Why the Proportion of Peanut Butter to Nutella Matters

Experts say to choose your battles. Judge me profoundly for this, but the battle I have clearly chosen is the appropriate proportion of peanut butter to Nutella in the sandwich. Both my children firmly believe that the appropriate proportion of peanut butter to Nutella should look like this: thin, transparent layer of peanut butter to thick, frosting-like layer of Nutella. Now, on some cosmic otherspace where nutrition does not matter, they are absolutely right. But for some reason, the battle I have chosen to wage is to make PB:N declarations that would stipulate the opposite: thin, transparent layer of Nutella to thicker (albeit not frosting-thick) layer of peanut butter. After all, I explain, the Nutella is like my kiss: you’re both ok with a quick kiss before we enter public spaces but how would you tolerate a smattering of kisses, slathered over you in a frosting-thick layer? They look at me confused; the analogy has become far too complicated and, bottom line, still indicates I say no. OK, I try again, the peanut butter is where you get all your nutrition, and so you’re cheating your bodies out of excellent opportunities to grow bigger and stronger. They now don an irritated expression; do I really think I can persuade them with that one? “Besides, each 13-oz jar is made with over 50 hazelNUTS,” my 7-year-old proudly exclaims, pointing to the text on the jar. “Aren’t all nuts nutritious?” Who taught him to read?

OK, next attempt, this time with honesty: “look, Nutella is ridiculously expensive and you guys go through it like candy. It’s simply not appropriate to load up on chocolate when you should be having a nutritious snack.” And then angry mommy: “if you don’t make your sandwiches the way I want them, I will make them and you will be forced to eat them that way.” Yikes! Now I have to make sandwiches for the next 10 years, just when we got to the point that there was finally one thing I didn’t have to do.

I have now had an epic battle with each son precisely over this issue. About 6 months ago, my 12-year-old was sent upstairs for ultimately sassing me over my critique of his PB:N sandwich-making, calling me a “control freak,” which escalated into a screaming match the neighbors still joke about. Just the other day, my 7-year-old crumbled during a similar argument. The 50-hazelnut argument wasn’t working with me this time.  “But you let X make his sandwiches himself, why can’t I?” he pleads, hoping that the I-hate-being-little-and-want-to-be-independent angle would work. “If you can’t abide by my rules, then you don’t get to,” I say, while removing half of the Nutella spread on his bread. I felt all proud of myself, I had put down a boundary and I was sticking to it, no matter how much he whined, slithering to the kitchen floor in a pooling wail of tears. I was hard. I meant it. I was going to win!

And then, the fatal Mediocre Parent move: I licked the Nutella off the knife rather than putting that Nutella back in the jar. An act which reminds both my sons of my apparently-not-so-secret proclivity, which is eating Nutella with a spoon out of the jar when they are asleep (an act, by the way, which makes my German friend cringe: “what is wrong with you Americans that a simple little bit is never enough?” When I was staying with her in Germany, I had to secretly eat Nutella with a spoon while she was sleeping, too). Almost as if they practiced it beforehand, they yell in unison: “why is it ok for YOU to eat that much but not for us?” My answer? In my head, the answer is, because you both take and take and take and my only pleasure in life is a spoonful of Nutella in private where no one can bother me, and when you grow up, you’ll see how very sad that is. My answer out loud? “Because, that’s why. Now eat your damn sandwich and get over yourself.”

I know they make PB/N sandwiches when I’m not around now and I haven’t yet managed to catch them in the act. Sneaky, though I have to give them credit for their dedication to their cause. And I? Well, I could stop buying the stuff (I know, you thought about that so much earlier in this story, that’s why I’m Mediocre and you’re not…) but then I deprive myself of my treat. I could buy it and hide it, but they will find it, chocolate-sniffing bloodhounds that they are. So I believe we are at an impasse, a de facto detante of sorts, in the PB:N battle.

Is there a point to all this, you now ask me? Yes. Choosing our battles is not wise, for we do not choose well.

Why Do I Always Miss My Son's Best Baseball Moves?

OK, this is the third year that my 7 year old has been playing baseball and it never fails; as soon as he makes a great play, or finally hits the ball, I'm blabbing away to another parent and miss it. I've tried every solution I can think of, including trying to enlist the cooperation of the parents I tend to blab to. "Hey, I'm totally listening to you, but I'm not looking at you because I don't want to miss X's time at bat." They sympathize "of course, did I show you this new gadget on my phone?" And then I look at the phone, and "Crack!"--I miss my son's best hit of the game.

I should let you know that I'm not the sport parent type. The only sport I understand is soccer because I played it in middle and high school and college. I don't take the boys outside to "do sports." We take walks, we bike ride (sometimes), but mostly I sit outside with a stack of papers to grade while they fight with each other over their skateboards, scooters, or why my 7 year old can't catch a football throw from my 12 year old that intentionally knocks him flat on his ass. But my youngest loves baseball, and, since his brother was awkward at sports for so many years, I supported the interest. What could be wrong with sitting outside a couple days a week, enjoying the weather and getting some grading done? I knew I wasn't like those other parents, who stay engaged, use the correct terminology for actual plays, and know the difference between a catcher's mitt and a regular one. But I'd be there, not like my parents who never showed up for a single college soccer game.

And yet, am I really there? Despite my best intentions to be "not like the others," the other parents are actually fairly decent people and, gasp, I might have a thing or two in common with them. Also, there is a reason that my older son has nicknamed me "Blabby McBlabbypants:" I'll pretty much find something to say to just about anybody. Even when my kid is at bat. Or when he plays first base and finally catches the ball. So I'm working on it. I place my chair facing a direction in which I can't help but look directly into the action. I practice not looking where I'm talking (which just confuses the cat, with whom I practice this technique). I vow to the Fates I will *not* start a conversation when X is on deck or in the hole (see, I've learned something about baseball!). And I cheer for those other kids, whose plays I usually don't miss, so that hopefully those parents will cheer for my kid, just in case I slip in my resolve to see every single one of his moments of baseball prowess. And then, exactly what I was afraid of happening happens: the parents start acting like a team, making note of each other's children's good plays, supporting each other and our kids, all that icky stuff I was afraid of and hoped to avoid by bringing that stack of papers and pretending I was a baseball mom island. Bottom line is, if I live on my island, I miss plays because I'm grading; if I engage with the parents, I miss plays because I don't know how not to chat. Just another way in which I help my son have enough material for therapy someday.