Gotta Love That Thumper

“Alcoholism is a progressive disease, advancing even in times of sobriety.”  The Big Book

I’m not an alcoholic.  No, really, I’m not.  But I will admit to being a judge-maholic.  I come about it honestly; I come from very judgmental stock.  My teachers were the best.  My father, for instance, would sit with me at a coffee shop complaining about the guy at a table against the wall.  “Look at that man with his hat on.  He’s inside, for cry-eye.”  Then my dad would pull out his nail clippers and snap away—sharp slivers shooting off this way and that—oblivious to the sneers shooting back at us.  My mother’s judgment took the form of filling in the blanks with conviction: “He’s in debt up to his ears.”  “How do you know?” I’d ask.  “I just know.”  I could go on and tell you about my family and their judgments, but that would be my judge-maholism running amuck. 

All this is to say, that while I work at tempering my judgmental nature with compassion, my judge-maholism progresses in the dark spaces of my mind, and when it emerges, it takes me and the victim by surprise. 

My lovely daughter invited me to hear her boyfriend’s band play at a concert last year.  His music is unique, and I mean that in a good way.  But I had no idea the most important quality at a concert was the volume.  I could feel the bass pounding from the floor up to my heart.  I yelled out to my daughter that I would resist putting my fingers in my ears because that would be rude.  She laughed but wasn’t as amused when I yelled, “If they didn’t have the mic up so loud you could hear what they’re singing.”  I saw her reaction and bounced it around in my echo chamber along with the singer’s words, if they were in fact words.  Then I said in her ear, “I sound pretty insulting, don’t I?”  She laughed and agreed emphatically.  That was the last negative thing I said for the rest of the night.  Just because something is true, doesn’t mean it’s not insulting.  I’m always lassoed off my high horse and thrown flat on my back when I see the sting on her face.  I’m surprised and miffed that she wants my approval because from fifteen years old up to about a year ago, my daughter was opposed to me, my choices, my appearance, my words, my boyfriend, pretty much everything about me.  My view of her and our relationship hadn’t kept up with our actual changes and growth.  I realized then that we are so much alike, and it was suddenly humbling.  While we were busy disapproving of each other (wasn’t that my job as her mother and her job as a teenager?), we wanted each other’s approval.  My judgments now only serve to distance my daughter.    They do no good.  Just because I have them doesn’t mean I have to use them.  Like Thumper says to Bambi, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.”  I have smart, zingy cayenne pepper in my kitchen, ready to spice up any dish, but I would never want to use it in, say, a pumpkin pie.  When I push those stinging judgments to the back of the dark spice cabinet and pull out a soft cinnamony compliment, I get to see my daughter’s beautiful smile and I feel like a grown up.

I’m sure to forget once in a while and my judgmental heritage will slip from my loose lips, but I know how to focus on the positive, observe our progress and be humble, keeping my fingers out of my ears at a concert.  

This humble pie really sweetens the tongue, even when it’s not Thanksgiving!

Pumpkin Pie

One single pie crust (see post of 11-11-11)

1 ½ c. cooked or canned pumpkin

1 c. sugar

½ t. salt

1¼ t. cinnamon

1 t. ginger

½ t. nutmeg

½ t. cloves

3 eggs slightly beaten

1¼ c. milk

2/3 c. evaporated milk

Combine all ingredients in the order above and pour into an uncooked pie crust.  Bake at 400 degrees for 50 minutes or until it’s not all wiggly in the middle.

Serve while it’s still warm with some real whipped cream on top.  For an extra sweet treat, put Bambi on the DVD player.

Drip, drip, drop

little April shower