Our Big Friday

On Friday morning, I realized I needed to make that strawberry freezer jam I'd planned before we went out for the afternoon. I thought I could just squeeze it in between activities. Little lesson for novice jam maker: Canning needs to be allowed the entire day in case of mishaps.

My strawberries on a great sale made a lot more jam than I'd anticipated. I didn't have this much room in my freezer. I set the jars on the counter to cool and left, planning to tackle the problem later.

The children and I joined our friends the D---s for the second national religious freedom rally (both husbands having to stay at work). On our way from the parking garage, we exited through the lobby of a corporate building to the street. While pausing to let a child use the restroom, a gentleman in a suit walked over to chat with us: two mamas, one very obviously pregnant, and five children present. He stood there, counted the children with an aghast look on his face, and then said, "Wow, all these children would drive me crazy!" I wish that instead of chuckling nervously like a dope that I'd had the presence of mind instead to have replied cheerfully that I was surely grateful God blessed us instead of him with these children. It certainly is a Culture of Death, as Bl. Pope John Paul II coined the phrase, when only five apparent children between two mommies--children who were clean, neatly dressed, quiet, and very polite--are seen as driving one crazy instead of being a cause of societal pride and reason for a stranger to ruffle their hair in a friendly way.

Unfortunately, at the rally the microphone wasn't working, voices don't carry far outdoors anyway, and the street was being resurfaced a few feet away, so we stood as bodies present for a good cause, smelling the asphalt, and not hearing a word. (And, no, the children don't have a clue what the signs mean, they just love holding signs.)

We happened upon a festival downtown adjacent to the rally, so we treated the children to it afterward. This was one of those affairs where one exchanges money for plastic coins, which deludes the parent into forgetting how much money she is actually spending. We saw a bungee jump like the children had just done in San Francisco, so we two moms walked over with our brood of kids, asked how much it cost, the man told us, and we went to buy our coins. Then we went to the jumpy house, which turned out to cost something like $1.60 per child for 15 seconds of going from one end to another . . . one time. Mamas were not pleased. We had just enough coins remaining to do the bungee jumping, so we walked back over there only to be told, "Oh, sorry ma'am, children have to be 48" tall." Which, by quick glance, none of our children are. But he didn't think to tell us that when we asked him the cost. There were no more rides to be had, so we tried to return out coins for cash, but they were not reimbursable. Thus, out of desperation, we used up all our coins to buy pastries. Oh well, the kids still thought it was pretty neat.

Balloon artistry

We came home--kids napping on the drive--and I began to make dinner. Chris dashed out of his office to mention that it had been an incredibly stressful day and he hadn't had one moment to eat breakfast or lunch except for some chips out of a bag. I quickly thought how my plan to make frozen pizza for dinner wouldn't be very nice for him after his long day, so I scrambled to come up with a more filling meal plan and start cooking.

Unfortunately, this is when Mary began throwing a nuclear meltdown tantrum because John was watching a nature show about whales and she wanted to watch her own show on her own screen elsewhere. I draw the line at my various children each watching their own television shows in different rooms because they're so spoiled that getting the treat of watching a fabulous TV show together just isn't enough for them. Mary screamed bloody murder for forty minutes. I had to turn off the burners on the stove, put the baby on my back, and manage Mary in another part of the house because she was screaming so loud it was disturbing Chris' conference call. But I couldn't leave Mary because she can unlock bedroom doors and just kept coming out and screaming and throwing things. Nothing I did stopped the screaming. The only positives are that I maintained a calm exterior, a quiet voice, and I didn't give in, for whatever that was worth. And then, as fast as the tantrum exploded, Mary asked me calmly, "Mama, will you please lay down with me?" So I lay down with her and she was quiet and we kissed and she was all better. Will I one day understand children's tantrums? This remains a mystery.

This put me quite far behind in dinner, so I started anew. And this is when black clouds of smoke filled the kitchen as the main course burned (reminding me now that the charred remains are still out on the deck, a day later). That's when I sucked back some tears, found Chris and said, "I wave the domestic white flag. May we order pizza for dinner tonight?"

He was so nice and said 'yes' immediately.

After the kids were finally asleep, I then had to tackle that strawberry jam that started my day: it had not set! It was as fluid as water! I was invested at this point, so determined to try to see it to the end. I poured out all the jam, used a sieve to remove a lot of liquid, and boiled it down more, and added fresh pectin, so the ultimate number of jars was halved that of before. Also I decided to properly can the jam because of my limited freezer space, so I had to disinfect all the jars and use new lids. The whole reprocessing took two hours, which reminds me that I am very much a novice at jam-making and canning, that it's really complex, and the $5 cost for wholesome jam (without high fructose corn syrup) is well worth it.

And that was our Big Friday.