Crockery PotGame changer in our house. Splurged on a fancy crockpot last week. Big news, I know. Should have sent out a flyer.
My beloved crockpot. Regal, able, and ready like any good army, boy scout, or Labrador Retriever.

This.crockpot.is.gonna.save.me.
Last week broke me a bit. We’ve not been sleeping again. Previous memo to the boys was received and then promptly forgotten. And I’ve been sick. After busy days seeing patients, I didn’t leave my office for more than 2 hours after I was done with appointments. Twice. Didn’t even make it home in time to kiss O before he was off to bed on my “early” day. Heartbreak city.

This.crockpot.is.gonna.save.me.

Buying it was one of those, “Ah-ha, this is how I am going to balance my life” moments. Do you buy those things? They can be anything from an orange pair of socks to a closet organizer to a jumbo bottle of Advil to a new can opener. They feel like triumphs in life when you find them. In my attempt to eat right, lower my cholesterol, and live a long time, I rationalized the purchase of the large pot now inhabiting my kitchen. Healthy food made easy. I remain hopeful this crockpot is worthy of its post.
One thing that grows in me every single day is the passionate, nearly palpable desire to live a long time. Maybe because I’m getting older? Or maybe it’s just motherhood. I want to see who my little boys become. I want a window into it all –or as much as they are willing to share. New mutterings, new things they choose, new people they love, visions of their arrivals (graduations, weddings, airports), favorite colors, and simple time with them in the sun. A few weeks ago a friend tweeted (yes, I am accepting this as real, honest-to-goodness verb) that she used to get flowers for Valentine’s Day from her father with a note saying, “Guess who?” Instantly I was ready to call FTD. I want to do that! Imagine me pounding my fist on the table right now. I dream of sending F some orange tulips with a note, “Guess who? You loved the color orange more than sunshine when you were 3.”

I can hardly wait. He may chuck them out the window, I know. I’m not entirely unrealistic.

This.crockpot.is.gonna.save.me.

The crockpot seemed a reasonable response to my desperate love, overwhelm with working too much, and desire to eat better/live longer. One of the best parts of the whole crockpot endeavor was my mom’s elation with the decision. She’s fairly opinionated (like most grandmothers can be). She tells me how to raise my kids like any good and seasoned mom. My pleas and attempts to trump her as “pediatrician” never really work. Maybe because she remembers just what I looked like when I was 4 months old. True perspective, I’m sure. And although I certainly glean all sorts of useful tidbits from her, I also blow her off at times. And then turn around and take her advice. Like any good daughter would do.

My mom has been nudging me to get a crockpot for about 2 years. Turns out, she was right.

This.crockpot.is.gonna.save.me.

When she heard the news last week, the marvelous happened. Kind of like the book, The Wonderful Happens. Have you read it? Do. Share it with your kids. It’s a glass half full type.

The marvelous was my mother’s arrival at my house with a book tucked underneath her arm. She’d gone to the archives for it. Crockery Pot, published in 1976.

This in hand, she knew she was revolutionizing my life. Recipes from her crockpot.save.me days.

I opened the book and was struck by the above rendering. It sits on the page next to the recipe for Chicken Provencal.

Just how times have changed. Take at peek at that Wife! Whew. She was most definitely okay being called, “The Wife.” I like looking at her, dreaming of the night when the Husband might burst through the front door, arriving from work, the crock pot simmering in the corner and say, ”Mmmm, thanks Wifey.”
Don’t get me wrong. Traditional division of household duties while raising kids, working, and existing on planet earth seems easier, wonderfully refreshing and ultimately productive and clear. We just don’t have it that way in our house as two doctors with two loud and luscious kids and heaps of things to do. We share the chores and joys of raising our kids, the balancing of the budget, the dividing of church and of state. It’s not perfect but it works for us while we protect our kids, protect our patients, and follow our dreams. And lucky for us, we still get a little help from my mom. You were right, Mom, this crockpot is gonna save me.