72 Degrees

FullSizeRender-4She hurls herself into the front seat, always juggling accessories: phone, backpack, shoes, an open container of yogurt. She turns the radio off, no matter the song, because mom music sucks unconditionally. She then punches the sync button, undoing the setting linking driver and passenger temperatures.

She adjusts her side of the car either all the way up to HI or all the way down to LO. Fiery hot or icy cold; there seems to be no middle ground for a teenager.

I drive in silence, reminding myself that this insistence on autonomy is a necessary part of growing up, and that my music, in fact, does not suck. I’m also confident that someday our settings will be synched again at a pleasant 72 degrees. I only hope we don’t have too many more miles to go before we get there.


FullSizeRenderI turn the volume up as soon as I hear the opening riff. I match Robert Smith word for word while driving my daughter to volleyball practice:

Show me show me show me how you do that trick
The one that makes me scream, she said
The one that makes me laugh, she said
And threw her arms around my neck

Show me how you do it
And I promise you, I promise that
I’ll run away with you
I’ll run away with you

Wistful, I sigh. Unimpressed, she groans.

“What a stupid song about magic tricks,” she says.

“What? No, it’s a love song. The trick isn’t literally a trick, it’s a kiss or maybe just that butterflies-in-your stomach feeling when you like someone.”

“Nope. It’s about a magic trick. Thanks for the ride. See ya.”

The car door closes with a solid thunk and she runs to the gym, leaving me with memories from long ago and the accompanying soundtrack.

I can hear Belinda Carlisle belting Mad About You as I fall hard for a cute boy in junior high. Unfortunately, I hear Whitesnake questioning Is This Love during my first kiss. (Don’t judge. MTV was on in the background)

I remember panicking as I realize I’m in over my head at my first concert: Oingo Boingo. Sporting a seafoam green turtleneck, a short black skirt and tragically, black and white polka dot suspenders, I spend the bulk of the show worrying about the possibility of getting high from secondhand smoke. Nancy Reagan’s admonition to just say no reached at least one kid in the late eighties.

Fortunately, by the time Depeche Mode’s Violator tour came to town a few years later, my friends and I were seasoned concert veterans, a tight group of high school seniors naïve enough to believe the lyrics as we sang along:

All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms

 At prom, we busted a move to, well, Bust a Move and then later slow danced to Wicked Game. We rebuffed boys who thought whispering the lyrics to More Than Words would be their ticket to getting lucky. And finally, we said goodbye to high school with a rapid-fire sing along in the car to It’s the End of the World as We Know It while driving to graduation.

It’s all there, the entire beautiful, gawky experience of growing up, woven between lyrics and melodies of songs that I will never forget.

And yet my own kid thinks Just Like Heaven is about a magic trick.

Jolted out of my reverie as I pull into the garage, I don’t bother getting out of the car before turning to Google. I read segments of an interview with Robert Smith while still sitting behind the wheel.

The song is about hyperventilating – kissing and fainting to the floor.

Exactly. Feeling relief that love is not dead, I keep reading.

The opening line of the song (show me show me show me how you do that trick) refers to his childhood memories of mastering magic tricks.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

So… I guess we’re both right?

I was fourteen when Just Like Heaven came out, the same age my daughter is now. I suppose there’s a chance that when I first heard the song I, too, thought it was about pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Maybe songs aren’t infused with meaning until we’ve lived with them for a while and they become tangled with memories. The time, place and people around us become as integral to our experience as the tune itself.

Feeling melancholy, I make a Spotify playlist featuring almost four hours of music from back in the day. It’s a nice distraction while attending to the mundane tasks of adult life – cooking, cleaning, errands – but it isn’t necessarily a place I want to linger. Nostalgia has a way of obscuring our view when given enough psychic real estate.

I will, however, revisit songs from high school when I need to muster empathy for my teenage daughter. It’s easy to forget what it’s like to navigate intense joy, heartache and camaraderie all in a single morning, usually while sporting a chin zit. I think listening to The Smiths might make it easier for me to relate.

And while I can’t expect my daughter to like my favorite songs from twenty-five years ago, I can enjoy watching her cue up songs for her own playlist. I just hope the mix contains something similar to Just Like Heaven, paying tribute to both the love and, yes, magic that is part of being a teenager.

Feeling like a moody teenager? I’ve got a playlist for you:

How To Break Your Heart in an Afternoon


Drag your family to San Francisco’s MOMA for one of your infamous Forced Family Fun Days.

Endure eye rolls from your daughter who is running on two hours of sleep thanks to a slumber party the night before.

Give your son the stink eye as he wanders from gallery to gallery stating loudly, “THAT is not art.”

Gasp as your son mistakes a ledge with a sculpture on it for a bench, and almost sits on the art.

Apologize profusely to the museum security guard.

Snap a photo of your daughter, long legs, waterfall of hair, and realize she is the most radiant piece of art in the room. Feel a lump in your throat as you see her, perhaps for the first time, as the young woman she is becoming instead of the child she once was.

Watch your son masterfully create a photo at the art kiosk and know that, despite complaining, he is enjoying your adventure. Smile as he hands you a printout of his creation for safe keeping. Feel grateful he still trusts you with his treasures.

Convince your kids that the giant rust-colored sculpture on the ground floor is entitled “Cinnamon Roll.” Wander through the spiral labyrinth laughing, losing your family along the way. Remain confident that if you keep going, you all will find a way back to each other. Cross your fingers and hope that’s true forever.

Walk outside and spot the tapas bar that was your old hangout when you lived in the city. Realize that you and your husband started meeting there after work almost 20 years ago. Tell the kids that you’ve changed your lunch plans and lead the way into the restaurant.

Feel a pang of nostalgia when the sangria and patatas bravas are just as good as you remember. Watch your kids adventurously taste everything you order. Feel pride that they like to cook and eat and try new things as much as you do.

Think back 20 years to your old job and your old colleagues who’d gather at the restaurant’s long bar after a long day. Remember the good times you had drinking pitchers of beer while playing darts. Question the wisdom of combining beer and darts.

Remember how much you complained about your job back in the day. Realize that you were lucky to be doing interesting work with great people. Understand that petty annoyances are quickly forgotten while memories of the good times endure.

Acknowledge the same thing is true for parenting.

Forgive the eye rolls, the endless bickering, the declaration that, “I’d rather be shopping.”

Recall how 20 years have passed in the blink of an eye – a blur of exciting days and wasted days and heartbreaking days and joyful days. Fear that the next 20 years will slip away even more quickly. Vow to pay attention, focus on the good, appreciate moments of happiness, write it all down. Smile at the three people you love the most in the world and start planning your next Forced Family Fun Day.

Sorry Kids, This Election is the Worst

Dear Kids,

The adults of this country owe you an apology. We need to take responsibility for this toxic election, starting at the top with the candidates and continuing down to the way the citizens of our country speak to one another. We failed you.

Specifically, we’re sorry…

  • For creating a culture so tied to our phones that political statements are reduced to tweets and memes. Our electorate seems to no longer be capable of diving into the issues and reading anything more detailed than a simple headline.
  • For living in a world where our political news comes mostly from social media. We surround ourselves with people who look like us and think like us, so we end up being spoonfed news that only confirms our beliefs. We’ve become unwilling and perhaps incapable of considering the opinions of the other side.
  • For introducing new words into your vocabulary, starting with the relatively innocuous “bigly” and “deplorables” but then quickly devolving to “rapists” and “pussy.” And don’t get me started on how awful it is to try and explain Weiner with a capital W.
  • For ruining Skittles and Tic Tacs. For exposing you to a discussion about small hands and everything that it implies. And for needing to explain interns and affairs and impeachment.

I hope that, despite all the noise, you’ve been able to realize this election poses some big issues that don’t have easy answers.

You know how at the dinner table we can discuss a topic like immigration or taxes or gun control and take you down a path that leads you to one opinion – but then we start asking questions that get you thinking and perhaps changing your stance? It’s hard, right? But it’s also interesting and important and what our country so badly needs to do right now.

You are thoughtful kids with great ideas, and we know your friends are too. At this point, I just hope the election has taught you how important it is to be informed, ask questions and truly listen. I also hope you’ve learned how ugly and ineffective name-calling, insults and gross generalizations are.

Like we always tell you after you’ve made a mistake: learn from this experience and don’t repeat it. The adults of this country have made a huge mistake this election. Let’s hope we learn from it and do better next time.


The Sleepy Apple

“No, no, no. God no,” she screamed, as if I’m an ax murder slowly walking towards her while menacingly sharpening my blade.

At first glance, it could be a scene straight out of a cheesy slasher film, complete with a beautiful starlet in distress and a deranged knife-wielding killer.

Except in this case, the distressed starlet is my daughter and I’m the psycho causing terror by slowly walking towards her wielding…wait for it…

…a box of Cheerios.

Welcome to our world. A world in which a mother and daughter, neither of whom are morning people, try to wake up while it’s still dark outside and function at a level high enough to get the daughter out the door in time to catch the bus to middle school. We’d make an entertaining reality show; the Kardashians got nothing on two groggy Davis ladies.

I envy those preternaturally cheery types who greet the day like a Disney princess. Unfortunately, I’m the opposite, starting every morning by cursing the alarm and crawling to the coffee maker. Those who love me know to hold all nonessential communication until the second cup has hit my bloodstream.

Sadly, since the sleepy apple doesn’t fall far from the sleepy tree, our mornings are rough – especially when the sleepy apple decides to go on a cereal boycott.

With only three minutes to ingest something reasonably breakfast-y before running out the door, my daughter requested I quickly whip up a batch of French toast. And since I’m 1) not a morning person and 2) sometimes a little bit of a bitch, I laughed and said, “As if.”

Not my strongest parenting move.

The argument quickly ricocheted from the merits of Cheerios to the classification of yogurt as a breakfast food. For the record, yogurt is unequivocally a breakfast food. Duh.

She stomped out of the house and I still don’t know what she ate for breakfast. I think she tucked a yogurt into her backpack. Maybe she ate it for brunch just to prove me wrong.

After my third cup of coffee finally did its job and cleared the mental cobwebs, I realized how funny this morning’s fight was and hope the sleepy apple agrees when she comes home from school today. I also decided to mix up a batch of overnight waffles as a peace offering and a way to ensure that tomorrow morning goes a little more smoothly.

These are my family’s favorite waffles: crunchy on the outside, tender on the inside and simply delicious. Making them couldn’t be easier – mix 90% of the ingredients together the night before and let the yeast do the work while you snooze. Then in the morning, curse your alarm clock, crawl to the coffee maker, fire up the waffle iron and enjoy an awesome breakfast, not a Cheerio or yogurt container in sight.

The internet is loaded with recipes for yeasted waffles, I like this one by Emma Christiansen over at thekitchn.com It makes a lot of waffles – freeze the leftovers and reheat them in the toaster for an easy breakfast that’s ready even before the first cup of coffee kicks in.

Overnight Yeasted Waffles

Stir 1 tablespoon active dry yeast into 1 cup of warm water, let stand for a few minutes until the yeast has dissolved. In a large bowl (like, really large because the batter is going to at least double in size) combine 2 sticks of unsalted butter (melted and cooled a little), 4 cups of milk (whole or low fat is fine) 2 teaspoons of salt and ¼ cup of sugar. Next add the yeast mixture and 6 cups of flour. Stir just enough to combine. Cover with plastic wrap and let the batter sit on the counter to rise overnight. If you’re concerned about milk sitting out overnight, you can let the batter rise in the refrigerator instead, but come on, live a little.

The next morning, whisk 4 eggs and 1 teaspoon of baking soda into the batter.

After that, simply fire up the waffle iron and get to work.

This recipe makes about 16 Belgian-style waffles.

An Open Letter To My Recent Dance Partners

Dear 7th grade boys who had to dance with me at cotillion last week,

I had no idea that, for the first time in cotillion history, there would be a shortage of girls at the dance.

I tried valiantly to spare you the trauma of dancing with me, cheerfully recruiting other chaperones to be stand ins for the absent 13-year-old girls. But then the lady with the microphone declared an “all hands on deck” dancing emergency. I had no choice but to obey — she scared me.

I know the other moms were wearing dresses and heels, but since I thought I’d be sitting behind the registration table all night, I went with sensible shoes, black pants and a jacket. If you were into fashion, you might have recognized that it was a seriously kickass Rag and Bone jacket that I scored at the Nordstrom anniversary sale, but I’m sure you just felt like you were box stepping with Hillary Clinton. Sorry about that.

I’m also sorry for the sweaty palms (mine) and the stepped on toes (yours). I never took cotillion in middle school and I’ve had the same dance partner for 24 years. Plus, he’s a lot taller than you are.

I also want to take this opportunity to ask one kid in particular to forgive me for shouting, “nailed it!” and offering a high five after we successfully navigated a tricky move. I thought it would be funny and break the tension. Your bright red face let me know I misjudged the moment.

Despite the weirdness, all of you were good-natured and so darn cute. I’ve never seen a more earnest one-two-cha-cha-cha in my life.

You survived. And not only did you survive, I hope you learned something from our missteps: everyone is still carrying around a small part of their 13-year-old selves with them, no matter their age.

During your teenage years, you begin to realize that your parents don’t know everything. I’d like to add to that idea. Your parents also probably still have an insecurity or two as well as a desire to feel accepted and liked, just like when they were in 7th grade.

These feelings are universal. Adults might be better at hiding them behind the emotional armor that builds up after many years, but our soft middles are still there, both literally and metaphorically.

I’m not trying to bum you out. A lot of it gets easier as you get older. Eventually you find a tribe of friends who love you for exactly who you are. There’s less posturing, more acceptance. You find your rhythm and begin to lead confidently.

The journey, however, is a long one. You’ll inevitably face embarrassing moments but you’ll survive, and maybe even laugh about them someday. Just remember to go easy on yourself and everyone else you meet along the way, because we’re all doing this awkward waltz together.

Thanks for the dance,
~Mrs D

Ho Ho Huh?

IMG_8346So Starbucks has found itself in the middle of a brouhaha (more like a brew-ha-ha, amirite?) over its austere red ombre cups for the holidays. Internet outrage abounds. Not only are some people offended by the lack of vaguely Christmas-y doodles on the new cups, but other people are offended by the fact that people are offended.

And even though I think this news has run its course, Donald Trump — arbiter of all that is rational and compassionate – is weighing in, so I can’t let it go. Trump suggested boycotting Starbucks. Good luck with that. He also promised that if elected, everyone will be saying “Merry Christmas” again. Which begs the question that I shout at the TV to Trump and all other politicians again and again: how exactly are you going to do that?

Ok, here’s the thing. If today is one of the 364 days of the year that is not your birthday, I won’t walk up to you and say happy birthday. Similarly, if you don’t celebrate Christmas, I won’t wish you a Merry Christmas. If I don’t know you well enough to have insight as to what you celebrate in December but want to wish you well nonetheless, I’m going with happy holidays. That just seems to make sense, right?

Starbucks chose a simple red cup to acknowledge the upcoming holidays. This should not impact anyone’s holidays. I think the bigger question needs to be why are corporations so deeply involved in our families’ celebrations in the first place?

Just as I don’t need a pumpkin spice latte to let me know it’s fall, I don’t need a decorated cup to let me know the holidays are coming. Nor do I need Lexus suggesting that a luxury sedan wrapped in a big red bow is a reasonable gift this time of year. Instead of worrying about whether or not companies use the word “Christmas,” why don’t we push back against their efforts to whip us all into a gift buying frenzy in the first place?

We consistently say the holidays aren’t about the gifts, they’re about people – family, friends and those in need. Therefore, the most important thing to be spending this season is time. Time with people we love. Time helping others. Time cultivating gratitude. This isn’t news. We all know this. I’ve even written about it before (although in a much more profane way) in this post.

But it takes blinders, earplugs and an iron will not to succumb to the message in the media. I’m glad Starbucks’ cupgate happened in early November so I have a head start in thinking about what’s truly important this season and how my family will celebrate. I simply want time with them. Maybe even at a Starbucks, sipping hot chocolate out of a plain red cup.

Happy holidays, may you spend wisely this year.