Last night, I made Pumpkin and Black Bean soup for dinner.

As I ladled soup into bowls, I wondered what possessed me to make such an ugly dinner. Aidan, our oldest daughter, will eat anything, but my boys are very visual when it comes to their foods. They like it to look innocuous and show promising glimpses of cheese and noodles. Nothing about pumpkin puree mixed with black beans, onions, diced tomatoes, and heavy cream looks edible. In fact, it looks like a job for the Tilt-a-Whirl operator and his bucket of sawdust.

They stared at the contents of their bowls. Thankfully, they’ve learned to politely hold their tongues because I don’t tolerate rude and ungrateful remarks about what I’ve cooked. Nobody likes those one-way tickets to Jammietown.

I didn’t have to hear the internal monologues swirling around in their noggins to know what they were thinking, though: Is she trying to ruin my life and make me a nerd? I hope I am allergic to this. Where is the cheese? Is the possibility of chocolate ice cream later worth the risk of dying from grossness and black beans?

I quickly realized my only hope was to involve the one thing the soup had going for it, which was its incredible aroma.

“Okay, I want everyone to put their nose down by their soup and inhale.”

They complied.

Ryley looked up and smiled. “I give it two thumbs up!”

Sam gave the soup a single half-thumb, which translates to fantastic in his world. His rating system is notoriously mysterious and stingy. Really, you have to respect him. A half-thumb represented victory. Not round-off-back-handspring victory, but a quiet, knowing-nod type of triumph. It’s a little like the What Not to Wear folks peering into your closet and noting everything looks really, really great. And can Stacy borrow that dress?

Tommy was still skeptical, but I knew he’d try it eventually. Out of the four boys, he is the most likely to try new foods—but he doesn’t like to admit it.

Joel was solely interested in his dinner roll. As far as he was concerned, I made cracked wheat rolls for dinner and maybe some other stuff from a pot on the stove but it was none of his business and if he kept his head down and didn’t look me in the eye or anyone else then maybe the fact his bowl had been shoved to the center of the table would go unnoticed and I’d forget all about it and in an hour or two when I am tired and have changed into my pajamas as a sign I am ready to throw in the day’s towel, retired to the couch, I’ll yawn a yes when he asks for ice cream and he’d get to make a brown sticky beard and everyone will laugh and then he’ll lick the bowl clean and leave it on the table so he can go to the bathroom and use a hand towel to wash his dirty, dirty face but oh! is his tummy finally happy…

Not!

Dinner was a success, which I define as kids taking more than a few bites and me thinking yes, they are getting it. There is hope.

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Update: I got the recipe here. It was yummy and very easy. I modified it slightly by using 4 cups of chicken stock instead of 3 cups of veggie stock. It was still spicy (the recipe calls for cumin, curry, and cayenne), so I am glad it was diluted a bit. Also, I used one 29oz. can of pumpkin rather than two 15oz. cans. That measly one ounce of pumpkin wasn’t missed.

I like to lurk on pregnancy/expecting message boards. I rarely post replies to the queries, rants, or manifestos written by other pregnant women. Sometimes I have trouble expressing my opinions to complete strangers gently and constructively. I also fear coming across as the tiresome mom of many who thinks she knows everything.

For example: a woman states she wants an elective c-section to birth her first child because she does not do well with surprises, messes, pain, and immodesty. Initially, her doctor agreed, but at her last appointment, the doctor dropped an absolute heart-breaking bomb: Her insurance company won’t cover a c-section without a more compelling reason than “I don’t want people to see my pee-pee.”

Most of the replies were (((HUGS))).

But I sat there thinking bad thoughts about a woman I don’t know.

I wanted to tell her to get a grip and realize that motherhood will bring surprises, messes, and all manners of pain and immodesty into her life—sometimes in one fifteen minute block of time in the middle of what had been a quiet afternoon.

I was mentally arguing with her that women have been giving birth vaginally for eons so what makes her special, c-sections mean a longer recovery, and they’ll not only see your downtown neighborhood during a c-section, they’ll clear-cut any forestation you have going on. Three days later, you’ll look like an imploded Las Vegas casino. Rubble.

I wanted to tell her that her attitude was one reason insurance costs are so high. We pay for unnecessary c-sections with OUR premiums. Thanks a lot, coward.

(((HUGS))) weren’t on my mind.

Neither was a gentle pep talk.

If I were a better woman, I might readily remember the fears of being a first-time mom. I’d recognize I was once shockingly naive regarding the impact a wordless, toothless, helpless eight-pound person would make on my life. I walked around thinking my pregnancy experience was more unique than any other pregnancy in history and I deserved special consideration, sympathy, hugs, and indulgences of my fancies and fears.

Yet all I could do was think she was a loser for being honest, for being sad, for being worried.

A well-cast hook can draw out a whole lot of smug self-satisfaction. I wonder what fears I cover with my own mocking bravado sometimes—even if it was safely contained in my head as I read?

As I sat there congratulating myself for possessing enough maturity and self-control to not hit the reply button, it occurred to me that I was being just as ugly as if I were saying these things to her face. Part of being a healthy, wise woman is having the ability to be ever-empathetic when nobody is looking or listening. It doesn’t mean I can’t judge or discern.

It means I need to be mindful of how I express myself externally and internally.