Mexican food. Real, authentic, Mexican food.

Right now, I have tomatillos and jalapenos boiling on my stovetop and poblanos roasting in my oven. Tonight’s menu: corn-poblano soup with salsa verde. Crack open a Negro Modelo, and I’m in heaven.

Surely, in a past life, I lived in Mexico. Maybe, if I’m really good in this life, I’ll get to go back again.

Yesterday, while my kids were being so fantastic, I was running around the house trying to get it in some semblance of order.

“WAIT!! NOOOO!” I heard Zoe yelling from the other room. Thump, thump, thump, thump. She was obviously running to find me.

“Zoe, what is it?” I asked.

“THIS doesn’t belong inside, Mommy,” she said. She was holding a hose-end sprayer. I had no idea where she’d found it.

“Yes. So?”

“You have to take it outside, Mommy.”

Plain and simple, I didn’t want to be bothered with it at the moment.

“No, it’s ok,” I said.

“But, why?”

“Well, because, well…” I had to think. “Well, sometimes it’s fun to bend the rules.”

Sometimes it’s fun to bend the rules.

Great, Kristy. Great. Just the lesson I want to teach her.

Tim’s been out of town for four days. He’s coming home late tonight. Overall, his absence hasn’t wreaked the havoc that it usually does. I’m still alive, and the kids are still breathing, too, although one of them does have a pretty nice knot on his head. In general, we have survived. And I’m all the more confident for it.

As if they know their dad is coming home, the kids have been fantastic today. Playing together, laughing, giggling, cooperating. I’ve been having fun. It has pretty much been a dream morning.

Just before lunch, I had to run two quick errands. At the first store, as we were walking hand-in-hand-in-hand toward the front door, a grandmotherly-type stopped me and said, “Enjoy them. This time is so special.” I agreed with her, and went on my way. At the second store, again as we were walking hand-in-hand-in-hand toward the front door, yet another grandmotherly-type stopped me and said, “Enjoy them. This time is so special.” Was this a grandmother conspiracy?

Of course, they are both right.

But why couldn’t they have told me this on a day when I really needed to be reminded?

This is why I can’t win. (Said with a wink and a smile.)

My sister, who came over to sit the kids last night while I went and had some “me”-time. Not only did she sit the kids, she didn’t bathe them. And because she didn’t bathe them, I had to give them a bath this morning.

While they were busy splishing and splashing, I sat on the toilet, enjoyed a hot cup of coffee and read the newspaper.

Thanks, Holly. Two gifts in one.

It’s hard to imagine that, even in our class-concious society, a grocery store can be deemed more “hip” than another, but, much to my chagrin, there’s no getting around the fact that just that has happened in my town. There’s the hoity-toity grocery store, and then there’s all the rest. And at the bottom of this caste system of grocers is my friendly neighborhood grocery store. It lacks the wide aisles, bright lights, fresh sushi and myriad international fare that the up-scale grocery store flashes, but the produce is fresh, the prices are fair, and the people are courteous, genuine and always smiling — and they know me. That’s enough to satisfy me. I’ll take down-home, sincere generosity over expensive bells and whistles, any day.

So, I couldn’t help but smile yesterday when, as I was loading the car with my kids and grocery purchases, the cashier ran out holding a box of chocolates. “Here,” she said. “These are for you.” I had said some friendly words to them as I was checking out, and I guess they wanted to say “thanks.” I was being presented with same Valentine’s chocolates on sale at the front of the store at 75% off. Any number of people would have taken the chocolates and secretly rolled their eyes at the cheapness of the affair. I knew better. I took the chocolates and made a big deal of the gift to my kids. You see, I learned a long time ago that any gift is to be treasured.

Tim’s dad is notorious for such questionable gifts. His reputation precedes him. Long before I actually met him, I had heard the story of how he gave his wife four snow tires for Christmas one year. They eventually divorced. I can’t help but think the snow tires had something to do with it.

When I became, by marriage, a member of his family, I began to witness, first-hand, his gift-giving skill in all its glory: A twenty-four inch bust of Thomas Jefferson. A gargoyle. Used socks. An indescribably ugly shadow box “still life” featuring some dried flowers, some phony sheet music, a plastic saxaphone, and a gaudy gilt frame. You get the picture.

His gifts are to be admired, not only for their sheer outlandishness and off-key taste, but for the sincere, if not misplaced, thought that goes into them. Every University of Virginia graduate has to have a bust of T.J. My gargoyle? To ward off those computer demons at my job in Information Technology. The used socks? A very personal memento from a flight on Virgin Airlines. And that testament to fine art? Surely the saxaphone player in our family would love it. His heart is in every gift he’s ever given. It’s just that his heart has poor taste. My god, has he ever heard of gift certificates? The poor man had become the object of some light-hearted, but painfully sincere, ridicule.

The death certificate reads: “Cause of Death: self-inflicted gun-shot wound to the right temple.” I’ve read it over and over again, looking for more information. The words are succinct and sanitized, as if to leave no room for further questions. But there are no answers there. We only know this: three and a half years ago, Tim’s father committed suicide. He was expecting his first grandchild. He was happily remarried, enjoying semi-retirement, travelling, and, apparently, profoundly depressed. The questions remaining were agonizing.

Today, I’ve been able to construct my version of what happened that day. It may or may not be the entire truth, and it is not a particularly palatable explanation, but it is one that I can live with. The saddest thing is, I can live with it, my husband can live with it, but he could not. If only he knew that we could have lived with the difficult truth, maybe he could have, as well. We were willing to love him unconditionally, and the tragedy is that he did not know that.

Rarely do I look at my children and not still feel anger at him for not seeing what he gave up. But I forgive him. I just wish he were here to know that. His life after that day wouldn’t have been a life of simple happiness, but it would have been a life with sons, grandchildren, and people who still loved him. We would have even adored all his white elephants.

Journeying to this point of understanding has left ruts in my soul. It has left me with a profound respect for depression, and an even deeper respect for unconditional love. If there is something positive to come out of this, some gift, as it were, then it is the comfort I feel in knowing this unconditional love.

That is a legacy I want to teach my children. I cannot, though, seem to find the mind-space that can allow me to articulate that legacy. My daughter looks at pictures of her grandfather, and I freeze. I am at a loss for the words of the story that should mean so much to her. I know now is not the time, but, one day, it will be the time, for both of my children.

I think when that day comes, I’ll box up T.J., the gargoyle, the socks and the shadow box and give it to them. Inside the box, will also be these words. The card will be signed, “Russ”, for it’s really his gift to them. It’s just so sad that he can’t give it to them himself.

[A story from the archives. It came up tonight at Stitch 'n Bitch.]

Several years ago, before Zoe was born and way before I got into knitting — as in, when I was young – I was at a music performance with my husband. (We did things like that, I promise.) The featured performers were The Los Angeles Guitar Quartet. Classical, acoustic guitar. No amplifiers. Delicate. Quiet.

click click click. click click click.