More Soup

It’s a recipe that I made up by accident over a year ago. It’s very simple, really, just two cans of broth, a can of tomatoes, some veggies, veggie crumbles, a little thyme and rosemary, ground black pepper and salt.

I went back to work a month ago, and making the soup is the first calm moment I’ve had since. A lot has happened since I made my last entry. Too much. It’s overwhelming to think about, let alone write about it.

I knew it would be hectic when I got back to work. How could it not be after basking in what I called “baby heaven” for the four months I was on maternity leave? Yes, I was sleep deprived and had cabin fever, complained about the incessant poop and projectile puking, etc., etc. But I realized – even then – that maternity leave was utopia compared to work.

How can an afternoon spent scrutinizing every single line of copy ever contemplated – let alone written – about ice cream compare with spending an afternoon tucked in a rocking chair singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” while absently coaxing a fat, dimpled cheek into blissful sleep?

I think I told my coworkers it was like dozing in a Zen garden for four months and waking up at midnight on New Year’s Eve in Times Square.

The first day I got back, my good friend and writing partner, Meg, told me her dad had an aggressive form of prostate cancer. It didn’t look good, and the prognosis wasn’t clear. He would have to have surgery later that week.

Two days later, I got another shock. My sister-in-law, Martha, had died suddenly in her home. Marty was a Christian Scientist and apparently she’d been suffering from diabetes for some time, though my husband, Chris, and I were unaware of this. We were supposed to see Marty in February, but we had to cancel. She never got to meet Gus.

In the midst of everything, the workload for the client to which I’m assigned increased exponentially. (I write Web advertising copy for an ice cream maker, so this is the busiest time of the year.)

Thus began my last four weeks. I really can’t even begin to write about all the details. Everything little thing seemed revved up by anxiety. At work, a simple status meeting turned into a frenetic, tension-soaked political summit that obliterated the last two days of writing. At home, a spaghetti dinner was brought to a standstill by the sob of a distraught brother.

We attended Martha’s memorial service last weekend, and made some meaningful connections with the family, but everything still felt like it was going a million miles an hour. By Thursday night, an odd sensation crept up on me. I desperately wanted to put on the brakes and just relax, but I was now so used to the pace, the brakes were worn out.

Chris left Friday night to drive to Des Moines to help move Martha’s things into storage. I stayed behind with the babies.

Now normally, 48-hours alone with two kids under the age of two would be stressful for many (just recall the last episode of Supernanny). Everything – feeding, bathing, disciplining, diapering – is all up to you. There are no breaks. No one comes home at 5:30 to save the day so you can at least go to the bathroom by yourself.

But, compared to the last four weeks, the first day was a breeze. There were a few puking incidents on Gus’ part, but Sophia managed to stay clear of the naughty corner all day. (I even got them to take a nap at the same time in the afternoon so I could clean up at least one room in our poor, neglected house.)

Usually, I like to make dinner. A real dinner where fresh veggies are cut and the stove turned on. Where the table is set and everyone sits at it. But it’s hard to make dinner and watch two little kids at the same time. And since Chris was gone, I figured, why bother? Gus certainly wouldn’t miss anything and Sophia would be content with a microwaved veggie burger.

Then, I remembered why I always insist on making dinner in the first place. When I was a kid, whenever my mom made dinner, it made everything OK. I could’ve forgotten my homework, been shunned by kids on the playground at recess and chased all the way home by fat, mean old Ronnie Imhoff. But when I walked in the house and was greeted by the scent of frying onions or baking bread, everything was OK again.

I put Gus in his excersaucer and sat Soph down at the kitchen table with her Elmo coloring book. Then I started sautéing onions. And the stress of the past four weeks began to melt away with the butter in the pan.

A half an hour later, Sophia and I sat down at the table, our bowls brimming. In silence, I watched as she carefully plowed her spoon through the fertile mounds of veggies, turning up a tomato, a kernel of hominy, an onion, then solemnly plopping the entire harvest into her mouth.

It was the most blissful silence I can remember, interrupted only by an occasional “mmm-mmm” and, every mother’s favorite, “more soup.”

Yes, the world may seem like it’s falling apart. Yes, there’s probably more crazy shit that’s going to happen. But I’m thankful that solace can still be found in every precious spoonful of a mother’s home-cooked meal. I’m thankful Sophia reminded me to eat more soup.