On Life As A Picky Foodie

I couldn’t sleep last night and now it’s 6 in the morning and I’ve been awake for half an hour.  Lying in bed, watching my loved ones, I am content.  Vida Lev is nestled in her father’s chest, happy and secure. 

Growing up, I hated this time of day.  Being an early riser, mornings were when I felt the differences with my peers most acutely. My friends forbade me from calling before noon so I would sit counting the hours until someone was awake. At 12:01, I would pick up the phone.  Not yet fully conscious, the person on the other line would sigh and remind me that days were for sleeping so they could be compos mentis at night.

As an adult, early mornings became mine to write and read and generally focus on me – before the To Do list sucked me back into the day-to-day shoulds.

Now that I’m a mother, my nights as well as my days belong to a little person with a big personality and, at the moment, quite a cough. 

Just before the sun comes up, when the rest of the world is still asleep, I feel quieter, less obliged to others.  My head is clear even when I only get six hours of broken, interrupted sleep.

For seven weeks this summer, I was a full-time mother.  It was me and Vida Lev and her Pappa, when he could.  My hat goes off to people who do it alone and full-time.  I love my child more than anything but it was hard. Every second of every day, there was someone attached to me, a person with strong needs and no options for compromise.  For this former commitment-phobe, it was quite something. 

Then, last week, the lovely lady who takes care of our daughter three mornings a week finally returned from her holidays.  After briefly asking how her time away was, I handed Vida Lev over and fled.  My office had that abandoned look to it, papers were strewn haphazardly and I thought I could hear a soft breeze blowing with a melancholy whisper. 

This week, for the first time in almost sixteen months, DW and I got two nights to ourselves.

Do you know what?  I missed my little girl so much that I had to cut our date short.  After an hour and a half, my ache and longing were overwhelming.  The thought of not putting her to bed was impossible. 

The second night was a little easier, but when the movie we wanted to see was sold out, we immediately headed home – no need to stay out for the sake of it.  Again we didn’t make it past seven-thirty.

When our roles change in life – when we become partners or wives or mothers (or, I’m guessing, grandmothers) – we are forced to redefine who we are.  Suddenly “normal” means something completely different.  For example, those same mornings that were once my sacred time are now about feeding, bathing, dressing Vida Lev.  Even sitting down to write these words, I feel how much my normal has changed.  The silence is strange, and I am only half here – the rest of me is listening out for her, not wanting to miss those first stirrings and the magic of my little girl waking.  

I have been trying to figure out why this former independence-loving girl has turned into such an attached Mamma.  Is it a need for control?  Is it insecurity?  Is it fear?  The word that keeps coming to mind is regret.

Regrets keep us trapped.  We can’t go back and change situations in the past although regrets keep us wishing we could.  We become unable to move forward and unwilling to let go of what didn’t happen or what could have been.  Regrets transform little things into big ones, and us into sad people. They are dark, sharp, like a rusty nail catching the fabric of a favourite sweater.  And we can choose how we go about getting unstuck: do we freeze and do nothing; do we pull hard and aggravate the situation; or do we stop, examine and untangle ourselves as gently as we know how?  

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about regrets.  It’s made me do things a little differently.   

We’re moving in about a month and the time, which used to crawl by, is now taking steps two by two.  Every day might possibly be the last time I do something in London. 

Like walking over the Beatles’ famous crosswalk on Abbey Road, which is on route into the city centre.  Or eating at our favourite restaurant in London, The Providores, where we planned our wedding over many glasses bottles of wine.

One thing I never want to think of doing for the last time is rocking my baby girl to sleep, or watching her little smile as she drifts off.  Regrets are personal, they're not about anyone else. And so when I rushed home to tuck my baby girl in, it wasn't because I was being overprotective or controlling - I knew Vida Lev was absolutely fine - but rather because missing even one bed time at this point would be something I would regret. 

They say time goes by quicker as you get older.  Is it age or does parenting make you want to hold on to every minute that much tighter?

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I have no recipe for you this week as I can’t decide which one to post – so I’m asking the readers of this blog to choose one.  Here are your options:
-  Slow-cooked lamb shank
-  Broccoli soup
-  White bean spread
-  Sun-dried tomato “ketchup”
-  Peach crumble OR Apple and cherry crumble

(all recipes are vegan except for the lamb shank.  The peach crumble is raw)

Let me know on email or twitter or by submitting a comment at the bottom of this post.

The winner will be up next week.

P.S. there’s still time to send me your version of the Picky Foodie’s Everyday Cookie Recipe.  I’ve gotten some fun ones so far and am very much looking forward to the next batch!