The Meat and Potatoes of Life

by Molinari, Lisa Smith;

  “ … Molinari writes about her naval officer husband, their three children, and her own foibles with love, warmth, and humor.”

  —Jerry Zezima, nationally syndicated humorist and author

  “ … a wonderful look inside the kind of family we all want to invite home to dinner.”

  —Amy Newmark, editor-in-chief, Chicken Soup for the Soul

  “A wry and lighthearted journey through the seasons of family life.”

  —W. Bruce Cameron, #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Dog’s Purpose

  “Molinari writes about the illusive ‘perfect’ family with poignancy and humor … she embraces the chaos of everyday life—and her own vulnerabilities—through engaging stories that resonate. Her writing is pure Erma Bombeck.”

  —Teri Rizvi, founder and director of the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop

  “Molinari has written a hilariously honest, beautifully engaging, and vividly written memoir of her life as a military spouse, the mother of fabulously eccentric and demanding children … insight and revelation … signature wit on every page. A must-read.”

  —Gina Barreca, author of They Used to Call Me Snow White … But I Drifted

  “ … blend(s) belly-shaking laughs with poignancy … The Meat and Potatoes of Life is hearty fare, and I share my highest accolade: I kept saying to my husband, ‘Oh, please let me read this chapter to you!’” Suzette Martinez Standring, author of The Art of Opinion Writing

  The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com

  ©2020 Lisa Smith Molinari

  All rights reserved. The content of this book may not be reproduced by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a memoir, reflecting the author’s recollection of actual events. Every effort has been made to tell the truth, the whole truth, and sometimes an exaggerated version of the truth. Some names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.

  Front cover illustration, hand lettering, and book design by Jessie Barnes for Elva Resa. Senior editor Terri Barnes.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Molinari, Lisa Smith, 1966- author.

  Title: The meat and potatoes of life : my true lit com / Lisa Smith Molinari.

  Description: Saint Paul : Elva Resa, [2020] | Summary: “Humorous memoir of an attorney who leaves her law career to become a navy wife and stay at home mom of three …”-- Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019049231 (print) | LCCN 2019049232 (ebook) | ISBN 9781934617540 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781934617557 (epub) | ISBN 9781934617564 (kindle edition)

  Subjects: LCSH: Military spouses--United States--Social conditions. | Navy spouses--United States--Anecdotes. | United States. Navy--Military life--Anecdotes. | Military spouses--United States--Anecdotes. | Children of military personnel--United States--Anecdotes.

  Classification: LCC UB403 .M65 2020 (print) | LCC UB403 (ebook) | DDC 359.1/20973--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019049231

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019049232

  Published by

  Elva Resa Publishing

  8362 Tamarack Vlg., Ste. 119-106

  St. Paul, MN 55125

  ElvaResa.com

  MilitaryFamilyBooks.com

  For Hayden, Anna, and Lilly.

  I love you more than life itself.

  Now go empty the dishwasher.

  CONTENTS

  A Word From Our Sponsor

  The Rise and Fall of Supermom

  Season One | In the Beginning

  Episode 1 When Strangers Marry

  Episode 2 Bagging the Bagger

  Episode 3 Does This Baby Make My Husband’s Butt Look Big?

  Episode 4 Pork Chop Envy

  Episode 5 Silence Isn’t Golden, It’s Green

  Episode 6 Rule No. 1: Follow the Rules

  Episode 7 How You Play the Game

  Episode 8 Cheeseballs, Perverts, and Other Financial Advisors

  Episode 9 Airing Dirty Laundry

  Episode 10 True Love Is a Gas

  Season Two | In the Mix

  Episode 1 Totally Tubular

  Episode 2 Music to My Ears

  Episode 3 Revival of the Fittest

  Episode 4 Lord of the Houseflies

  Episode 5 Vacationer’s Deadliest Catch

  Episode 6 Thanksgiving’s Forbidden Fruit

  Episode 7 Wanted: Mom Manager

  Episode 8 How Many Idiots Does It Take to Fill Out a 1040?

  Episode 9 Birds, Bees, and Brats

  Episode 10 War of the Roses

  Episode 11 The Stuff Families Are Made Of

  Season Three | In the Trenches

  Episode 1 Middle School Disorientation

  Episode 2 Battle of the Bulge

  Episode 3 The Car Pool Blues

  Episode 4 Lilly Saves Christmas

  Episode 5 Battery by Blender

  Episode 6 A Midsummer Night’s Scheme

  Episode 7 The Armchair Olympian

  Episode 8 Feel It in Your Rear

  Episode 9 The Chains of Love

  Episode 10 Team Mom Survival Tips

  Episode 11 A Christmas Carol, Redux

  Episode 12 Working Out a Time to Work Out

  Episode 13 One of Those Days

  Episode 14 Bracing for Bankruptcy

  Episode 15 The Family Meeting

  Episode 16 365 Days and Counting

  Season Four | In It to Win It

  Episode 1 The Old Man and the Degree

  Episode 2 My Hips Don’t Swing That Way, But My Belly Does

  Episode 3 Lady Surgery

  Episode 4 How to Succeed in Parenting by Really Trying

  Episode 5 The Avocado and Golden Rule

  Episode 6 Pomp and Unusual Circumstances

  Episode 7 Life, Hot Flashing Before My Eyes

  Episode 8 The Silent Treatment

  Episode 9 Freshman Orientation and Other Alien Mind Tricks

  Episode 10 Teen Terms

  Episode 11 Tears on My Toothbrush

  Episode 12 Puppy Personality Disorder

  Episode 13 The Twelve Takes of Christmas

  Episode 14 The Dieter’s Wall

  Episode 15 The Other Men (and a Few Women) in My Life

  Episode 16 Snacks in the City

  Episode 17 The Fix Is In

  Episode 18 What Remains to Be Seen

  Season Five | Are We There Yet?

  Episode 1 Lost on Memory Lane

  Episode 2 Never Say Never

  Episode 3 Once a Military Family

  Episode 4 Shop, Drop, and Enroll

  Episode 5 For the Ones Left Behind

  Episode 6 The Elephant in the Bedroom

  Episode 7 Traveling on Auto Potty

  Episode 8 The Hair of the Dog

  Episode 9 For Pity’s Sake

  Episode 10 The Boy Is Back in Town

  Episode 11 Bowl Day: A Play-by-Play

  Episode 12 Fifty Shades of Mattress Shopping

  Episode 13 The Truth About Our Son

  Episode 14 The Last Time

  Episode 15 The Realities of Now

  Epilogue: It Won’t Hurt You, Mommy

  Credits

  Reader Discussion Questions

  A WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR

  My family life reminds me of a television sitcom. Although the script does not follow a three-act formula, we don’t take commercial breaks, and there is no studio audience, we do have scenes and subplots, heroes and anti-heroes, problems, solutions, and plenty of comic relief. Unlike sitcoms that end with a heartwarming or hilarious message, the meaning in my reality is not always clear. It o
ften gets muddled with the trivial, mundane, and chaotic details in my daily routine. I have to peel away the layers to find my own hidden story arc.

  These are the stories that helped me stay afloat over the last decade.

  Each season represents an era in our family life, starting with marriage and progressing from the honeymoon to changing diapers, pee-wee soccer to itemizing deductions, middle school dances to driver’s permits, summer vacations to sassy teenagers, college visits to an empty nest.

  Each episode involves the same cast of eccentric characters: The lovable husband who doesn’t know the difference between a flat-head and a Phillips screwdriver. The harried mom who hides an emergency can of Pringles in the laundry room. The quirky son who gives one-word answers to every question. The fashion-conscious daughter who milks her victimization as the middle child. The fun-loving youngest child who lives on social media. And the family dog, the only one who seems to have it all figured out.

  Our perspective as a navy family also makes frequent appearances, adding another dimension to experiences and events common to many families.

  So grab some kettle corn and a bottle of cheap pinot noir—they pair well, I promise—snuggle up on the couch, and get ready to laugh, cry, and rediscover the meaning hidden in the madness of modern family life.

  THE RISE AND FALL OF SUPERMOM

  Life was so much simpler when I was a kid.

  I didn’t wake up in the morning worrying about social media profiles, glycemic indexes, or incandescent bulbs. I thumped out of bed, blissfully ignorant that my polyester nightgown was highly-flammable. I removed the faux-denim strap of my orthodontic headgear before padding off to the kitchen for a bowl of Cap’n Crunch or non-free-range eggs with buttered Wonder Bread, washed down with Donald Duck orange juice from a can.

  Over breakfast, I wondered what the day might bring.

  Would Mom agree to drop me off at the pool if I waited until she was done sunbathing in the back yard in her rollers? Would the kid next door want to come over to play, or was there still a beehive in the metal tube of our swing set? Would Dad let me ride my banana-seat Schwinn into town if I promised to pick him up a pack of Salems from the pull-lever cigarette machine in the Capitol Diner on the way home?

  My biggest worry was whether my older brother, Tray, and his trouble-making friends would chase me around the neighborhood again with dog poop speared on a stick.

  As a teen, I slogged through school gauging my enjoyment of each day by such mundane triumphs as staying awake in geometry class and finding peanut butter bars on the cafeteria lunch menu. At night, I talked to my best friend, Patti, for hours on my bedroom telephone, sorting out our insecurities and dreaming of being popular. On weekends, we’d sneak into the local drive-in theater, walk around the mall slurping Orange Juliuses, or borrow her parents’ station wagon to cruise past the local arcade in hopes the boys would stop playing Asteroids long enough to notice us.

  Although I feared my lack of curling iron skills could potentially leave me without a boyfriend, I had no real worries other than a normal dose of teen angst.

  Years later when I became a wife and mother, I began to wonder, Why, after such a carefree upbringing, am I ridden with guilt over using plastic grocery bags or the wrong sugar substitute? Why does my eye twitch when I hear my smartphone message notifications? And why do I hyperventilate when the DVR reaches ninety-eight percent?

  Arguably, there comes a point when marriage, parenting, and family life in the twenty-first century takes more intelligence, physical energy, and organizational skills than most human beings possess.

  I reached that tipping point long ago.

  It was the late nineties. With three kids, our family life was hectic, but we were plodding along, happily keeping our heads above water.

  My husband, Francis, and I bought a suburban Dutch colonial on a cul-de-sac, with an inviting little porch and a wooden play set. As a navy man, Francis worked long hours with frequent travel and occasional two- to six-month deployments, so I got used to taking charge of the kids, the household, and our sloppy 110-pound dog, Dinghy.

  Of course, it wasn’t easy managing the household alone, but I had given up my career as a litigation attorney to raise our family, and I was determined to do it right.

  No matter what it took, I would be Supermom.

  Even when we found out our oldest child, Hayden, had autism spectrum disorder, I did what needed to be done to keep the many gears of our family machine running smoothly, whether Francis was home or away.

  Hayden’s two younger sisters, Anna and Lilly, didn’t understand “special needs.” They grew up believing it was normal to play in therapists’ waiting rooms for several hours each week, for their older brother to eat a strange diet, and for Mom to spend a lot of time with him in the playroom, jotting notes into a spiral-bound notebook throughout the day.

  A slave to my routine, I woke each morning at six o’clock to get the kids up and dressed for school. I slurped coffee, packed lunches, and listened to AM radio while they ate Cheerios. After walking Hayden and Anna to the elementary school—one hand gripping a to-go cup and the other pushing Lilly in the stroller with a dog leash around my wrist—I’d rush back to drive Lilly to Montessori preschool in our minivan littered with Happy Meal toys and gummy bears. When I returned home, I had forty-five minutes to do laundry and make beds before my step aerobics class at the YMCA, followed by the preschool pick-up. My guilty pleasure was the half hour back at home, standing at the kitchen island, when I ate a turkey sandwich for lunch and watched Days of Our Lives.

  I maintained the same rigid efficiency in the afternoons, bringing paperwork, toys, and snacks to occupational and speech therapy appointments and doing play therapy with Hayden in the finished room over our garage while dinner was in the oven. After baths and bedtime stories, I’d hit the couch. But even then, I was multitasking: journaling Hayden’s progress in my notebook, sewing Halloween costumes out of sweatshirts and felt, folding laundry, and balancing the checkbook.

  On weekends we rushed to soccer and flag football games, packed for scout campouts, went to church, cut grass, raked leaves, and cleaned gutters. Our rewards were simple: lawn chairs in the driveway on Saturdays at dusk, drinking cold beers with our neighbors and telling stories while the kids chased fireflies and rode scooters.

  Though I was spinning multiple plates in the air, I somehow managed to keep it all together.

  Then, life got more complicated.

  On September 11, 2001, I was in the shower of the YMCA women’s locker room, crying. Right after my step aerobics class, a fellow navy spouse had told me about the destruction of the World Trade Center towers in New York City in a suspected terrorist attack. She and I both knew this event was not just everyday bad news. It was an instant crisis of massive death and destruction on American soil. The US would have to respond quickly and with force and keep a more vigilant watch to prevent more attacks. This would change our lives forever. I quickly retrieved the kids from nursery and preschool and rushed home to watch the horror play out on television.

  Immediately, new missions were announced, and the military’s operational tempo gained speed. Francis, a naval intelligence officer, spent longer hours at work. At home, his mind was always on the daily intelligence briefing he would give the next day. Subsequent jobs sent him on frequent travel assignments, twice to Iraq for short stints. The years following 9/11 added a new level of stress to our lives, but also a fresh sense of purpose and patriotism. I was thankful Francis was not on the front lines. Even though his time away from home had increased, he hadn’t been asked to deploy for long periods like some of our friends.

  But then one afternoon, Francis came home early. He sat at our kitchen table, looked down at the folded khaki garrison cap in his hands and broke the news. He was deploying.

  In Francis’s career field, this was surprising news. While aviators, surface warfare officers, submariners, and other members of the navy were often sent on
deployments, intelligence officers compete with each other for the few deployment slots available to them during their time in the military. I say “compete,” because deployments, necessary to national security, are also beneficial to the careers of military officers.

  Francis had volunteered to be an IA, individual augmentee, on an anti-terrorism task force. For him, this meant stateside training in South Carolina and Rhode Island followed by a yearlong deployment to Djibouti, Africa, adjacent to Somalia, which was known then as a haven for terrorists.

  Selfishly, what I heard was that while he was off training in the States, then deployed to some godforsaken combat zone for at least a year, I would have to handle everything at home. Alone.

  Many of my friends at the time were naval aviators’ wives who were used to successive deployments. Even they reacted to my deployment news with gasps. This was not comforting. “A whole year?!” they exclaimed. “Oh, girl. You better start stocking up on wine now.”

  They assured me life as I knew it would soon come to an end, and the only way for me to survive was to lower my standards enough to shamelessly wear pajama pants all day and let the kids eat Fruit Loops for dinner. They told me about the frequent crying, the rat’s nest hairdos, the justified consumption of afternoon alcoholic beverages, and the shopping binges they creatively referred to as retail therapy.

  But I wasn’t buying it. I was different. I was Supermom. I had proven I could rise to any challenge.

  Besides, I didn’t depend on Francis the same way my friends depended on their husbands.

  Francis is no ordinary man. Sure, he loves watching football as much as the next guy. There isn’t a cured-pork product he’d turn down. He has more than his share of body hair. And, like most guys, he goes into that weird trance-like state with half-open eyes and spittle on his chin when a Victoria’s Secret commercial comes on.

  Unlike most men, however, Francis openly admits to having no mechanical skills. He refers to hardware stores as haunted houses and thinks the most useful tool is a handyman’s telephone number. I’ve seen him squeal and swat at the air like a scared little girl at the sight of a marauding bee or horsefly. He loves white wine, cricket sweaters, scented candles, fancy coffee, and has an interesting penchant for collecting Polish pottery. And although his family called him “Frank” when he was a kid, he prefers the presumption of refinement and sensitivity that comes with being known as “Francis.”