Hilary

Isn’t this Ab-tastic

I recently read an article about Diastasis Recti, or the separation of the abdominal muscles due to weakened core, pregnancy or hormonal changes. I had heard of this condition before; basically, the sheet of abdominal muscles separates. It’s not life threatening (at least, nothing I read said that it was), but you are supposed to use caution when doing crunches and sit-ups in the off chance that your cause further separatation of the mucles.

From what I remember from anatompy and phys., of the multiple sets of abdnominal muscles you have, your rectus abdominis is the sheet of muscles that is where you get your six pack. The muslces are connected by a tendon that runs down the middle. The tendon has no elasticity in it, which means if you put on a lot of weight (as in the case with a pregnancy), the muscles separate, the tendon gets stretched. After you lose the weight, the muscles, which have elasticity, retract, but the tendon is still in the same stretched out shape it was in when you put the weight on, thereby causing the gap between the muscles. Here’s a pictorial representaiton.

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So, why am I talking about this, you ask? Well, I’m at the gym pretty much five days a week, just working on my fitness. I’m trying to maintain the level of health that I currently enjoy as well as keep my pants buttoned without too much discomfort. Truth be told, I enjoy working out. I like putting in work, sweating, feeling my muscles engage and all of that. Since my injury, I’m limited to the eliptical, the Nordic track, and sometimes the stair climber. I throw in some weights and I recently started swimming twice a week to mix things up. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back on the treadmill or actually pound pavement outside. I’m a little skittish about how well I can get my legs pumping in rhythm such that I won’t fall flat on my face. After I do my time on the machines, I do the weights, some squats and recently, some ab work.

I’m in my 30s. I’m pretty sure that unless I go gluten-free, sugar-free, white flour free, and taste free, the weight I’m carrying now is mine to keep. I can feel my abs (serrator anterior, specifically), underneath the layers, but because I’m not going to wear a corset day and night for three months straight á la Jessica Alba, I’m just going to have to content myself with knowing that they’re there. So, I figured I’d get them as firmed up as possible. I found a series of ab exceries during my recent combing of the Internet, which lead me to find this article about the diastasis recti.

After I had had Mo, I participated in a Mommy-and-Me type exercise program several days a week. We pushed the stollers around the mall, did resistance band type exercises and ended with ab work. The instructor often spoke of diastasis recti, encouraging those of us who had it to modify the ab work until our cores were stronger. She even taught us how to diagnosis whether or not we had it. Then, as with now, I’m no doctor, so I never really thought I was checking properly and just kept on working on my reverse crunches and bicycles. Then I read this article which talked about how to check if you’ve got it.

“To check yourself for diastasis, lie on your back with your knees bent. With your fingers pointing down toward your feet, hold two fingers flat on your bellybutton. Press your fingers down as you slowly lift your head (keep your shoulders on the ground). Do you feel a gully between the two muscles? Measure how many fingers wide it is (mine is about 2.5 fingers wide). If you can fit two or more fingers inside, you should not do crunches or sit ups. If this is you, I would recommend halting all traditional abdominal exercises and doing the workout on this page until your separation heals.” — taken from Dear Diastasis Recti, I’m so over you by insperedrd on June 19, 2012

The earliest chance I got, I’m on the floor with my knees bent, fingers in my belly button. I’m kind of thinking whatever’s about to happen is going to make me less than pleased, but I soldier on. I start to slowly lift my head and let me tell you, my abs parted like the Red Sea and my fingers were Noah. Sweet fancy Moses! I’m pretty sure I could have pulled Jimmy Hoffa, Ameila Earheart, and the Holy Grail out of the gap between the muscles.

*le sigh* Ultimately, the gap is what contributes to the nefarious “mommy pooch”, and apparently it can be overcome by strengthening the core. So, what’s a girl to do? No crunches, apparently. The website provided a list of alternative exercises to do to strengthen the muscles, but I honestly don’t believe a gap like mine or the ones described can just be “healed” (their word, not mine). I picture one of those holy roller type of churches where the pastor with the big Chicklet teeth smacks you on the forehead and says, “Be Healed!” right before you collapse into the waiting arms of church elder as other congregants dance in the aisles and sing songs of praise.

Yes, I’m a cynic.

I’m also kind of tired, which is why I started in one direction and now find myself over here.

You know how there are times in your life when you see something or hear sometihng or experience something that is so off=putting or weird that you keep re-visiting it? Or that you want to share it with someone else so that they’ll be as put off as you? Like, my brother used to pull off his sweaty gym socks after football practice, take a big whiff of the sock (I have no idea why) and say, “Oh my God, this smells so bad. C’mere and smell this!”

And yes, you know I smelled it because I was young and thought my brother spat nickles and farted rainbows.

Well, the gully in my gut is just like that. I’m disgusted and intrigued and totally want everyone to stick their fingers in my belly button so I can sit up and be like, “See, what I’m talking about? I get nauseous every time I do it!”

It is what it is, which is part of the fabric of who I am. Once I stop messing with it — because I check it like every five minutes to marvel at how my body has changed yet again — it’ll be no big deal. I’ll probably look into incorporating some of the non-crunch core moves into my routine at some point. Or maybe I’ll look for a corset afterall. . .

IN: ON: May 9, 2013 TAGS: motherhood, pinterest, working out BY: Hilary

Rock with You

My mom often talks about how, when I was a baby, she never got anything done becuase all we did was “play, play play” all day.

I never really understood that.

I’m a mother three times over and playing is so not my thing. I build a tower out of blocks, someone knocks it down. I build another tower out of blocks, someone knocks it down. I put the blocks in a box, someone empties the box on their head, then bangs the box on their sisters head. My Barbie’s have no conversational skills and their backstories are lame. Don’t even get me started on fairies, mermaids and unicorns. Coming up with detailed CVs for a realm of imaginary creatures must have been the creative writing class I missed that one time.

When the girls ask me to play, I pawn them off on one another. “Go play with your sister!” is a favorite refrain. Not as popular, but just as common is , “Why don’t you play with your sister so I can finish up [insert chore], and then we’ll all play together!” They haven’t picked up on the fact that the second part of that nugget is just misdirection on my part.

I’m at home with Vivi a good portion of the day. We sort of play together. I get down on the floor with her and push the blocks around or make the stuffed animals dance. She’s young enough still that I’m not required have a character spreadsheet and blueprints for the cardboard castle we have yet to build. I know the time will come when the girls will be beyond playing and into things that firmly tether them into the tween-age world. When that time comes, though, while playing may be part of it, I know one thing that I’ll readily miss even more.

Now that strep throat is in my rearview, I’m ready to get back to tasks at hand. This morning was a rough re-entry as Vivi decided to have a few middle of the night wake-ups. I was getting REM sleep in short 2 hour bursts, followed by the Hubs with an early morning wake-up of his own. The girls claimed they had just closed their eyes when I went to rouse them and burrowed back under the covers like moles when I flipped up on the lights.

We made it through the morning routine. Kisses were given, backpacks and lunches handed over, and the day got underway. Vivi and I hit the Y, run a few errands and head home. It’s barely 10am. We get home, she’s all smiles, as am I, since I know a nap is in her future. I try to take the snack trap away from her so I can dislodge her from her carseat, and let me tell you, Bruce Banner ain’t got nothing on her. She set up a yell so loud and so gravelly, I checked her pockets for a bullhorn and some Newports. Seriously, I couldn’t get us in the house fast enough for fear that someone in the neighborhood was going to come walking around the bend and tell me to “stop pinching that baby”. Now there’s a southern eupehemsism that I’ve heard repeatedly when clearly, pinching is the least of the baby’s problems.

In the house we go. I set her up in her high chair and hand back the snack trap. On the floor it goes. I hand her a sippy cup. She takes a few pulls and tosses it over her shoulder like it’s a red solo cup and she’s at the frats. So, I unbuckle her from the seat, get a Cheerio crusted baby slap to the face for my trouble. She leans in as I pick her up and gives me the Harvey Fierstein of baby cries in my ear. Again. Somewhere in this house there’s a pacifier and I must be on the good list today, because I easily locate it. I pop it into her mouth, gently pressing her head to my shoulder as we start up the stairs for her room.

Typically, I’d just ~~plop~~ place her into her crib, pull up the blanket and moonwalk out the door. Today, however, I needed a few minutes to regroup myself, so I settled us into the rock-a-bye-chair. We’ve had this green glider since Mo was born, but it’s always been dubbed the rock-a-bye chair because that’s what I called my rocking chair as a kid. I sat back and started us on a gentle glide. The repetitive motion was soothing for both of us because soon, Vivi had stopped whimpering around the pacifier and I stopped enumerating the things that I planned to do.

We rocked and we rocked. I stroked her hair and marveled at how quickly her legs had grown long enough to be folded under her to fit comfortably in my lap. She had one arm draped across my own, her fingers curling into the sleeve of my shirt, anchoring herself to me, even in sleep. We rocked and we rocked. I rubbed her back and noticed how my the span of my hand took up the distance between her waistband and the nape of her neck. Her breath came more evenly, as the space between the ragged post-crying breaths grew longer and longer. We rocked and we rocked. I inhaled her baby scent, so easy to identify, so hard to accurately describe. It’s a combination of skin, and warmth, and sun, and something that’s just inexplicably baby you want to stick your nose in the crook of their neck and build a home there. We rocked and we rocked. My eyelids started to close as the weight and pressure of her little body pressed down heavily on my own. I thought about how the girls will ask for a ride in the rock-a-bye chair to stave off beditme just a little bit longer. I’ll always agree, even if we have to jam in there like toes in a too-small shoe. I thought about how even now, I’ll ask my mom for a ride in the rock-a-bye chair. After she finishes laughing, she’ll let me perch myself over her lap for a few minutes before someone needs us. The last thought before I dozed off was, “Sometimes, you just need your mom.”

(Vivi at one month)

For a few minutes, I didn’t care that there were dishes in the sink, that there was unfolded laundry in the buckets, and lightbulbs that needed to be replaced in the hall. Right then, gliding back and forth, that what I needed to be doing. I thought about the times I rocked Mo and Co in that very chair. The only constants in each memory is the chair and my telling myself to remember that moment. I can close my eyes and exactly recall the position of the glider in the room, the way the light from outside filtered through the slats on the the blinds, the way her eyes raced underneath her eyelids like she was reading ahead in her dreams. I remember the Hubs gently chiding me to put her in the crib, put her in the crib, put her in the crib, and me wanting just a few more minutes, just a few more minutes, which I’m glad I took. With Co, I remember the creak of the floorboards underneath the glider as we rocked back and forth. There’s the pops, hisses, and clinks of the radiator in the room, giving additional harmony to my humming as I ran my hand over her head again, and again. I remember willing myself to remember, taking mental snapshots that I could come back to when I needed them.

I know a baby can’t sleep all day. Every nap time can’t be something out of a storybook, but I would gladly get nothing done, toss my best laid plans, forgo a shower and a second cup of coffee for the chance to glide in the rocker with my baby, listening to her breathe, and falling in love over and over again.

IN: ON: May 6, 2013 TAGS: motherhood, my girls, spring, the things you just do BY: Hilary

recipes

Return of Recipe Friday

As I had mentioned in my last post, I haven’t been feeling 100% for while. It all started when we left New York. We rounded up all our gear, got the girls squared away and checked out of the hotel. We hit the Holland Tunnel by 10am and were making good time. Everyone was a little bleary from the late nights and the non-stop activity, so it was relatively quiet and some time passed before anyone thought to mention breakfast. When we did stop, we were well down the New Jersey Turnpike and our options were limited. I was hoping we would just cruise right into Delaware where I know there were some Dunkin’ Donuts waiting to greet us in the neon pink and orange fanfare, but the wee ones were ravenous and the Hubs and I both were eager to get them topped off and back to watching DVDs. So we stopped at the Clara Barton or Molly Pitcher rest stop and tried to grab something relatively worthwhile.

The girls and I bee-lined for Starbucks, while the Hubs headed towards whichever Bob’s Big Boy/Roy Rogers/Arby’s type fast food place was slinging heat lamp warmed breakfast sandwiches and such. Surprisingly (at least I was surprised), there was a larger upright cooler with healthy option. I forget the name, something about health or nature or organic, but they offered fruit, granola, yogurt and assorted salads. It was no Prêt-A-Manger (few things are), but it was offering much better options that it’s fast food neighbor. We grabbed some fruit, but the lure of bacon grease proved no match for us and we waited to get the attention of the attendants to in order to get some newly made sandwiches. Too bad for us, the Cranky Twins — Grumpy and Grouchy — were working that day. In no unceratin terms, they told us they weren’t making any more breakfast sandwiches and that we could take what was already out there. Now, you know me and cheese don’t get along, so I wasn’t about to get a cheese covered breakfast sandwich that had been probably sitting out since last breakfast. I turned on my heel and went back to the ‘bucks. The Hubs toyed with it for a bit, trying to gauge just how hungry he was before he made his decision. In all truth, I don’t remember what he ended up eating; I was too hungry myself and shortly thereafter, my stomach started doing the ring-dang-do.

We got our provisions at the ‘bucks — a tall caramel mocha for me with a banana nut muffin on the side — and hit the road. My drink tasted a little strange and it wasn’t until I was able to remove the sleeve that I noticed they’d given me a light version of the drink. No wonder! The aftertaste was terrible; I felt like I could peel the paint off the fender, my breath was so rank. Whatever they use to make the drinks “light”, can’t be good for you. That was the beginning of my stomach mutiny.

Somehow we made it further on down the road with the Hubs and I trading off driving responsibilites. SHortly before we hit the last 20 mile leg to the house, I doubled over in discomfort. It was the coffee playing Marco Polo with my guts, the nausea was so bad, I thought I might be gazing over the prow of a ship instead of the hood of a car. I honestly don’t know what it was, it was just bad.

We made it home, got the girls inside, got the car unloaded and hit the ground running to get back on track for the remainder of the week. We still had to get Vivi from my mom, the Hubs had to attack some emails and phone calls that had piled up while we were en route, and I had to get the girls back into the regular routine. My stomach wasn’t having it.

For the next several days, it was just nausea and aching. It felt like there was this tight band wrapped around my upper ribcage that would squeeze and release, squeeze and release in random intervals. It was almost like hunger pains, but instead of low in my tummy, it was high in my sternum. And like a dummy, I soldiered through it, not wanting to ask for help (hello, I know), and not wanting to “waste using a babysitter” by going to the doctor. I tried Alka-Seltzer, Tums, and Pepto (which turned my tongue black, scaring me half to death). When the pain was enough to wake me out of a sound sleep, I decided I needed to do something before I inadvertently caused myself serious damage by being an idiot.

Suffice it to say, I’m much better now. The doc took care of me, and though her officially diagnosis was heartburn, we both know she didn’t know what the hell it was. She did say that I needed to eat more frequently. Instead of three meals and two snacks at set intervals, I need to eat the same amount of food, just basically grazing on it over the course of the day. That’s been a challenge, but I’m working on it. I’m just hungry all of the time, I’m afraid that if I eat a little something everytime I pass through the kitchen, it’s going to go all downhill. I guess in addition to exercising my bod, I’ve got exercise some self-control.

And with that, I’ll leave you with today’s recipe that has absolutely nothing to do with self-control, which is why I will be enjoying it on my cheat day!

Happy Friday, y’all!

Oreo and Peanut Butter Brownie Cakes

recipe found here

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Ingredients
1 box brownie mix, 8×8 inch size
24 Oreo Cookies
1/2 cup creamy peanut butter

Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees and line a 12 muffin cup baker with paper liners.

Prepare brownie mix according to package directions. For each cupcake cup spread 1 teaspoon of peanut butter over 2 Oreo cookies and stack them on top of each other. Place oreo stacks into the cupcake lined muffin cups. Spoon 2 tablespoons of brownie batter over each stacked oreos and let it run down the sides of the cookies. If you have left over brownie batter, bake separately in a separate baker or muffin tin. Bake cookies and brownies for 18 to 20 minutes, until brownies are cooked through. Let cool completely then serve.

Makes 12 servings

Recipe from picky-palate.com

foodsnots.com

IN: recipes ON: May 3, 2013 TAGS: baking, cooking, food, om nom nom, pinterest, recipes, spring BY: Hilary

May Day

May 1, 2013. It’s been two weeks, and I just haven’t been right since we returned from our trip to NYC. Not to go casting about for sympathy, but I’ve been battling some kind of stomach bug for the past two weeks, and then, because that wasn’t enough, added a nice dose of strep throat onto it just yesterday. My gut was bubbling and boiling like the cauldron belonging to Shakespeare’s witches, my head felt like it was being crushed by two cinder blocks, and I now what lightening tastes like because I swear that’s what in my throat every time I swallow. I’m pretty sure I had a fever because my pajamas were sticking to me with a coat of sweat normally reserved for a Zumba class. I’m going to pieces and I’m still a few months away from 35.

Somewhere in all of this, I’m still doing the normal day-to-day stuff that keeps the household running. Lunches are made, hair is done. Laundry is washed, and folded, and put away. And laundry is washed, and folded, and put away. And laundry- – -you get the idea. I had this grand plan to have my new website up and launched by this exact date. May 1st is pretty auspicious. It’s the first day of a new month, a month that is traditionally associated with spring and new beginnings. While my intentions were good, my timing has been off and I’ve been doing the unveiling in bits and pieces. My site is up, but the current homepage is just a place holder until the real splash page is complete. I’m really excited about it, and burning to tell you what it’s going to be, but I want to wait until it’s all done and you get to see it for yourself. It’ll be worth it, trust me. The new site has links to this blog, my tumblrs, my writing and my photography business.

Ahh, the photography business. Totally re-vamped — new name, new webpage, some new pictures. In addition to my main site, I’ve also built this one from scratch. Talk about small victories. When I finally got all the links active and directed to the right locations, I took a victory lap around my office. When the homepage slideshow actually behaved like a slideshow, I popped a few bottles. Learning how to build a web-page, inserting HTML, and interacting with Go.Daddy customer service is like navigating Dante’s Inferno. Blindfolded.

One of the other projects that I’m working on, because clearly I don’t have enough on my plate, is this tumblr I started called f/365. I’m in love with instagram and I started one of those “photo-a-day” challenges back in February. It was fun and I thought it would be a great way for me to stay sharp behind the lens, even if I was just using my phone. February turned into March, then April and I kept it up. So, I decided to catalog this little journey and started a tumblr dedicated to one photo a day for one year — f/365. f/ refers in photog speak refers to the f-stop, which basically is the size of the opening that lets light into your camera. Further adding to the confusion, the larger the f/ number, the smaller the confusion. Technically, a f/365 (if there was even such an f/stop) would be a pretty small opening, but I was trying to be clever and witty, not scientific.

I’m onto May and have used the challenges I’ve found on The Idea Room as a my creative springboard. By February of 2014, I’ll have finished. As to what I’ll do with the images, who knows. Maybe make a coffeetable book, maybe make a calendar, maybe use them as a screensaver on my computer. Maybe I’ll do nothing with it at all other than reflect on the different pictures I’ve taken. At the very least, it keeps my creativity firing.


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Another project I’m working on this month is Vivi’s first birthday. What the what, right? Where did the year go? I feel like she just got here, but sure enough, she’s about to be one on May 18th. She’s crawling, babbling, pulling up and doing all the other milestone things that I have been trying to remember to document. I have, however documented her growth on the 18th day of every month since she’s been born.

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I’ll still do a photo once a year like I’ve done with Mo and Co to capture how much she’s grown wearing a piece of clothing from my closet, but I this has been a nice thing to work on, too. As for the party, we’re keeping it low-key. Just the grands, the god-parents and us. My brother keeps asking me what a one year wants as a gift; I need to take him up on his generosity, but I am drawing a serious blank. We have books and toys and clothes and the basic things that a wee one needs during the first one to two years. What’s left? An iPad? How about MacBook Air? C’mon, kids these days need to be up on the latest technology, right? Maybe I’ll get on Pinterest and see what I can come up with.

But first, I’m going to dose up on antibiotics to knock this strep out before May Day becomes Mayday! Mayday!

IN: ON: May 1, 2013 TAGS: blogging, spring BY: Hilary

NYC 2013

Whew! Another whirlwind week-end in the books. I don’t even know where to begin. I guess at the beginning.

We left for New York City early on Friday morning. The weather in Richmond had been really fantastic as of late. Blue skies, rising temperatures — even though I had checked the weather forecast in New York, I was hoping that we’d bring some of that spring goodness with us. No such luck.

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Rain, rain, rain and fifty degrees. Ugh, my wardrobe plans were shot, but whatever. The Hubs, Mo, Co and I were in the city. First stop? The American Girl Doll Store.

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You know you’re getting close to the flagship store because all up and down teh surrounding blocks, all you see are little girls clutching little dolls to their chests. Big red bags emblazoned with “American Girl” hang off the shoulders of harried moms or the handles of well-used strollers. The three of us pushed our way through the revolving doors into all things American Girl. I have to admit, I think Co would have been content to just go around and around in the door like this:

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But, we did get her out of the door and into the Pepto Pink carpeted grand foyer that was the store. The girls didn’t know what to do first. I think their brains had a moment of misfiring as they processed everything. Literally stopped in their tracks, I could see them re-booting and then firing on all cylinders. So, we walked around the first floor, looking at the dolls that you could design to look like you before Co was ready to get down to business. Up to the second floor, where the historical dolls were kept. To say free-for-all would be a gross exaggeration, but it was pretty close. Mo had her doll safely tucked under her arm and proceeded to fill a bag full of outfits and accessories. Co, who had already said she was going to get Addy, flitted from display to display, making sure she was making the right choice. It has actually taken me longer to write this than it did to have them in the store and then ready to go.

Once Addy became a member of the family and all of her accessories, as well as the ones for Mo’s doll, had been purchased, we set out into the city. The Hubs had been called away for work, so it was me and the girls, doing it ourselves. Thankfully the rain had stopped, and so I marched them down the sidewalk. We slid into a pizza place for some lunch and then walked a few blocks to the subway station to grab the train to Dylan’s Candy Bar.

My little country mice were in love with the subway. Sure, they’ve ridden the DC metro before, but the NYC subway is in a class by itself. As we were swallowed up by the sea of people and ingested into one of the trains, Co kept remarking, “It’s so clean!’ Yes honey, and why don’t you hand my wallet to that nice man over there?

Anyway, onto Dylan’s Candy Bar, which is basically Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory owned and operated by Dylan Lauren, daughter of fashion designer Ralph Lauren. We met up with my girlfriend @jnetty_ and then some of the family that had come to town for the performance, which was why we were in NYC in the first place, met us as well. I lost track of how much time we spent in the store, but suffice it to say, the girls were sugared up for quite a long time.

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Miraculously, most of the candy survived the trip back to VA. I’m pretty sure the girls consumed their weight in sugar several times over the course the week-end. Friday evening (yes, this is all in the first day), the Hubs took the girls to see some family members for dinner, while I met up with a good friend whom I hadn’t seen in a few years. We all reconvened somewhere around 9, and then @jnetty_ and I hit up the Shake Shack (yummy!) before calling it a night.

Saturday morning was another gray day, but thankfully, no more rain. We had been invited to have breakfast at the Central Park Boathouse by another family friend.

Breakfast was delicious and we took a stroll around the park, stopping to see the Alice in Wonderland statue and promising the girls a return visit to sail some boats when the weather got better. By this point, we needed to boogie back to get the ladies ready as they were going to the matinee of Motown the Musical, where their uncle, Brandon Victor Dixon, was playing Berry Gordy. I may just let Mo do a guest post on here to give you her exact words on the whole experience. From what I understand, though, she and her sister practically upstaged their uncle with their manners and overall cuteness. Typical.

That evening, we all went out to dinner with one of the Hubs fraternity brothers who is a true New Yorker. He always knows the best eateries, coolest out of the way places, and where to go for unique snackybites. Sugar and Plumm was no exception.

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I know what you’re thinking: more candy? I couldn’t believe it either. The girls soldiered on, getting ice cream they could barely finish. I have to respect that committment to sweets. As for me, I was happy to break off a piece of the Hubs cookie and call it my own. The sugar rush rose quickly and the crash that followed was epic. We were all out when the heads hit the pillows.

Sunday morning, the change in the temps and the late nights caught up with me. I felt like I was swallowing lightening. My throat was killing me and all I could think was “NO! Not today!” Sunday was the premier of the show, the whole reason why we had come. I couldn’t be sick. So instead of accompanying the Hubs et. al on their morning run of activities, I crawled back into the bed with some Aleve and Dayquil, and slept myself well. By the afternoon, I felt better, well enough to go grab a bite at the Todd English Food Hall at the Plaza (my absolute favorite), and then go on a hansom carriage ride with the girls through Central Park.

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The girls had spent the morning at the park sailing boats with the Hubs, and then had a huge family reunion style brunch with the in-laws and extended family. I’m really bummed that I missed that, but not even the Hubs knew the brunch had been planned. Still, I needed the rest because it was getting close to curtain. Yes, I will talk about the show and all the celeb spotting I did, but I do have to show you what I wore, dahling! Oh, and the army candy that accompanied me, too! Debonair, isn’t he?

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Anyway, we get to the theater and on the red carpet, I see Tracee Ellis Ross, Jesse Jackson and Evander Holyfield. Once inside, I see S. Epatha Merkerson, Gail King, Gladys Knight, Kathie Lee and Hoda, Debbie Allen, Spike Lee, and Clive Davis. Seriously, it was amazing. I mean, you see these people on TV and in movies and truly you don’t know them, but you want to run up to them and be like, “Hey! I know you!” My mother-in-law finagled the tickets so that we ended up in the front row. We certainly didn’t miss anything, let me tell you.

A portion of the show involves some audience participation, and when that time came, the actress playing Diana Ross (whom we’d never met) came to our side of the stage. She called to a man three rows behind us, but he flat out refused. One of the ensemble perfomrers helping her pointed to a man behind the man with the glasses, but she said, “Oh no, he’s been undressing me with his eyes all night. How about this piece of chocolate, right here?” And sure enough, she pulled the Hubs up on stage with her to sing a few bars of “Reach Out and Touch”. I mean, seriously. BVD and the Hubs, brothers, with practically the whole family in attendance, both performing on stage? Classic.

The show lasted three hours, but it flew by given the material and the music. At the end, the ensemble took their bows, then the principals took their bows. As I said, BVD was playing Berry Gordy, who wrote the book and produced the show. They brought Mr. Gordy up on stage and as the emcee said, “Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Berry Gordy,” there was a kind of kerfluffle from the wings. This woman with all this glorious black hair, dress in black and with a yellow feather boa, swooped on in.

“Ladies and gentleman, Diana Ross is in the building!”

And the crowd went nuts.

As if that wasn’t enough, other members of the Motown family started getting up on stage. Smokey Robinson, cool as a fan, slid on up, followed by Suzanne DePasse, and Martha Reeves. It took five people, but they got Stevie Wonder up there, too. Incredible. The curtain fell to them singing “Dancing in the Streets”.

People started filing out of the theatre at that point, but the Hubs and I stuck around with his cousin Sitota, trying to figure out what to do next. At some point, Sitota and I noticed how empty the theatre was, the Hubs off talking to someone, and that, “Hey, isn’t that Smokey Robinson over there?” Grabbing her hand, I pulled her after me, through some seats, up the aisles, where I just clapped my hand on his shoulder and said, “Hi Mr. Robinson, I’m a huge fan!” That earned me a hug and a photo op!

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The truth is, it’s my mom who’s the huge fan. I really wanted to get him to say “Hi” to her on my phone, but I hoped she’d be okay with the photo. She told me not to wash the hand that touched his jacket. Straight comedy.

The rest of the evening was a blur. Sadly, I didn’t get to meet Diana Ross, though I did pass her on our way into the afterparty. That hair is a force unto itself. We stayed at the party, congratulated BVD again and again, along with other cast members that we knew or met for the first time. We bid our goodnights before turning into pumpkins and thoroughly crashed to catch a enough ZZZZs before we hit the road back to VA.

And so here we are. The cold caught up with me for real, now that I’m back on my turf. My throat is tender, but my stomach is all kinds of knotted up. I even skipped the gym today, and cancelled a lunch appointment. I feel that bad. The only reason I’m writing now is because my stomach hurts to much for me to sleep!

Ugh, it was worth it!

IN: ON: April 16, 2013 TAGS: feel good, sharing, spring, travel, vacation, week-end BY: Hilary

Gram El

Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

–Mary Elizabeth Frye

It’s still not easy.

I want to pick up the phone and hear your voice.

I want to tell you how the girls love it when, after their bath, I stand them, wrapped in a robe, atop the toilet seat and dry them off, just as you did for me at that age.

I want to send you their drawings, and have you hear their adventures.

I want you to call them “doll”, and promise to send them fudge.

I want to see their faces light up when they get a “Just Because Card” in the mail from you and see two or three dollars flutter to the ground when they open it.

I want to hear you tell Mom and Dad to “be loving.”

I want to say, “Broken-down,” when you ask me how my broken-down brother is.

I want to sit on your couch, nursing the smallest can of ginger-ale I’ve never seen anywhere else but in your house, and have you tell me to look away when the daytime soap stars start doing the “hanky-panky”.

I want to make more memories with you.

So, I choose to share my memories of you with others. And I celebrate your sunrise, instead of your sunset. I love you so.

Happy Birthday, Gram.

IN: ON: April 11, 2013 TAGS: reminiscing, sharing, spring BY: Hilary

Help. Thanks. Wow.

I wake up everyday with the best of intentions. In my heart, I know that I am impatient. I know that I need to be better about having more patience with the girls, espceially because they’re young. I keep going back to that old adage about how the days and long, but the years are fast. Soon, very soon, the things that make me want to gouge out my eyes with a spoon will be the very things that I want to come back to when I’m in my twilight years and a certified (and possibly certifiable) empty nester. Of course, I hope to be living in the south of France by then, so I might be all “C’est la vie!”

I kid.

I’ve been thinking about this, because it all goes from sugar to shit so quickly. I suppose it’s all subjective; I mean, my shit and your shit could be two totally different things. My shit might be your sugar or your shit might be my sugar. Or the whole thing could be one sugar covered shit or a shit covered sugar shake.

Sorry. . .I lost focus for a minute. Got caught up in the sugary shitty sugar shit.

I like the word shit.

Sorry. . I did it again.

In order to gain some perspective and to take a step back when things start bubbling to a boil, I’ve started praying. Yes, it’s come to that. Used to be that I would pray when faced with some kind of Herculean type challenge. And I would wait until the end end of the day, right before I would go to bed to phone in my request.


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I guess I got it ingrained in me that the only time you could pray was on your knees at the bedside.
Somehow, over the course of this parenting journey, I’ve come to realize, any time is a good time for prayer.

I picked up Ann Lamott’s book “Help, Thanks, Wow” a few weeks ago. I’ll admit, I didn’t read the whole thing; life got in the way, but the chapter and a half that I did read? Well, now, I can tell you about that. Lamott says that she prays many times a day, and my first thought was “How?” I was still hung up on the whole “Now I lay me down to sleep,” type of prayer schedule. As I continued to read, however, my take away was that any time is the right time for prayer. And it doesn’t have to be all elaborate and right out of the BCP (Book of Common Prayer), though sometimes, I find myself saying the prayer of Confession as easily as my own name. No flowery language needed. No haths, thous, wilsts, and so forth. Toss out a help me make it through this day. Help me my friends with the battles they’re fighting and keep their feet on the path. Help me to keep what is most important in the forefront. Just cough up a thanks for another day. Thanks for that last breath. And Wow. Just wow at this world in which we live. Wow at my family, they’re amazing and they’re mine. Wow, another day of life and health.

That’s it. Help. Thanks. Wow.

So, when things are going from sweet to sour, I’m trying to stop and offer up a seven second prayer of Help, Thanks and Wow. Help me be a better friend, a better wife and a better mother. Thanks for my kids, because even though I need Your help in keeping a cool head, I know that they’re a blessing. Wow, at how amazing my kids are, because not only are they negotiating a later bedtime, they have some pretty compelling arguments.

And when I’m too proud to ask for help (and we all know that pride comes before the fall), when the last thing I want to do is give thanks, and when the only time I saw “Wow” is when it preceded, “I can’t believe this shit,” I’m turning to this prayer by Thomas Merton (original post here).

MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

I can admit, reading this poem left me in tears. When I try to read it aloud, I get choked up. I’ve not once had an experience like that before. I carry a copy of this prayer around with me in a notebook. I read a few lines at a stoplight. I am far from having it memorized, but it gives me comfort when I don’t even realize I need it. I was asking for help without knowing it.

I got it in this prayer.

Wow.

Thanks.

IN: ON: April 4, 2013 TAGS: honesty, life, sharing BY: Hilary

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