It’s hard to believe that we’re already several weeks into
ER’s middle school experience.
To handle the transition to sixth grade, I decided this was
the year we were really going to get our act together. A few weeks before school started, my sister and I
waited until Tim was out of town and organized our house to such detail that
when he returned, he growled when he couldn't find his nail scissors and said
he felt like a house guest. I pointed
sweetly to the organized leather box of nail accessories, undeterred. I beckoned Tim and ER into the living room so
we could create a hang file system with labels for each class. It was a bonding
moment. I drank a glass of wine and read the school subjects off of the class
schedule while Tim made labels on a label maker. ER helped by doing high kicks
and singing like Iggy Azalea.
The Having Our Act Together plan continued. ER went to
school before the first day and decorated her 6th grade locker. This
a thing now, in case you don’t know.
Gone are the plain Jane lockers of yore. Now, you can buy mini locker chandeliers and shag
locker rugs so your locker can rival a Kardashian bedroom.
We were completely ready for middle school until something
dawned on us. Something was missing. Our sixth grader doesn't have a cell
This is a big dilemma. While Tim and I tend to agree on most
parenting matters, we’re having a really difficult time getting on the same
page about the phone issue. In my view,
I think 11 is too young -- why rush growing up and being constantly connected?
What about the mean girl stuff? Tim
doesn't get what all the fuss is about; he's a practical sort. Plus, my stepchildren already set the bar,
because when they were in middle school, they came home from their mom’s with
cell phones. At first we thought it was
a little excessive, but with after school activities and two households, we
couldn't deny the convenience factor.
While we've been considering the options, ER has been
playing me like a violin. (Very possibly, Tim is the conductor.) On ER's 10th birthday, we were on our way to dinner when the grandparent
calls started ringing. I handed my phone over and said, “Answer it! Mimi’s on
“I don’t know what to say!”
she said, panicked. “I don’t have a phone!”
I handed her the phone and frowned. Tim offered a belly
laugh that lasted just a little too long for my taste.
ER continued gently but consistently working on me. She came home from sleep away camp in June and announced
dramatically that she was the only kid in her cabin without a cell phone. I
tried tough love.
“Well, you were the only kid without a phone and you
survived, and you still had fun at camp, right?”
“I guess…” she said, throwing her head back and sighing
while Tim snickered.
I began asking around. What other sixth graders had phones? One mom told me her sixth grader didn't have
a phone, but a cell phone was a good indicator that the kid had divorced
parents. True for my stepchildren, but not for my daughter, so that didn't help
much. Another parent admitted that they were considering GPS tracking to ensure
their kid was actually in class. Considering the kid in that case, I nodded in sympathy.
For other families like us who canceled their land lines
years ago, the decision was based on giving their children phones for
emergencies. Never mind that the
definition of “emergency” later morphed into using the phone for clandestine
sessions of Super Monkey Ball Bounce; after all, we’re all just figuring it out
here. For most of us, this dilemma didn't exist when we were in sixth grade because our parents couldn't
afford the gigantic radioactive bricks that were the cell phones of our day.
I’m pretty sure that I’ll cave on this one. The convenience
and safety factor seem to outweigh the other issues that we’re already facing
with email and modern-day social sixth graders. Mean girl stuff is going to happen whether a phone is part of the deal or not. It’s about open communication
no matter what gadget your kid gets. It’s our job as parents to set limits and
teach the safety and etiquette that you won't find in the instruction manual. After all, if this is the year we’re going to
get our act together, there’s probably an app for that.
This week, planned and unplanned events resulted in a rare
opportunity for me to stay at home alone for five full days. No kids, no
husband, just Taco, our 15 pound rescue dog, and 007, our 95 year-old cat.
Most people would look forward to a week to themselves. Not
me. I’m a very social creature, but mainly I don’t do well spending the night
at home without another human in the house. I’m legally blind without
corrective lenses, so as soon as it’s dark out, I spend a lot of time with the
lights off, peering out the window, mistaking moving branches for serial killers
or human-sized possums. What I lack in good vision I make up for with great hearing,
so I’m constantly turning down the t.v. and panic-whispering to Taco, “Shh! Did you
hear that? Is there someone at the window?” He may be a dog, but I swear he
rolls his eyes at me.
So this week, I decided to think of it as an adventure. The
first night I made it a point to venture out alone. I slapped on some red
lipstick, featured a little cleavage, and spritzed on perfume, then went to a
lovely French bistro where the only thing on the menu that would appeal to my
11-year old was bread. I thought about my daughter eating bland camp food and
chuckled wickedly. When the hostess asked how many, I proudly announced, “I’ll
be dining alone.” I leaned in and lingered on the “alone” as if
it was just a wee bit taboo, and there’s a possibility I may have said it in an
Arianna Huffington accent.
The hostess seated me at a corner table, where I noticed I
was the only one in the restaurant without a companion. Who needs a companion
when you have cleavage and red lipstick? I gazed out the window pensively, as
if contemplating something deep and important, when actually all I was really
thinking was how freaking ridiculous the bread and butter tasted and how oh my
God I didn't have to share it with a soul. I flirted with the cute blonde
waiter, telling him how cold I was, and asked him if he could look for a spare
scarf in the lost and found, because evidently French restaurants are also
He skipped back empty-handed.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he shrugged apologetically, the word “ma’am”
hurling me back into reality as I realized he probably graduated with my
stepson. Oops, forgot I was old for a second. Pardon moi.
At home, with the help of Jimmy Fallon, Seth Meyers and half
a Benadryl, I made it through the night in one piece. I got up early the next
morning and went to the grocery store to stock up on supplies. I walked right
past the granola bars and Goldfish and made a beeline for the wine aisle. I tossed
Brussels sprouts, organic spinach and kale salad mix in the cart. I was going
to make salads and run five miles every single day!
I grabbed up two bundles of gladiolus for good measure, and topped
off my findings with some sexy hot pink nail polish. (Bachelorettes have time to paint their own nails.) I also threw in a package of fried wonton salad
toppers, because healthy salads need fried wontons. I'll let you guess what I
ate first. If you guessed fried won tons without salad, you win. If you guessed
that I threw down almost the entire package while sitting cross-legged in bed,
reading a magazine and drinking coffee, you’re my husband, and you planted a
nanny cam before you left town.
The second night I went to dinner and a movie with
girlfriends, and came home to discover a largish whitish spider crawling on the
ceiling in my bedroom. I know you’re not supposed to kill spiders because they
kill mosquitoes, but there was no way I was transporting a big spider outside
without assistance. I screamed a few choice words, then grabbed a bottle of Fat
Hair Hairspray and sprayed him until he fell on the floor. Once I spotted him on the floor, I promptly smooshed
him with a patent nude stiletto. I wiped up his remains with a Clorox wipe,
gagging and apologizing the entire time, then attempted to high five Taco, who
kept his paws on the ground, looking at me with a combination of pity and
horror. I recovered by painting my toenails hot pink while I watched HGTV.
The next night I met a new writer friend for happy hour. Her
children are grown and out of the house, and she looks terrific. That woman is
more carefree than a teenager, and her energy is contagious. I made a mental
note to ship off my family more often. Afterwards, I went shopping. I’ve always
said that stores should have candlelit dressing rooms and serve martinis, because
women would feel great and buy a lot more, but if that can’t happen, two
watermelon margaritas before shopping will do the trick. Relaxed and
worry-free, I took up temporary residency in Nordstrom Rack. I was in
absolutely no hurry whatsoever. Instead of rushing around in search of a
specific pair of black pants for a work trip, I casually flipped through the
evening dresses as if I planned on wearing fuchsia sequins on Thursday. I
called my mom. She filled me in on the latest while I tried on Prada heels and sashayed
down an imaginary catwalk. I watched a woman with dirty twin toddlers try to wedge
her swollen feet into some unfortunate sandals while one of the kids chewed on
her handbag strap. I won’t lie; I took a moment to pity her and then I went
around the aisle and snickered. Shopping with kids? So last week.
The rest of the week sped past in a flash. The last night, I
went to the museum and dinner with a friend, and was so tired from laughing
with him that I went home and fell into bed without peeking out the window
once. Around 10 pm, it started to rain. And it rained. Then it rained some more.
At 2 am, I woke up to an eerie silence and realized the electricity was off. I checked
Facebook and email to pass the time, then heard a noise and peered outside, only to realize the streetlights were also off, and the only thing out there was a creepy black void. By that time I was so terrified, I got dressed by the light of
my phone and drove to a 24-hour diner, where I made the most of it by ordering
pancakes and watching the drunks sober up while eating late night munchies.
I drove home around four o'clock. The storm had begun to pass, just as my
week as a temporary bachelorette was coming to a close. I turned on the radio
and switched on my daughter’s favorite station. I belted out every last word to
“My Humps,” enjoying the fact that I wasn't embarrassing or annoying anyone. Sure,
I missed my people, but now that I've tasted the sweet nectar of alone time,
the next time I get the chance, you can bet I’ll be just fine.
(This originally appeared in August of 2012. This version has been edited and revived at the request of some new friends who wanted to hear more about my adventures in step-parenting).
I began dating my husband Tim when his children were four and five. The kids were understandably shell-shocked by their parent’s
divorce, and it was a rough time for them. While Tim and I were dating, I maneuvered through the
process like a teenage boy with greasy popcorn hands, trying to get to second
base in a crowded movie theater. Let’s just say it was a pretty awkward time.
I handled the
situation by setting expectations early: I was not applying to be a substitute
mother. My goal was to make it clear to the kids that they had, and would
always have, a mother and a father who loved them, and I was simply an extra
adult that would be there to support and protect them if they needed it.
relationship with my stepdaughter Stephanie was challenging to say the least.
When I came onto the scene, Stephanie was in preschool, and
she wasn't up for a new woman in her life. For starters, she was
confused about her parent’s situation, and, like all other normal kids, wanted
her parents to get back together. I was confused as well. When I was around
Stephanie, she would usually greet me with a dark-eyed scowl. Other times, she would invite me to play
Barbies, or help serve her ice cream. Because it was all over the place, I was
always slightly on edge around Stephanie. I worried that we would never
connect. I wondered if she would smother me in my sleep. I began having nightmares
that she was chasing me with a butcher knife with ice cream dripping off of it.
was in first grade, she became a Girl Scout Daisy. One weekend when the kids
were at Tim's, the Girl Scout troop meeting was a nature hike at a local park.
Tim, always encouraging my relationship with both of his children, suggested
that I take Stephanie. At the time, I would have rather eaten live earthworms.
I had never attended a Girl Scout meeting in my life, and wasn't sure
I wanted to start by going with a kid who barely tolerated my presence, but I
decided to accept the challenge.
losing my Girl Scout meeting virginity would leave me in no shape to drive, Tim
decided to drop us off at the park. As he drove off, I considered running
full-force in the direction of the car, throwing my shoes at the back
windshield in a wild effort to get his attention. Instead, I held back my
natural inclination to panic, and followed a much more confident Stephanie to
the space where the mothers and daughters were gathering.
assessed the scene. The warm and friendly troop leader was absent, leaving
another, somewhat sullen parent volunteer in charge. The other parent that I
knew from work was also not there. This left me with a group of women that I
didn’t know at all, so I stood on the outskirts of the group, picking at my
nail polish as Stephanie and the other Daisies frolicked around.
The mother who
volunteered to lead the meeting gathered the group together. I could tell right
away she meant business. She stood with confidence and held three fingers up in
the air. Immediately, the wild first grade mayhem stopped. The girls all stood
at attention, holding three fingers in the air, facing their temporary leader.
I’d been there less than half an hour and they were already busting out secret
the mother said to the group of hypnotized Daisies, “This is a very, very
dangerous trail. There are steep areas where you can fall and get hurt.”
transfixed at the thought of plunging to their deaths in Daisy vests, hung on
to her every word. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and groan, knowing that
this park’s tallest peak was a smidgen over three feet tall. I decided to stay
positive, imagining in my play-pretend mind that after the hike, the sullen
substitute troop leader would award me with a hiking pin to attach to my
imaginary adult-sized Daisy vest.
we want you to be safe, I need you to listen to the rules,” the mother said,
“Please get in line in groups of two. We’re going to use the Buddy System. Each
girl needs to stand by their mommy..”
looked at Stephanie, looked at me, then frowned, unsure of what to say. She
looked in the air, mentally scanning the Girl Scout Leader guidebook for how to
appropriately address non-mommy types.
she said, carefully, waving her hand in a grand, dismissive gesture, “The
girlfriend of your father, whatever the case may be.”
And with that,
her pale skin turned crimson as she began nervously shuffling girls and mommies
into a two-by-two line.
I didn't have the luxury of a getaway car, I stood there, fighting
back the desire to laugh hysterically and sob with embarrassment all at the
same time. Several of the more compassionate mothers smiled at me and shrugged.
Some just grabbed their girls and got in line.
is that Stephanie handled it like a pro. I honestly think she felt sorry for
me. Kids are awesome at times like that. She grabbed my hand and led me to the
line like nothing had ever happened. We started our hike, did some obligatory
leaf rubbings, and returned with zero broken bones and one mildly bruised ego
(mine). I had a couple of conversations with the compassionate mothers. All in
all, we had a nice time.
Stephanie is 18, our relationship is one of of the most treasured things in my life. She’s
a beautiful person, her face a lovely combination of both of her good-looking
parents. She’s ridiculously intelligent and humble about it. She likes boy
bands, road trips, and dancing in the rain.
Because of her appreciation for the beauty in the world, she’s an
excellent photographer. She does goofy, hilarious dances when we’re in the
grocery store. She helps people in need, just like her father. She can do a
perfect Russian accent that makes us grip our sides with laughter. She stays up
way too late, baking the best cupcakes I've ever eaten, singing
beautifully to terrible pop radio songs. She’s still figuring out what she
wants to be when she grows up, which is fine, because she has time to work it
out. When I see her smile, I still see the same cute girl who stood by me as my
maid of honor when I married her father.
One of these
days when I get my adult-sized Daisy vest, I’ll have lots of pins. I’ll get
a Naive Cookie Mom pin. I’ll have one for Patience, and it will be a
rendering of the hours I spent bribing a homesick child at the Girl Scout
sleepover with dark chocolate, convincing her that sleeping on an air mattress was
actually worth it. But the pin I’ll put in the most prominent position will be
for sticking with it despite my insecurities of dating a man with children.
That one will be the “Whatever the Case May Be” pin, and I’ll wear it with
It's finally here. The 2014 Texas Democratic State Convention!
A little over a year ago, if you had told me that I was going to be a delegate at a political convention I wouldn't have believed it for a minute. I married a political junkie. My husband is a man who chooses political shows over sports and -- I am dead serious -- enjoys watching city council meetings. For years, I struggled to keep up with him when he would start talking about policy and issues. Sure, I had big opinions. I've always had big opinions. Sure, I voted for the big elections, but when it came time for a local election, Tim would print out a list of recommendations and drive me to the polls. Tim was my political coach, and that seemed good enough for me.
A year ago, Tim said, "Something big's happening at the Capitol. We need to get down there."
I wasn't sure. Did I want to get involved? What would people think? As the mother of a then 10-year old girl, I worried about how to talk to her about women's reproductive rights. I wondered what my coworkers might think if they found out that I was (gasp!) a Democrat. I was afraid.
From the moment Tim and Emily Rose and I walked into the Capitol, everything changed. Tim was right; something big was happening indeed. I quickly figured out that apathy wasn't an option, and that if I didn't join the fight, radical choices would be made and I would wake up and have to explain those choices to my children. Though I walk past the Capitol almost every day, I didn't truly recognize the power of what happens in that gorgeous building. I hadn't considered that just a few miles from our house, our elected officials were taking part in something that would impact so many people without a voice, and that could impact access to cancer screenings, birth control, and reproductive healthcare. I got angry.
Of course, our story isn't unique. Our story is like so many other stories of women and men who flocked to the Capitol last summer. At times, I was overcome with emotion, because the sea of orange symbolized so much outrage and passion. I met so many women who, like me, decided enough was enough and it was time to do something. I met so many men like my husband who understand the importance of a woman's right to make decisions about her body. Up until last summer, my knowledge of politics was little more than a School House Rock episode, but before I knew it, we were talking about "points of order" and "parliamentary inquiries" like it was common language. I work in downtown Austin, so every day, I did a little Clark Kent move, donning my work persona in the office, then quick-changing into my dirty orange t-shirt so I could run down to the Capitol for the latest news.
I was able to spend some time in the chambers watching Senator Davis' historic and remarkable filibuster. I didn't stay long, because I was afraid that I might start yelling and get arrested. I left the Capitol around 7pm, and headed home to log on and watch from my computer. Like so many, I was blown away by what I observed, thousands upon thousands of people watching online, supporting Senator Davis and her colleagues on Facebook and Twitter. Friends from New York and Los Angeles texted me, "What is going on down there? Wendy Davis is a hero!" I have never witnessed anything so powerful. Though the outcome was not what we wanted, something significant happened during those powerful days. The thousands of women and men yelling at the top of their lungs represents something even more remarkable -- something changed in all of us. So many of us got involved. I believe wholeheartedly that the change that took place in so many of us is big enough for us to make an even bigger difference for the lives of Texans. We just have to stick with it.
Since last summer, we jumped in head first to get involved. I have learned how to talk to my daughter about important issues, and she has grown tremendously through the process. She is teaching us as well. We challenge each other, and we push back when we don't agree. Our dialogue at home has elevated to issues that matter. We are lucky to live in Austin where so many heroic Texas Democrats are fighting for our daughter's future.
The first time Emily Rose met Senator Davis was at an Equal Pay rally in Austin. We yanked her out of school for a real life civics lesson, and in the car on the way to the rally, Emily Rose said, "I want to write down some comments in case I'm interviewed." We talked with her about equal pay, and in response to some of the Republican women's comments about how women are not good negotiators and that they are "too busy," Emily Rose came up with a response that we loved: "Women are too busy to negotiate." After the rally, a friend of ours was asked to be interviewed, and she offered up Emily Rose. The interview didn't air (it was Fox, after all), but the reporter was lovely and it was a terrific experience to see our daughter talking about equal pay with such confidence.
From that point, Emily Rose has had many opportunities to talk about the views she is forming. As her parents, Tim and I remind her that she is free to form her own ideas about things (not that we worry that she won't!). We laugh and say that when she's a teenager, her rebellious phase will be joining the Young Republicans. But I don't see any signs of her switching ideas because she has been so blessed to meet so many Texas Democrats who are influencing her and inspiring her to stay involved. Whether current elected officials, Battleground Texas volunteers, or hopeful candidates, Emily Rose is at the point where she knows more Texas Democrats than we do. It's been fun to watch her learn and grow, all because of that big thing that happened at the Capitol one year ago this week.
A few weeks ago, Senator Davis came to Austin to speak to a huge group of Travis County volunteers working a phone bank at the Travis County Coordinated Campaign office. I was out of town on a work trip when Tim began sending me texts of Emily Rose and her girlfriends posing with Senator Davis. Later, Battleground Volunteer Madi Duffield helped teach Emily Rose how to make phone bank calls. At one point, Emily Rose and Madi talked about how it's the Year of the Woman, and from there, some of the volunteers said,
"This is the decade of the woman."
Emily Rose has embraced this slogan. I love it so much, I'm making #decadeofthewoman a hash tag for the convention this year, and I hope it catches on! I love the fact that Emily Rose has the confidence to know that we need more women in leadership, and that we are not backing down. I also love that so many of the people I'm meeting are young, and they are getting involved, and changing the landscape of politics. To me, this justifies every spare minute we can find to volunteer. It justifies every extra dollar we can spare to donate to campaigns to elect our Democratic sisters and brothers into office. It justifies the day I spent a lunch hour running from my office down to Greg Abbot's office to protest for equal pay. It justifies the hours my husband has spent walking the block, or the time we took to get deputized to register voters, or the time we've spent registering voters together. It justifies our family taking vacation time off not to sit on a beach and read a paperback, but to drive to Dallas for a convention and learn what it means to be a delegate for the first time. This is all worth it. I know that for any of you who are doing the same, it's worth it for you as well. We are in this together, and it's exciting!
The icing on the cake for us was Wednesday, when Senator Davis and Cecile Richards hosted a Google Hangout to mark the anniversary of the filibuster. I had taken the day off to get ready for the Convention and Filibuster Anniversary event, and I asked Emily Rose to come sit with me and watch. We submitted a question for the session, and perked up when we heard the host, Yvonne Gutierrez, asking ours. As we sat with our mouths open, Cecile Richards looked into the camera and spoke directly to Emily Rose, and when she finished, Senator Davis did the same. It was a powerful moment that I'll never forget. I was also blubbering and trying to take a video of my laptop while it was happening, so thanks to modern technology we have the full video for safekeeping thanks to Google. Whew!
In their answers, Senator Davis and Cecile Richards offered advice that is applicable to young girls everywhere. Get involved. 11 is a great age to get involved. Make calls. Tell your friends.
I'm excited that we're entering the Decade of the Woman, and I can't wait to embark on the adventure that awaits in just a few hours. Here's to a memorable and successful Texas Democratic State Convention! We hope to see you there.
It's Saturday morning, and Tim is doing what Tim does. The coffee is brewing, and he pours the first few drops of coffee into a mug, and steps outside on the porch. He looks up and surveys the day. It's his favorite day of the week, and his favorite time. Nobody else is awake. He pets the cat. He gets dressed, fills his coffee to the top, and hops in the car. If there's a garage sale in the neighborhood, he stops by, picking up objects and examining them closely, glasses on the tip of his nose. He gets back in the car, and depending on the time, listens to Car Talk. He laughs out loud by himself. His driver's side window is down, the fresh Saturday morning breeze blowing in his face. Every Saturday, without fail, he drives down Airport and heads for Tamale House. Tim barges through the screen door, that huge wall fan blowing his hair in all directions. Depending on how late it's gotten, there may be football fans in line, wearing UT orange and waiting to stock up on tacos. There are tattooed kids looking peaked, waiting patiently for some grease to soak up last night's booze. There are construction workers in work boots, grabbing up breakfast on the way to work. There are soccer moms, picking up tacos for sweaty little soccer players. Tim's smiling his huge smile and saying good morning to the women of Tamale House. Five or six women, on their feet, speaking a mix of English and Spanish, cooking up such delightful goodness that it's like a church in there. It's like communion. The phone is ringing off the wall and someone, usually Robert, is taking orders and writing them down. Cash only. A tip jar for the employees, and sometimes an extra collection for a friend in need. Tim's walking over to the counter with the salsa on it, and it's already a mess. Getting salsa there is a ritual. Tim eyes the big metal tray with the soggy paper towels, reaches over and grabs some plastic containers, and picks up one of the regular salsas, squeezing out a few chunky containers full. He fills one with "just the juice" for Stephanie. He pours a few of the hot ones that I am always afraid to try. He waits patiently for our order. Soon, his name is called and he grabs several brown bags. Some Saturdays, he orders so much he brings it home in a box.
Tim loves introducing Tamale House to out of town guests and people who've never heard of it. He loves telling the story of how the Chronicle once voted them the "Best Reason to Get Up Before 3pm." When he works at ACC, Tim's coworker refuses to go inside Tamale House but she will eat food Tim brings to her. Tim think that's hilarious. Tamale House isn't fancy. Tim drives home, barges in the front door and yells, "Tamale House!" Tim yells this same thing countless Saturdays. It's our wake up call. The kids and I stumble into the living room. We gather around the coffee table as Tim goes to the kitchen for silverware, paper towels and plates, and we sit, bleary-eyed and sleepy. Saturday begins. The order varies depending on who is home, but at least one order of migas with cheese is always in the mix. We're convinced the migas have crack in them. Every week, the migas are the same, but they are also always different. This is hard to explain. I love them runny with large chunks of fried tortillas floating around. Every time, one of us looks at the other one and says, "Oh my God, the migas are so good today." They are always good. It's the same for the rice. We buy it in pints and call it Crack Rice. Mix that up with the beans and throw some salsa on there, and heat up a leftover tortilla, and Tamale House has fed us breakfast and lunch, and we've hardly spent a dime. Emily Rose eats a bean and cheese tostada, and sometimes half of a second one that I split with her. When my stepdaughter Stephanie is home, she gets a taco plate. For several years I become obesssed with the taco salads. Matthew, my stepson, eats migas. When he gets to high school, he sleeps through breakfast and we save him leftovers. A few years into Tim's Tamale House runs, he meets Daniel's mom. Daniel is around 7 at the time, and he's there with his mother while she works. He's fidgety. This morning, we're all together, planning a trip over to the mall for some school shopping. We ask Daniel's mom if we can take Daniel with us. His face lights up. He's shy, but he's bored, so we spend the morning together. When we drop him off later, Daniel's mom seems relived he had a place to go with people she trusts. It feels like family. Through the years, Tim keeps up with what's going on with Daniel. He's riding a bike, going to middle school, growing up. His mother is gorgeous and I wonder if Tim will run off with her not just because she has a radiant smile, but because she knows the secret to Tamale House migas. At some point they start selling cupcakes, as if the migas and the crispy potatoes aren't tempting enough. The cupcakes cost $1. Tim brings Emily Rose a pink cupcake every Saturday morning, the perfect compliment to her bean and cheese tostada. She eats the top off and saves a bite for me and I devour it, deciding not to feel guilty because it's Tamale House calories which totally don't count. About a year ago, Tim stumbles onto to the pico de gallo. I'm not sure how this happens, but this is life-changing. He starts to order it in pints, so we can have the pico several more times during the week. Tim figures out that mixing that pico with mayo is the perfect sauce for fish tacos. Matthew comes home from A&M and loves the pico so much, he takes a pint home when he goes back to school. Just like the migas and the rice, we're hooked. Some Saturdays Tim gets busy and doesn't call ahead. One Saturday, he's standing in line and looks at his ticket and he's number 1. "I'm number 1!" he bellows. "Oh, Tim," Daniels mom says, beaming, "You're ALWAYS number one at Tamale House!" I tell Tim I'm going to make him a shirt that says that. He laughs and laughs. A few days ago, we start to see the news about Robert Vasquez's passing. It doesn't sink in, so we drive over and see a wreath on the door and hand-written notes about his memorial and rosary, both of which we missed because we got the news too late. Robert's spirit must be smiling, knowing how he's missed, and knowing many lives he touched by owning and operating a place that fed so many for so many years. It's strange to think that a restaurant can give you so much, but when you eat there every week for more than ten years, it becomes a part of you. I've seen local news stories about Tamale House where they show a picture of tamales. Too bad they got that wrong; one of the funniest things about Tamale House was the fact they didn't make tamales. This coming Saturday, May 10 will be the first Saturday where Tim won't walk through the door to announce, "Tamale House!" Sure, we've got other options in Austin, but it really is the end of an era. RIP, Robert Vasquez. RIP, Tamale House #3.
I remain weeks and weeks behind on this project, but the good thing about life is that there's an endless supply of things to feel grateful about, so we're okay.
Week #12: I'm grateful for the opportunity to involve our kids in the political process, particularly Emily Rose, who, at 11, has the time to devote to it (plus, she has little choice in the matter because we drag her everywhere). Yet, lucky for us, she genuinely wants to be involved and has made lots of friends in the process. Given that we're Texas Democrats, we expect fully for ER to rebel against us when she becomes a teenager, and instead of getting a tattoo, she'll form her own chapter of the Young Texas Republicans. But in the meantime, she's actively learning about things from "our" perspective. The good news is that Tim and I absolutely believe that a dissenting opinion is okay, as long as you're involved and voting. We've gotten very involved, and are attending events, volunteering at phone banks, and doing our best to learn about the issues on more than just a sound-byte level.
For the Travis County primaries in March, we spent election night hopping around to a few parties. Since we're not a sporty family, this was kind of our Superbowl.
The first stop was for Tim's friend Dolores Ortega-Carter, a wonderful woman who's been the treasurer in Travis County since 1987. Emily Rose adores her, especially the fact that she remembers our name although we've only met her a few times. Dolores won her primary race. We were thrilled!
Our next stop was Sarah Eckhardt's party. Sarah is running for Travis County judge, and not only did we support her because of her experience, we love people who have a lot of consonants in their last names. Her party was in a bar on the East Side, so that was fun to take an elementary school-aged kid to a bar on a school night. We're classy like that. We missed seeing Sarah, but we definitely eyed her victory cake, which looked delicious. She won her primary race as well!
The third stop was to pick up my stepdaughter Stephanie, a freshman at UT, so that we could take her to vote. We got to the polls at the nick of time. It was fun to see Stephanie walk into her elementary school library to cast her vote. I love this picture, even though it's blurry, because it shows how proud Tim is that Stephanie took the time to vote.
Our next stop was to Brigid Shea's party at Scholtz's, continuing our theme of taking our kids to bars on school nights. Brigid is running for Travis County Commissioner, Precinct 2. There, we bumped into Rep. Elliott Naishtat, who is the absolute nicest man. He asked Emily Rose if she was starting law school yet, and offered to help Stephanie if she needed references for papers at UT. We adore him. I have a card on my desk at work that Tim made that says, "I love you," and I've shoved Elliott's card at the bottom so it says, "I love you, Elliott Naishtat." If he saw it, he might be a little afraid of me.
Here's a pic of ER mingling with Tim. I love that she looks sincerely interested in the subject matter. That, or she is so exhausted she's just holding her eyes open.
Despite the late hour on a school night, we hung around for the announcement that Brigid had won her primary election as well, making for a pretty exciting evening. It got really fun when the television crews showed up, and when ER got a chance to get her photo taken with Brigid. Do we see an internship in her future?
We recovered from the primaries, and from there moved on to volunteering for Senator Wendy Davis. I signed up for Women for Wendy, and have been having a ball doing phone-banking for several organizations. The benefit to volunteering is you find like-minded people who help you realize you're not crazy for thinking the things you think (growing up in East Texas, this is really refreshing). Rep. Donna Howard came to thank us for volunteering, and I was thrilled to meet her, as I'd seen her work on the House floor over the past summer, and I found her to be cool under pressure, extremely prepared, and a strong advocate for women.
Here's a Tweet with a picture of me (in yellow) and some really amazing women, spending their Tuesday night calling Texas voters for Women for Wendy.
Then, a few weeks ago, Senator Davis came to Austin for a rally on equal pay. We decided to yank ER out of school to see her speak, deciding that it would be a great civics lesson. In the car on the way over to the event, ER got out a notepad and said, "I'm going to write some notes in case I get interviewed." We talked about some recent comments made by Texas Republican women on the matter, such as Texas Republican Party Executive Director Beth Cubriel, who remarked in an interview that women need to become "better negotiators." Then, GOP political action committee leader Cari Christman stated that equal pay laws weren't practical, because women are "extremely busy." Emily Rose jotted down some notes, and off we went to stand around and wait for the event to begin.
It was hard for me not to crack up when we arrived, because Emily Rose was walking around shaking hands like she was a politician herself. A woman we'd met a few times at other events, came up and said, "Your daughter knows everyone here! Is she running for office yet?"
Here's a great example. Rosie just cuddled right up to this amazing Battleground Texas volunteer, Alice, because look how cool she is! She's working tirelessly to help get Wendy elected, and she's amazing. Check out those pink Mizunos!
Soon, Senator Davis appeared, and gave a great speech about equal pay, and channeled her inner Ann Richards to challenge Greg Abbott to respond to questions regarding equal pay by saying, "This Texas gal is calling you out!" After Davis spoke, she met with the press for questions, and we caught her on her way out for this picture. It's super bright, but that's just because Scholtz's has skylights, (and also because God was totally shining down on us that day).
This was really exciting stuff for the Arndt family, particularly for ER, who can turn on the news and actually know what's going on in local and state politics. And speaking of the news, as we left the event, our good friend Jolene grabbed ER and put her in front of a Fox reporter. ER's notes came in handy; she spoke eloquently about women's rights to equal pay, saying, "Women are too busy to negotiate." Bam! Sadly, the interview didn't run (it was Fox, after all), but we were so proud of her.
The last picture is from a rally at UT for Senator Leticia Van de Putte, candidate for Lt. Governor. This photo will forever remind me that Emily Rose had the opportunity to see people of all ages gathering on the UT campus, exercising their freedom of speech, supporting their candidate of choice. I'll also remember that a young guy and his girlfriend walked by, hand in hand, and he turned around to see who was speaking, then shouted, "BOR-RING!" and rolled his eyes as they walked off. Emily Rose was appalled, not that he didn't support the candidate, but that he was so disrespectful and obviously apathetic.
I urge you to get your kids involved. It's changing our lives. Even if you disagree with my family's political views - and that is totally okay with me -- let your kids see how it all works. Volunteer. Register voters. This year, because of Tim's urging, I got deputized to register voters (so please let me know if you need to register! I've got you covered!), and Tim and I are delegates to the state convention in June. This is all big stuff for us, and I urge you to do it, too. I can honestly tell you that my first thought about being involved in politics that it would make me jaded, but thus far, it's exactly the opposite. Politics can be really fun. It's just people. Some shady, some amazingly ignorant, but all in all, it's good people on all sides. It's people who care about change, or people who don't want change at all - but it's people who are passionate, and that's so contagious to be around.