Waging, But Not Winning, The War on Bathroom Lights, Halloween Costumes and Wet Towels.

I am a winner.

Or, at least, I have won the battle.  OK.  I have won a single battle.

Still.  As the single mom of 14-year-old Snarky Son (SS) and 12-year-old Darling Daughter (DD), I engage in hand-to-hand, wit-to-wit combat every day.  I'll take any victory I can get.

Some encounters are predictable, of course.  Every parent of school-age children sees frontline action in routine academic-expectations conflicts -- some more bloody than others.  We also encounter ongoing appropriate-dress skirmishes.  Really, who would think I would ever have to say -- out loud, mid-winter -- "no pants, no dinner"?  Do manufacturers no longer make girls' tops with sleeves?  And are those jeans?  Or some kind of new-fangled denim tights?  Clothing casualties abound Chez Wiles.

I can't help but engage in the day-to-day respect-for-your-elders battle, even when I brandish nothing more threatening than such war-weary cliches as, "Because I said so," and "I don't care what your best friend is doing," and ultimately, "Just stop talking to me."  Easy to see how I earned the title, Worst Mom Ever, right?  And chores-ignored?  Well, as SS and DD hear it, Whah, whah-whah, whah-whah.  Hmmph.  So much for my planned stealth attack on individual responsibility, contributing to the household, and those dang cat litter boxes.

These are just the routine clashes, of course.  We've recently added the issue of rock concerts.  On school nights.  And phone calls.  After midnight.  And appropriate language.  For 14-year-old boys.  And 12-year-old girls.  And there's always Old Faithful -- the perpetually "up" bathroom switch.  Seriously.  Is it that hard to turn off a light?

One current issue is the upcoming Halloween holiday.  When the kids were little, I'd choose what they'd be, I'd make the costumes, and I'd decide which houses we'd visit -- based largely on the type of beer I'd be offered.  I'd then decide when we were done (serendipitously coinciding with when my beer bottle was drained), and I'd eve help the kids decide which candy they would like.  ("Yuck.  You won't like those.  Let me get rid of those Kit Kats for you.")

Sigh.  Those choices haven't been mine for a while.  This year, DD is dressing up as a Wannabe Ballerina.  Don't ask.  All I know is that it involves striped tights, navy blue lipstick and a Fat Hen t-shirt.  Nice.  SS is considering gathering his posse to make the rounds for their own sugar stash, but knows I'll insist on a costume.  ("No pants, no dinner.  No costume, no candy."  Who thinks these things up?)

So here's the question:  Does a t-shirt reading, "No, really.  This is my Halloween costume" count as a costume?  I was afraid so.

Yep.  Parenting only gets tougher as they get older.  These kids are clever.  Persuasive, too.  As SS recently said, "I just told you a lot of stuff that should make you change your mind."  Sheepishly, I agreed.  Yet, I have my victory.

The dreaded wet-towel-on-the-floor beast has been slain.

I fought the good fight.  I pleaded, I threatened, I cajoled, I reasoned.  I docked allowance, billing the resister with a "maid service" fee every time I scooped up a soggy towel.  I made reminder checklists and dutifully called any offender home from a playdate should so much as a washcloth be left on the floor.

I told embarrassing stories to friends and family, and at one point, I banished towels altogether.  Turns out I was more uncomfortable with the resulting 70s-style streaking than they were.  That, and I couldn't help but join in with the giggling.

The power shifted one recent evening, though, when I called a repeat-offender upstairs, with the usual admonishment, "Towels belong on the rack, not the floor."  (If I only had a beer for every time I've uttered that phrase.  I could open a pub.)

Then, genius struck.

"Think about this," I said, "See where you left your towel?  That's exactly where the cat walks on his sweet, little pink paws. Just after he steps out of the stinky, smelly litter box, after depositing a fresh batch of the dog's favorite treats -- Tiny Tiger Tootsie Rolls.  You dropped your damply absorbent towel there.  And later, you're going to rub that same towel on your body.  Yuck."

Hasn't been a towel on the floor for three days now.  That's one in the "W" column for Mom.

To keep my winning streak alive, I'm making one of the kids' favorites for supper -- corned beef.  Actually, their "favorite" favorite is corned beef hash, but since I wasn't able to cook the corned beef in advance (BTW, the slow cooker is the best way to go), I'm making Not Corned Beef Hash -- serving roasted potatoes, etc., with all the flavors of hash, alongside the corned beef.

Another victory for me.  I now feel brave enough to tackle the perpetually-on-bathroom-lights -- after snagging a few Kit Kats for dessert.

Not Corned Beef Hash

3 Yukon Gold potatoes, unpeeled, cut in 1" dice

1 onion, peeled and cut in 1" dice

16-20 baby carrots, cut in chunks

1/4 vegetable or olive oil

several sprigs of fresh thyme

1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

1 ladle corned beef cooking broth (about 1/2 cup)

Soak potatoes in cold water for about 30 minutes (to remove excess starch and improve browning), rinse and drain well.

Preheat oven to 450 (or 400, if using convection).  In a large roasting pan, toss drained potatoes with onions, carrots oil, thyme and Worcestershire sauce.  Sprinkle with kosher salt.

Roast about 15 minutes, or until vegetables begin to brown.  Stir in cooking broth, toss well, and continue roasting until done -- browned and crispy -- about 20 minutes.

Serve with freshly sliced hot corned beef.

The Name Game -- Fun For Kids And Adults Alike!

They call me “Mrs. Wiles.” 

Or “Ms. Wiles.”  Or “Cheri.”  And sometimes, “Miss Cheri.”

Turns out, the name game is pretty complicated -- and as I get older, increasingly so.

Expectant parents can spend three entire trimesters debating the merits of family names versus uncommon names, versus distinctive names versus flat-out convoluted, how-do-you-pronounce-that, how-did-you-come-up-with-that names.  Even after you narrow it down, you still have to take into account the “playground factor.”  Sorry, mommies- and daddies-to-be, but you should be aware that there are unflattering words that rhyme with “Bart.”  And “Rick.”  And “Belle.”  And “Cam.”  And although those words may not leap to the mind of a 36-year-old, they certainly do to a six-year-old.  Trust me.

Even pet names are controversial.  Local radio personality Sheri Lynch last week told the story of a dog with the unfortunate moniker, “Mommy.”  Really, I’ve got nowhere to go with that.  But I think my kids would agree that one “Mommy” per household ought to be the legal limit.  And there are days when even that seems excessive. 

Currently, the pet names Chez Wiles have musical roots.  Our rescue dog, Josie, is named for a blink-182 song.  Our cat Lionel, with the Mike Tyson personality, is actually the namesake of Lionel Richie, formerly of the Commodores.  Funny, too, that we’d choose tuneful names, when not one of us could carry a tune if it were handed to us in a gift-wrapped box.  In a shopping bag.  With a handle.

Post-divorce, the name game has only grown trickier.  Previously, the rules were pretty straightforward.  My children know to address adults by the appropriate title and the appropriate last name, e.g., Mr. and Mrs. Pitt.  The only exception would be for close family friends, whom the kids could call by their first name, as long as it was preceded by the appropriate title, e.g., Mr. Brad and Miss Angelina.

Problems crop up, though, as a single parent considers dating.  You’ve got to think short-term and long-term.  Several years after her divorce, my own mom was lucky enough to marry a wonderful man whom we’d known for years and I’d called “Uncle.”  But as my stepfather, could I call him “Uncle”?  Ewww.

And how should my own kids refer to someone I date?  "Mr. Damon"?  (Ahem.  It's my blog isn't it?)  If we married, they’d be stuck calling their stepfather by a needlessly formal name.  But "Mr. Matt" seems silly, too, right?  On the other, other hand, saying, “Hey Matt, where are y’all going tonight?” the first time they meet a Hollywood movie star seems presumptuous.  (Again, don’t judge me.  I’m just saying...)

And what about me?  Am I Cheri?  Am I Ms. Wiles?  I’ve been told I should be offended when someone calls me Mrs. Wiles, but I was Mrs. Wiles for so long that I don’t even notice it.  But to be called that by the kids of someone I’m dating?  Umm.  Awkward.

Maybe it would be best to go with the “call me whatever you want, but don’t call me late for dinner” approach.  As long as dinner is something as satisfying as this Chicken Chili.  Or is it White Chili?  Well, you can’t really call it “White,” because there are tomatoes in it.  Maybe “White Bean Chili" ...

Whatever.  Just call it dinner.

Chicken Chili With White Beans

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 onions, chopped

4 large cloves of garlic, minced

4-6 cups chicken broth (hold aside 2 cups to be used as needed)

1 14-oz. can diced tomatoes (I prefer the “petite” dice)

1 12-ounce bottle beer (optional)

2 tablespoons chili powder (or more to taste)

1 tablespoon ground cumin

½ teaspoon ground cloves

1 tablespoon kosher salt

¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes

¼ cup chopped fresh basil

6 grilled chicken breasts, chopped (could also use thighs)

3 14-oz. cans cannellini beans

In a large pot (with lid) sauté onions over medium heat with olive oil.  When onions are translucent, stir in garlic and continue sautéing for about five minutes.

Stir in liquids, spices and chicken.  Don't taste it at this point.  It will taste like an culinary experiment gone bad.  You've got to be patient.  Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer (with lid) for 1-2 hours, stirring occasionally.  (It takes this long for flavors to meld.)  Stir in undrained cans of beans, and simmer another 30-40 minutes.  Add additional broth if needed.  Before serving, check seasoning.  Depending on the freshness of your spices and how “hot” you like it, you may need more of everything – including salt.  Serve hot.

Getting Things Right -- With Or Without Me.

Tonight was Snarky Son’s first Homecoming Dance.

It’s a pretty big deal at his school.  In anticipation of the big night, many of the freshman girls, frantic there will be “nothing left” come October, buy their dresses over the summer, well before they have dates.  The same frenzied line of thinking, I suppose, prompts many of the freshman boys, despite repeated warnings from upperclassmen not to be “that guy,” to brazenly invite girls to the dance the very first week of school.

(Yep.  Everyone over the age of 18 knows that some of those pairings won’t actually make it to the dance.  And some that do, shouldn’t.)

I was pretty enthusiastic about SS’s first “big” dance.  Considerably more enthusiastic, as it turns out, than SS.  He informed me, gently at first and then unyieldingly, that he had zero intention of inviting someone to the dance.  He was going with a bunch of friends.  The end.  Just. Chill. Mom.

There was a back story, of course.  There’s always a back story.  But still.
Not that there’s anything wrong with the “group date,” of course.  But I’d been looking forward to this dance.  The way I saw it, it was an opportunity to make sure he got things right.

I’d intended to share with him – from a “girl’s” perspective – the many responsibilities and requirements of a young man on a date.  You’ve got to ask a girl out in person, for example, not by text, Facebook or the dreaded “through-a-friend.”  You’ve got to consider the color and style of your date’s dress when ordering a corsage.  You’ve got to choose your restaurant by asking your date and her friends what they want (soup and salad), not what you and your friends want (steak and steak).

I was prepared to impress on SS the impression a clean car makes – even though he’s too young to drive said spotless vehicle.  I’d make sure he knew to open his date’s door – and that he wouldn’t close said door on her dress, shoes or worse, her.  I’d remind him that, while being attentive to his date, he can, and should, also dance with other girls – particularly those who arrive without dates. 

I was ready – armed and dangerous.  But as my dad would say, I had nowhere to go and all day to get there.  Despite, and perhaps in spite of, my substantial preparedness, SS denied me the chance to exercise my vast experience and opinions.  He would not ask a date.

I was flummoxed.  Without a date, how could I make sure he learned to get things right?  Is it possible he’ll go all the way through high school, and I'll never have another opportunity to impart my wisdom?  Could he land in college, entirely uninformed and inept, and as a result, spend four years, entirely dateless?  Will he then be spit out into the real world, unable to make his way socially, forced to live a meaningless existence of night-after-night ramen noodles eaten in front of a TV?

Whoa. Was I hydroplaning there for a minute?

OK.  The truth is, although SS had entirely circumvented my overwrought intentions, he was fine.  He was, after all, going to the dance.  He had his ticket.  He was going with friends (most with dates, but some without) to dinner.  His shirt and slacks were pressed, his blazer from last spring still fit – although this is surely its last public appearance. He also opted, perhaps in a concession to me, to wear a tie that's one of my favorites.  Pink.

He was set.  But then, a friend-who’s-a-girl-but-not-a-girlfriend texted him this morning.  (Of course there’s a back story.  There’s always a back story.)  Turns out her date had the flu.  As she told SS, now she didn’t have a date to Homecoming, either.

I"m not sure what happened next, because without warning and without guidance and without the benefit of my carefully prepared, but unverbalized teachings, SS got things right.

“I’ll go with you,” he texted back.

Um.  Did that just happen?

Better not to ask.  Better, I suppose, to direct my over-thought, unnecessary attention to other things – like some easy-to-assemble Halloween treats.  If only for rising to the occasion, SS deserves them.

Besides, no one else is downstairs right now.  If I head down to the kitchen, I can do my own little happy dance, and no one will be the wiser.  Because I’ve got a kid who, every now and again, despite my very best efforts, knows how to get things right.

Witch Hats, Witch Brooms and Peanut Butter Ghosts

Witch Hats

You’ll only need four ingredients for those sweet treats – Keebler Fudge Striped Cookies, Hershey’s Chocolate Kisses, a can of spray frosting, colored sprinkles.

Unwrap a Kiss for every cookie.  Turn cookies striped side down.  Squirt frosting on bottom of Kiss and stick on the cookie, forming a hat.  Apply sprinkles to excess frosting on top, shaking off the extras.  Let dry.

Witch Brooms

This one only requires two ingredients – thin pretzel sticks and fruit roll-ups.  Unroll one fruit roll-up, cut in 3-inch (approximately) lengths.  (Leave on paper.)  While still on paper, use scissors to cut fruit roll-up into “fringe” (cutting about 2/3 of the way up).  After cutting, remove “fringe” and wrap around end up pretzel stick.  Repeat.

Peanut Butter Ghosts

My kids love this one, but we try to remember that, because of allergies, many of their friends can’t enjoy them.  All you need is one package of Nutter Butter cookies, a bag of white chocolate chips, and some miniature chocolate chips.  Lay cookies out on a sheet of plastic wrap.  Melt some (about half) of the white chocolate chips in the microwave.  Dip cookies, one by one, in melted chips.  (Alternatively, you can brush or spread melted chips on.)  Lay dipped cookies on plastic wrap and use miniature chips as eyes and mouths.  May take a couple of hours to harden.