5 posts tagged “family”

I don't think I've mentioned this before here, but I don't see myself ever having children. Say what you will, but be warned I've heard it before. Any combination of "you're young", "wait till you're older", and "it's just because you're in college" has probably been launched at me by mothers nationwide.

It's not that I don't want kids because I hate kids. I think kids are really awesome. I'm not very good with them, but that's probably because I didn't have a lot of experience with them when I was growing up. My mom is the baby of the family by a lot of years, and that makes me the baby by a lot of years. (About six and a half, or so, and I only know this because I just called my mother in a state of panic and asked if all my cousins except me were finally in their thirties.) There were no moments of me taking care of the kids, unless you count a very short babysitting stint when I was 13 or so. (12? Who knows.)

So, sure, life plays a part in it. When it comes right down to it, though, I honestly don't have a desire to be a mother. I have friends, and have had friends for years, who knew they didn't want kids RIGHT NOW, but knew it was coming and they were looking forward to it. Even back in high school, there were people with desires to be mothers. They weren't keeping their fingers crossed for it any time soon, but even at sixteen years old they were telling me how great their kids were going to be, the type of mother or father they wanted to become, and so on. My best friend wants children more than anything, and I have always respected that.

This was cemented for me when he and I were in Central Park a few years back (I am getting the strange feeling that I've told this story before, but I'll go on) and a few kids involved him in their game. The game has been lost to time now, though he might remember, but it was a game like all kids make up. Someone's good, someone's bad, we all have to run, and we should probably squeal a lot. He was so into this game, and I just sat there on my slightly detached hillside, and I realized this was the way I wanted to be involved with kids. I felt this feeling that I honestly couldn't understand at that very moment. It was a feeling of love, combined with a vision of what I wanted my future to be. I really, really want to be a cool aunt. I want to visit and bring sweet presents (P.S., Nathan, your kids are going to be raised on Cincinnati chili and chocolate.), I want to be the one that kids run down the front steps to jump up on, I want to swing them around in the driveway and pretend I didn't bring them sweet presents. But these moments, they are special because they are fleeting.

I don't have the desire to be the main influence on a child's life. I don't want it to be me and one child forever and ever. Much to the potential grandparents' dismays, I just don't have a desire for my own kids. But to be honest, I can't wait for it to be about ten years down the line so I can convince kids of how super cool I am.

I am also not envious of parents in any way, because to be honest, kids today scare me. Hell, if I was being honest, I'd admit that my generation was probably kind of scary. High schools are filled with little 14-year-old adults that are sure their parents are stupid. I don't think I realized my mom was smarter than me until I was 18 or so. I read stories like this about 1 in 4 teenagers having an STD, and it freaks me out. I am only 22 (pushing 23), so let's not forget that I only graduated high school five years ago. It was not like that when I was in high school. I seriously, honestly did not know anyone with an STD. I'm not even saying that for my mother's benefit because I know she's reading this. Sure, I knew people who were having sex (sorry, mom), but STD's? We had a few girls in our graduating class who were pregnant and had children very shortly after or right before graduation. I went to a "smart" high school, but it was still in a very urban neighborhood, so it's silly to pretend that we were "better" than anyone. Hell, we were probably worse in a lot of ways.

I've been reading a lot of feminist blogs, and a lot of mothers' blogs, because I'm doing research for this capstone where I talk to parents about educating their little girls. I am never once envious of their situation. I can't imagine what I would say to a little girl who was thirteen years old and crying because she slept with some boy who broke her heart. It breaks my cold little heart to read stories like that. I have a friend of a friend who works at Planned Parenthood. For confidentiality's sake, I will not be sharing any specific stories, but the ones about the really young girls just hurt. A girl here in Cincinnati just had a child at ten years old (it was all over the news here if you want to look it up) and cried because she couldn't keep it.

TEN YEAR OLDS CANNOT BE MOTHERS. I do not care how you want to spin it, they just can't. As far as I'm concerned, honestly, ten year olds should be clinging to their childhood and screaming to not let it go, not looking toward being adults. I have friends whose mothers were very young when they had them, and those friends are turning out to be brilliant, amazing adults. So I'm not judging in any way, but I am scared.

In researching for my capstone, I've come across some things that make me so angry that I have to turn off the computer and go for a walk to clear my head and then come back to view it objectively. T-Shirts that say "I left my brain in my locker", "Excellent growth potential" and "Who needs brains when you have these", all directed at teenagers. Panties from Wal-Mart found in the junior's section that say "Who needs credit cards". They are enough to turn my stomach and make me cry.

I graduate in just over three months, and I really feel like I need this upcoming break. My capstone is inside my head, and I just need a couple of days to not think about it. This is the last week of classes. My preliminary capstone findings are due by Monday at 1:00, and I have one final presentation on Wednesday. Then it's a week and a half where I don't have to do anything except go to the gym and lay around the house. I'll come back to my final quarter as a 23-year-old designer, I'll get my project done, my whole family will come to see me walk across a stage, and it'll be July before you know it. I'd expect "Where did five years go" posts sometime in the future.

Also, as a complete sidenote, I finished my portfolio and it's all ready to go. You can check it out at http://www.jenrizzo.com.

I'm sure we've covered this before, but let's get it right out in the open: I'm 21 years old. Wise beyond my years, whatever, I've still lived on this planet for barely over two decades.

About two weeks ago, I decided to adopt the phrase "pushing 22". I use it every time I get a chance. For example, I went to a gay bar with my dad last week. Let me say that I qualify this as a gay bar for a few reasons: my dad is gay, it was his idea to go, and that's all well and good. What defines this as a gay bar, and what makes it important to note that it was different than any other bar, is the fact that it was line dancing night. Myself, my father's straight female roommate, and a couple of two-stepping lesbians made up the entire female population in what had to be the largest congregation of homosexual men over 40 in southwest Ohio. (The lesbians were unbelievably impressive at the two-step, by the way, as are my father's other roommates.)

So, the next day, someone who saw my dad at the bar questioned why he was flanked by the two straight chicks all night. He explained that the short redhead was his roommate, and the other cute redhead was his daughter. As my father really doesn't look all of his fifty years, this person was was pretty taken aback. When he told me this story later, I was all too happy to chime in and remind him that he was fifty, and I am, after all, "pushing 22".

I had to make the decision between "almost" and "pushing". It was an easy choice. The fact is that I don't want to be 22. If I had it my way, I'd probably stay 21 forever and ever. Of course, I don't get to make that choice, and so I went with "pushing". Pushing implies resistance. Almost is the over-13-years-old version of saying "I'm eight and three quarters".

My mother related a story to me the other day that puts getting older into perspective. Her roommate has a daughter who recently (four months ago) turned eight. She professes to have a birthday coming up - which, I suppose, is always true. Who's to say that eight months can't be "coming up"? And since her ninth birthday is coming up, that means she's almost 10.

Argue with an eight year old who can't wait to grow up. Let me know how it ends for you.

I, on the other hand, am pushing. Always pushing. I don't think 22 is old. My husband is 25. (Pushing 26 if you ask me, but he doesn't like that.) Most of my friends have already turned 26. My father is 50 and I just told him the other day that I wish he realized just how young he is. I really don't think 22 is old.

For everyone else.

But me? 22 is almost 23, and 23 is when I graduate. Then I'm 25 and I don't know what to do with my life. And at some point, I'm probably going to have to be a grown-up. I got married at 21, but I assure you, it wasn't out of any desire to grow up faster. I really don't want anything to do with it.

Sometimes I joke about being a housewife, but it really isn't true. I'm really great at cooking, and I love decorating, but that is where it stops. I had the foresight to marry a man who loves to clean. He doesn't mind doing laundry, he's happy to do dishes if I cook dinner... These were good choices. But someday I fear that's all going to come crashing down on me, and I'll have to be a real wife.

Today, I need to do laundry. Good lord, I have let the laundry pile up to an almost unmentionable degree. I have one remaining shirt left. One. So, I braved the rain and went out to get quarters. When I came home, someone was already using the washer. I'd like to pretend I was irritated, but my heart lept with joy a little bit. It's not that I'm lazy. I just really, really hate doing laundry.

John's started the spring cleaning, and he wants me to be a part of it. In my best attempt to look like I want to be a part of it, I decided to get my desk in order. I brought my old 19" monitor out of the closet and set it up, so I'm now running dual monitors. Nerds everywhere are probably proud. I suppose I like it, but since I've mostly checked my email and started writing this since I set them up, I can't say I'm utilizing the space. I'm sure my time will come.

22 is on its way, my friends, and will arrive for me next Wednesday. In the meantime, I'll be out enjoying my last few days of being young by doing approximately 39 loads of laundry.

I am a bad blogger and a TERRIBLE food blogger. Don't expect me to be getting any awards any time soon with this sort of once-per-week schedule.

My husband is playing a video game, and I'm waiting for my pizza dough to rise. Sometimes when I'm really stressed, I have to do something to make me happy. Cooking this fresh pizza is going to be it for me tonight.

(Edited to add: While writing this, I burned the tomato sauce, then tried to make a second tomato sauce with the only ingredients we had left in the house, only to find that the bottom on the blender wasn't sealed and I covered the kitchen with the remains of what could have gone on the pizza. It really, really isn't my day. We're getting takeout.)

This weekend, I made a super secret trip to Kansas City. I say super secret because I only had two days there and didn't have time to see many friends, and I didn't want to make anyone feel badly if I couldn't see them. I promise I'll make a trip for more than two days sometime, kids, but right now I just don't have the time. The husband and I drove all day Friday, got in that evening, had dinner with friends, and called it a pretty early night. The weather was terrible and we were just exhausted. The next morning we braved the snow and the sleet and headed way, way out to see my godparents' new house.

My godmother is just amazing in the kitchen. She's the type of person that all aspring housewives simultaneously hate and want to become. She is that person who you could just drop in on. You could knock on her door and she'd probably already be making a souffle. I want to be her. They recently built a huge hosue that's just gorgeous, and of course, it's got a huge kitchen. She whipped up Belgian waffles with whipped cream and peaches, as well as some delicious sausage, juice and coffee. We watched the cat, explored the house, and briefly caught up after all these years.

Afterward it was shopping time. We went to my beloved Whole Foods, to a liquor store with a pretty great wine selection, and to a couple of other places. After that we went home ever so briefly, then braved the roads again for some of that fabulous Kansas City barbecue that I've been missing so dearly. God, it was just fantastic.

Sunday was cooking day. Spontaneous Norwegian pancakes for breakfast (seriously, could there be a better food that we all have ingredients for in this world?), fresh bread with all sorts of cheeses and dips for lunch, and a large dinner that took about two hours longer than I had planned. My dad and Sandy, his wife, came over, and we had a lovely time. Caesar salad, bruschetta, fresh canneloni and chocolate mousse for dessert. One failed chocolate mousse sort of got me off track (yolks, whites - they're easy to mix up, okay?), but I managed to make everything right eventually.

Monday, we drove home, and it took forever. SOMEONE (yeah, it was me) took a wrong highway and made a ridiculously huge detour, so it took us pushing 12 hours to get home. I couldn't have been more irritated. Then, of course, I had a ton of homework to do. That leads us to today, where I've decided to make homemade pizza because I just can't handle the stress anymore.

Here's the best thing about Kansas City: getting to see some of my favorite people. They say you can never really go home again, and that's true. It'll never be like it was when I was seventeen, but that's probably for the best. Food, friends, and my mom. If you just focus on those things and forget the 12 degree weather, ice, and major detours thanks to wrong turns, you'd think it was one of the best weekends ever.

School is ridiculous, but I'll get over it in nine weeks or so. I've got a cookout with friends on Friday, and it looks like I might be having a little gathering of my own on Saturday. We'll see if it shapes up. Last quarter I had a few friends from class over to eat some good old homemade barbecue with me, and since I brought so much sauce back with me, they've requested it once again. I might indulge them if it looks like we've got the time.

So, that's it for me for now. Sometime soon I'll post all the fabulous recipes I've been working on - you won't be disappointed.

Over the past week or so, I've concluded that John thinks the time-honored tradition of cooking began roughly around 1995.

You have to understand that I find my husband to be absolutely brilliant. He looks at things in a way that I never could and seriously inspires me to learn new things every single day.  He is an incredible designer and does things instinctually that wouldn't come to me after hours of slaving over a sketchbook. All those things being said, sometimes he says things to me that make me wonder if he's just messing with me.

The other day, I had just finished watching the Good Eats episode about bread, and I thought he'd be happy to be the first to know that I was about to embark on this journey. Instead, he looked at me and said "Don't you need a bread maker to make bread?"

The decision here was tough. I could be a great big liar and say yes, upping my chances for a bread machine. (Note that I don't really want a bread machine and would be much happier learning how to do it on my own, but at that very moment, the temptation was high.) Then I'd get a bread machine, and we'd be eating delicious bread every day without all the waiting. Of course, then I'd have to be a great big liar, and I try to avoid that, even if it does lead to presents. I could also look at him like he was stupid and suggest that people might have made bread before electric bread machines were invented - maybe even before electricity came around at all.

It's probably evident which one he chose.

So, the incident passed without any major issues. Then, yesterday, he decided he wanted to make breakfast. He's on this low cholesterol kick, but still wanted fried eggs, so he asked me what I would do. I told him to make a fried egg using one egg and one extra egg white. Healthier that way. And even knowing the look I gave him after the bread machine comment, he looked me straight in the eyes and said "Don't you need an egg separator for that?"

The closest Williams Sonoma to us is still about a 15 minute trek. It's a good thing he doesn't cook, or he would be getting in the car every time he saw a new recipe. "Separate the egg yolk from the white? Shit."

Today is the Rizzo family Christmas party at his grandparents' house. No matter how long we're together, it's still incredibly intimidating. There are a lot of Rizzos. I mean, a lot. And the house is sort of like my grandmother's house was - huge when we were kids, but then we all grew up and it's a little tight for the adults. So it's crowded, and very family-ish, and there are a lot of people we don't know very well... and we're the newest couple there, so it's only a matter of time before we get attacked with questions of when we're going to be adding new little Rizzos to the clan.

Don't get me wrong - I love John's family. It's just a lot to handle. His grandmother is the sweetest woman on this earth and I just love her. The whole evening is worth it when she grabs my hands and tells me she's really happy I came. She moves a little slower now and can't do as much as I'm sure she'd like to, but she's so sweet that we just overlook that.

Merry Christmas eve, kids.

"Don't ever die."

These are the words I said as we were leaving the cemetery and going back to the funeral home to collect the arrangements that family and friends had sent in honor of John's grandfather.

"Do you think you can do that?"

And my husband turned to me at a stoplight and said "I'll try." I suppose that's all you can ever ask of a husband or wife. You ask them to try and they say they will, because the truth of the matter is that we never know if we can do anything until we try it. I really, really hope he's successful.

The visitation was overwhelming for all of us, I think. John has told me over and over that he doesn't really have a lot of family on his mom's side, which is a boldfaced lie. The small room at the funeral home was absolutely packed. This aunt, that uncle, we're Irene's cousins, just call us the old maids, do you remember me from the anniversary party, so these are the boys Les always told us so much about. I am being completely honest when I say I can't remember a single name. I shook hands, I gave hugs, I confirmed that married life was as great as it can be across 650 miles, I crossed my fingers with people that I'd be staying in Cincinnati, I agreed that I had been feeding John well.

There was a small ceremony at the funeral home the next day, followed by a procession to St. Ignatius for a full mass, then another procession to the cemetery where we were greeted by four U.S. Navy officials for the interment. It should be noted that John doesn't come from an overly emotional family - at least, not outwardly emotional. This was the first time I had ever seen them grieve, and I wasn't completely prepared for it. John's grandmother grabbed my hand after the ceremony at the funeral home and told me that she wishes I would have had more time to get to know him. I told her that I sincerely wished I would have as well, but reassured her that he had always made me feel welcome and appreciated in this family.

She turned to John and said "Tell her you love her every day," and then she turned to me and said "There's just never enough time." They were married for 55 long years, and it simply wasn't enough time. I believe her.

John smiled at me and told his grandmother that he does tell me he loves me every day, and it's true. I'm not one of those wives that feels underappreciated. I don't ever feel that I'm being taken advantage of. I believe that despite all my faults, this man does love me.

John isn't an overly emotional guy. I had already made four trips to Cincinnati and made the decision to move there before he told me he loved me for the first time. It was as he was putting me into a cab in San Francisco at 4:30 in the morning, but he meant it, and that's what is important. In a world where people say "I love you" too freely and often for the wrong reasons, my husband reserves those words for when it counts, but I am the only one on this earth that he has ever issued them to freely and without reservation.

We are also the type of couple that shows love to one another in as many ways as possible. I know he loves me because he takes care of my cat. He loves me because he makes sure I always have a clean towel when I go to take a shower. He lives in fear of me when I cook, but still stays in the kitchen with me in case I need something washed. He leaves my comforter on the bed when I'm in New York for four months even though he'll never use it and it takes up 2/3 of the bed, because it's mine and that's where it belongs.

I cook for him, and I spend a lot of time doing it. Sometimes we just throw something together, but I do everything I can to make dinner special. I send him emails throughout the day when I find a cool website I know he'll like - and I know he won't look at it right then, but he'll have some time a few days later and go back to see it when he can. And when my 25-year-old husband asked me after his grandfather's funeral if we could buy a toy to make him happy, I smiled and said okay.

Today, he's back to work, and I'm sitting in front of the computer snuggling with our kitty. He'll be home tonight and has promised me that he won't do a single thing for work for the next four days. It'll be a sad holiday for his family, but I'll be making my traditional holiday dish and bringing it to his mom's just like I do every year. It's a small gesture toward combining our families, and I've been doing it for four years now.

I'll be back in New York on Monday, with any luck, and I'm sure I'll have more to say then. For now, it's me and Food Network, preparing for the holiday.