If these are cookies where are the chocolate chips?

I have advice for my daughter as she joins the largest and least exclusive club in the world, Mothers (Very Loosely) Incorporated. I also have the good sense to keep my mouth shut about advice until she asks. She has no theories about motherhood because even though she speculated, "Well, someday, sure," someday kept slipping elusively into the future. Like most women she has had some disappointments with her reproductive system and while they have been sad for her, she was always able to believe that things worked out as they were supposed to. Now that she is coming to the end of her first trimester and feeling that the babe is settled in for keeps, I detect the happy look on her face that says again, "Things worked out the way they were suppose to." 

This morning I woke up very early from another night of sleep made restless and short lived by the steroids I am taking this month. In the past week I have altogether forgotten what it feels like to relax, not that I was ever especially good at that undertaking. I went straight to the kitchen and started making blueberry muffins. I knew Marc and Eva would be upstairs for breakfast later to help with eating them and I was also trying to delay having breakfast until at least 6 AM. While they baked I made a pot of coffee, checked emails, and then, glancing at the kitchen counter, I noticing an excess of bananas. I started again, grating fresh nutmeg into the banana bread batter, adding pecans and a bit of the Bacardi rum I found on the shelf.  Just as I popped the muffins out of the oven the two loves of banana bread were ready to bake. 

I heard her footsteps on the stairs 45 minutes, three cups of coffee and two blueberry muffins later. She leads with her nose, waking hungry these days, the baby driving her appetite in odd directions. She is sick so frequently it requires extra food to keep her going. Her body rejects her mainstays of soy, leafy green salads, and seafood. In their place she craves carbs, cooked vegetables, milk, and ice cream. She worries she is gaining weight and I lie to her about the little bulge below her navel. She knows I lie, but we maintain the subterfuge for her peace of mind. 

"Oh, What's this?" she asks, ready to be delighted. 

"Blueberry muffins, whole wheat, with pecans," I reply. "The banana bread should be done too. Let me check." I pull the hot loaves out of the oven as Marc comes up the stairs muttering about orange juice. He has coffee, juice, bread and muffins. We look at pictures of Sagan, my grandson, her nephew, waving his tiny hand in utero when he was two weeks older than her little belly bump.  Juice, food, happy chatter and a bit of spilt coffee makes for a happy family morning. Before I am ready to let go they are off, she to work and he to Arlington to paint their bedroom and take delivery of the new king size bed they have purchased for her move in a few days. After they are gone I start one of my periodic life reviews, back to their childhood, back to the young mother that I once was and trying to imagine how different her life will be. 

Even though she has no idea how she will deal with a baby I know she has opinions on what her child will be like when it is older. We all do until we actually have one of our own. I always loved the comment a friend of mine made when her child expressed his deep aesthetic admiration of the portrait of Elvis on black velvet at the state fair. "You would think," she sighed deeply, "that the child of two university professors would just naturally have good taste." I thought of her home, a monument to minimalism and refined elegance, beautiful oil paintings on the walls, rich oriental rugs on the wood floors. Her tow headed little boy, all grins and mischief, ran his red fire truck over the ultra modern sofa and left jelly finger prints on the glass and chrome dining room table. I didn't answer, just smiled and shook my head with understanding. 

     Thinking back I remember the Saturday long ago when I woke before the children, no easy feat in their pre teen days. It was too cold and blustery for them to play outside, so I did my Mom thing, cookies. I searched in the cabinet for chocolate chips, but finding none and still determined, I got out the oatmeal and raisins. The kitchen was warm and spicy smelling when they came in, sleepy eyed and curious about the smell of cooking. I never quibbled over what constituted proper breakfast food because I cook with whole grains, honey and small amounts of good for you vegetable oils. The finished product had less sugar and additives and certainly more nutrition than Captain Crunch or Cocoa Puffs. Ben picked one of the hot cookies off the counter and took a big bite. His face took on a look of dismay. 

"Raisins!" his voice was the definition of disappointment. "You put raisins in the chocolate chip cookies mom." I had to admit he was correct. I apologized. He tried to pick the brown dots out to no avail. From that day on he became a suspicious eater, always asking what the brown bits were before tasting. I did not try to sway him from his opinion like my parents attempted to do with me. I find that although children seem to be able to thrive on oddly constituted diets for long periods of time they mostly grow up to be adults that enjoy things beyond yellow cheese and green grapes three meals a day. Some of them never learn to love raisins but most, given the option, eventually see the virtue of Picasso over paint by numbers. More importantly, if they are given love, all of them grow up able to give it back and pass it along to another generation. 

I always tell my daughter that she had a better mother than I had and that I had a better one than my mother did. It's time to add a new line to that story. My daughter's child will have a better mother than she did, although she cannot imagine it at the moment. Eva will be more diplomatic, more confident, more playful than I was. She will be a career minded mother and may not have the time to be scout leader or make cookies from scratch that often, but she is strong and fierce and funny and very loving. Moreover, as she moves into her new role, I take delight moving into mine. Welcome to the club my dear.  I am so looking forward to  you joining me for the meetings.