Just Call Me Mama Cuoco

"No, Peanut Gallery, I didn't mean 'coocoo'.  It's 'cuoco'".

'Cuoco' is 'chef' in Italian.  A female chef is actually 'cuoca', but I thought that might read as 'caca' in the title, which is even a little bit worse than 'coocoo'.  

Last August, my Italian brother-in-law introduced kiddo to the magic of homemade pasta. Surefire way to endear yourself to a 7-yr-old niece:  let her mix flour, eggs, and olive oil directly on the countertop (no bowls required).  Then let her pass it through a 'squisher machine' that flattens the dough and slices it into perfect strips.  Plunge those strips into a pot of boiling water and top them with nothing but mounds of butter and salt.  Then place that steaming bowl of her own creation in front of her and let her feast.  

His pasta magic way outshone my Saturday-morning crepe-making skills.  Kiddo went on about it for months.  

Smilin' Vic, softy that he is, came home in late October with a pasta maker.  We might not be able to match Uncle L's culinary expertise, but we could at least have fun trying.

I was thrilled.  What a fabulous kitchen gadget.  This one would not sit on a shelf unused for months.  No sir, we were going to make pasta every week.  I took this glorious culinary apparatus out of its box and immediately went out and bought Number 0 flour.  Pasta all'arrabbiata was about to take on a whole new meaning in our house.

.........

So ..... four months later, to the day, we finally got around to baptizing this lovely piece of kitchen art.  This afternoon I finally gathered up my motivation and my kiddo and said "Get ready to get messy, we're making pasta!"  

We emptied the flour onto a clean surface.  We dug a well.  We started breaking the eggs into the well.

(Just in case you didn't know ... moms don't come with as much patience as uncles.)  

When the egg started running over the sides of the well is when I adopted 'Mom Mode'.  "Smilin' Vic, we need help.  There's a mess going on here.  Kiddo, step back, I've got to stop the egg escape."  There was an egg white on the loose.  I admit I panicked.  I take my kitchen seriously.

Thankfully we corralled the runaway egg and I was able to revert fairly quickly to 'Fun Mode'.  The dough kneaded, we let it set for 15 minutes, then proceeded to roll, fold, roll again, fold again, etc. until we had a perfectly thin rectangular sheet of pasta dough.  We repeated this process several times until we had a countertop full of pasta sheets.  We let them dry for fifteen minutes, then passed them through the pasta shaper.

The result?

Perfectly shaped linguini An amazing boost of confidence to and sense of accomplishment for a little seven-year-old girl.

She was so thrilled to serve us supper.  Linguini with basil and artichoke pesto sauce.  A culinary feast that would feature well on a Michelin star menu.

I will admit to slightly overcooking

drowning the pasta. But lesson learned. In the end, this afternoon wasn't really about pasta at all; it had a lot more to do with living and sharing and laughing and bonding. And on that front, everything turned out 'magnifico'!

It's amazing what a couple of hours in the kitchen with your child can do.  Boost confidence, encourage creativity, increase focus, engage meaningful conversation, build patience, and feed the soul.

Thanks to Uncle L for motivating us all to spend a little more time doing something that actually means something.

Oh, and by the way, despite my al dente shortcomings, supper was amazing.  Kudos to Kiddo Cuoco.  

'Ciao' from Mama Cuoco.

Dear Me! Tinkerbell Lost Her Head ...

Nothing propels parents to their feet like the unexpected bloodcurdling screams of their child.

One minute she is playing peacefully upstairs with her dollies.  The next, an agonizing wail resonates throughout the house.  We jump up, terrified the worst has happens.  The piercing cry is followed by wretched sobbing.  

We rush up the stairs.  She comes running out of her room and collapses in my arms.  I grab firm hold of her, temporarily reassured that at least I see no blood.  

Smilin' Vic, the man with the deepest voice I know, shrilly shout-squeaks "What the hell is going on!?  What happened?"  (I never realized he had such range; the high pitch momentarily distracts me from my fear.)

"Tinkerbell's head fell off!"  Wails of despair.

I step back, hold her at arms length.  Get a good look at the tears streaming down her cheeks.  Stifle the hysterical laughter welling up in me.  I'm relieved;  I now find the whole situation incredibly funny.  I hug her close again so I can hide the smile that will inevitably break free.

Smilin' Vic does not see the humor.  The Big Voice returns "You scared the living crap out of us!  What's with the crying?  It's no big deal.  I'll fix it!"

My daughter's eyes grow wide.  Horror and disbelief at his callousness, his apparent indifference.  A fresh wave of tears is cresting.  "Not a big deal?  How would you feel Papa?  Tinkerbell lost her head!"

I can't take it anymore; I disguise my laughter with a snort, try to pass it off as a sob. I hug her closer.  Smilin' Vic turns and walks silently away in apparent defeat.  It's hard for a former military man to conceive how very intense a little girl's relationship with her Barbies can be.  I've lost Barbies' heads before.  I've lost my head before.  It's a big deal.

I pull myself together, take Tinkerbell's body in one hand, her head in the other, and inspect the damage.  Tinkerbell's head has, in fact, been viciously torn from her neck.  This was no simple dolly decapitation, the kind where you can pop the ball at the tip of her neck back into the hole at the base of her head.

No, the damage seems irreparable; it does indeed appear that her fairy days have come to a violent end.  I ask my daughter how this happened.  Between sniffles, she explains that she was trying to take off Tinkerbell's pants, had Tinkerbell's head squeezed between her knees as she was yanking on the pants.  That's when her neck shattered, pieces scattering into  Tinkerbell's now decapitated head.  My daughter is starting to fall apart again as she relives that horrific moment, that horrible 'pop' when Tinkerbell lost her head.

Obviously they don't make Tinkerbell like they used to.

Smilin' Vic reappears, a tube of Crazy Glue in hand.  He delicately picks up Tinkerbell's head, applies glue, and somehow sticks it back onto what is left of her neck.  It holds.  My daughter looks up at him, her eyes filled with amazement.  She hugs him tightly, then skips away, back into her room, with convalescing Tinkerbell.  Not a word is spoken.  And just like that, he makes everything better.

No matter that her head now sits slightly askew on her shoulders.  No matter that she no longer has the slightest range of motion in her  neck.  Tinkerbell may have lost her head, but Papa put her back together again.  All is well with the world.

Dear me.

In the weeks since her unfortunate accident, Tinkerbell has turned to her fellow fairies for support and is gradually learning to spread her wings again.  Her pants will not come off again, nor will her little green cape, which is now forever crazy-glued to her stunted neck.

N.B.  We've actually been through this a few times before.  The first Barbie our daughter ever got came out of the box with a leg severed at the hip (this was a gift from a doctor; even he was powerless to save her leg ... we improvised by tying a rubber band around Barbie's knees and always dressing her in floor length gowns).  Our neighbor split Disco Ken in two at the waist when our daughter was 4 (she retold the nightmare of that misadventure for at least a year).  A Belle (mini Disney Princess) was also severed in two at one point (unfortunately no glue was ever able to put her back together again).

Those Little Moments that Mean So Much to Me

This is actually copied from a second blog I had started in 2011.  (Gypsy in the Me is my 3rd attempt at getting it right.)

Original post dated April 30, 2011.

So I was bringing my daughter up to bed tonight.  And speaking to her only in French.   She understands so well now.

I asked her if she would be speaking to her Pepere in French when she sees him at Christmas (2011).  And she answered "Je ne sais pas" ("I don't know"), "but I will try".  "And Maman?  Do you think we could bring home those Barbies he has just for me?"

And I had no clue what she was talking about and said so.  So she said "You know Maman, those dollies that he bought and put on the fridge for me, with the clothes and everything.  We could take them off the fridge and bring them home."

OK.  So my daughter is 5.  She last saw her grandfather when she was 4 ... in July 2010.  About 9 months ago.  But she remembers these dollies that he has on his fridge for her.  He actually put them up there in October 2009.  He left them there, and when we came back in '10 he said he'd left them there just for her.  Incredible the things that mean something to a child.  I was amazed that she still remembered this today.  I had completely forgotten.  I told her maybe we should leave the Barbie dollies on the fridge so he could remember her when he saw them.

She answered "He doesn't need them.  I will draw him a picture of me and him, and he can remember me that way.  And it's not from the store.  It's right from me.  And he also has me in his heart.  He doesn't really need anything on his fridge."

She really is his descendant.  She got all the best of her Pepere.  And it is so obvious on days like today.  

I remember visiting him when she was about 2.  And she put her little fingers all over his living room windows.  And I apologized profusely and said I would wipe the smudges up once she was in bed.  And he looked at me and said "Why would you erase them?  They're memories.  I'm so lucky.  I'll get to look at them and see her every single day."  

It was one of those moments.  That just meant so much.

KG memento posted on our fridge door ...

Losing the Princess in Me

I remember the day she discovered Binoo.  I remember the day she discovered Barney.  

I remember the day she discovered Blues Clues.  I remember the day she discovered Dora. 

Then, one day, she discovered Sleeping Beauty.  Every day of discovery since then has paled in comparison.

Sleeping Beauty was, and remains, in the eyes of my daughter, the ultimate fairytale, the ultimate princess, the ultimate magic.  Some would have me believe that to encourage this is detrimental to my daughter's independence, sense of empowerment, self-worth, and self-image.  I haven't dissected it that far. 

All I see is the MAGIC.  My daughter is now a size 8, but she still squeezes like a sausage into her size 6 Disney Princess Sleeping Beauty silk nightgown at every opportunity.  The difference these days is I'm not allowed to tell people she continues to covet this frayed blue silky frock.  Princesses are not cool.  Her friends might laugh at her.

Until last summer, my daughter defined herself as the ultimate girly girl.  

At age three, she proudly stepped into a pair of glass dress-up frou-frou slippers and paraded around the house, around the compound, and anywhere we would allow with those heels clicking and clacking.  She wore them with her best dress-up dress, with her best princess costume, with her best undies, striving to glide gracefully, usually tittering and tottering unstably, her parents agonizing at whether she would end up mercilessly twisting an ankle on those ungodly cheap plastic heels.

Nothing brought her more joy than those heels.  Nothing other than pairing them with a princess costume, fake jewelry or a really fancy dress.  Oh, the wonder at seeing the joy in her eyes as she dreamt and hoped of the possibility of perhaps one day achieving "princessdom".  

Her feet have long outgrown the length of those glass slippers.  

Last summer, our little princess girly girl informed us that she was now a 'tom girl'.

Apparently a tom girl combines all that is best of a tomboy and girlie girl.  That was cool.  She told us she preferred pop music to nursery rhyme tunes.  Then announced a slight interest in Justin Bieber.  Told us he had broken up with Selena Gomez.  That was cool.  Pink was no longer her favorite color.  She still liked pink, but turquoise was now the preferred option.  That was cool.  Then, on the first day of school, she asked me if I could buy her plain panties.  She didn't want the other girls to tease her when she changed on PE and gymnastics days.  Ok, but NOT COOL.

We were losing the little princess.  But we knew that change is the only constant.  So Christmas time rolled around.  She got a pair of flowery pj's from Santa.  She got plain panties from Santa.  All cool.  

That's when she told us that pink actually still was her favorite color (the pj's were pink).  And that she didn't really want to get rid of the princess panties; she'd just wear them on alternating days.  She pleaded for me to keep the Disney Princess nightgown; but I shouldn't tell her friends that she still wears it.  She confessed that she actually prefers all things princess.  She confessed that she is defending the value of princesses to her friends.  And, yes, she likes "Brave" and "Lava Girl" and other super duper progressive strong princess characters, but "Maman, Sleeping Beauty is still my favorite".  Our princess was obviously torn between what she loved and what she felt would get her loved.

Her Papa bought her a beautiful beaded "lady grown up gown" for Christmas, with matching beaded headband and high-heeled beaded shoes (the next generation of glass frou-frou slippers).  And a princess was reborn.  She couldn't help herself.  The princess in her was too strong.  She recently told me that she cannot keep on pretending she doesn't like princesses and girlie-girl things.  

She was teased by boys in her class for writing an essay on Cinderella.  She asked my husband and I what to do.  We told her to stand up for what she believed in, and if it helped, tell the the boys that writing about super-heros and spacemen was just as amazing or silly as writing about princesses.  Stand up for what you believe in.  

She did.  She told a friend on the bus that you can like princesses and still like Justin Bieber.  You don't have to like everything about them, but you can like something about them.  And that's ok. 

I truly believe princesses are born, not made.  Our princess cannot change what she is.  She cannot erase the princess within her; she may temper the princess, occasionally stifle her, but the princess will remain.  I love the princess.  Sleeping Beauty, Brave, Pocahontas, Ariel, Cinderella, Snow White, Jasmine, she is all of these and more.  

My daughter is an adaptable princess.  She cannot suppress who she is at her core, and in the end, she will defend who she is.  She will stand up to the bad guy, the evil matron, the cruel inflictor of pain.  

Her namesake is protector of mankind.  Perhaps by naming her as we did, we inflicted upon her the virtues of a princess and committed her to a life of dichotomous suffering and privilege.  But I am proud of my princess; she is standing up for what she believes in.

Yes, I am proud of my princess.  She reminds me every day that I must not lose sight of what is important to me; I must not lose the princess in me.  You may not always see her, but the princess in you is still there.  There is something to be said about re-discovering the princess in all of us.  Stand strong, stand up for what you believe in, stand up for the princess in you.  

I, for one, am committed to not losing the princess in me.

The princess in me ....

Princess slippers and dress ... a princess reborn 

The 'Problem Child' and Me

"Your child shows signs of attention seeking behavior."

I'll never forget those words.  Two months into the school year, my husband and I were seated none to comfortably at a kiddy-sized table, looking none to dignified and likely quite stunned.  I was mortified.  We faced our daughter's 2nd grade teacher as professionally and stoically as we could (given that our knees were bent at chin height  seated in teeny-tiny Crayola-themed 2nd grader chairs).

No words have ever instilled such despondency in this mother's heart.  But we sat silently and nodded numbly through the entire first-term parent-teacher meeting, waiting for the good part.  "She's an avid reader", "She socializes well", "She's creative".  It never came.  Apparently delivery of the sandwich feedback technique would not suffice for us to grasp the breadth of our daughter's shortcomings.

"She's easily distracted."  "She doesn't complete tasks on time; she can't focus."  "She lacks independence."  "She can't commit her ideas to paper."  "She lacks responsibility."  

We were utterly speechless.  Dejected.  Speechless.  Sad.  Speechless.  Powerless. Speechless.

Like most parents, my hubby and I are always a bit anxious to head to parent-teacher meetings.  But the Pre-K interview, our induction to the parent-teacher angst ritual, proved to be painless and really quite enjoyable.  It set the tone for the next two years.

Pre-K, Kindergarten, Grade 1 ... the homeroom teachers described to us a happy, outgoing little student with a sunny disposition, an eagerness to learn, and a motivation to share and help her classmates.  No academic issues, actually some really strong suits, but a tendency to dawdle.  We would have to work on helping her focus a little more in an effort to finish her assignments on time.   

Precious cotton ball and macaroni art, painstakingly written tales of heartache at not owning a puppy, a silly putty volcano model; these became our rewards for attending  parent-teacher night.  

Sitting with nurturing, positive, motivating educators who assured us that she was right where she needed to be academically and socially.  We always went with an objective mind, ready to take the bad with the good.  And they always gave us just enough of each to make a positive difference.

Every morning she would leap out of bed, excited about the school day, about the wonder that it held, about the hugs from her teachers, and about her classmates.

Fast forward to two nights ago, when our "happy, sunny, eager, motivated" kiddo told me she thought she would be too sick to go to school on Sunday (the school week runs Sunday - Thursday in Qatar).  She tells me she thinks her teacher and teacher's assistant don't like her.  She tells me that she wishes they would use their "nice" strict voice with her, like they do with the "really nice" kids in her class.  ????  

This has been stewing for a while.  She's telling me nothing I haven't already felt.  My husband is livid.  The main reason we chose not to leave Qatar last year was because our daughter loved her school so much.  

And even though we knew things would be different from the first day we dropped her off at school this year, we thought that would be a good thing; we were determined to remain objective.

Even when we saw her teacher standing arms crossed at the classroom door, turning kids away before even greeting them, telling them to put their bags in their cubbies before coming into class.  No "hello", no "welcome to second grade", no "what's your name", no warm and fuzzies.  We took it all in, a bit sadly, but thinking the no-nonsense approach might actually be a good thing, might help kiddo mature, might provide her with a solid foundation to prepare her for the 'real world'.  Our little girl was finally growing up.

We continued to take the objective stance after the parent-teacher meeting.  We told ourselves that this was just this teacher's 'way'.  After all, we could't discount what she'd said; we consider ourselves mature enough to take the bad with the good.  Even though we both walked away with the sense that the teacher simply did not like our child.  Even though we felt like we'd just been put firmly in our place.  We told ourselves we would use the opportunity to help her improve on her weaker points; at least we could focus our efforts.  We told ourselves that even though the delivery was poor, the message could still be useful.

Her report card a month later was no better.  While her marks remained strong and all her 'extras' teachers had positive and constructive comments, her homeroom teacher's comments read something the lines of "if she applies herself, she might have the potential to become a good student".  It took everything to hold my husband back at that point.  I am ashamed to say that even then I asked him to keep it in check, to suppress his instincts.  

How could it be, he asked me, that a child who has repeatedly gotten praise for her compassion, her interest, her respect, her work, her efforts, had all of a sudden become such an utter "problem" child.    

It's been five long months, filled with small and frequent examples of demotivating comments and actions.  "The teacher didn't let me go to the bathroom."  "The teacher rolled her eyes at me when I told her it wasn't my fault." "The teacher took away free time for the whole class because I wasn't done picking up my table."  Small examples of humiliation that never quite sat right.  Still, we remained objective.  

But our daughter's comments two nights ago were the final straw.  We miss the bounce in her step.  We miss her enchantment at learning something new.  We miss her anticipation of each school day.  We miss being able to tell her everything is going to be ok.  Something is not ok.  And that's not ok with us.

So we've scheduled a meeting with the school counsellor.  We can't stand back and see her spirit crushed.  We can't stand silent while someone chips mercilessly at her larger-than-life personality.  We can't let one bad teacher (yes, I actually wrote that) destroy our daughter's faith in all the great educators this world has to offer (subject of a future post).  We've had enough.  We're not objective anymore.

How did it come to this?