With my first commissary experience behind me, I adopted two new policies: Always tip the baggers, and never serve meatloaf with a side of grapefruit.
SEASON 1 EPISODE 3
DOES THIS BABY MAKE MY HUSBAND’S BUTT LOOK BIG?
“Do you want a boy or girl?” I asked, lazing in bed, seven months pregnant on a Saturday morning in 1995. Francis and I gazed languidly through the lace sheers billowing over our bedroom window at the sun-soaked cypress tree in our little Fort Ord, California, back yard.
Without the early morning responsibilities a baby would soon bring to our weekends, we were free to lie around, listen to the chirping birds, and wonder what our life might bring.
On sunny weekends, we might hike in Big Sur, stop at a local restaurant for fresh Monterey Bay squid steaks, or visit our friends’ house near Lovers Point for cookouts. On rainy Saturdays and Sundays, we rolled from our bed to the living room couch, watching old movies late into the afternoon in sweatpants and slippers, only running out for popcorn and take out.
We believed working all week entitled us to self-indulgent weekends. Little did we know—after less than two years of marriage—having a baby would strip us of that luxury for good.
“Well,” Francis responded after a pause to imagine our future as parents, “I think I’d look good carrying a girl around.”
How odd, I thought.
I had assumed my question would prompt him to compare and contrast the experiences he might have raising a son or daughter. Would he want to fish with his son? Throw baseballs in the yard? Or would he prefer to be called into his daughter’s room for tea parties? Instead, Francis expressed his preference for a boy or a girl based solely upon which one might complement his physical appearance.
“What do you mean, you’d look good carrying a girl around?” I hoped this man with his arm draped possessively over my swollen belly was not a closet narcissist intent on using his offspring as a wardrobe accessory.
“You know what I mean,” he retorted, clearly assuming anyone when asked the same question would think first of his appearance. “When I imagine being a father, I see myself walking around with a little girl wearing pink booties and a lace bonnet and all that.” He went on to describe how other people might see him in public and think, “Oh, look how cute that dad is over there, carrying his sweet little baby girl.”
I listened, trying desperately to understand Francis’s point of view, but I was worried. Are we too selfish to be parents?
“It’s a boy!” the obstetrician announced two months later. Hayden Clark Molinari entered our world on a rainy spring evening in 1995 weighing in at nine pounds. Selfish or not, ready or not, Francis and I became parents.
In an instant, our priorities were forever reordered. We lost ourselves in a blur of diapers, bottles, blankets, booties, thermometers, teensy nail clippers, and early morning feedings. Francis didn’t notice I looked like I’d been hit by a Mack truck, and I couldn’t have cared less he was wearing the same spit-up-stained sweatshirt for three days in a row. We were too caught up in the sheer wonder of the little bundle of ten toes and ten fingers we’d created.
The rest of the world simply melted away.
Francis eventually got his baby girls. Anna—who came out with an inordinate number of dimples in her chin, cheeks, knees, knuckles, and tush—was born under the stern but gentle direction of an Irish midwife while we were stationed in Molesworth, England, in 1998. Anna would become our talker, driven to create and implement her own ideas, which usually involved bossing her little sister around.
Lilly came during our next tour in Virginia and was the quintessential third child: happy-go-lucky, resigned to being bossed around by her older siblings, and content to tag along.
Although Francis no longer mused about how his children made him look, he never completely gave up his interest in his own appearance. Parenthood didn’t cure him of checking himself out in shop windows, even sneaking a peek at his backside, or demanding to be photographed when feeling particularly dapper. On the dance floor, he still played to the crowd, forgetting he was supposed to be dancing with me.
But, when we became parents, Francis’s responsibility to our family became his main concern. To me, there’s nothing more attractive.
SEASON 1 EPISODE 4
PORK CHOP ENVY
It was another gloomy winter afternoon in our working-class English village. While we were stationed in the sleepy village of Molesworth in the flat Cambridgeshire countryside, I often found myself counting the minutes until Francis got home from work.
At that latitude, the sun set around four o’clock, leaving me with nothing to do but pop in a Barney video for Hayden and contemplate dinner.
One day, I wandered nonchalantly to the pantry to examine the usual lineup of canned vegetables, dried noodles, and jarred pickles. And there it was—staring at me from between the peanut butter and salsa with smug indignation—a box of Shake ‘n Bake. It had belonged to the woman who had come before me in Francis’s life. She had bought it, presumably, for a cozy dinner with the man who was now my husband.
Melissa was Francis’s old girlfriend. Somehow, her Shake ‘n Bake, along with her gawd-awful dining room chairs and etched wine glasses, had become mingled with our joint marital property when Francis and I got married. Somehow, even after three more moves, the Shake ‘n Bake had survived.
I accepted the chairs and glasses out of necessity—we needed all the hand-me-downs we could get in those days—but what were we still doing with this lousy box of Shake ‘n Bake?
I don’t use tawdry cooking shortcuts, I thought. It was cheap, just like Melissa with her frizzy red hair, overdone makeup, and Boy George hats. I wanted to be rid of this relic of Francis’s past life, once and for all. The vacuum-sealed pouch of pork chop coating might have expired, but I sentenced it to death. I grabbed the offending box from the shelf and headed for the rubbish bin.
But wait, I thought. Why not use this as a teaching moment?
The mixture seemed surprisingly fresh for its age, more than four years old. I followed the package instructions, throwing meat into the bag with the pouch ingredients and laying the coated pieces out on a cookie sheet.
When Francis arrived home, the “Melissa Memorial Dinner” was ready.
While Francis changed out of his uniform, I eagerly anticipated his reaction to the meal. I envisioned the disappointment that would most certainly appear on his face as he bit into the cheapened chop. I would ask innocently, “Do you like it, Honey? I made it with that old box of crumb coating. Wasn’t it—oh, what’s her name again—Melissa? Wasn’t it Melissa’s Shake ‘n Bake?”
Surely, he would spit the bite into his napkin and declare the meal a culinary embarrassment. He would confess I was a much better cook than Melissa. He would realize again why I was the love of his life and Melissa was a mistake.
“Smells good,” Francis said as I doled pork, green beans, and potatoes onto his plate. He carved a particularly large bite of meat, plunged it into his potatoes and opened wide.
I watched intently for a grimace, a groan, a gag.
“Mmhmm,” Francis mumbled, shoveling forkfuls into his mouth. I waited patiently for my opportunity to blame Melissa for his inevitable disgust.
“This is delicious, Hon,” Francis said, spearing a second chop. I nibbled a bite myself and had to concede he was right. The Shake ‘n Bake wasn’t half bad after all.
My insecurities had driven me to kill an innocent box of bread crumbs, trying to burn an old girlfriend in effigy. But the Shake ‘n Bake wasn’t a threat to my marriage any more than she was.
I sheepishly confessed my plot, and we both laughed hard at my ridiculousness. I raised a glass to Melissa, giving credit where credit was due, and promised to make her signature recipe again.
After all, it wasn’t a mistake; it was just Shake ‘n Bake.
SEASON 1 EPISODE 5
SILENCE ISN’T GOLDEN, IT’S GREEN
When ou
r children were small, I’d yell into our playroom on a regular basis: “Kids … what’s going on in there?!”
Usually, I heard roughhousing, giggling, knocks against the wall, creaking couch springs, yips, and squeals. You’d think the innocent sounds of our children playing would warm our hearts, but Francis and I knew those wholesome noises often led to bonked heads, chipped teeth, and poked eyes.
Other times, we heard no squeals, bumps, or creaking floorboards. No singing, hammering, smacking, or crying. No Barbies being thrown, sippy cups hitting the floor, or lamps getting knocked over.
What we heard was something far more terrifying: total silence.
At the best of times, kids are noisy. They sniffle, babble, fidget, fiddle, and whine. Silence is a clear sign something’s wrong.
Case in point: One night, when our family was stationed in Virginia, before Lilly came along, Francis and I let our five-year-old son, Hayden, and his two-year-old sister, Anna, watch a video in the playroom before bedtime.
Back in those days, we savored every peaceful second a half-hour video provided, as if it were some kind of luxurious spa treatment. As soon as we popped a tape into the VCR, we dashed down the stairs to melt into our couch cushions. With the doors open, we could hear the murmur of the often-played video and the sounds of our kids tinkering with toys. After countless nights of the same routine, we knew exactly when our babysitter time was up.
But on that night, the half hour flew by without us noticing. Twenty minutes or so after Arthur was over, I nudged Francis. “Uh oh … I don’t hear the kids.”
“Hayden and Anna!” Francis yelled up the playroom stairs, “What’s going on in there?”
Soon we heard little padded feet scurrying and intermittent giggling. Hayden and Anna slunk downstairs and appeared before us with their heads bowed in guilt. When they looked up, we saw they each had green marker scribbled all over their hands and faces.
“What have you two been doing?” we demanded. Anna’s enormous brown eyes flashed to her older brother.
“Playing,” Hayden said.
“Hayden and Anna, you’re not supposed to use markers on skin,” I scolded. Reaching for a tub of baby wipes, I noticed green marks on Anna’s neck dipping below the collar of her footed pajamas. I unzipped her pjs and gasped.
Anna’s chest, belly, arms, legs, feet, hands, and back were a green, inky mess. A quick inspection of Hayden revealed pristine skin. Other than his green hands and face, he was marker-free. The culprit was obvious.
“Hayden! Why did you scribble all over your little sister?” Francis pressed.
“Not me,” Hayden shrugged.
“Then how did your name get in the middle of Anna’s back? Do you expect us to believe she put it there? She can’t even write her name yet!” I barked.
We looked down at our sheepish kids, realizing Hayden had pulled off a classic big brother prank on his adoring little sister. Francis and I tried to maintain a serious demeanor, but one side glance at each other was all it took to get us laughing.
Pretty soon, all four of us were cracking up. Anna had no idea what was so funny, but she laughed right along with us.
After a second round of baths to remove the washable marker, we tucked them into bed for the night. We stopped by the playroom to turn out the lights, still smiling about their sweet shenanigans.
The grins drained from our faces when we saw what the kids had really been up to. The tattooing of Anna had been only practice doodles. The real masterpiece was on the formerly pale-yellow walls of the playroom. Somehow, in the time it took for us to realize the Arthur video had ended, Hayden had managed to create a mural of scribbles on all four walls in every color of the rainbow.
And he did it in complete silence.
Whoever said “children should be seen, not heard” clearly wasn’t a parent.
SEASON 1 EPISODE 6
RULE NO. 1: FOLLOW THE RULES
I always wanted to be one of those moms who could handle anything, and for the most part I was. I cooked, I cleaned, I nurtured, I maintained complete control. Nothing could faze me.
It worked for a while, until, strangely, my children started to think for themselves. No amount of time-outs, gold stars, groundings, or “wait-till-your-father-gets-homes” would convince my children to obey me every time.
My breaking point came during a family camping trip near Yorktown, Virginia. Ever the idealist, I envisioned hilarious family game nights in the cabin, meaningful talks on the docks under dappled sunlight, delicious barbecues, and gooey fireside s’mores.
It rained for four days solid.
Thankfully, our cabin was equipped with electricity, and the sedative effect of the television was the only thing keeping us from going mad. On the fifth day, the clouds parted, and I was determined to salvage the experience with a perfect family barbecue.
We cooked hotdogs over a few sad charcoal briquettes, while the kids ran amok, squealing and fighting, around the muddy perimeter of our camp.
I set the algae-stained picnic table with paper plates and channeled June Cleaver, “C’mon kiddos! Time for din-din!”
When no one showed, I started to count, “One, two … ”
Only Lilly appeared, splattered with mud to her knees, so I stormed off to physically escort Hayden and Anna to their seats.
“I don’t wanna eat it,” Anna said, staring down at her cold mac-n-cheese and singed hot dog.
“No shoe,” Lilly mumbled, just as I noticed her purple mary jane embedded in the mud a few feet away. I swatted the gnats and tried to maintain my composure.
I was sure s’mores would be a hit. We held the marshmallows against the metal grill to find heat from the smoldering briquettes. But in the end, the sugary confections were stiff and tainted with black soot and hot dog residue. The kids were too busy fighting over Hershey bars to notice.
Finally, we gave up. The cabin’s electronic nanny—the television—lulled the kids into a catatonic state, and Francis and I collapsed onto the couch. Frustrated with my lack of control, my mind raced.
Just then, the proverbial light bulb blinked on in my head. I leaped off the couch to find the art supplies I had packed for happy family crafts we never did and scribbled like a mad scientist working out an ingenious formula. An hour later, my masterpiece was complete: The Molinari Family Rules were born.
At home a few days later, I was determined to set a new and improved standard for our family.
“Ahem. I hereby call to order the first official Molinari Family Meeting. Please take a moment to write your name at the top of the four-page agenda I typed up this morning,” I proclaimed while pushing in Lilly’s booster seat.
I unveiled The Rules in dramatic fashion and asked everyone to read them aloud with me and discuss each rule in detail. After fifteen minutes, the kids slouched in their seats. After half an hour, their heads drooped onto the table. By the forty-five-minute mark, Francis was nodding off, so I ended on a positive note—something about how much I loved them—and hoped my message had sunk in.
Several such meetings have taken place since that ill-fated camping trip. Every time I feel things spinning out of control, I call another meeting. I always ask everyone to recite The Rules together. After each meeting, I feel rejuvenated, armed, and in control again.
But at some point, it dawned on me: no one’s behavior really changed much after our family meetings. Perhaps the meetings were only for my benefit.
Maybe everyone in the family put up with family meetings just for me, so I could regain my sanity.
Oh, well, at the very least, it meant they had mastered Rule No. 1: “Be kind.”
SEASON 1 EPISODE 7
HOW YOU PLAY THE GAME
When Hayden was a squishy little ten-year-old, he preferred piano and rainbows to athletic pursuits. However, early in the fall of his fifth-grade year, Hayden started showing an interest in football. As visions of tailgate parties danced in our heads, we jumped on the opportunity and contacte
d the local flag football league.
“Sorry ma’am, the teams are full. Now if your husband would be willing to coach, your son could play this season.”
Completely ignorant of the league team selection process, Francis agreed.
We received a roster of fifteen kids—Hayden and fourteen others who transferred from overcrowded teams. We soon realized that each of the coaches had been asked to give up a couple of kids, and of course they picked their worst players.
Oblivious, we showed up for our first practice raring and ready to access the boys’ talents. The lineup was not what we expected.
None of the boys knew a thing about football. But they were all excited to play. We named the team the Sharks and accepted the rejected purple league jerseys without complaint. Practice looked more like children who were running from a fire than executing planned plays, but we were hopeful it would all come together on game day.
With Francis as the coach, I became the team mom, and I admit I went overboard. I bought the soundtrack from Jaws. I bought sweatshirts, t-shirts, and purple towels. I made up cheers.
Game day finally arrived, and we were ready. Parents donned their Sharks spirit wear and swung their little purple towels. Players gathered around Coach Francis for a pregame pep talk.
“Listen boys, I want you all to go out there today and show ’em what you’re made of! Let’s tell everybody, if you swim with the Sharks, you’re gonna get bit!”
Both players and parents alike exploded into simultaneous applause and collective woo-hoos.
A half hour later, we were down by three touchdowns, and our blissful ignorance of the league team selection process ended abruptly.
“Listen up, Sharks!” Francis barked during half time, “Don’t let the numbers on that scoreboard get you down! We are the Sharks! Win or lose, we are gonna fight and fight hard! Now go out there, boys, and give ’em all you got!”
The Meat and Potatoes of Life Page 3
