I'm A Mom. I Can't "Just Chill."

This post ran as a guest column in the Moxie section of The Post & Courier (Charleston, SC), Friday, September 11, 2009.  (Click here for the column.)

When we were growing up on James Island, one of our great summertime thrills was when somebody's exhausted and pestered parent would cave in and drive us across the old Cooper River bridge (an adventure in itself) to the Super Slide in Mount Pleasant.

The Super Slide was, in fact, just that: A "souped-up" old-fashioned metal slide -- on steroids.

To my 9-year-old eyes, it looked to be about 10 stories tall, but more likely came in at two or three, with what seemed like about 20 lanes, but again, was more likely five or six. After paying the attendant, we'd traipse up the stairs, each clutching a square of carpet to sit on, Aladdin-style, for the all-too-quick ride down.

The carpet square served several purposes. One, it maximized the glide. Two, keeping our feet and hands on the carpet helped us avoid friction burns with the slide, which even the littlest kids knew would be far more painful than the "Indian burns" we inflicted on each other's arms at home. And three, well, for the love of St. Philip's, we were in Charleston. In the summer. With no shade. And the slide wasn't that high-tech, stay-cool, molded plastic that's used today. It was metal. You know. Like the bottom of an electric iron.

The metal slides in our own backyards were blistering hot and unusable.  What made anyone, particularly an adult, think an even higher, longer slide would be preferable?  With a little bit of Pam, every single egg at the Piggly Wiggly could've been fried on that scorching piece of sheet metal. Bacon, too.

I sometimes think of that slide when my kids demand explanations for my parenting decisions. Plainly, it would be safer, and usually smarter, not to even begin the descent. The rule is the rule. Make your bed. Put away your clothes. Walk the dog. Because I said so. Now.

But the kids are 12 and 14 now, so I can't always get away with that.

Older Child (OC) recently laid into me: What can't you just relax? Why can't you let things slide? What difference does it make if I put away my clothes? Why can't I eat in my room? Why do you care how late I'm on the phone? Why do you get to tell me when to go to bed?

And finally: Why can't you just chill?

Are you kidding? I can chill! I'm the chillest mom around! I'm so cool ...

Um. Did I say that out loud? 'Cause there's no way I can win the "cool" point.

In fact, I am decidedly not cool -- in any sense of the word. But I am an adult. I pause. I take what feels like a lung-bursting breath. I know that once I get on this slide, there's no stopping -- at least not without incurring serious injury, either to our relationship or my own ego.

It'd be so easy to get burned.

I consider walking away, giving both of us a chance to cool down and avoid the possibility of medical intervention. But oddly, OC seems to be expecting a response.

I dig deep, trying to think of an answer I can give that's honest, worth giving, worth hearing and, most importantly, won't sear the skin off of either of us.

"Because," I offer hesitantly, "you're in training.

"I don't expect perfection. You're a kid. But you're a work in progress. The point isn't for you to get everything right. The point is for you to eventually emerge from training as a thoughtful, contributing, informed, decent human being.

"But that won't happen automatically. That's why I can't just chill."

I stop talking. I wait. I try to read OC's face, but I can't tell. Did one of us just get burned?

"OK, Mom. Whatever. Can I finish watching this show now?"

Phew. I deflate my lungs. That wasn't so scary. Looks like we both made it to the bottom of the slide with hands, feet and egos intact.

I suspect I'll be traipsing back up those steps again in no time, though. He's 14, and his training's only begun.

What a ride.

Going With What You've Got (Gingered Carrot & Pineapple Salad)

I couldn't help myself.

Yes, the temperature has shifted – I now shuttle to the morning bus stop in cropped pants, not shorts.  Yes, Labor Day came and went earlier this week.  And yes, I know the rule about not wearing white after Labor Day.

Too bad.  I’m not quite ready to stow my cute white denim clamdiggers with my bathing suits and cover-ups and other wait-‘til-next-summer clothes.  As ready as I am to embrace fall, I can’t quite let go of summer.

These clamdiggers are some kind of white, too.  Not “off-white.”  Not “winter white.”  And certainly not “cream.”  Nope, these are bleached-bright, bone-in-the-desert white.  The kind of dazzling white you can only get in a dentist’s chair.  The kind you wish you'd worn when you were 15, and your best friend's bedroom had a black light.  Or better still, when you were shopping in the back room at Spencer’s in the mall.

Sometimes you just gotta go with what you've got.

Earlier this week, I got to watch Darling Daughter’s (DD’s) first cross-country meet.  Actually, this particular race was a relay, which is a fun and relaxing way for a first-time runner to compete, because running only one mile in a three-mile race can take the pressure off.

Right.  When I get there, I learn that another runner had gotten sick, so DD had been “called up.”   She'd be running the second leg on team with much more experienced runners – a team which previously had been expected to win the race.

The team had to go with what they’d got.  And they got DD.

So much for a fun and relaxing event.  I was now in full-on Prilosec-Popping-Mom mode.  The other two girls have had a lot more training.  One, in particular, is a truly gifted runner.  How did my little girl end up in this mix?

I positioned myself on the course so I could watch a good portion of the second leg.  My eyes flicked frantically between the course and my watch, trying to predict when DD would emerge from the woods.  And then she appeared, smack in the middle of the leaders.  I took in her run, watching her stride lengthen, her cheeks puff and her arms pump as she concentrated on the runner just ahead of her – not on me as I mindlessly shrieked encouragement.  (“Mom.  You’ve got to stop.  It’s embarrassing.  She can’t even hear you,” her brother later advised.)

Across the lake, I could see her teammate waiting for the hand-off.  DD’s brother, an experienced runner, had positioned himself farther down the trail, so he could let her know when it was time to dig deep and sprint. As DD ran past me, I stopped breathing, unsure whether she could keep up with the forerunners, whether she had the energy and ability to last those last few minutes.

OK.  Did I really doubt her?  Call me Thomas.  Still, all of the sudden, my girl was right there at the front, making the tag.  I took another look – to make sure she was done – and re-inflated my lungs.  After DD made her (leisurely) way over to where her teammate would soon finish, her brother noted admiringly, “She didn’t even break a sweat.”

As predicted, DD’s new teammate finished first.  Her team had gone with what they had -– DD – and that was enough.

Later, DD shared with me that she’s a bit nervous about next week’s meet – where she’ll run as an individual, not as a member of a relay team.  “I think people will be expecting something of me,” she said.

“Maybe not expecting something of you,” I offered cautiously, “but maybe interested to see what you can do.”


In my mind, though, I want to do whatever I can to help her live up to those expectations – which admittedly, isn’t much.  Just like those white clamdiggers, I’ve got to go with what I’ve got – and that’s cooking.

I can't force her to sleep more or practice harder, but I can offer gracious plenty nutrition – starting with this tasty and healthy carrot salad.

Gingered Carrot & Pineapple Salad

Excellent with grilled fish.

3 carrots, grated

2 cups fresh chopped pineapple

1 teaspoon fresh grated ginger

1/2 juicy lime, juiced

1 teaspoon soy sauce

1 tablespoon honey

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1/4 teaspoon curry powder

fresh ground pepper

kosher salt (to taste)

Combine all ingredients in a large glass or ceramic bowl.  Chill until serving.  Keeps well for 3-4 days.

What Not To Wear In Faux Fall. (Pumpkin Bread)

Yesterday -- just one week into the school year -- we pried open our sleepy eyes to greet a cool 57 degree morning here in Charlotte.

And wonder of wonders -- same thing today.

This is noteworthy because our city's average low for September is 63. And we’re a mere three days into the month.

Mind you, both 57-degree-mornings days – as predicted – wound up climbing into the upper 70s. Nevertheless, Chez Wiles, we are reveling in these practically chilly temps. The dip was sufficient to have me hefting open windows in our 85-year-old house and send all of us scrambling for sweatshirts and jumping into jeans.  Makes you wonder what we'd do in 40-degree weather, right?

Of course, we’ve been programmed to believe that as students return to school, the season follows a parallel path on its return to cold weather. Television shows, commercials and back-to-school signage support the premise, splashing autumnal leaves on any and all promotional materials, which also inevitably feature trendy teens wearing fleece-lined boots and woolen earmuffs.

I know. It is possible autumn really has arrived.  It's also possible my kids will prepare chateaubriand for dinner tonight.

C'mon.   It may be autumn in Maine right now. Or in Wyoming. But here in the Carolinas, we all know we’ve got plenty of oven-like days ahead.

Still, consider me guilty as charged. I’ve already been eyeballing the sweaters in my closet – the very same sweaters I hastily shed back in March when the temperature warmed up to – you guessed it – a toasty 57 degrees.

A long time ago (but well after the Renaissance, thank you), I celebrated my 16th birthday by traveling to a Commodores concert in Columbia, South Carolina. Last week, as I reminisced about the event, a friend teased me, saying, “I bet you even remember what you wore.”

You bet I do.

First, I remember because like so many women, my favorite memories are ensnared in memories of favorite outfits and favorite meals. (Wanna know what I had for dinner the night of my Senior Prom? Click here.) Second, I remember because my birthday falls in September – the Faux Fall month.

So yes. I remember clearly that, in 1978, as Lionel Richie crooned, “Three Times A Lady" and we all boogied to "Brick House," I wore a long sleeved, high-neck blouse made of material that was only slightly more breathable than a shower curtain. Or maybe slightly less breathable than a shower curtain. With that ill-chosen top, I wore tan, cuffed, wide-wale corduroy slacks, with a leather-covered fly button. Hey, I knew what I was doing.  Since it wasn’t yet October, I opted not to wear the matching jacket.

There’s no story here, really. As my friends and I got dressed that night in our room at the Downtown Holiday Inn, I looked fabulous. I could’ve passed for 18. Or at least, 17 ½ . But by the time we rode the elevator downstairs and crossed the street to the Columbia Coliseum, I wasn’t just sweaty. I was slimy. I was awash in my own au jus.

So yes, I remember what I wore.

And I remember Mom advising me not to wear it.

What did she know?  Thirty-one years later, I remain as susceptible to Faux Fall as my kids. The instant I opened the door to let the dog out yesterday morning, and that less oven-like air billowed in to meet me, my mind immediately skipped to fall fare.

OK. I'm not quite ready to get going on a kettle of chili – not even chicken chili.  But Cranberry-Pumpkin Bread with Pecans? Twist my wooden spoon.

It was, after all, 57 degrees outside.

Cranberry-Pumpkin Bread
Makes two 9 x 5, or three 8 x 4 loaves

3 cups sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
4 large eggs
1 16-oz. can of pumpkin (not pumpkin pie mix)
3 1/2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon allspice
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1 cup dried, sweetened cranberries (e.g., Craisins) (optional)
1 cup toasted, chopped pecans (optional)
2/3 cup warm water

Preheat oven to 350. Beat oil, sugar, eggs (one at a time) until well-blended. Stir in pumpkin. In a separate bowl, stir together dry ingredients (except cranberries and nuts). Stir dry ingredients into pumpkin mixture. Fold in cranberries and pecans, if using. Slowly stir in warm water until mixture is consistent. Bake in greased and floured loaf pans until golden -- about one hour. After allowing to cool 15 minutes, remove from pans and cool completely on racks. Freezes well.