why should I be any different?

  My First Apron

  It’s not like I set out to cook. Like everything else on my journey, it just sort of happened.

  After I entered law school, Doug and I were completely broke. We quickly found that if we shopped smart and were a little creative, we could get by eating well on a shoestring budget. Pasta, our all-time staple, was cheap. And my mother provided me with an endless supply of homemade tomato sauce through law school. I know what you’re thinking: Why couldn’t a grown woman scrape a few bucks together and buy her own sauce at the grocery? It’s simple. I’m spoiled. No canned or bottled sauce tastes as good as my mother’s.

  Not being able to eat anyone else’s sauce had its consequences, especially when my mother lived two hours away. And our first apartment barely had enough room in the freezer for the ice trays, let alone containers of frozen sauce. The solution? I just had to learn how to make it myself. I’ve always been practical about domestic work, and I could see that cooking—unlike cleaning the toilet or dusting cobwebs—had some immediate and tangible benefits. Like feeding us. So my mother bought me one of those sixteen-quart stockpots, and I never looked back.

  Kids in the Kitchen

  Nick’s favorite food is spaghetti, and he also refuses to eat store-bought sauce. I can’t blame him. I’ve created a monster. If you open my freezer, it’s packed with frozen sauce. I have it down to a science. Now that I have a commercial stovetop with six burners, I’ve upgraded to the twenty-quart pot. It still takes a full day to make a pot of sauce, and if I’m quick enough I get started early in the morning before my helpers get out of bed.

  My kids all love to cook. Anna is in charge of stirring, Nick is in charge of rolling the meatballs, and we’re all in charge of cleaning up Abby’s messes. Maybe we should try to stop her from helping, but I don’t believe in crushing the spirit of a two-year-old, even if it does take twice as long to accomplish a simple task. Besides, I’m not in a hurry. Cooking together beats just about any other family activity, and Abby is quickly learning to embrace her roots.

  Besides sauce, our favorite projects include homemade pasta and variety of soups, birthday cakes, and all types of cookies. Every holiday we make cutout cookies, even though I hate cleaning up the mess. The kids end up eating half the dough, and Abby usually has about an inch of flour on the floor. She eats icing by the spoonfuls, and I always regret it when it’s 10:00 p.m., and I’m exhausted and she’s still bouncing off the walls.

  The kids decorate the cookies in a variety of colors, and we’re each careful to respect everyone else’s work and talent. No one will eat Abby’s cookies because she licks all the icing before, during, and after she finishes her work. I’ve become completely obsessive about decorating “my” cookies ever since Nick bought me my first cake-decorating set. The Christmas trees have to be green with white glitter for snowflakes and red bulbs. And the Easter eggs are always purple and yellow, with alternating stripes. I love saving them for my mother so she can marvel about them for weeks. “How do you ever find the time, Susan?”

  There is nothing more rewarding than sitting down to a meal with your children, especially when they’ve helped prepare the food. Sunday afternoon dinners are sacred and easily my favorite time of the week. Give me a kitchen full of hungry kids, a glass of red wine, and an apron and I’m happy as a clam. No TV, no distractions, no rushing around, and no billable hours. We just sit and eat, and there’s always plenty of food. It’s one thing to spend family time together. Sharing a meal is intimate.

  Once again, Lady Lawyer and Devoted Mommy have something in common. They’re both food snobs. Lady Lawyer prefers to dine at the finest restaurants, especially when she’s entertaining her clients. And Devoted Mommy is completely tired of her kids eating junk under everyone else’s watch, so she always refuses the kids’ repeated requests for fast food. Whenever we eat out, I’m always scrutinizing the food, thinking about how I could have made it better at home. Most restaurants are overrated and overpriced, and the kids always order the same greasy foods. Their eyes are usually bigger than their stomachs, and we always order too much. We take the extras home with good intentions, but inevitably leftovers end up in the trash. Who wants to eat a greasy, soggy kid’s meal the next day?

  Even Doug prefers to eat at home. We have always shared a special bond over food. Like me, he appreciates both the quality and experience of a good meal, something not easily accomplished in kid-friendly restaurants. Even if the food is good, we usually end up chasing Abby around because she won’t sit in her seat, and as soon as we get our food, we wolf it down in about five minutes because we know our time is limited before someone is going to ask us to leave. It’s no way to enjoy a meal.

  This is why whenever Doug and I get out for dinner alone, we try to pick a restaurant that doesn’t accommodate children. Sometimes, some inexperienced parents will bring their toddler along, and I join in with the rest of the crowd and give dirty looks. Who wants to be around screaming kids when you just left yours at home? It’s one thing to have your own children ruin a meal. But somebody else’s kids? I’d rather stay at home.

  Unfortunately, eating at home isn’t always that simple. Someone has to cook. Doug will grill hamburgers, boil rice, or stick a casserole in the oven. And he makes and rolls the dough for homemade ravioli every Christmas Eve. But most of the other daily meals in our house fall squarely on my shoulders. If I don’t plan it, it doesn’t get done. So my Sunday
afternoons are usually spent planning dinners for the week. While I’ve got a roast in the oven, there’s soup cooking on the stove, and a whole chicken in the crock pot that I’m going to debone later for casseroles and quesadillas. The kitchen is about 105 degrees, and at the end of the day Devoted Mommy is tired but strangely satisfied. At least we will have dinners through Wednesday. Then it’s back to pasta and frozen dinners.

  My Little Secret

  Most people are shocked to hear that Lady Lawyer spends her Sundays cooking. Like my parents. They didn’t think I could boil water for the first ten years I was married. My mother just assumed Doug did all the cooking, and would ask him questions such as how he makes his sauce and what brand of olive oil he prefers. He would play along with it, and it would make me furious. No one believed that I could cook.

  However, there are certain advantages to having your family think you can’t cook. Advantage number one: You don’t have to bring side dishes and casseroles to family cookouts. I have a special exemption. My sisters all say, “Susie is just too busy to cook,” and my mother insists, “Please don’t bring anything. We already have too much food.” It’s hard to argue with that rationale. So just like Aunt Helen, I usually sit back and let everyone else do my work.

  So long as my secret is safe, I still don’t have to lift a finger. Everyone thinks I’m too busy. But sometimes I get a new recipe that I can’t help sharing with my sisters. There’s nothing like having everyone enjoy your creations or hearing, “Wow! That’s the best avocado dip I’ve ever tasted.” So, a few times a year, I actually contribute something to the meal.

  When my mother visits, she likes to do all the cooking. It’s in her blood, just like it was in Grandma’s. Some women just can’t enter a home without taking over. She brings her own supplies, despite my insistence that I have spices and regular baking staples in my kitchen. Even though I generally welcome domestic takeovers, I finally couldn’t hold back anymore. I really wanted to show her I could cook. So I insisted on preparing the meal. She wouldn’t hear of it at first, but after some arm twisting, she finally gave in. I told her that I really wanted her to spend quality time with my kids since they absolutely adore her and see her once a month if we’re lucky. Why spend your time in front of the stove when three children are all begging for your attention? She couldn’t disagree, so I made her pork tenderloin with stir-fried vegetables and garlic smashed potatoes. She was in heaven. She talked about my pork tenderloin for weeks, and even my sisters were a little annoyed that I had become Julia Child overnight. Never mind that they had been bringing casseroles, dips, and main courses to family functions for years. I was now the most recognized chef in the family. It would cost me the exemption, but it was well worth it.

  If only Grandma could see me now.

  Leftovers and Junk Food

  When guests enter your home, the first thing to do is offer them something to eat. I learned this from my mother. Inexperienced guests at her home smile and politely refuse. This is their first mistake. She won’t take no for an answer and will even take personal offense. “What’s the matter, don’t you like pie?” The more you refuse, the more she will insist, and if you claim you are full she will pack it up and make you take it with you. She makes the best pies around, and—unlike her sauce—I won’t even attempt to replicate them. I’m too afraid of failure when the standards are this high. After eating some pie, she’ll entice you with brownies, chocolates, or some homemade cookies. Who couldn’t feel at home?

  Guests are also good at getting rid of leftovers. I grew up on leftovers, and as much as we all liked to eat, we weren’t allowed to waste. So we would have a meal that included a piece of roast, a pile of dried-out spaghetti, and some leftover casserole. My father would complain like mad, but even he didn’t believe in wasting food, and he didn’t lift a finger in the kitchen. So, like the rest of us, he ate it.

  I try to make my kids clean their plates. I tell them stories about the starving children, and how I always had to clean my plate as a little girl. We have contests. Threats of no dessert or no snacks before bed. But they don’t have an appreciation for the evils of wasting food. Part of the problem? They’ve never seen leftovers for dinner. Doug refuses to eat leftovers, which is where our neighbor Ed the Eater comes in. We can always count on Ed the Eater to clean up anything, which makes me happy because I hate to waste and, like my mother, I love to feed guests. It also takes that extra pressure off the kids, not to mention the guilt off of Devoted Mommy for wasting perfectly good food.

  I don’t know what upsets me more, wasting food or junk food. Few things irritate me more than my children eating unhealthy snacks. I recently saw some study that working moms are more likely to have overweight children who develop health problems because of all the poor food choices they make when Mom isn’t around. Of course, I felt guilty. Just what I needed. Another negative study about working moms. My kids are living proof that validates the study one hundred percent. They love junk.

  Even though I wholly embrace healthy eating, I simply don’t have time to make them healthy food like they deserve. When it comes to snacks, I’m a terrible packer. Most mothers who have nutritional control over their children carry around these coolers filled with fresh fruits, raw vegetables, and purified water. Not me. It’s downright embarrassing when Abby constantly bums food off the other mothers at Nick’s baseball games. We usually race to the ball fields right after I get home from work and the poor thing is starving. The other mothers look at me like, “Don’t you have your own cooler?” Actually, I don’t. I’m lucky if I have an extra diaper on hand, let alone food or water. The few times I actually have snacks on hand, it’s because Doug had the foresight to pack. He picks up all the prepackaged garbage at the grocery, but I can’t complain because at least he took the initiative, and it stops Abby from eating other people’s food.

  As much as he tries, Doug has yet to embrace my nutritional standards. He makes up for it in other ways, so I try to turn my head when he feeds the kids junk on a constant basis. For the record, Ho Hos are deadly and even though Doug allows them, I wouldn’t feed them to my children if they were the last piece of garbage on the planet.

  Why do I spend an inordinate amount of mental energy, time, and passion on food? Maybe I’m trying to overcompensate—the Superwoman complex again—since I’m not domestic in other areas. Maybe I’m just obsessed with food because of my upbringing. Some roots run too deep.

  Food for the Soul

  As soon as I have some extra time on my hands, I’m going to go through the entire Bible and mark every reference to food. I’ll start with Jacob’s birthright meal, manna from heaven, Elijah and the ravens, the widow’s jar that wouldn’t run empty, David and his men eating the consecrated bread, and Daniel’s kosher diet plan. I’ll then move on to the New Testament, including turning the water into wine, feeding the five thousand, and Jesus’ final meal with His friends—the Last Supper. I love to picture Jesus and His disciples in the upper room, reclining at the table. They had shared many meals together before, but when He broke the bread everyone had to know that this one was different. Sometimes I wonder if there will be food in heaven. I’m convinced it would only be the finest of quality, all perfectly made from scratch and no fast food or greasy kids’ meals. I get hungry just thinking about it.

  As much as I feed and nourish my body, you would think I’d take better care of my soul. Like the body, the soul needs water and food to survive. I’ve been living on a soul diet of bread and water way too long. In a twisted way, I have bought into the lie that God wants to deprive me with leftovers when He really wants to give me a feast. “No thanks, God, the beef tenderloin and fresh vegetables look wonderful, but I’d really prefer some old, stale bread and trans fats loaded with nitrates.” So I miss out on the main course and settle for the very things I don’t give my children—leftovers and junk. But God still wants to give me the very best, and He waits patientl
y until I realize it’s right on my plate for the taking.

  It reminds me of my Sunday dinners. If I don’t want fast food or frozen pizza I have to invest the time and energy in preparing a quality meal. Someone has to do the planning, shopping, cooking, and cleanup for all of us to enjoy a family meal. And as much as I enjoy the food, I really enjoy the experience of spending time together with people I love. If I made the dinner for myself, ate alone, and everyone else just heated up the leftovers, it wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable or rewarding.

  Like my Sunday dinners, spiritual food takes time, discipline, and a willing heart. I need to plan in advance, try a few new recipes and patiently wait, being careful not to burn the main course or miss dessert. Sometimes, I wish God would just invent some spiritual fast food for working mothers. Don’t we have enough on our plates? How about a pill for complete and total spiritual nutrition? But like my Sunday dinners, I don’t think a pill could ever substitute for the experience or relationships involved in the meal.

  I still don’t have the perfect recipe for spiritual nutrition, and maybe I’ll never completely figure it out. But I know that I don’t need a pill, I need a Person. Why settle for bread when you can have the Bread of Life?

  ELEVEN

  When Will I Get Some Rest, God?

  Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.