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It’s Friday, at last!
I have a three-day weekend,
Which makes my heart soar.

JG planned ahead
To take the day off today,
And he walked Ted! Swoon.

Getting to sleep in
Is so exciting to me.
Is that sad, or what?

Fun green shoes, good hair,
And not having to carpool
All make me happy.

It’s gorgeous outside!
I sing my commute away,
Sunglasses in place.

My floor is quiet.
My boss is working from home.
I don’t mind one bit.

Have I ever had
A good mood in the morning?
It’s nice, for a change.

JG and I have been married for almost three years, so in our circle of church friends, it’s a common assumption that having kids is in the imminent future. Every so often, we field questions to that end, and we dance around the issue, usually citing Ted as all we can handle right now. I’m glad that we’re not hassled to the point of frustration, but it is a little off-putting when having kids is such a foregone conclusion, and if we’re not adhering to someone’s pre-conceived schedule, we’re automatically abnormal.

Even worse than the questions are those knowing nods, those sideways glances, those “we’ll see about that” sighs. “Just you wait,” they say, “once you turn thirty, you’ll want to hear little feet in your hallways and you won’t even care that they drive you crazy. You’ll see.” Okay, even if we assume that this is the case for every married couple out there, isn’t it kind of bad form to rub it in someone’s face prematurely with that fatherly, I-know-better wisdom? When that tone arises, it takes every ounce of self-restraint to shrug and reply, “Whatever you say,” and continue on my way.

The truth is that we really like our status as a married couple. I figure that we can never go back to this stage of relative footlooseness and fancy-freedom, so we’re going to stretch it out for as long as it makes sense. Even if we had kids and then ended up with an empty nest down the road, it wouldn’t be the same. It’s hard to explain that to a friend with a toddler on her hip and a bun in the oven who asks out of sheer curiosity because she so enjoys being a mom. But, really, we’re good. Thanks for asking.

At the wedding JG and I attended over the weekend, we were seated at a table with various other couples. The only couple we didn’t know, John and Kristy, were the bride’s “adopted parents” at college, and they struck up conversation right away. After learning our names, the next questions were, “How long have you been married?” and “Do you have any kids?”

JG and I went through our usual song and dance, and John and Kristy nodded along. They told us how they had four kids and a foster child at home, plus another baby who was visibly on the way.

Oh, boy, I thought. I do not want to spend this entire time talking about how we don’t have kids.

The other couples at our table jumped in to the conversation:

“That’s true, you can never go back to where you are now.”

“Yeah, but I really love being a mom.”

“Who’s going to take care of you when you’re old?”

“If I didn’t have my kids, I would have more money, more sleep, less worry, and more time.”

Thankfully, the conversation eventually shifted to John’s anecdotes about being a detective, and I did much less shrinking into my chair.

Later, after the meal, when people had dispersed, Kristy leaned in and said to us, “I think you should have kids, no matter what that lady said about money and stuff.”

We chuckled. Not this again, I thought.

“No, really,” she continued. “It’s just amazing how you have this little life before you, and the two of you have this privilege to bring it up. I mean, I can’t even believe that we have four of our own, and we’re able to have another. Really. It’s amazing. It’s a miracle.”

And suddenly, I realized that Kristy was completely heartfelt. I had rolled my eyes at those cloying predictions of wanting to hear feet in hallways, but this — this was the real deal. Kristy didn’t want us to have children because it was the next step in becoming normal; she wanted us to share in that privilege of parenting a child. She was fully aware of and grateful for the weight and the gravity of being a mother, and she wanted us to know that it wasn’t all about losing sleep or spending money. Her words were strangely compelling.

On our way home from the wedding, I brought up this conversation with JG, and I think my biggest take-away was how glad I was that John and Kristy were parents. They were such a stark contrast to our typical interactions with young parents, with their sage pronouncements for our future. John and Kristy simply showed us how much they love their kids and being their parents, and that was so refreshing.

Now, don’t get your skirt in a twist because I did not have a baby-conversion moment there. Just call it food for thought.

I would never call myself a photographer. My camera fits comfortably in my hand, and I always have it during vacations or special events. I think about whether I would want the picture I see framed in the viewfinder before I press the button. Sometimes, I change my viewpoint or refocus if I think I’ll like it better. I do my best to count to three so people aren’t caught off guard. I make prints for others and send out links online albums when it makes sense. But I just like to take pictures. I’m not a photographer.

I feel much more comfortable with words. Plain, black characters on a white background suit me much more than the world of color, focus, aperture, and light. I can tweak my writing so that it comes close to what I’m thinking, but with pictures, the moment is fleeting, and then gone. I suppose that’s what’s so mysterious and elusive about it. You have to be quick, anticipate the shot, and take it while you can. There’s less calculation, planning, and editing. I’m sure that others thrive in this spontaneity, but I am plagued by the knowledge that that perfect shot is just beyond my grasp. To make up for it, I take many pictures with the hope that a few good ones are buried somewhere within. I enjoy the challenge of pursuing those good shots, but I ultimately retreat to the comfort of a notebook or keyboard.

In rare, brief occasions, I get a flash of what it must be like to have that shock of knowing that a certain picture-making moment is at hand. I was preparing to roll Russian tea cakes recently, and I carelessly tossed my wedding rings onto the counter, like I do when I work with raw meat or wash dishes. It was a commonplace gesture for me, and the rings glanced harmlessly and settled on the fake butcher block counter. I had my camera nearby for the purpose of documenting the baking process, but I cocked my head to the side. The rings that I wear every day seemed at home on the counter, with that foreground of crinkled plastic wrap. I picked up the camera and tentatively snapped a couple of shots, and then I rolled my eyes at my feeble attempts to be artistic.

Yet, when I uploaded the batch of shots from the Russian tea cakes, I found that I loved the picture. Maybe it was the strange juxtaposition of the rings, weighty with significance, and the humble kitchen surroundings, and how it all seemed to be just right to me. Perhaps no one else sees that strange relationship of the life-changing and the mundane caught between silver rings and a sheet of plastic wrap, but I do. Perhaps no one else understands that, in the midst of rolling cookies, I was reminded of the quiet strength of my marriage within the context of the everyday routine, but I do. Perhaps no one else loves the picture, but I do.

But, no, I’m not a photographer. I just like to take pictures.

Sunday Scribblings #105: The Photograph

So! After JG and I have planned out our meals for the week with the help of our recipe binder, we execute The Plan with a few tricks and strategies that I’ll share today, in our third and last installment of “In the Kitchen with RA,” or whatever catchy title someone else can imagine.

I am a huge proponent of pre-portioning, and it works for us for several reasons:

• Have I mentioned that I love to eat leftovers?
• Neither JG or I minds eating the same basic lunch at work each day.
• By putting in the extra time in advance, we save time when we have less of it.

In the past, when we had a large dish for dinner with leftovers for lunches we used to just slap foil onto the casserole dish and slide it into the fridge. However, even the short process of digging out a container, dishing out a helping, and putting the casserole back in the fridge seemed like a struggle in the morning, so now we pack up serving-sized portions right after dinner. The serving dish gets washed that night (or maybe the morning after, ahem), and we have a stack of lunch portions that are all ready to grab when we need them.

JG and I are committed to packing lunches to work because the cost of buying food at work is too much for either of us to swallow. Plus, we know what we’re eating, instead of relying on the nutritional gods of institutional food preparation for any kind of dietary balance. For our lunches, we always have the following items on hand:

• Apples and oranges
• Goldfish
• Cheese cracker packets, the sandwich-y kind
• Strawberry applesauce
• Yogurt
• Granola bars
• String cheese

Between this list of staples and the pre-packed leftovers, we can pack our lunches really quickly. We can just go down the line and take a cup of yogurt from the fridge, an apple from the crisper, or an orange from the fruit bowl. There’s no thinking involved, which is great in the morning.

“But what about the Goldfish?” you ask. Ah, yes. That’s where the true commitment to pre-portioning comes to light. See, I make my own 100-calorie packs. I take a box of Goldfish (a size down from the giant cartons), measure out half-cup portions of crackers, and seal them up in snack bags. I usually get about a dozen servings that are significantly smaller than what I would take if I were left to my own devices, and I keep them in a basket next to the fruit bowl. A little excessive though it may seem, I’m willing to spend my time with a box of Goldfish and a measuring cup for the small reward of saving myself the trouble when I am groggy from staying up late to attempt just one more crossword puzzle.

When it comes to making dinner, our most helpful strategy is prepping lettuce for salad ahead of time. On most nights, our vegetable side dish is a salad. Tomorrow, we’re having steamed broccoli, but most of the time, it’s the same old salad of romaine lettuce, baby carrots, and cherry tomatoes, and maybe cucumbers, if we’re feeling wild. It’s not terribly exciting, but it helps take the guesswork out of that part of the meal, and that’s fine with me. Plus, JG is not big on cooked vegetables, so it satisfies everyone.

Maybe it was just me, but when I ate salad out of a bag regularly, I dreaded reaching into the bag only to emerge with a handful of soggy grossness. Though not as repulsing, but equally annoying, was having a salad full of unappetizing stalk, thanks to an undiscerning packing plant. Instead of succumbing to the overpriced convenience of bags of salad, we learned to prepare our own, thanks to the wisdom of Alton Brown and our trusty salad spinner. I urge every engaged friend to add a salad spinner to their registries for this express purpose, and I’ve compiled a quick tutorial for any salad aficionados out there.

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