I’ve been feeling scattered.
Slightly overwhelmed.
Discombobulated.
Stressed.
Unhinged.

I have reasons! Mostly: summer.

Summer is our Living Expansively time (as opposed to the school year where I chain the kids to the kitchen table and forbid all forms of socialization). It’s when I relax my hold on imposed structure and say yes to all sorts of fun stuff. Just pile it on, is my mantra. Eventually, I kind of fall apart.

The most recent reasons for my current state of distraction are as follows:

We loved having our little Fresh Air boy again this year. (We had hoped to have the girl back, too, but her family missed the paperwork deadline.) He’s sweet as a peach, easy-going and eager to try new things.

We did fun stuff, hence more go-go-go activity which contributed to my I’m-on-a-merry-go-round feeling. There was the Frontier Culture Museum, the pool, the river, church, shopping, playing at other people’s houses, etc. But the activity he desired most? Legos.

In anticipation of his arrival, we moved the whole Lego bin downstairs and set up a Lego Station. ‘Twas a smart move. The kid was in there every chance he got.

Last week I had three extra kids under my roof for a couple days and then, one night, the numbers ballooned to a total of ten, topping out at eleven the following morning at breakfast when the neighbor kid joined the masses for breakfast.

The neighbor kid was super excited about the pancakes. “I’ve never had homemade pancakes before!” he chortled.

“Mom, he doesn’t know how to cut them,” my younger daughter whispered to me. “He keeps stabbing them with a fork.”

“Then cut them for him,” I said.

Kids like him, I’d happily feed all day long. (You’d think my kids would’ve learned that by now—act excited and Mom will up her Yummy Food Game—but no. Sometimes they’re downright dumb.)

As Neighbor Boy ate, sluggish kids kept emerging from all corners of the property: the tent, the downstairs room, the bedrooms, the clubhouse. Neighbor Boy’s eyes about popped. It was like a circus clown car.

The night before, the kids had entertained themselves with a potato gun, homemade ice cream, a dance party, and fireballs. Also, there was an (unapproved and immediately-squelched) activity involving an aerosol can of hairspray and matches. It’s a fact: put teen boys in a group and they shed IQ points at an alarming rate.

At the peak of crazy, I called my mom.

“All the kids have friends. Why don’t you and Dad come keep John and me company?”

We sat around the table and observed the chaos while eating our homemade ice cream with flopped chocolate zucchini cake, chocolate sauce, and strawberries.

After having his license for just two weeks, my son has now been taken out of the driving mix, thanks to that eye surgery.

It’s only for a week or two, but oh my, is it ever an inconvenience. How quickly I acclimated to having a third driver in the house! Now we’re once again playing Schedule Contortionist, juggling drop-offs and pick-ups, work schedules, and mealtimes. It’s like we’re back in the Dark Ages.

Will you hate me if I show you his eye? No? Awesome.

Because I think it is so cool.

Our fall schedule is taking (intimidating) shape.

Thus far, I have three kids in choir, a son in a theater production, two sons (and me) who want to take tap, and a daughter who is requesting not one but two—two!—ballet classes. I’m reluctant to fund all these enrichment classes, so the kids need jobs. In other words, their jobs will be just one more thing for me to work into our schedule.

I’m not sure how much activity I can handle before I (and the rest of the family) get hurt.

Once I figure out the details—line things up all tidy—my stress levels will go down. But until then, I feel like I’m gearing up for a high-speed race that is destined to end in a wipe out.

Unless I say no to everything. No is always an option…

This same time, years previous: cheesy herb pizza, corn crepecakes, the quotidian (8.6.12), why I am recuperating, dishes at midnight, and quiche.

The garden is pretty pathetic. The green beans didn’t even hardly come up and we’re not replanting them, which is a shame because I love green beans and store-bought green beans taste like stalks of cardboard. But I like lots of other store-bought veggies, like peas, broccoli, carrots, potatoes, and cabbage, so we’ll be okay, I suppose. The meager garden doesn’t bother me too much.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot these days: why it is I feel okay buying produce instead of growing it myself. Is my dwindling garden a result of lack of discipline? Am I selling out? Shortchanging myself and my family? 

And then it occurred to me that since I was a little kid—and even in the last ten years—there’s been a food revolution. It used to be that store-bought veggies were gross—everything was about as palatable as canned peas, mushy and flavorless—so homegrown veggies did taste a lot better. But now grocery stores are stocked with flavorful, high-quality produce. For bulk purchases, it’s a piece of cake to find a local farmer, produce auction, or orchard. And foods that are often preserved at home, like pizza sauce, salsa, and pesto, are easy to find in the store, and they often taste equally delicious.

Which kinda throws a wrench in things.

Of course—of course, of course—I still think it’s worthwhile and useful to grow and preserve food yourself (and home-baked goods will always be leagues ahead of anything purchased, can I get an amen?) because there are less pesticides involved, the work keeps you grounded, the self-sufficiency makes you feel good about yourself and reduces carbon footprints, etc, etc, etc. But maybe this food revolution explains why I can’t seem to get my panties in (as much of) a twist over the whole thing anymore?

Am I the only one feeling less of a tug to garden and preserve?

I stuck a bunch of zucchini plants in the ground and now I have zucchinis coming out my ears. The situation feels more dire than normal because I don’t need to make any relish this summer so I’m not using up the zucchinis as quickly. Still, I try. Yesterday afternoon I made a double batch of  whole wheat zucchini bread, and at suppertime I bulked up our taco meat-sauce-stuff with a grated zucchini.

A few days ago I made a lemon zucchini cake, and even though it didn’t use up much zucchini (my main criteria for zucchini recipes), it was so delicious that I forgave its skimpy zucchini ass.

Glazed Lemon Zucchini Cake
Adapted from a recipe from (my cousin-ish relation) Grace, via Facebook.

I doubled the lemon juice and zest. Also, I glazed the cake while it was still hot and some of the glaze soaked into the cake. This could be good, except the cake is already plenty moist. Next time I’ll wait until the cake is almost completely cool before glazing.

for the cake:
2 cups cake flour
½ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 eggs, beaten
½ cup oil
1 1/3 cups sugar
¼ cup fresh lemon juice
½ cup buttermilk
zest of two lemons
1 cup grated zucchini

Whisk together the oil, sugar, eggs, lemon juice, zest, and buttermilk. Stir in the zucchini. Add the dry ingredients and combine.

Pour the batter into a greased, 9-inch springform pan (or a 9 x 5 loaf pan) and bake at 350 degrees for 40-45 minutes. When the cake is nearly cool, pour the glaze over top.

for the glaze:
1 cup confectioner’s sugar, sifted
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon milk

Whisk together and pour over the slightly-warm cake.

This same time, years previous: kiss the moon, kiss the sun, caramelized cherry tomatoes, and Indian-style corn.

Monday, my son and I spent the day hanging out at the hospital for his outpatient eye surgery. I hate the hassle of hospitals and medical procedures, but if you can’t avoid it, then UVA is a fabulous place. Everything was super organized, and the staff was so friendly. Towards the end of our day, I emerged from my son’s recovery room to stretch my legs. One of the employees spied me yawning and said, “Are you the driver? Would you like some caffeine?” And then she scampered off, returning a minute later with an ice-cold can of coke and a straw tucked into a brown paper bag. It’s the little things…

They now have these hospital gowns that can be hooked up to little vacuum hose-type nozzles that connect to the wall and blow either hot or cold air into the gown. All morning my son had been cold and suddenly he was comfy-cozy. He thought they were a hoot.

And then they rolled him off to surgery.

When I next saw him, he was no longer laughing.

I found the contrast hilarious.

Everyone had said his eye would feel scratchy, like he had dirt in it, but my son said the pain was sharp and stabbing. Every time he moved his eye, it hurt. So he laid there like a blind person and I spoon-fed him ice chips.

“On a scale of one to ten, what’s your pain?” the nurse asked.

“Five,” my son mumbled.

The nurse paused, considering.

“For him, that’s kind of high,” I said. “When he broke his back, he only went up to a seven or eight.” 

“Getting the painkillers right now,” and out the door the nurse zipped.

Every thirty minutes or so, a nurse would ask him his name and date of birth. Eventually, weary of the routine, my son snarked, “Sir Henry the Sixth.” My boy was waking up.

The surgery went fine (or so I assume—the check-up will be in a week or two). The doctor cut an eye muscle—the one opposite the damaged muscle—in order to balance out the wackiness. We took off the bandage this morning, and his eyes appear more even keel.

He’s still seeing double, though, and it’s worse than normal. But that means nothing. If someone just stuck a knife in my eye, I’d be seeing double, too.

This same time, years previous: the end, gingerbread, dam good blackberry pie, and down in the peach pits.