The best excuse ever to eat eye popping amounts of pork is to gather together 18 of your closest friends and book a whole pig at St. John Restaurant in Farringdon in London, England. You really do need to book the pig in advance. A deposit of £320 at least a week before your meal is required to reserve the pig which we affectionately began to refer to as Percy. Yes, Percy would die for our eating pleasure however where else but St. John’s to best appreciate and pay tribute to the life of the pig. The head chef at St. John Restaurant, Fergus Henderson, is the champion of the concept of ‘nose to tail’ eating. We could be sure that every part of the pig would be appreciated in all it’s glory and used and consumed right down to the last trotter.

For the privilege of eating a whole pig our group is allocated the private room at the front of the restaurant. Just around the corner from the Smithfield meat markets, the austere white washed walls of the restaurant and the waiters clad in butchers aprons are a nod to the area’s continuing carnivorous traditions. The bone marrow served with parsley salad is St John’s signature dish so I have no intention of passing up an opportunity to sample the bone marrow despite the lashings of pork that was to follow.

You are presented with a very primeval looking assortment of bones (pictured) and the idea is to scoop out the marrow from inside the bones, spread it on the accompanying pieces of toast and finish with a sprinkling of sea salt and parsley. If you are a lover of lard this is the dish for you. The dark unctuous bone marrow is speckled with glistening pieces of fat creating a spread for your toast like no other. The marrow is incredibly rich and after two pieces of toast I am done. I must admit that it does go rather nicely with the bottles of pinot noir that we are making short work of.

For the less adventurous you can choose squid as a starter. Served in large platters mixed with wedges of fennel and green sauce the squid is fresh, light and a welcome alternative for those who are squeamish enough about Percy without wanting to suck their starter from the inside of pieces of bone. However, there is no avoiding the fact that we are eating a whole pig as Percy is brought to the table by our waiter balanced on a large metal tray. The pig’s skin is golden and glistening and the aroma of roasted pork sparks a Pavlovian reaction.

Our waiter expertly carves the pig at the table putting all who have hesitated before a leg of lamb for a Sunday roast to serious shame. Huge platters are filled with mounds of mouth watering pork meat, crispy skin and stuffing soaking with the juices from the meat. The pig is accompanied by simple bowls of boiled potatoes and cabbage. It has to be the best pork that I have ever tasted. It is so moist and flavoursome. The bone marrow may have been an interesting, perhaps one off experience but the whole pig is something you wish you could repeat on a weekly basis.

The desserts on offer reflect the simplicity and honesty with which all the dishes at St. John Restaurant can be characterised by. A huge slab of dense chocolate terrine is served with creme fraiche and bloated stewed prunes. The terrine is ridiculously rich and even the serious chocoholics at the table struggle to finish it but I don’t hear any complaints from them. A big platter of assorted cheeses served with some crisp bread and raisin bread is the perfect way to end the meal.

St. John Restaurant has just been awarded its first Michelin star and there has been some debate over this award. Sure the white tablecloths at St. John Restaurant are covered with paper and the typical Michelin fare of amuse bouches and palate cleansers are thin on the ground. However, the food at St. John Restaurant has created an impact around the world and brought a particular type of British cooking back into prominence. Judging by our feast of pig it is a Michelin star that is well overdue.

Details: 26 St John Street, Smithfield EC1M 4AY, (Ph 020 7251 0848)
Damage: Pricey
Rating:  9/10

You may also be interested in reading about my meal at Hereford Road in Notting Hill which is run by one of Fergus Henderson’s proteges. If you are in the area and not in the mood for offal try Vinoteca for great wine and simple dishes directly across the road from St. John Restaurant.

Editors Pick from Jennifer at Playgroups are No Place for Children:   Most people, even those who know me well, do not know of my secret desire to travel and eat local, exotic, gourmet foods.  That’s why this post about St. John’s Restaurant from Gourmet Chick truly spoke my private language.   Gourmet Chick is an Australian girl living, eating, and documenting her culinary adventures.  Her blog also features her adventures outside of London, as well as her recipes.  For those whose only choice in their quest to be a foodie traveler is to live vicariously through others, then you’ll adore her blog.  Please subscribe to Gourmet Chick and follow her on Twitter so you’ll never miss another of her adventures.

Via Instapundit, I find this site that hits me as saying precisely what I want to say:

Today’s economic crisis impacts all Americans, not just those who are behind on their mortgages.  Everyone shares concerns over health care, job loss, and the decimation of their retirement savings.  All Americans have made sacrifices over the past year.  The American taxpayer is already on the hook for mismanaged banks, incompetently run auto companies and extravagent stimulus packages.  We don’t need the additional burden of paying for our neighbor’s mortgage.  The bottom line - we believe that being current on one’s mortgage should not be grounds for being put at a financial disadvantage.

That is wildly deserving of an amen.

I find myself wondering how conservatives who bought into the rhetoric of hope and change, who believed that Obama would be governing from a moderate’s position, and who ended up voting Democrat in the elections are feeling about their decision right now? I’m feeling more and more that I voted the right direction: McCain.

Now, the current economic crisis isn’t Obama’s fault. There are a lot of names and administrations that can share the blame for bad regulations, overspending, and refusal to deal with the American economy as something built on money that doesn’t come from the Free Money Fairy. And then there are the people–that is, “we, the people”–who helped by demanding more government services and less fiscal sanity. In fact, we, the people, made it downright difficult for a person to be elected if they threatened our slice of the pie, a fact that has made blue hairs such an important voting block and rational conversation about the future of Social Security such a political hazard.

So, no, it’s not Obama’s fault.

But I remember watching one of the televised debates and hearing McCain promise a spending freeze followed by deep cuts in the budget coupled with a belief that raising taxes on any Americans right now would be foolish and irresponsible. Obama, in contrast, spoke breezily about cutting the budget, but thought that a spending freeze was a bad idea and an increase in taxes on the wealthy (whatever “wealthy” might mean) was a brilliant idea.

I remember thinking that this was one of only two defining issues for me (the other being continued resolution to maintain the most powerful military in the world–surprisingly, continued prosecution of the war in Iraq and Afghanistan was down the list a ways for reasons best discussed in another post on another day). Obama might indeed have intended to govern from the center, but even that night he couldn’t get away from a knee-jerk need by the left to increase taxes (on the right people) and massively increase spending (to the right people).

If the Republicans hadn’t lost the moral high ground on the economy over the last eight years, I imagine that we would be talking about President McCain and his obstructionist tendencies right now.

McCain may have had a hard time leading, given the state of the GOP in both House and Senate, but I think he would have gleefully used his veto pen to kill off this stimulus package and would have forced the Democrats into a fight. Instead, the left pretends at compromise with the complicity of a couple turncoat Republicans and then bulls ahead with whatever the hell it is that they wanted to do in the first place.

Because they won.

I don’t think that trend will last, though, because Americans are already starting to worry about how this latest stimulus package is actually going to help create jobs, foster economic stability, or do much other than run up well over a trillion in new debt. Bush has been criticized, rightly, for the debt that he ran up during his terms in office; a month into Obama’s administration and it’s become apparent that he not only intends to continue down that path, but, indeed, he’ll be upping the ante.

That’s a phrase–”upping the ante”–that I use very specifically. There is an element of the bad gambler to the way our government is handling the crisis, and Obama is cheering on the bad behavior. If you’ve ever seen a guy losing big at the craps tables, you’ll know what I mean.

That guy probably started with relatively conservative bets. He played the come and the pass lines and didn’t place any of the hard ways or other high risk bets. But he was losing–every few rolls of the dice set him back a little bit more until he realized he was down quite a bit. So instead of walking away, he believed the thing that every bad gambler believes: his luck’s going to turn. There were so many bad rolls that a good roll is just bound to be right around the corner.

And when he believes that, the bets get bigger because, when his luck turns, he believes the payout will pull him right out of the hole that he’s dug himself. So he starts betting bigger and he starts betting the high risk/high reward bets. There is luck involved, of course, and he’ll win some rolls. More than that, though, there is simple math: even when he wins a roll or two, he’s dug that hole so deep that he’s still deep down in the dark and he has to keep playing to try to break even.

What he doesn’t realize is that he’s already lost. The money is gone and he needs to be smart enough to step away from the table, go home, and figure out how to rebuild what is already gone.

Our government is that guy: the stimulus plans are getting bigger, the hole is getting deeper, and they believe that one more stimulus bill could hit it big and make those losses go away. Meanwhile, the deficit gets bigger and someone else is going to end up paying the bill because our government has gone way the hell and gone beyond the money that they brought to the table. They’ve borrowed from everyone they know, they’ve maxed the credit cards, they’ve taken out mortgages on our futures–and they’re using it all to place a bad bet that will only take us closer to financial ruin.

And Obama is the one leading us down that path, cheerfully telling us that this is the bet that will make it all better. I don’t believe him.

McCain wasn’t the guy who sent a thrill up my leg.  He wasn’t my perfect candidate and he didn’t mesh with my beliefs on a number of issues. I have a hard time imagining that he would have travelled this particular path, though, and I believe that this path is one that could ruin our nation.

Republicans, libertarians, and all nature of fiscal conservatives will be fighting at a disadvantage for the next few years (at least), but anyone who believes that our salvation is to be found in fiscal responsibility need to start pushing back now. We’re losing the battles right now, but we can’t afford to lose the war.

Editors note by Mr Lady @ Whiskey In My Sippy Cup: Zombyboy was one of my first blog friends, and I’d dare say my blogging mentor.  He and I disagree on almost everything political, but I always appreciate reading his take on issue and the discussions that ensue.  He’s a gifted writer, a passionate patriot and an insightful person.  Read the original post here.

When I made my list of the best 25 songs of the last 25 years a few weeks back, I burned, just for my own private listening enjoyment, a mix CD comprised of those select tracks. Since that time its been on heavy rotation during the 20 minute commute to and from M’s camp each weekday — I’m lucky enough to have a kid who’s tolerant of Mommy’s need to CRANK THAT SHIT UP — and in that time she’s absorbed all the songs and picked her favorites, notable among them the well-aged Oasis tune Wonderwall. It’s a song that for all its obvious magnetism and hookiness I’ve never fully understood. I mean, what’s a Wonderwall, anyway? And what, if anything, does it mean for a person to be that to someone else? Still, questions of signification and metaphor aside, each time the spare guitar strum of that track begins to play on our car stereo I see the joyful recognition wash over M’s face in the rear view mirror, and when the lesser of the brothers Gallagher begins to sing she does too, word for word.
. . . . .

On Sunday, we finally told her about the split.

For those of you who’ve never gone through a separation (and seriously, here’s hoping none of you ever have to), the awful, soul-rending anticipation of having to break this news to your child — the tiny, blameless person who you’ve made it your life’s mission to protect and shield from all hurts and pains — is psychological torture of a magnitude it’s difficult to fully wrap your head around. Over the course of the past few weeks I’ve said to friends, relative to the crushing dread I felt about having to do this, that I now understand why people stay together for the sake of the kids (or, rather, tell themselves that’s what they’re doing — it’s probably closer to the truth to say they’re staying together for the sake of not having to deal with the anguish and guilt of having to tell the kids). It is the worst thing I could ever imagine having to do, and believe me, I can imagine having to do a lot of pretty awful things. Like having to attend a Celine Dion concert, or watch the complete filmography of Paris Hilton, for example. YES, THIS IS EVEN WORSE THAN THAT.

So Jamie came over Sunday morning with the idea in mind that this was the day. No way out but to barrel through it together, however ineptly, and hope to god we don’t have to look back on this as The Day We Shattered Our Daughter’s Identity, Crushed Her Spirit, And Destroyed Her Self Esteem For All Time. I think some of my generalized terror about this event can be traced back to having known a few very seriously broken human beings who pointed to the cataclysm of their parents breaking up when they were a kid as the hot molten core of their volcanic screwed-up-ness. And when I say “human beings” you should read “people I dated.” This is definitely NOT how I want my daughter to turn out.

We sat down on the couch, all three of us together, Jamie on one side of her and me on the other. I wrapped my arms around her, squeezed her tight against my body, and started speaking.

And every word was stumbling, and my brain stuttered and sputtered, and I thought I’m failing, miserably… I can’t do this. But I did. And when I said the words, those life-decimating words I’d avoided saying for so long, her head shook lightly, No.

So I held her tighter, and kept talking. And she was so quiet, not saying a word, that my brain started filling in her silence with fear, with my own fear, with my fear that I’d just done something horrible to this person I love more than anything in the world, something that I could never take back, and how would I ever be able to live with that?

When I stopped speaking I felt like I’d run a marathon, and I could hear my heartbeat thumping in my ears.

Finally, she said, “And you won’t argue anymore?”

I looked at Jamie, and he looked at me. “No, we won’t argue anymore.”

Her eyes lit up. “So you’ll both be happy now?” she chirped.

And this is about when I started crying. Because I am so ridiculously, obscenely blessed, no other response was possible.
. . . . .

As we wound through the ragged streets of Baltimore this morning on our usual trek to camp, she asked again to hear Wonderwall. “I’m going to sing it,” she announced, as if willing my attention to bend itself to her 1st grade vocal stylings. And as she sang I listened — her high trill an awkward mate for the track’s somewhat grating, nasal vocals — and tried to follow a thread of coherence through the lyrics, to make some kind of sense of what Noel Gallagher was trying to say, and what in all of that my daughter connected so deeply with.

Then, just as the song rose to its swelling chorus, my throat involuntarily tightened, and I felt tears start to gather in the corners of my eyes. I sang along, too:

And suddenly, just at that moment, I understood exactly what the better Gallagher brother meant.

Editor’s Pick by Amy Turn Sharp of Doobleh-Vay: Tracey Gaughran-Perez is an online maven.  A force of awesome nature. I love this post , her blog, and all of her writing.  She has some wicked cool sites like MamaPop, and We Covet. Visit her today , follow her on twitter, and subscribe here.

Leah Giberson’s paintings are beautiful, and how I wish I could see them in person! I’d love to hop over to Boston and have a studio visit, but for the time being I’ll have to be happy with the possibilities the Internet offers us.  Leah is not only a gifted artist herself, she is also one of those artists who encourages others.  It’s been great to get to know her online this year, so I am especially happy to have her as a guest this week. Leah sells top quality archival prints of her work, as well as a selection of originals in her Etsy shop. She has a blog, and posts frequently on flickr. Enjoy, and please don’t miss my questions for you, dear readers, at the end of the interview

Why did you decide to start a blog?

To tell you the truth I really hadn’t paid much attention to blogs up until last March when I opened my Etsy shop. Not only did I soon discover a world of other artists selling their work online, but I also found a seemingly endless world of inspiration on their blogs. I’ve had never had any interest in public journaling about my personal family life or reading about others quite frankly, but when I discovered how artists were using their blogs to share artistic inspiration, new work and news, I was thrilled. Then when I started getting visitors to my own blog with their clicks, views and comments I was hooked.

I should give a bit of a disclaimer at this point. I’m not a great blogger. By that I mostly mean I’m not a frequent blogger - at least not on my blog site. I struggle to maintain momentum with my postings. Over the past few months, however, flickr has become a kind of blog alternative for me. I started using it on a daily basis when I was commissioned to make a large painting this past September and wanted to be able to post images of my progress for my client to see. Before I knew it, there were lots of other people leaving comments as well and some very interesting dialogs began. I discovered that I was reaching a MUCH larger and rapidly expanding audience than I had been with my real blog. I also realized that I was accomplishing what I had set out to do with my blog in the first place - to connect with other artists by sharing what I do in my studio and getting to see what they’re up to as well.

How has blogging affected your work as an artist/designer?

To begin with, it’s amazing to be able to post my work in progress or finished pieces and moments later start getting feedback. I admit that I’m an instant gratification addict, so (blogging on flickr) is a perfect fit for me. And while I usually love working from home, I can also feel isolated here in my tiny studio - especially this time of year when the sun sets so early. It really brightens my day to have these kinds of mini studio visits with other artists from all around the world.

In addition and in an unexpected way it’s also led to a new series of somewhat collaborative work. As an artist, I fall somewhere between a photographer and painter. All my paintings begin with photographs printed out onto photo rag paper. I adhere the prints to pieces of canvas and then begin painting directly on this surface. Up until this past summer, I had only used my own photographs to begin paintings. Then last July I came across a photo on flickr that completely captivated me.

Are you angry? Would we not like you when you’re angry?

I got into a discussion with a friend about male/female relationships while I was in Washington, D.C. and we were discussing the Obamas. He saw Michelle Obama, the First Lady, as the dominating figure in the relationship due to the fact that the president sometimes defers to her in his speeches or references her, saying he discussed things with her or so on. After listening to him for a bit, I pointed out that often the Obamas are more of a marital Rorschach test that says more about us than them, that no one can actually know another person’s marriage but the two people in it and that often we are taking our own experiences, wants, desires and fears and projecting them upon the First Family. But while he said he “liked” Michelle, he did see her as the quintessential “Angry Black Woman.”

Oh. That heifer again.

All my life I’ve heard many things about this woman. The finger snapping, neck cracking, fussin’ feuding and fighting, pissed off, scary as all get out, crazy, angry black woman. And while I’ve known a few black women who may qualify as angry or may have a chip on their shoulder a lot of this is much more complicated than a simple “she’s a crazy ABW.”

When you’ve been robbed of your femininity (which is sometimes the case with black women) due to a society that historically didn’t view you as a woman or, let’s say, a woman worth being chivalrous to (see Truth, Sojourner) you get a real limited amount of things you can do to get attention. I’ve known countless black women and men who grew up in households were parents and other adults honestly could have cared less if you had a bad day and frowned upon any crying, fussing, moaning or complaining. Suck it up, is practically the national pastime. But the one emotion that is almost always acceptable is anger. Your parents get mad. Your friends get mad. You get mad. Everyone is allowed to get mad. For some people crying is perceived as a weakness, but if you’re one “not to take no shit off of nobody” well, that will get you accolades and props and pats on the back. We reward strength in our community, in our society. Often anger is confused with strength.

I’m familiar with this phenomenon because I grew up the exception. My mother overly mothered me. I was allowed to cry and get upset. I did not like fighting or getting angry. I hated it, in fact. This DID NOT prepare me for school life at all, as I was easily the target for anyone who needed to feel superior in making someone else bawl. I was a softie.

But as I got older I learned that the so-called “angry” people were just as soft as I was. That’s why they were so quick to get mad.

In college I had a roommate who found out her boyfriend was cheating on her. She screamed. She stamped her feet. He acted like a moron. He ended up punching another girl (the one he cheated on my roommate with) and being arrested my the police. As mad as my roommate was and despite all that drama (and the fact that this man was scary and possibly not well in the head), she took him back over and over and over again. She would scream. She would call him the N-word. She would love him. She would take him back. Loving and screaming was all she seemed to know.

Anger was her go-to emotion for everything. And for some people the drama sounds as sweet as “I love you.”

But peel back the layers and you would learn that she got sad, confused, lonely, lost and frustrated just like I did. She just reached for the bottle of PO-ed every time because that’s what she’d been taught to do. Some of the anger is really more of a toughness. With many black men and women coming from single parent homes, having to grow up earlier and deal with adult problems sooner than most, you’re not necessarily going to be the laid back, happy-go-lucky, Mr. or Ms. Carefree. You know the reality of the problems in the world, as well as the ones in your own life. It’s hard to slap a smiley face on it and a song in your heart where a missing parent is supposed to be.

A lot of our “anger” is confused with “pain.” It’s over-exaggerated at times by those who are the most jaded. There’s nothing wrong with a man saying he talked something over with his wife. That doesn’t mean she has his nuts in a vice. This shouldn’t be a competition. We’re supposed to be a team. And if you’re in a relationship with an angry person, maybe you should just judge and deal with that person on their terms, not label an entire group of women as borderline insane.

Sometimes having a little fire is a good thing when used properly. Perhaps if I’d been a touch more “angry” in my first serious relationship I wouldn’t have wound up being the doormat so many times and miserable as he took advantage of my niceness. Some people will take your love, like a thief, and run with it, do God only knows with it, and leave you with nothing.

I was young and idealistic. I was easy prey.

I’ve never liked the stereotype of the ABW. It makes things too simple. It makes our problems too easy to discard. But I guess what I disliked most was that she wasn’t me or my mother or my sisters or my cousins. That I knew a few women who happened to be angry, but I didn’t know an army of neck-snapping sisters, but the neck-snapping ones got all the TV shows. That Michelle Obama hadn’t actually done anything remotely angry but was labeled an ABW anyway just based on appearances. How many times had I heard someone say they “knew” women just like her. But how could you “know” her unless you actually KNOW her? Otherwise we’re just basing things on hunches and assumptions.

Currently in my life, I’m trying to come to terms with some things about being black woman and how it is frustrating to hear people speak as if we all came off the Shenaynay assembly line. It also hurts me when black men and women go after each other, mired in stereotypes. I wish we could look past that and see what’s deeper and work on that rather than the superficial. When you say something like “all black men are dogs” or “all black women are angry” it’s a way of lazily absolving yourself from any responsibility in the role you played to get yourself into the shape you are today. It’s easy to say, it’s all them and not me. It’s a scapegoat. It’s convenient. You, after all, couldn’t be the reason that you are single. Everyone else just must be that awful.

I think there’s enough anger to go around.

Editor’s Pick by Shannon at Charming Bitch: Danielle Belton is the author and creator of The Black Snob. She is a writer and freelance journalist from St. Louis, Mo. Ms. Belton’s work has also appeared on Huffington Post, Mediaite and The American Prospect. She is an amazingly talented writer and you can read more about her accomplishments and accolades here. While you’re there, take a look at her archives (original post and comments here) and don’t miss another thing by subscribing.

I don’t remember how I first came across Ms. Belton’s writing but I do know I was hooked from the first article. Her blog is heavy on pop culture and politics but it is also what I consider to be required reading if you have an honest interest in discussing race in our society.

A few days ago I was feeling rather icky.  You know what I mean.  My heart was sticky with the tar of depression, my head was cloudier than a room full of Milton Berles, and my muscles were aching like I had just run a marathon with Sally Struthers strapped to my back.

So, I did the thing that generally makes me feel happier, no matter what else is going on: I kicked the dog put on my jacket, grabbed my camera, and went for a walk.  Movement in Sunshine.

It was about 3:30 and very brisk.  Clouds were milling around in the sky, crowding the sun as it begain to trail its path to oblivion for the night… As I strolled along, my muscles stretched and yawned.  They woke up a little, and endorphins lifted the corners of my mouth, and my mind.

Usually during such a stroll, and basically as a general rule in life, I am intensely drawn towards visions of Beauty in Nature.  I always capitalize when I refer to the concept in this way.  It is as if it is its own entity, starkly standing out from the muddle that is everything else.  My soul seeks out this type of beauty.  My heart beats faster, my breathing slows, and my eyes seem to focus more sharply when I bear witness to Beauty in Nature.  I feel… well, alive.

During this stroll, it started off that way, and I got a nice shot of the sun caressing these naked, shivering trees one last time before she turned and went to bed.

But then, I was continually drawn to something else.

This revolts me.

It makes my heart beat faster.  I am angry.

It makes my breathing slow… as I grit my teeth.  I am trying not to lose my cool.

It makes my eyes focus more sharply, as my brows furrow deeply.

What do I really see?

I see a people who are too spoiled and pampered, careless, thoughtless and oblivious to true beauty, to be kind.  I see a disgusting swarm of cretins sauntering across the earth, leaving their filth behind them to rot and lay peril to the beauty that battles to live on amidst the muck.

I see a people who don’t deserve so much of what is here for them, obviously just in their periphery, because they certainly can’t be seeing it clearly.  There’s no way you could do THIS if you’re seeing the Beauty in Nature clearly. Could you?

What can I do?  My heart beats faster.

Just me? How can I stop this?  I ponder.  My breathing slows.

Even in small numbers, we can make a difference.  Later this week, John, Braden and I will walk along the same way I did last Friday, but we will be armed with garbage bags.  We’re going to pick up every piece of this dreck that we come across.

My eyes have focused more sharply.

Editor’s pick by Leighann of Multi-Minding Mom: I first met Lotus while on a photo walk in downtown Nashville. You don’t know how much I appreciate the sarcasm and expletives that she brings to Sarcastic Mom, not to mention her eye for photography. Her post Seeing Clearly wonderfully captures the frustration that my daughter and I often feel as we take walks in our own neighborhood and see the results of thoughtless littering. Subscribe to the Sarcastic Mom feed and follow Lotus on Twitter.

I’ve talked before about the craving we as parents have to mold our children into little mini-mes, to see some glimmer of ourselves behind those big, beautiful eyes.  I’ve talked about how hard we both have striven to avoid doing just that thing, for the sake of our kids’ sanity.  We were both pushed and pushed perhaps a bit too hard as children.  We both spent most of our lives trying to live up to some unattainable ideal of perfection that our parents had laid out for us.  We both had an absent parent who we alternately tried to garner the love of and spite with our over-achievement.

We both have parent issues.  We try to not share them with our kids.

For me, not pushing them to be me is simply a matter of not letting them slit their wrists and not pushing them to get straight A’s all the time and reading them something other than Douglas Adams.  For The Donor, it’s a bit more complicated.  He was that kid.  I have scrapbooks on scrapbooks full to the brim with newspaper clippings and accolades.  I have cases of ribbons and pins and trophies in my basement.  I have a wall full of plaques and a closet full of uniforms waiting for a child who needs them.  For a child who will follow his father’s footsteps.  And I have a very tired father here, too, one who never got his childhood because he was too busy being pushed to be the fastest, the hardest, the leanest, the best.

And so I’ve read them other stories (thank you, Dan Brown) and he’s let them dip their foot in a pool with an instructor rather than with him, and he’s put them in soccer lessons with any other coach, and he’s sat back and waited.  I’ve seen him dream.  I’ve seen the hope well up inside of him like a fire and I’ve seen that flame extinguish time and time again, mostly because he’s an athlete and I’m a nerd and nerds don’t push their kids to hit balls for a living and athletes don’t buy their kids Mensa Mind Challenge books for fun.  Our kids will be neither of us, it seems.  At least not by our doing.

He’s actually been trying his hand at their sports of choice a little lately, and let me tell you that a 37 year old man on a Ripstick is damn near the funniest thing you’ve ever seen in your entire life.  Especially when he does a double-backwards-aerial-somersault and lands flat on his ass.  That man was never a cat, in any life.

Our boys are both athletic in their own rights.  1of3 was born with Perfect. Fucking. Balance. The kid walked at 8 months and rode a 2 wheel bike, without training wheels, at 2.  Not kidding. 2of3 has an arm, oh my god does he ever.  He’s buoyant enough to swim well, but not focused enough.  1of3 is like a brick in the water, just like his momma.  They both love to skateboard and ride BMX bikes and I think one of them may be eyeballing motocross, which should make their godfather about explode with pride, but none of that does their father a whole lot of good.

See, I think dads really crave that thing they can share with their kids, maybe more so than moms do.  My bond with them is easy; I can close my eyes and still feel them stir inside of me, I can feel the measure of their brand new bodies wrapped around mine, suckling themselves to sleep, if I just concentrate enough. But it’s not so easy for their dad.  He didn’t carry them and he didn’t nurse them and now that they are growing away from us, now that we’re struggling to hold on to the last little bits of them before we are gone and they are complete, I see how he yearns for something of them them, something uniquely theirs, something he can share with them and give to them and be with them.

And then this happened:

They’ve always played golf with him.  They’ve always had clubs and they’ve always gone to the range with him and they’ve always watched the Master’s in his lap, but they’ve never truly learned to play his game before.  And it just turns out that my little 2of3 has found his authentic swing.  He is a golfer.

The Donor was there with them for the first half of their lessons, and I met him at the course for the second half. He kept saying to me, “Honey, just look at him.  Watch this…” and I saw the flame begin to spark in his eyes.  I watched my 2of3 focus, I watched him swing away and I knew that he’d found something that spoke to him.  This is kind of a rare thing in his world.  Before his dad left us to head off to work, he leaned into me and whispered in my ear with stifled excitement, “He’s our golfer.”After The Donor left, I was busy chasing 3of3 on the other side of the fence, trying to watch my sons and failing miserably.  I mean, really, can you blame me?

And then I heard it.  I turned and looked through the fence and I saw his teacher, all of his fellow golfers, his brother even, and they were all silent and still. The sound was still resonating through us, and for a moment we were all speechless, helpless against it.

I don’t know if you follow golf, if you play or watch or understand it at all, but there’s a point in everyone’s golf game when you find it.  Yourself.  Your core. There’s a point in your game when you let yourself go and trust your own intuition and you swing that club and it hits the ball exactly perfectly and you feel it like lightening running through you.  You feel your center.  The sound the ball makes, the sound the shaft of your club makes, it’s not just impact…it’s perfect balance.  It is a sound that anyone who is near you when it happens feels, too.  The vibration, the wave, the ping, it comes from inside of you and for one perfect second, time stands still as the ball soars out from you.

If you think I’m overthinking things slightly, you’ve never hit a ball like that.  Try it.

We all stood and watched my son’s ball tear though the air.  It was like watching Monet paint, or Beethoven compose, but mostly it was like watching my husband swing his clubs.  And my son, he felt it.  He turned to me with his mouth wide open in awe of himself.  His instructor looked at me, looked at him and just said, “Wow.”  And all I could do was smile.  My son, he has it.  He has a piece of his father, a piece unique to them that none of the rest of us truly have just yet.  It’s the most beautiful thing in the world, seeing the man you love in the child you love.

The next day, the two of them sat outside together, just the two of them, and they talked as they scrubbed their clubs.  They came upstairs a whole lot later and together they barbecued for our whole family.  My son forgot his DS for the day, my husband forgot his Sunday afternoon Sports Channel shows, and they remembered each other instead.  Later that night, 2of3 came up to me and said, “Mom, me and Dad cleaned our clubs together all day today, just us!”  Even later that night, as The Donor and I sat on the porch in the dark of night, he looked at me and said, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanted something of ours, something to share with them.”

And what I didn’t say is that I couldn’t tell him how much more it makes me love him to see that now he has it.

Editor’s Pick by MommyTime at Mommy’s Martini. Mr. Lady can be relied upon to be hilarious, irreverent in all the right places, provocative, and witty — as the title of her blog, Whiskey in My Sippy Cup, suggests. It’s not often that she chooses straight-up serious, but when she does, she invariably knocks it out of the park. I love her easy, gutsy style; I admire her ability to think so deeply about what it means to parent; and I am in awe of the posts where she is not afraid to put it all on the line emotionally. Mr. Lady’s eloquence is rarely matched, and I’m sure, if you subscribe, you will be as inspired as I am when you read her. And if you are interested, you can read the original post, with comments here.