by Jen Hatmaker
Gather round, young ones, and I will tell you a tale that will frighten and confuse you. It will sound like something from the Dark Ages, ye days of old. You will wonder: What sort of life was that? How did they survive? Those of us who struggled through will tell you stories of triumph, of heroic juggling; you will gain a new respect for your ancestors born in the seventies.
See, once upon a time, there was no such thing as Netflix. No Hulu, no Primetime on Demand, no Apple TV, no Amazon Instant Video. These were fantastical inventions of a time well past the year 2000 (which, in our imaginations, included hovercrafts and time travel). We had what was called “basic cable,” which meant that shows aired on four channels on a certain day at a certain time. And that is the end of the tale.
If you wanted to watch, for example, Magnum P.I. with your mom, then you had to be parked on the couch on Thursdays at 8:00 p.m. or miss Magnum and T.C.’s shenanigans while Higgins tried to maintain some bloody decorum. You got one shot at your show, and if you got home late because your mom’s Jazzercise class went long, then you had to call your friend for a recap. Side note: Young Ones, telephones were attached to the wall with a cord back then, so you stretched it into the pantry for some privacy, away from your mom’s nosy interference, while hollering, “This isn’t Communist Russia, Mom—or, should I say, GORBACHEV!” (This is how children of the Cold War aired grievances.)
Back then, there weren’t channels dedicated to subcategories of the population. There was no Disney channel, no Food Network, no ESPN, no Bravo. There was Sam Donaldson, Peter Jennings, and, my personal crush, Tom Brokaw on the news, and we got cartoons for three hours on Saturday mornings until CBS switched to golf at 11:00 after the Smurfs. Oh sure, MTV hit the scene in 1981, but we couldn’t watch it because of the devil. Apparently we could watch a show starring two outlaw brothers, their half-naked cousin, and a car painted with the Confederate flag but couldn’t watch Madonna sing “Like a Virgin” because we might get secondhand pregnant.
We got a taste of the future when VCRs finally became affordable for regular people. We could tape our shows! We set it on top of our enormous console TV encased in faux wood and perched on a fancy swivel. The only teeny downside was that our model didn’t allow us to schedule the recording; someone still had to put the tape in and press record as the show aired. This involved panic, calling your neighbor, and begging her to break into your house to press record so you wouldn’t miss Moonlighting while you were at church choir practice. And heaven help if she accidentally taped over The Masters, because Dad would relaunch a dissertation on proper labeling and respect for intellectual property.
I probably need counseling over the tape situation. For a while, VHS tapes only had two or three available hours, so you’d throw in a half-used tape to record Kids Incorporated, come back later that night to watch it, and it would cut off right in the middle of a crucial moment when Stacy (i.e., Fergie) considered smoking a cigarette given to her by an unsavory traveling rock band member because she was sick and tired of being treated like a child, like we all were, man. Did she smoke the cigarette? Did she become an addict? Did Gloria and The Kid talk her out of it? We never knew. (The online synopsis of Kids Incorporated says: “A group of kids sing songs at a club for kids. They solve problems in between performances.” This was my dream job description in 1986.)
We thought we’d arrived when TiVo launched a few months’ shy of the year 2000. We made it to The Future, and it was everything we hoped for minus the jet cars! Sure, Y2K was looming and we were hoarding milk jugs of water and canned corn, but besides the end of the world, it seemed the absolute height of entertainment technology, and we were having it. Schedule recordings with a remote control, fast-forward through commercials, and never miss another minute of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire . . . yes, please! An entire generation of young mothers started putting their children to bed again with patience and nurture, no longer throwing kids into beds with four-word prayers because Friends started at 8:00 and it was 7:57. It was an imperfect system for my friend Molly, who kept an actual spreadsheet of her shows on all networks (carefully curated through TV Digest) and had to delete three programs a day to make room for new scheduled recordings, but she was up for this sort of aggressive TV watching and approached it with the dedication of an Olympian.
What more could there be? How could anyone improve on this system? You and I both know, my friends. Let’s say it together: Netflix. I don’t want to overstate it, but Netflix is my soul mate. Like Steely Dan said: I have found my home at last. Any show, any network, movies, UK programming, original series, all in a digital library that is surely a foreshadowing of heaven. Easily the best feature in the Netflix Rolodex of awesomeness:
Binge watching.
Episode after episode, all in glorious succession with no commercials and only a ten-second window in which to end the binge and get your life back together, which you loosely consider during seconds one through seven, but then the next episode automatically begins and it’s too late. What are we supposed to do? Turn it off at that point? We’re not Communists. The fates decided for us, and so, with forbearance, we move on to episode eleven of Gilmore Girls and log our fifth straight hour on the couch. After you auto-start the fourth episode, even Netflix itself throws shade with a pop-up screen: Do you want to continue watching? YES, I DO, NETFLIX. I don’t need your shame. Pretty judgy for an entertainment platform that offers 132 episodes of Xena: Warrior Princess. Don’t act like you’re concerned about our mental intake.
Admittedly, a quick survey of the scene communicates some slothfulness: potato chip crumbs on your shirt, an empty takeout container, a dirty cup (Diet Coke when you started at 9:00 p.m.), a red-stained glass (wine now that it is 1:23 a.m.), a cell phone you called your children on to tell them to go to bed, wadded up tissues from Rory’s graduation speech in Stars Hollow. Fine, it isn’t our best look. We can’t always be awesome.
But the occasional guilt-free Netflix binge is delightful. Sydney and I watched four seasons of Downton Abbey in two days over Christmas break one year. We snuggled under a quilt and made tea for twelve hours a day. Brandon and I ripped through Friday Night Lights, Parenthood, Mad Men, and Arrested Development. He and the boys knocked off Lost in two weeks one summer (not sure they showered), and I was the lone soldier forging through Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, Gilmore Girls, Broadchurch, and 30 Rock.
The upside: we don’t watch any shows in real time, so our TV is off all day. Downside: when Brandon and I binge watch a new series, our house looks like an episode of Hoarders, and it’s like we’re raising creepy Children of the Corn with unwashed hair and haunted eyes of neglect: Will there be anything for dinner tonight, Mother and Father? Or shall we eat the rats in the barn?
Well, God bless. Everyone is entitled to a Netflix binge now and again. No one will die from it, and if our kids can’t pour themselves cereal for dinner for three straight nights, they need to get some home training. Just in case you are the reasonable sort, I thought I’d include a recipe you can make for dinner, set on the kitchen counter, and let your people consume for a couple of days. This is great on day one and even better on day two . . . right around the time you move into season three and cannot be bothered with getting up for the bathroom, much less someone’s hunger.
PANANG CHICKEN CURRY
I make this on nights I have only twenty minutes for prep, because I am a very busy person. Breaking Bad will not watch itself. This is as easy as “spaghetti night” and infinitely yummier. Every one of my kids loves it. Brandon is the lone holdout on curry, which is a discernment problem he needs to work out. This recipe makes enough for a big family like mine plus leftovers. Feel free to cut it down if you hate delicious food in your fridge.
2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil
Whatever veggies you have, sliced thin (my faves in this recipe: snap peas or green beans, red or green bell peppers, onions, and mushrooms, but truly, whatever)
Salt to taste
A few shakes of curry
powder, if you have it
2 to 4 tablespoons Panang curry paste* (to taste: less = less spicy, more = muy caliente. I have a bunch of Ethiopians and Texans in my house, so we like to burn.)
1 to 2 teaspoons Kaffir lime powder*
1 tablespoon fish sauce*
3 (13- to 14-ounce) cans coconut milk
2 cups veggie or chicken stock
1 pound chicken breasts, sliced super-duper thin (or shrimp or beef or tofu or no meat)
1 tablespoon cornstarch for a thicker curry
3 tablespoons water
Rice cooked to package directions, including serving size for your family (not only do I make extra for leftovers, but I put another can of coconut milk in my rice liquid, because I like to live dangerously. I recently pulled out a rice cooker I’ve had for five years and never used. So basically my life is changed).
Fresh basil, if you have it
Heat the olive oil in a stock pot over medium-high heat. When the oil is shimmering, add the veggies, sprinkle them with salt, and stir for 2 to 3 minutes. I add a few shakes of curry powder, too, because my mantra on spice is “more is more.” Add the curry paste and lime powder. Stir into the oil and veggies until incorporated and no longer pasty. Add the fish sauce, coconut milk, and stock. Whisk. Add the sliced raw chicken. (I like the chicken poached in the curry instead of cooked before. Tough chicken makes me want to become a vegetarian. Okay, no it doesn’t. But if you are a Nervous Nelly about this, cook your chicken while you stir fry your veggies at the beginning. It’s a free country.)
Simmer the curry for around 15 minutes. I usually make a little slurry of cornstarch whisked into cold water and add it to thicken up the curry a bit.
Into a bowl: rice, curry, chopped basil.
CHEF’S SERVING NOTES:
Go heavy on the liquid part of the curry when you dish it out, because this is the stuff dreams are made of. I am so serious.
Make extra, because your family can eat this for days while you knock off the fifth season of Parenthood.
*You can order the Panang curry paste, Kaffir lime powder, and fish sauce on Amazon. They will come straight to your doorstep. You’re welcome.
We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.1
— FROM ODE BY ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY,
QUOTED BY WILLY WONKA
CHAPTER 10
MAKERS AND DREAMERS
Here’s the thing: after you have had children in elementary school since 2003, you struggle to stay the course by the fifth kid. (Side note: For those of you mamas who haven’t yet proceeded past elementary with your kids, here is some truth. Getting triplets applied, scholarshipped, admitted, and graduated from Harvard, Yale, and Princeton is less work than K–5. Elementary school is the mother’s gauntlet; if you can survive it, you can survive anything. Middle school and high school are approximately eleventy billion times easier. For you. I don’t even know what classes my big kids are in. I barely know what grades they are in.)
Anyway, my point is, my last child is finishing elementary school, and I’m not as “attentive” as I once was. Consequently, I often find out what she is learning when I clean out her backpack once every three weeks. Maybe this is because I just skim the newsletters; maybe it’s because I rarely look in The Folder. These things are hard to discern.
Upon a belated cleanout recently, I discovered an extensive Dream Poster complete with printed photos (where did she get those?), captions, and a detailed account of her projected adult life. Unable to narrow her career options to one (this is quintessential Remy), she predicted her professional titles would include: Pastor, Writer, Singer, Dancer, and Artist. When I asked her about her wide array of dreams, she said, “I just want to make beautiful things.”
I couldn’t help it. I grinned. I deeply, intrinsically understand this. I, too, just want to make beautiful things. Don’t you? Don’t we want our lives to be lovely and creative and productive and meaningful? Don’t we want to offer exquisite, sacred things to the world? This draw toward creation is important, worthy of our time and attention and nurture. We have these magnificent minds and hands and ideas and visions, and they beg us to pay attention, give them permission, give them life.
I sincerely believe we are created by a Creator to be creative. This is part of His image we bear, this bringing forth of beauty, life, newness. This bears out in one thousand different ways: we write, sculpt, paint, speak, dance, craft, film, design, photograph, draw, bring order, beautify, garden, innovate, produce, cook, invent, fashion, sing, compose, imagine. It looks like art, it looks like music, it looks like community, it looks like splendor. That thing in you that wants to make something beautiful? It is holy.
So let’s start there: you are worthy and capable of creating. Full stop. Making art or literature or music isn’t reserved for the elite. We are all seeded with creative gifts and the corresponding urges to bring them forth. I know that craving so well; it feels like a balloon expanding in my chest, filled with words, filled with ideas, filled with longing. For me, there is no relief from the pressure except to write. The exchange between creativity and expression is incredibly fulfilling, even if not one other eye ever reads those words.
There is something courageous about acknowledging your ability and right to create, even in the midst of “a real job” or mothering or managing. Women have the innate capacity to nurture their own art without a paycheck, audience, outside permission, or charitable intentions. Do you understand what I mean by charity? You are not required to save the world, or anyone for that matter, with your art. It isn’t valuable only if it rescues or raises money or makes an enormous impact. It can be simply for the love of it. That is not frivolous or selfish in the slightest. If the only person it saves is you, that’s enough.
The expanding balloon in your chest requires a few things. Time, for instance. Creating takes minutes and hours. Living a creative life means making room to dream, craft, compose, produce. It often requires a firm rejection of martyrdom, and I mean that sincerely. The narrative we accept sometimes includes prioritizing all other humans, tasks, and line items to the exclusion of creativity. How dare I? we ask. There are more pressing needs in my life than this artistic expression.
I am here to tell you with certainty: if you wait until you have natural margin to create, you will go to the grave empty-handed. I wrote my first book with two kids in diapers and one in pull-ups. It was absurd, obscene, a fool’s errand. The expanding balloon demanded my partnership, so I did what all creatives do when their art is not their profession: I figured it out. I treated it like a calling. I was not remotely set up to be a career writer, but that is not why you start creating. It can’t be. I didn’t even start with an inkling of that notion.
If you want to produce something, if the balloon is filling, go ahead and create your thing. There, permission granted. This first step is a doozy. If you are waiting for someone to beg you to do the work or promise to give you a huge paycheck or rearrange your schedule to clear the time or somehow make this whole part easier, you might as well take your little dream for a long drive into the country and say goodbye. Creators create. It is one of their main characteristics, as a point of fact. Makers don’t wait for someone else to tell them they should or can. They already know they should and they can.
Next, sorry to deliver this news, but creating requires work. Kind of hard, brutal, sanity-threatening work sometimes. All the dreams and ideas in your head have to transition to your hands, and I’m afraid there is no other way. Art requires time, which, of course, you have none of. This is the creator’s dilemma. You will not miraculously produce by carrying on exactly like you are. It’s a whole thing, and you have to make room for it.
Maybe that time for you is in the earliest wee hours, which is when legions of creators make the magic happen. Maybe you engineer a child swap or childcare to generate time. Maybe you let something go and free up a slot. Know this: something will have to give. I mean that sincerely. Creating will
take time away from other things: sometimes kids, sometimes a spouse, sometimes a thing you used to do, sometimes sleep. Work does this. You don’t get to keep everything as is and also add creativity. I have to regularly tell my kids this truth:
ME: I’ll be in my office working.
KIDS: What do you even do out there? (If you think ten books will up your credibility at home, think again, grasshopper.)
ME: I’m writing. It is my work, and it is a real job.
KIDS: *side eye*
ME: IT IS.
Of course my kids wish I would devote every second to keeping them in the center of the universe, but creators create and creating is work and work takes time. And listen: art and innovation is good work. It means something. It is noble and important. It always has been.
I cried a river when my mom went back to college when we were in elementary, middle, and high school because she was less available to manage our whims, but it soon became a source of great pride for me, because I watched my mom do meaningful, hard work that mattered. She went for it, right in the middle of living life. I needed a mom who mothered, dreamed, worked, and achieved. We all did. Her creative environment was the classroom, and thank goodness she heeded the expanding balloon, because she touched and changed thousands of kids’ lives during the next twenty-five years.
Finally, one last key point to remember as we talk about creating is that everyone wants to be famous or important but fewer want to work on their craft. Take a class, take a course, go to a conference (this is both how I developed and initially got published), join an artist group, study creators you admire in your genre, invite constructive criticism, pay attention to what good art does: How does it use language? How does it convey emotions? What are the obvious elements? What are the intangibles? How does it move the story along? How does it develop? How does it sound? How does it look? How does it feel? Notice what inspires you and moves you and speaks to you.