Growing Up


I live in an old, tiny house. We sleep in strange rooms of ill fitted sizes. We tiptoe through the night or lie in bed holding our breath because one misstep on a creaky floorboard will do us in and wake the children. Every parent knows you do not wake the children.

 

5:30 a.m. Writing session sabotaged by two early birds.

5:30 a.m. writing session sabotaged by two early birds and a toy cat.

 

For many years, New Prairie Kitchen was written in strange places, not the least of which was a cubbyhole in a wall next to the washing machine. So, in that dank little space I wrote myself a note. A reminder that my children are the only part of my life in the fast lane. They will grow before I notice the plant in the kitchen has gone without water for too long, or that I forgot to workout for so many years that my opportunity to claim anything as baby fat has long since passed me by. I wrote myself the note, so I could give myself permission to go slowly. To watch my children, and, accidentally, myself grow up.

In the midst of all of this life, a little book was written, an author was created, but more importantly an adult was made. I was reminded of this on Sunday night when I ran into two acquaintances who later became friends. We first met at an Outstanding in the Field farm-to-table dinner hosted at Branched Oak Farm. It’s a lovely place owned and operated by the husband and wife team, Doug and Krista Dittman. They feed cows and make cheese, but they also support, guide and nurture other dairy farmers in the region. At this dinner two years ago, I met a couple who had recently left the coast and moved to Omaha. They came to support one of their children, and stayed because they fell in love with the culture, community, and food scene in Omaha. I would dare say they’ve become Omaha’s greatest ambassadors.

When I first met them, I was feeling a bit like a kept woman. I was in the throws of trying to carve out some kind of a career while potty training a two year old, learning how to parent a strong-willed four year old and feeling a bit bogged down by the commotion of it all. One glass of wine in and I discovered a good listener in my new found, recently adopted Midwesterner at the dinner table. I could try to make myself look good by saying I vented a bit about motherhood, but the truth is I complained. I felt stunted even with my note telling me to be patient. What I really needed was a note telling me to get over myself. I felt frustrated, and I blamed my children for that, not my own bad attitude. I’ve looked back at that dinner with remorse, not because I cornered some unsuspecting couple, which is bad enough, but because I didn’t look inward long enough to realize I was throwing myself a pity party and it had nothing to do with my children. Believe it or not the couple didn’t run and hide. We stayed in contact and have become friends. She’s a mother too, although her children are grown now, and was kind enough to empathize with my stage in life at the time.

Fast forward two years to Sunday night when we all attended a fundraiser for the Nebraska Sustainable Agriculture Society. We had drinks in hand, and they asked about the children. I said I’ve enjoyed this stage of parenting much more than the early years and actually have quite a bit of fun with the kids these days. She said, “Yes, children have a way of growing us up, don’t they?”

They certainly do.

That night I returned home, my kids and husband were sound asleep, and walked across our old and aching floors, grateful for life lessons, friends and renewed perspective.