Skip to main content

muffins

Tess can sniff out a baking mix from a mile a away. On my last trip to the store I picked up a packet of banana nut muffin mix. She had it waiting for me before I could even set my keys down. I sliced up a few bananas while she put paper liners in the muffin pan. She insisted on adding sprinkles and I said why not. We whisked and poured and put them in the oven.

I barely got the oven door closed when Tess asked if her brownies were ready yet.
Her brother piped up from doing his homework, never missing an opportunity to correct her.
"Tess, they are muffins. Not brownies."
Tess, " but I want brownies...."
Me, "sorry, girl we just made banana muffins. With sprinkles. You like muffins; they will be yummy."
Tess, realizing she wasnt going to win this one. " Well, can we just call them brownies?"
Me: "Sure. You can call them whatever you want. But they are still going to taste like muffins."

I laugh at my daughter's stubborn insistence. Even when she is completely wrong, because I think it is kind of cute when my 4 year old who can't read tells me that I spelled a friend's name wrong. Or tries to convince me that twelve-teen is in fact a number. Or that Justin Beiber is singing about her and that her pink boots do in fact match her red dress. She does not listen to reason. And most of these things are harmless so eventually I say whatever, wear your red boots and no one really needs to know how to spell anymore anyways (thank you spell check).

 
Today, however after 10-12 minutes at 350 degrees, she learned that no matter what you call them, muffins are never going to taste quite as good as brownies. She took one bite and threw the rest in the trash.
You can call something whatever you want, but it is what it is.

I may not be four, but I am occasionally just as guilty of that crazy logic.
Calling things something else, because it is more appealing than the truth.
I call my mess -"shabby chic"
My procrastinating - prioritizing.
Checking facebook for the upteenth time - relaxing.
My gossip gets called concern.
Another drink - taking the edge off.
Another helping - just being polite - or not being wasteful.
I call things i want - things i need.
I call my lazy -tired.
My anxious worry - planning ahead.
Picking a fight I call communicating.
And all kinds of other little lies that are so easy to tell myself.
More often than not I am all too happy to believe them.
But like that muffin, that was not anywhere close to a brownie....
not so easy to swallow.

 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

pace yourself

Tonight I went running with a friend ten years my junior. I asked her how far she was running and when she said only about 1.5 or 2 miles, I teased her that I could go at least twice that far. And to just let me know when she needed to stop. I have been running pretty regularly for the last few weeks. It isn’t long but keep increasing my time and distance. I’ve stopped getting blisters. I don’t suck wind after five minutes anymore and I was feeling pretty good about myself. Thinking I might even be able to out run this girl who was so much younger and obviously in more shape than me. As we started to jog I told her that I run pretty slow. Like my husband used to walk beside me while I ran, slow. And she slowed her gait a little bit for me but it was still faster than I usually go. I was a little embarrassed and was not going to ask her to slow down again. So I just ran at her pace. I stayed close. And was fading fast. A little over a mile in I was ready to quit. Again, pride, which isn...

pursue something else.

Americans like the idea of happy. of pursuing happiness. It is even one of our inalienable rights at least according to the Declaration of Independance. But I think maybe we should pursue something else. like love or joy or peace or contentment. and leave happy alone. Don't read me wrong. I am neither bitter nor cynical. Even my problems are good problems. I am positive. Half full. And most days I laugh a whole lot more than I cry. And simple things like a dance party in the living room, an hour alone in Barnes and Noble, the yellow pajama pants my son picked out for me for mother's day, potstickers, clean sheets, someone surprising me with coffee, jeans fresh from the dryer, a good song on the radio, or squeals of delight when I walk in the door all make my heart sing. They make me happy. For a minute. But when the squealing turns to screaming, my new pants are dirty, the sheets are in a jumble on the floor or the coffee runs out....where does that leave me? And happy isn'...

my first dance

My wedding day is a little bit of a blur. And it was a great day. But so many people and so much going on and so many moments that it is hard to remember them all clearly without the help of photographs. But I totally remember my first dance as a bride. And it wasn’t with my husband. Or even my father, or brother. I had quickly kicked off my heels and hid them underneath a table. Said my hellos and hugs and smiled until my face hurt. Someone ushered us through the buffet line and I piled my plate with hors d'oeuvres and headed to a table. But before I could pop a single shrimp in my mouth someone grabbed me firmly by the arm and pulled me onto the dance floor and into a jitterbug before I could protest. It was my husband’s granddaddy. A man I had only met about a few times and heard say about as many words. So I was a little surprised when he spun me around the dance floor. Eventually that night I danced with my husband. And my dad. And probably even my brother. But my fir...