Dance of the flexible

She was the reigning limbo champion of many a 7th grade CARE dance. Lower the broom and watch girlfriend get her groove back. You're so flexible! her classmates cried.

So. Flexible.

But don't try to make her change her best-laid plans when she was fixing to not have to do bedtime for the kidlets tonight. Did no one take record of her being the chief conductor of bedtime the last two nights? In a row?

Flexible lady, that one.

But, again, did no one notice how longsuffering she was to do her job, not once but two nights? Back to back? And to live amidst this perpetual clusterfluffle of a house without bolting?

tiles

Partnering with this inflexible woman is not a 90 minute swedish massage. Partnership with a chronically inflexible partner--it requires a long patience.

But becoming more flexible is a frightening prospect for this inflexible wife. What if others take advantage? What if she is always expected to be flexible? What if flexibility paints her a doormat? Oh sure, that's fine, haha! Why don't you just go ahead and cancel my plans. I don't matter, haha....

The terms of flexibility can be daunting, especially for a woman who grew up with a sibling with autism. Dinner at six o'clock sharp, on the table, or an all-out Rain Man meltdown might ensue. There was rigidity in her upbringing. Trying to stay the course, stay on schedule, not make waves. Be a good big sister, a leader, upstanding. Don't compromise who you are.

But what if compromise is required in life, especially in marriage? What does that look like? Are there equal gains for everyone? Can you make her a guarantee?

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The dance of the flexible is one that the woman is learning, first with her right foot and then with her left. She is wobbly, unsure, wanting so much to trust her partner. Slowly she finds...this dance is not all bad. She finds it is harder to bust out and do a solo dance, but together, with her partner, she is stronger and more graceful. Very graceful, the dance of the flexibile.

As she becomes more sure of the rhythm and the steps, the more she practices, the better she becomes. Way out there on the dance floor, she finds others, dancing the dance of the flexible.

Oh but have mercy because being a beginner is still, still so hard.

Anyone else a beginner out here with me?

Do you cook Korean for your husband?

This is not my favorite question, the question of whether or not I cook Korean cuisine for my husband. After we were married, it was the #1 question asked of me as a new bridey mchousewife. No ethnicity, sex, gender, age was exempt among the askers of this particular interrogative. Do you cook Korean for your husband, asked the well-meaning people who were probably sincerely interested to know how my backyard burial of the fermented cabbage was going. Seriously, though. Oh. My. Kimchee. Did that question get old.

For starters, the obvious. Much as my beautiful black hair and almond shaped eyes and ivory skin betray me--you know I'm not the Korean one in this equation, right? Why would you not ask Loverpants if he cooks Korean for his Irish-Italian wife?

For seconds, really? That's what you ask a woman in the year 2000 and something? What kind of a short order cook for her man is she? I mean, women can vote and earn a PhD and buy stock but the first question out of the gate is what she's got on the stovetop these days?

For thirds, what if I --perish the thought--DON'T cook Korean food for Loverpants. What if I chef up every manner of Asian delicacy but Korean is just not in the repertoire OH SWEET MOTHER WHAT THEN!?!

Of course, the above responses were not seasoned with salt. Nary would they pass through my lips. Lord, have mercy on Thy servant and her fallen thoughts.

Still. Couldn't help but get annoyed from time to time....

*** Last night I stood in front of the stovetop stirring quinoa, excited to put it and some veggie medley into egg roll wraps and fry them up real nice and Korean mama like.

quinoa

The plate was piled high with my clumsily filled egg roll invention.

I started to fry and samples one and two were perfect! Brought all the kids to the yard.

quinoa

And then after the third one, they all started to unravel. Droplets of fry grease spattered the air and my arms and OW WHAHHH WHYYYYYY??

I asked my Korean mister where was the fault line in my egg roll construction?

He said, graciously, it was possibly the fact that I had stuffed my egg rolls like they were burritos. Or cannoli. Might be why they are busting at the seams.

So, not willing to pay my full penance for Not Cooking Korean for My Husband all these years, I did what every good ethnically Western European gal would do.

I took that quinoa egg roll smattering, threw it in a pyrex dish, topped it with swiss cheese, baked it at 375 for an hour and made quinoa egg roll lasagna casserole thing.

quino lasagna

And it was good. Even my Korean husband said so.

Show Your Real: Kendra

Was that the sound of you just gasping because you had JUST told the lady on the bus (the one with the leopard-print neck brace) that you were DYING to know how Kendra spent her day? I thought that was you!

Well, lucky for all our loyal readers here at kendraspondence, Kendra invited herself to the party going on over at Bowdenisms and will be sharing her real, that is, providing the true itinerary of a typical day in her shoes.

***Morning*** Most mornings I am up by 6:45 a.m. In the months when it is not dark out, I will wake earlier than this and go to the gym and hide behind my ipod, which is not an ipod but it sure beats calling it a walkman which is still, honestly, what I call it. I talk to no one at the gym because speaking before 10 a.m. when I am not being paid to speak and/or one of my children isn't about to accidentally eat glue for breakfast is against my constitution.

But supposing I don't go to the gym in the morning, I hit the shower while Loverpants readies the children. After my shower, I enjoy snuggling for a minute with the Little Man. I put on my clothes that I never ever ever plan the night before, and I apply make-up because if I don't get to eat breakfast, the world will still make its lap around the sun but if Kendra doesn't put on concealer, well, then, all bets are off. I should probably carve out time in the morning to pray, but I am more clearheaded with God at night. This is maybe what I tell myself?

If I do get breakfast, it is instant oatmeal in a bowl while standing and asking for the fourth time for at least one of our children to put on his/her shoes. I also absolutely need to eat a banana and drink a mug of coffee or I write with a palsied hand and drool uncontrollably for the rest of the day.

We all pile into the car together to go to my workplace and my daughter's school and my husby and my son go the gym. Maybe this is your idea of hell, your whole family bumping down the road, sharing in the morning commute together, but this is a thin slice of Heaven for me. Even if someone is usually crying. We say a little prayer for our days and then I go to my office.

I go to my office and scan my e-mails and think about how I should have been better prepared for class.

Then I teach class. In other words, I jump around a room and embarrass my students with my enthusiasm and punny phrases. I laugh. After class, there is a good deal of requisite loitering in halls. Most of higher education actually happens in doorways and hallways I'm convinced.

I then proceed to not use good time management with my office hours. When I finally decide to get something real done, like grading or responding to work e-mails, 8-9 students or co-workers drop by my office. This is very good. Except when it isn't. There are a number of people who don't know how to end conversations. I am admittedly annoyed by this but cannot somehow disabuse myself of --anyway. So that's my morning.

***Afternoon*** In the afternoon, I usually catch lunch on campus. I try to single out one student who might be struggling with life's questions and we try to eat and pray together about stuff. Otherwise, Loverpants and Little Man will join me for lunch at the dining hall. Little Man usually behaves like a muppet on crack and embarrasses us like no parent deserves to be embarrassed. And yet we keep bringing him to lunch in the hopes that he'll learn (?) Most afternoons I teach a class which I really love but still wish I were more adequately prepared. Right after that class, Loverpants picks me up from work. This car ride usually makes me sick and the kids are usually shouting over Loverpants and me.

Then Loverpants goes to work. He sees clients after school and in the evenings, so we kinda have a shift 1 and shift 2 going on in parenting land.

Just about every day I take a 20 minute disco nap after school. I need this. Sometimes it turns into a 1 hour nap. Usually one of the kids joins me on the bed and pulls my hair, which is undeservedly mean but whatevs. They watch TV and I nap, either on the couch next to them or on my bed.

Then we play outside in our big rambling yard and sometimes we accidentally trample the neighbors' flowers. This is a really good time of day and affirms why we moved to Tennessee where it is moderately warm even in the winter.

After that we will wander inside and I will make my kids a dinner that will consist of whatever carb they are not sick of and lots of fruits. They eat in front of the TV. I am okay with this for now because I have chosen not to kill myself over a family dinner that hinges on me alone (see also: co-parent works evenings). I also eat a snack. A snack. Who has time to make themselves dinner? Not this girl. Showing my real here.

***Evening*** As much as it depends on me, my kids are bathed and pajamafied by 7:30 p.m. We read books and someone usually gets clocked in the nose. By reading books you ask? Yes. You'll have to stop by sometime.

Then comes Candle Time where the kids fight over who gets to blow out the candle first. We sing a little song, say what we're thankful for in our days. Then someone accidentally blows out the candle. Little Man always says he's thankful for his Flynn fire truck. We sing a song about Jesus and then someone says a prayer that usually entails an intention for whomever was absent in Baby Girl's school that day. Then they both re-blow out the candle and they get in their beds.

My children are not like your children who, the second their heads hit the pillow, they are out. My children are like I was when I was a child: overstimulated and of the belief that a reasonable bedtime is overrated. My children come out of their rooms 23894028343 times every night. I know I should read a book by Dr. Ferber about this, but I choose to sit in their room and rock them and tuck them in 2389408234 times.

I answer e-mails and work on my book project and by 10 p.m. I am too tired for all that malarkey so I read a book or do some yoga and then I do my devotions. I fall asleep feeling like the luckiest 32 year-old woman, in the body of a 78 year-old woman.

Photo on 4-9-13 at 11.15 AM #3