You ever notice how when you decide to make a change in your life, wherever you look, you see that very thing all around you? Maybe it serves as a reminder to stay the course and follow through with your plan to make a change for the better. Maybe it serves as temptation to which you succumb.

Either way, it’s been my experience that when I decide to make a change, I’m inundated with information or situations about that very thing.

A month ago, I made the decision to kick up my clean eating regime by doing a 21 Day Fix. Then I was promptly invited out to several lunches, a cocktail reception and two baby showers. Food! Food! Food!

I am moving ahead with my third (and hopefully, final) surgery, on my leg this coming Monday. I know that I’ll have a period of recuperation, so I decided that I’d rather do some preventative maintenance when it comes to staying active than just let it all go out the window. I had been training for The Alum Run 5k and sticking with my Zumba and weight lifting, but I wasn’t seeing the results that I wanted. My friend who coached me through my clean eating challenges posted a few photos of people she had coached on this 21 Day Fix. These were regular looking people. No one did an Ugly Betty to Gisele type of transformation. There were some serious success stories of course, but the take away for me was that the program was do-able. And I kept thinking, “If I don’t do it, three weeks from now, I’ll be thinking, I coulda been finished.”

There was a lot of prep work involved:

proper prior planning

I did it, and when people say three weeks makes a habit, it’s true. I’m done with my three weeks, but I’m still portioning out and using my containers. Sure, I went a little rogue on the nut allotment here and there, but it was nuts, not Cheez-Curls or Oreos. Truthfully, I’ve changed the way I shop, much to the chagrin of the children. M came home from school and started rooting in the pantry for a snack.

“Where are the Doritos?” she said, frantically pushing aside bags of raw cashews, almonds, and pecans.

“Probably at the store where I left them,” I replied with a shrug.

Ever been given side-eye by a nine year old? It looks a lot like this:

I am NOT amused.

I committed to this 21 Day Fix in part because I was thumbing though my post-op protocols. Sure, there was the usual rest, elevate, ice and so forth. I was looking for the green light about exercise. Day 1, blah, blah blah. Day 10, blah, blah, blah. Then it jumped to week 3 — walking without crutches while still wearing the boot is permitted. Um. . .I need a little more than that. I read on. Week 6 — Walking without the boot, using an elliptical without the boot is permitted. Um. . .that’s not going to work for me. 3 months — light jogging is permitted. Yeah, that definitely isn’t going to work for me. What in the world? You all know that I’m pretty active. I’m going from high intensity two-a-days to light jogging? After three months?

all the feels

Anyway, after the 21 days, while I didn’t have the marble hard abs to which I aspired, I was a few pounds and a few inches lighter. Not too bad. I definitely didn’t want to undo my hard work, but Easter was coming up and I wanted to make something special.

Back in February, The Hubs and I finagled a dinner down in Williamsburg. His choice of appetizer prompted me to go digging for this recipe when we got home. I’m all for a break from tacos, and spaghetti, chicken piccatta, and hot dogs. The usual list of staples that I end up plating for the family needed a shake-up. In my folder of ripped out recipes, I searched for one that I’ve been sitting on from 2012 and have never made: a recipe for cassoulet.

Cassoluet, is a hearty stew-like casserole mainly comprised of slow simmered beans, meat, spices and sausages. In a number of French themed fiction I’ve read, cassoulet is often mentioned. Curious to know more about the origins of the dish, a quick search informed me that it comes from southern France’s Languedoc region.

I’ve had cassoulet twice. Actually, on both occasions, it wasn’t even my plate. Both times I’ve tried it, the dish was delicious. In between those samplings, I found a recipe in Richmond Magazine, tore it out, but never used it. Time rolled by, as it is prone to do. In those crests and troughs, I have seen cassoluet on menus, but I didn’t order it. While I’m happy to sample someone else’s cassoluet, whenever I have a chance to eat a French restaurant, I’m going for my tried and true when it comes to appetizers: escargot. Mmmmm, garlic, butter, snails.

Valentine’s Day found the Hubs and I having dinner at the Blue Talon. I ordered the escargot, (obvi), while The Hubs ordered the cassoulet. It came in it’s earthenware crock. It was warm, inviting, and as he dipped his spoon ribbons of steam, spice, and comfort swirled around us and our little table. Generously, the Hubs offered me a taste. It would have been poor form to refuse. While my escargot was really good, that cassoulet was even better. Clearly, because I pulled out that ripped out recipe and started reading the ingredient list and preparation instructions. The list of ingredients extensive causing my plan to whip up a cassoulet that very week-end started to dissipate like the ribbons of steam from the crock itself. See, not only did I want to make this dish, I want to make it really, really well.

I had this vision of using my stoneware, sipping a full bodied red as I chopped and stirred. I wanted to make sure I got only the best ingredients, which was going to require some careful planning (and probably a tour of RVA) as I made my way from shop to shop to get things like duck confit, a nice pork butt or shoulder, ham hocks and the like.

Aside from the fact that I don’t like cheese — says the woman who eats snails — I really think I must have been French in a previous life. I love wine and chocolate and escargot and a number of French inspired dishes. Cassoulet, especially today when I look at the temperature and see that it is a rainy 51 degrees, is something I wouldn’t mind dipping my spoon into for lunch or for dinner. It’s s evocative of thick woolen sweaters and exposed beams and fireplaces and wrapping your hands around a steaming cup of tea. Sipping your wine and reading magazines and having your feet tucked up under you with a cozy blanket spread in your lap. Basically living out some of my favorite tumblr images and watching the cold world outside your window. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?

A few weeks earlier, while having lunch with a friend, the conversation turned to food and food prep. She told me about the hamburgers she makes using prime cuts of meat from a butcher. She went on to talk about some chocolate chip cookies she’s added to her repertoire, using only premium flour and butter. No ordinary chocolate chips will do, either. A visit to the chocolatier for chocolate shaved off of the block was to be added to her mix. I’m not even close to doing her description justice, but never have flour, sugar, butter and chocolate sounded so appetizing in their separate states as they did right then.

All of the things my friend had done in order to ensure that the cookies she was going to make were going to be high quality were necessary. When I reviewed the ingredient list for the cassoluet, I knew that a trip to my local supermarket wasn’t going to suffice. My cassoulet had to follow similar steps. So, the Monday before Easter, V and I went to Belmont Butchery.

choice ingredients

The recipe stated that the meal could be achieved in about 3-4 hours, not including prep time. I flipped open my copy of Joy of Cooking; their recipe for cassoulet said it was a “multi-day” recipe, especially if you planned to make one of the primary ingredients, the confit, yourself. Now, while I am ambitious, I do know my limitations. I saved the duck confit for the experts, letting Belmont Butchery hook me up with that. I got hamhocks, pancetta, pork butt, and Italian sausage. Williams Sonoma helped out with the duck fat. I went to the Fresh Market in search of dried beans (none to be had), fresh spices and veggies. I chopped and diced all week so that come Sunday morning, I could just add ingredients as needed. I saved the crusty bread for a Saturday purchase and swapped out the salad for fresh green beans. All the components to make this a complete meal, purchased, prepped and ready to go by Saturday afternoon.

To say putting this dish together was a labor of love would be an understatement. In this multi-step recipe, several portions required the ingredients to simmer for 90 minutes before adding additional foodstuffs. We had an Easter egg hunt to go to at 1:30. I wanted dinner to be ready by the time we got home. Guess who was rising and shining at 5am ? Had to get my workout in before I started cooking at 6. I started to worry that I had purchased the meat too early in the week because as things started to cook, the house started to smell. . .funky. Now, I was simmering hamhocks. . .and pancetta. . .and pork butt. . .I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that it smelled a little porky. I panicked, though, thinking that dish was going to come out terribly. So, I did what any other domestic goddess would do.

I made a back-up meatloaf.

By 9am, everything that needed 90 minutes to simmer had simmered. It was time to combine the multiple pots on the stove into a Dutch oven and jam it into the oven for three hours. While the cassoulet did it’s thing, I twisted M’s hair, folded laundry, caught up on Outlander (don’t judge me), got everyone dressed for the Easter Egg hunt and got myself cleaned up as well. Then I took a nap.

Of course we all know that no nap was had by me that day. We had our fun with our friends and came home to a wonderful meal prepared by moi.

#omnomnom

le dîner est servi

Well, the Hubs and I found it wonderful. The girls, not so much. Did I know that this would happen?

Yup.

Did I ignore my better judgement and make this dish anyway?

Yup.

The Hubs and I had two servings. Each of the girls had a spoonful of which, between the three of them, maybe two bites were taken. C ate the sausage, M at the bread and V ate the butter.

*le sigh* You try to cultivate refined palates, but whatever. . .

We have at least three Tupperware dishes of cassoulet left over, so if you’re wanting to try it, call me. I’ll hook you up.

Truthfully, I would make this dish again. I’d half the recipe for starters, but I’d make it again. It was challenging, time consuming, but ultimately delicious. I felt accomplished for having successfully executed such a recipe. I felt satisfied that even though I ate two servings, I didn’t completely go off the rails from my 21 Days of portion control. And while the meatloaf didn’t wasn’t necessary in the end, I froze that bad boy for the family to have when I’m recovering next week. Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?

Please send me some love and good wishes for Monday. I’ll check in with you guys when I’m able. Happy Friday, y’all!

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Cassoulet

Originally printed in Richmond Magazine, “Hearty Links” by Tina Eshelman, November 2012. Recipe provided by Diane Fraser of Cucina in Church Hill (314 N. 25th St., 243-8753) provided this recipe.

Sausage is an essential component of cassoulet, a slow-simmered mix of beans, herbs and meats. This classic dish from southern France’s Languedoc region is perfect for gatherings of family and friends on a chilly afternoon “with a fire in the background, and a glass of wine in hand,” says Diane Fraser, owner of Cucina Fine Foods Market and Catering.

(Serves 6 to 8.)

Ingredients

1 pound of dry great Northern beans

10 tablespoons of duck fat or olive oil

16 cloves of garlic, smashed

2 onions, chopped

2 carrots, chopped

2 large ham hocks

1 pound of pork shoulder, cut into 1-inch cubes

1⁄2 pound of pancetta, cubed

2 teaspoons of ground sage

4 sprigs of oregano (or 2 teaspooons ground)

4 sprigs of thyme (or 2 teaspooons ground)

3 bay leaves

1 cup of whole peeled canned tomatoes

1 cup of white wine

2 cups of chicken broth

4 confit duck legs (optional)

1 pound of pork sausages

2 cups of bread crumbs

Soak beans in a 4-quart bowl in 7 1⁄2 cups of water overnight. Heat 2 tablespoons of duck fat or oil in a 6-quart pot over medium-high heat. Add half the garlic, onions and carrots and cook until lightly browned, about 10 minutes. Add the ham hocks, along with beans and their water, and boil. Reduce the heat and simmer until the beans are tender, about 1 1⁄2 hours. Transfer ham hocks to a plate and cool. Pull off the meat and discard skin, bone and gristle. Chop the meat and add it to the beans. Set aside.

Heat 2 tablespoons of duck fat or oil in a 5-quart Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add the pork and brown for 8 minutes. Add the pancetta; cook for 5 minutes. Add the remaining garlic, onions and carrots; cook until lightly browned. Tie together oregano, thyme and bay leaves with twine; add to the pan with tomatoes and cook until the liquid thickens, 8 to 10 minutes. Add the wine and simmer about 20 minutes. Add broth and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium low and cook, uncovered, about 1 hour. Discard the herbs and set the Dutch oven aside.

Meanwhile, sear the duck legs in 2 tablespoons of duck fat or oil in a 12-inch skillet over medium-high heat for 8 minutes; transfer to a plate. Brown the sausages in the fat for about 8 minutes. Cut the sausages into 1⁄2-inch slices. Pull the duck meat off the bones and discard fat and bones. Stir the duck and sausages into the pork stew.

Heat the oven to 300 degrees. Mix the beans and pork stew in a 4-quart earthenware casserole. Cover with bread crumbs and drizzle with remaining duck fat or oil. Bake, uncovered, for 3 hours. Then raise the oven temperature to 500 degrees and cook the cassoulet until the crust is golden, about 5 minutes.

Cooking shortcuts

Fraser notes that boneless duck meat and confit are available at many area grocers, and chopped ham may be substituted for the ham hocks. Canned beans and ground herbs can also be substituted.

IN: recipes ON: April 10, 2015 TAGS: baking, cooking, food, om nom nom, recipes, spring BY: Hilary

hair

It keeps going, and going. . .

This has been my life lately:

via

I know that change is going to come, specifically in two weeks, but I’m just trying to get my feet under me in the meantime. I will definitely catch you up on all of my ~~mis~~adventures, just be patient with me with I as I sort it all out into coherent vignettes. I’ve got a great recipe post (that I’ve been working on since March 16 *smh*), I’ve got to tell you about my 21 day fitness fix, the Alum Run, the “Maggie Sinclair, Will You Please Fix Your Hair?!” reading and book signing, my preparation for surgery on the 13th, and now it’s April! Where is the time going? There’s so much we have to catch up on.

Check back with me and I’ll fill you in!

IN: hair ON: April 1, 2015 TAGS: cooking, life, recipes, spring, thoughts, working out BY: Hilary

That Mom *

The girls went back to school today after having been home for spring break this past week.This was me.

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This was them:

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Don’t get me wrong. I love my kids. I enjoy spending time with them — however, we all need a break some times. Between the snow days, the delayed openings, teacher in service days, sick days and spring break, I really believe they’ve been to school about six days since January.

I have been saturated in all things kiddos and need to be wrung out. Truthfully, it’s my own fault. I aspire to parental greatness. I want to be “that mom”.

I don’t want to be friends with my kids. I am big boss applesauce in the house. What I want is for them to grow up having had a great childhood. I want them to well-rounded, at least bi-lingual, self-confident and equally comfortable spending time by themselves as they are amongst their friends, no matter how many they have in number.

So, I do this by scheduling playdates, signing them up for sport and foreign language classes, and taking them on trips to broaden their cultural minds.

And then I wonder why I’m tired.

Take spring break for instance. As spring break approached, M and C were lamenting about how they never go anywhere, and that their friends got to go everywhere. While I know for a fact neither are true, I can understand feeling how you’re the only one missing out on something. I didn’t go anywhere for spring break until I was in the 10th grade, and even then it was school trip. Sure, it was to Paris, but that’s beside the point. I didn’t go away again until I was a junior in college and even now, I don’t know exactly how I finagled that.

I’m convinced that M and C are trying to have all of their life experiences before they turn 10 and 8, respectively. That’s a lot of living to do between now and the end of September.

But, because I want to be “that mom”, I do my best to make things fun for them. Spring break kicked off on Friday at noon, or rather, it should have but, wouldn’t you know it? Snow day! I got them up and out of bed, dressed and fed and off to the gym. M is old enough to join me in the fitness center, so she and I worked out with C and V did arts and crafts in child watch. M and I put in about an hour’s worth of work in prepartion for The Alum Run in a few weeks, then we scooted home. I got everyone washed and dressed for their appointment at the portrait studio. Yes, I said portrait studio. I had planned to take their photos in their Christmas dresses myself, but 2015 has cut me off at the knees: I just can’t get my feet under me. My backdrop was kaput, the new one wasn’t that great, only one or two of the girls had their hair done at any given time — I just couldn’t get it together. With the advance of spring break, though, I moved wash day up a bit and everyone was freshly coiffed. We hit the portrait studio, snapped the pics and I deftly navigated the up-selling to get 4 portraits that I should have just sucked up and done myself. Lesson learned.

We ran to Target for a quick going away gift purchase for a friend before we dropped C off for a sleepover. On the way home, we scooped up a friend of M’s who’d be sleeping over at our house. Home again for a bit before a visit from the aforementioned friend who was going away. Sad to see our friend leaving, but very glad to have had time to say good-bye. Shortly after exchanging hugs and well wishes, I order a pizza for the girls and plunk V in the bath. Pizza and a movie for the big girls, pizza and Peppa Pig for the little girl. V has completely beaten down any nap that would have been had and is delirious from lack of sleep. By 7, I was able to wrangle her into the bed with fewer complaints than I anticipated. M and her friend finished their pizza, played some games and were ready for dessert and another movie. Hey, it’s a sleepover, so that what we did. I swear, these kids have wooden legs. Pizza, cupcakes, popcorn, and cup after cup of apple juice consumed Pac-Man style.

By 10pm, I was a little delirious myself, but I got everyone bedded and settled. I slid under my covers, closed my eyes and then felt V’s little hand patting myself, telling me it was morning time.

Because, of course it is. Up and dressed (thank goodness for yoga pants), I got the girls breakfast. I was planning on cereal or pancakes, but evidently MTO scrambled eggs were on the menu. And between the three of them — two 10 year olds and a two year old, they put away half a dozen eggs, with V eating most of them. I rounded everyone up, got them in the car to drop off the friend and scoop up C. The minute her butt hits the seat she asks, “What are we going to do now?!”

Really?

Are you exhausted? I am. And that was just Friday to Saturday.

I’ll spare you the details of the rest of the week. Suffice it to say, we took a trip to Hampton Roads to visit my parents. We did some activities like paint your own mermaid at the Mermaid Factory because, Norfolk. And mermaids. And our mermaid project (my goodness, we started that in 2009!). We went to the Chrysler Museum and saw the exhibit on the history of video games. From Atari through the current iterations — it was pretty incredible. The girls got to play Donkey Kong, Pac-Man, and Super Mario Brothers before going on a museum wide scavenger hunt. Naps were thrown to the wind! My parents are quintessential grandparents, letting the girls stay up late, eat cake for breakfast (seriously, cake, dipped in French Toast batter. For breakfast. When I was a kid, I couldn’t even get a box of Frosted Flakes!), Chinese food for lunch and dinner! And the screen time! Oh, the screen time! My dad is a big Family Feud fan and it wasn’t surprising to see him molded into the couch with a grandchild under each arm, one on the floor between his knees and gingerales all around while they shouted out answers at this giant television.

I don’t begrudge my kids these moments. These are blocks upon which memorable childhoods are built. Before I was married, before I had kids, I had an idea of what kind of place my house would be, what kind of parent I would be. It was an idea, a framework upon which to build. There were pieces of my own childhood as part of the construction, there were pieces from “The Cosby Show” and “Family Ties”, and maybe a little “Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle” thrown in. And then, there was the quote, which I cannot find and leads me to wonder if I just made it all up. The quote in question, which I’m pretty sure came from “The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing” encapsulated for me the type of household that I wanted to have I was a mom.

What I remember reading (and I’m pretty sure it came from TGGTHF), was a description of a house the protagonist visited when she sought escape from her own less than Brady Brunch family. What I remember was the description of the pantry and the fridge (food-a-holic, much?), specifically, slices of luncheon meat wrapped in pristine white butcher paper and how the whole place was never off limits for a kid who wanted a snack. In my minds eye, I see creamy maple cabinets and drawers, a double door stainless steel fridge that when opened glowed with gastronomic possibilities. There was a coffee pot and a cup of coffee that was perpetually hot. Kids would come in and out, grabbing snacks and drinks with a “Thanks, Mrs. ___ “, before heading off to other areas of the house where they would do whatver it was kids of their particular age did. And I would preside over hearth and home, never having to wonder that they were up to no good. That! That was the type of kitchen, the type of homey-home that I wanted to cultivate for my 2.5 kids when the time came. Such a simple description elicited such a deep in the bone response in me, I’m still surprised as how strongly I feel it.

I’ve been thinking about motherhood quite a bit for the past few days. The days are long, but the years are short. How often have I heard that quote? Too many times to count. I started reading this book called, “All Joy, No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenthood,” by Joy Senior. I started reading it; I put it down a few pages in because I was reading about my own struggle as a mother and feeling all the feels associated with it.

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I remember flipping on Jimmy Fallon a while back when he had Jerry Seinfeld on as a guest. I was thisclose to writing Seinfeld a fan letter after he confessed to not “being a great believer in our style of parenting.” Those words alone had me pitched forward in my seat to see what he had to say. He followed up by saying, “Anybody who has kids now, I think we’re just too into it.” Hello! Could you imagine what kind of uproar there would have been had a woman said that?! Jerry was preaching to the choir and drove it all home with his description of the bedtime routine, Chez Seinfeld.

“The bedtime routine for my kids is like this Royal Coronation Jubilee Centennial of rinsing and plaque and dental appliances and the stuffed animal semi-circle of emotional support. And I’ve gotta read eight different moron books. You know what my bedtime story was when I was a kid? Darkness!”

Yes, Jerry! Yes! I am with you on this 100%. I was then and I am now. And yet, I am disappointed, too, because my agreement with him on how things were and how things are went at odds with how I had imagined things to be prior to putting a toe into the parenting pool. Heck, they’re at odds with my current parenting practices! In my dream, I was just someone’s mom. My make-believe kids didn’t even have names or distinct features. I don’t even know how many I had! Now, I’ve got three little girls that I am consciously and unconsciously shaping into respectable human beings. I’ve got parameters within which to work, and my actions could classify me in any number of ways. Am I a Tiger Mom? A Helicopter Parent? A Mom-tator? Does it really matter? Do I really care?

Sometimes.

Sometimes I wonder what in the world I’m doing. How did anyone let me be responsible for the well being of these glitter covered pig-tailed bundles of questions? Sometimes I wonder if I’ll be found out for a fraud who is flying by the seat of her pants, making it up as she goes along, pulling snippets of good advice from TV and fortune cookies, trying to keep the F-bombs to a minimum. And then, there are other days. . .
Sometimes, I’ve got it under control. There haven’t been any squabbles to squash. No one cried when they were getting their hair done. Impromptu acts of kindness, acts of love and silliness reign supreme. We are all fully engaged and present. We play board games and watch “The Property Brothers”. The kitchen churns out delicious and nutrisoiu meals, all of which are consumed in their entirety and without complaint! s — and everyone ate them! — and spaghetti and meatballs and snacks that everyone enjoyed. There are naps, quiet playtime, books to read and movies to watched. It is Rockwellian in its domesticity.

Times like those, I will myself to remember, remember, remember. I’ve talked before about how when my girls are grown, I want them to reflect on their childhoods with smiles and funny stories about that time we did that thing and how funny it was. Even as I type it, I realize that instead of focusing on a future that reminisces about the past, I need to be in the present to create it. I think I just up-ended the space time continuum with that sentence.

I want for my kids to have a great childhood. Maybe I need to loosen my grip on what I think that is and let them define it for themselves. Maybe instead of looking to what to do next, we all need to look at what we are doing right now. I’m aware of how fortunate I am. I’m aware of what a great life I have and I’m not going to be like Colette about it. I can be Hilary with One L and I can be a photographer and a writer and wife and and wear whatever else type of hat I want and choose to put on. I be all of those things, which is being myself. If I demonstrate that to my girls, cultivate that in them for themselves, then their childhoods will be just fine. That’s the mom I’m supposed to be.

And I’m supposed to have maple cabinets with granite counter tops and a Viking Range, I’m just sayin’. . .

*several paragraphs of this post were previously published in “That Mom” by Hilary Grant Dixon at www.hilarygrantdixon.com on March 5, 2014.

IN: ON: March 16, 2015 TAGS: life, motherhood, my girls, sharing, venting BY: Hilary

A Response to Staying in the Picture

Allison Slate Tate wrote fantastic and though provoking article several years ago encouraging mothers to be present in photographs of their families. The article, “The Mom Stays in the Picture“, sparked numerous comments and conversation, where women gave all of the reasons why they were absent. Many of the reasons focused on appearance — too much weight, too little make-up, unkempt hair, un-showered — and the like. As result, women have been erasing themselves from their family history.

Due to the incredible response to the article, The Huffington Post challenged its mom readers to submit photos of themselves with their children. Many images were submitted with accompanying captions describing how many images it took to find the image submitted. One woman went through 3,000 images on her computer and found 5. One woman looked through 200 photos from her child’s birthday party and she wasn’t in a single one. One woman confessed to hating how she looked in photos, but that her love for her children and husband trumped that feeling.

While I documented my own ups and downs with self-esteem, interestingly enough, I don’t really shy away from the camera. Maybe it’s because I love pictures. They tell stories and I love stories. Maybe it’s because I like taking photographs. I like how two people can photograph the same object, person, experience and you end up with two totally different scenes and compositions. While I haven’t mastered the selfie by any means, I do know my way around a self-timer. I can jump into a picture with the grace and agility of a gazelle.

When I look back at the pages of photo albums I have, the numerous folders in my hard drive, there is a definite change in subject matter. School years through college, are mostly of me. College through early marriage are of me and The Hubs, our friends, our experiences. Then, came the children, and the majority of the photos are of their smiling faces.

I have created several albums for each of the girls depicting their growth from year to year. I put photos in their baby books chronicling their development and milestones reached. The Christmas cards I send out every year feature the girls; just pictures of the girls with our names added almost as a courtesy. After I read Tate’s article, I thought about all of these photographs I’ve amassed. I decided to create these projects so that the girls would have pictures of themselves for when they’re older. It’s history. It’s their history. My absence in their photos — I’ve been taking pictures at birthday parties, at performances, around the dinner table when we’re hanging spoons off of our noses — is a missing page in their history.

Tate published a follow-up article, “Lessons Learned From a Year of Staying in the Picture“, sharing what she had learned as a result of trying to be more present when it came to family photographs. While her success hadn’t been 100%, she did put forth an effort. Her children noticed that she was as well and it changed the dynamic of engagement in the family. What struck me most in the article was the following:

“We women and mothers cannot let our insecurities interfere with us participating in our own lives and families anymore. By not being in pictures with our children, we are actually disappearing from our family histories. We are disappearing from the world. It’s not okay. Because if we are ever going to live in a world where women do have all the same opportunities as men, where our daughters and sons can hope to have the ability to make lives that are fulfilling both at home and in a workplace of their choices — we can’t disappear. We must be here, all the time. We must be here whether we are the size we want to be, or whether our hair looks the way we want, or whether we are feeling strong or just faking it ’til we make it.

We can’t hate ourselves and expect our children to treat themselves differently. We can’t hate ourselves and expect the world to treat us differently.”*

I am a woman of color who has worn her hair naturally for 15 years. I have three daughters who also wear natural hair. It is important to me that my girls see me loving and embracing my hair. Given all of the challenges that women of color face in the media, popular culture and the workplace gaining respect and acceptance for their hair, it is critically important that our young people receive positive messages about their hair, the bodies and their abilities.

I was touched by Tate’s recollection of viewing photos of her own mother. She wrote: “When I look at pictures of my own mother, I don’t look at cellulite or hair debacles. I just see her — her kind eyes, her open-mouthed, joyful smile, her familiar clothes. That’s the mother I remember.” I am so thankful for the photos I have of my own mother, my grandmother, the women in my family who make me who I am.

When I look at a sepia tinted photo of my great aunt as a toddler, born in 1901, I know for certain where my girls get the set of their eyes or the purse of their lips. A photograph of my mother holding me in her arms at my first birthday has rounded edges, is slightly out of focus, and thoroughly 1970s. I’ve got a bruise on my forehead, a cone shaped birthday hat perched atop my hair, it’s rubber band digging into my chin. Not a smile to be found. My mother’s mouth is slightly open, her head leaning away from me as she talks with someone outside the frame, but her arms encircle me onto her hip leaving no doubt that she’s is always present, with me and for me. It’s one of my favorite pictures.

My passion for photography makes me the de facto family historian. I must realize that sometimes, the lens must be turned in my direction as well. It’s not about the perfect outfit, our hair in the right place or whether or not we got our eyeliner winged out just so. It’s about being present when the camera is pulled out. In this day and age, that’s pretty much all the time, which means there aren’t any more excuses. We must model the behavior we want to see in our children. Without our presence, our children can’t see what strong, beautiful, dynamic, powerful, mulch-faceted women we are. If they can’t see that, they can’t be that. Being in the picture serves to create a richer portrait of family life not only for the current generation, but for generations to come.

*Tate, Allison Slater, “Lessons Learned From a Year of Staying in the Picture”, The Huffington Post Online, 23 January 2014.

IN: ON: March 10, 2015 BY: Hilary

Reading Is Fundamental

In the locker room after my work-out today,I overheard two women talking. One woman was relating to the other how her son had been given a new book to read by the librarian. The mother wasn’t familiar with the title or the story — I think she said “Box Trolls” — nor was her friend. They talked on as they left the locker room, one giving a synopsis of the book to the other.

It made me really appreciate how much I love having a family of readers. I love to read. The Hubs loves to read. The girls love, love, love to read. Books at breakfast, books at lunch and books in the bathroom. Books under the covers with a flashlight and books in the backseat of the car going to and coming from school. We’re readers, thoroughly and completely. It’s great and I couldn’t be more pleased with that.

(image)

The one thing that gives me pause as I see them inhaling chapter books, picture books and graphic novels, is whether or not I should be reading — cover to cover reading — the books they’ve selected before they start to read it for themselves. A number of books that I grew up with like, Charlotte’s Web, Trumpet of the Swan, Stuart Little, James and the Giant Peach, Matilda, and Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle – –yes, I’ve read those. I’m happy to hand them down to my girls. Some of the books that have come out more recently like The Hunger Games, Divergent, and Harry Potter, I have also read, but as an adult. I am able to process them in a different way than my nine and seven year old can.

Some books that M brings home are titles that I’m unfamiliar with. Titles like Warrior Cats and Dragon Fyre and The School of Good and Evil are often in her rotation. I read the back cover to get an idea of whether or not it’s age appropriate. I look at where she’s pulling the books from, whether it’s truly from the children’s section or from the young adult section. I trust the librarians, both at our school and at our local library, because they truly know us and are excellent at selecting titles that are appropriate and captivating. All of which are good choices. They help her, and talk with me, about what the girls are checking out. We’ve done really well. The girls are voracious readers. They’ve read Magic Treehouse, Captian Underpants, Tale of Desperaux and many more than I could possibly name.

There have been a few missteps along the way, though. For instance, M got this serises called the Goddess Girls. On the front is a picture of cartoon goddesses. It’s a chapter book that she’d gotten it from school and I flipped it over and started to read the back cover. I think this one was entitled Persephone the Phony. The blurb read something like,

Persephone is new to school and quickly fits in with the “it’ crowd. Resident bad boy Hades only has eyes for her, but will his affections cost Persephone her coveted frienship with Athena?

That’s not verbatim, but it was something like that. It was like a Greco-Roman tweenage “Mean Girls”. This blurb was geared so much more for tweens and teens, it had acne and a curfew. Now, M is mature for nine, but she’s nine. We’ve got some time before we introduce themes like that, right?

Another book came home from the local library and it was a Monster High title. The girls watch Monster High and have Monster High Dolls, I’ll admit it. Yes, the whole premise is set in high school with characters that are mash-ups of famous scary monsters. I’ve watched a few episodes and it’s fairly harmless. Romantic entanglements are of the Disney variety. Still, when the book came home and I took a look at the back cover, the blurb was decidedly less Disney. Again, the protagonist is new in school, falls in with the popular crowd, upsets the Queen Bee by displacing her as the love interest of the resident jock. Tale as old as time, right? Right, so it’ll still be around when M is like 12 or 14.

Which is basically what I told M when I said that the book was above her pay grade. I told her that I know she liked Monster High. When it comes to content, some of these things are appropriate and some things are best left for a later date. “I don’t think that you’re quite ready for this yet,” is what I said. She was disappointed, but shrugged it off and picked up another book from the bag we’d filled at the library. I’m pretty sure it was The Day the Crayons Quit, which is hilarious and on the completely opposite end of the spectrum from the Monster High book I had been holding.

There had been a book sale at the gym a few months ago. Lots of book that people had donated were being sold for about 50 cents or $1. M saw in the stacks, a partial set of The Princess Diaries by Meg Cabot. I was familiar with the Princess Diaries movies with Anne Hathaway and Julie Andrews. It was relatively harmless; the ugly duckling becomes a beautiful swan when it’s discovered she’s not just the geek next door, but a European princess. Hilarity that ensues as she tries to figure out her place. M gave me her pleading eyes for the books and I told her she could have them.

Like I said, I’d seen the movie, not read the books. My friend has a daughter who is the same age as M, and the daughter has read the books. My friend said that as the series progressed, the protagonist matures and has to deal with challenges that are in keeping with being a teenager. Around book 5 or 6, ::spoiler alert:: she’s faced with the decision to give away her virginity to her boyfriend she moves way (or maybe he was moving away. whatever). My friend said her daughter had been eating up the books and then promptly stopped reading them. When pushed to answer why that was, the daughter admitted it was because she didn’t really know what was happening, she was confused about this talk about virginity. She just felt like she shouldn’t be reading it any more.

Yikes! But, M only had books 1 and 2. I’d seen the first movie. I missed the second, but it’s Disney, right? Yeah, well . . .here’s what happened. M read the first book in a matter of hours. She starts in on the second one and shortly after powering through a couple of chapters, she comes to me and says,

“What’s a hooker?”

Pardon me?

I pick myself up off of the floor and ask her where she heard that word. She explains that it’s in the book that she’s reading. I ask her to hand over the book and sure enough, there’s a line in the book about a hooker. Evidently, the main character has applied make-up in such a way her grandmother refers to her as “le poulet“, a French colloquialism for a loose woman. The narrative is kind enough to explain that for dear readers by spelling it out, using the word “hooker” for clarification.

Well, I told M that I needed to double check the definition and I would get back to her. Now, I’ve done pretty well in explaining things like where babies come from, how babies get in there and why women need “pads and tampoons,” but I really was stumped when it came to how to explain what a hooker was. There’s no technical terminology to discuss it the way you can with body parts and reproduction, at least none that I’m aware of, anyway. A hooker, when you have to define it, is what it is. I decided that I was just going to table the whole thing. I told M that, like with Monster High, some themes in the book were a little too mature and that I was going to hang onto to the book for a while.

“Does this have to do with the hooker?” she asked.

“A bit,” I admitted. I continued on by telling her that I would read the book myself to make sure there weren’t any other situations that could give us trouble. It’s a policy that I have put into practice and right on time, too. C came home with a book called Drama by Raina Telgemeier the other day. While Telgemeier wrote both Smile and Sisters, two graphic novels about navigating middle school with missing teeth and putting up with an irritating little sister, respectively, I had heard through the parenting grapevine that “Drama” explorers dating, relationships, and sexuality. I’ll be reading it myself before simply handing it over to C or M to curl up with on the couch.

So, that’s two books added to my stack. I’m going to pop over to the library and see if I can find some Sweet Valley Twins (ahh, the classics) or some Nancy Drew titles to share with the girls. I’ll be going over those again, cover to cover, too.

Good thing I like to read.

IN: ON: March 4, 2015 TAGS: books, motherhood, my girls, reading, writing BY: Hilary

Me and My Big Mouth

Winter break 2014 grows steadily smaller in my rearview mirror with each new day. It’s already the end of February, which shouldn’t be a surprise since it is the shortest month. Still, how did we get to the 23rd already? Even with Snowpacalypse 2015 and the never ending snow days, we’ve been sprinting towards week-ends and the beginning of the new month with Olympic type speed.

After the break, reminders were sent home with the 4th graders that they would be in charge of a chapel service at school at the end of February. I dutifully noted that on my calendar and kept an eye out for any emails or papers to that effect. A few weeks ago, M comes home from school and I check her homework journal. Under the heading for Religion, it said, “Chapel Practice”. I asked M about it, to which she replies the 4th grade is working on their presentation, selecting things like music and scripture with the help of their religion teacher. As I tuck her in that night, her eyeslids ricochet up as she realizes she’s forgotten to get something to bring in for the chapel practice.

“Mom! Mom! Mr. J- wants me to bring in a big ball tomorrow, like a beach ball, for religion class!” she panics, sitting up in bed and casting her eyes about her room for something — anything — resembling a beach ball.

I look at my watch. 8:20pm. I’m already running on fumes, still have to tuck in C and V, and am itching to get off my feet and into my chair so I can cuddle up with the DVR. “Look,” I say to her, gently pushing her back towards the pillows, “there’s no ball in here. I don’t know where one is, okay? I’m sure we can figure something out tomorrow and you can bring it in the next day or somehting.” I’m already thinking about those big gumball colored rubber balls held captive in a giant cage at Wal-Mart.

“I know where one is! I know where one is!” says M, sitting back up. “In the shed, there are those balls you got us this summer. I’ll just get it in the morning.”

I vaguely remember some rubber balls flying through the air outside, getting stuck under the back deck, and being kicked onto the roof of the shed. If she’s sure it’s there, she’s welcome to it. I remind her, though, that it’s her responsibility to remember to get it before we leave in the morning.

While I shouldn’t be surprised, I am when M goes out to the shed — without asking for any accompaniment from C or V — and grabs the ball, well in advance of leaving for school. We get to school. They get dropped off amidst well wishes for a great day and before I know it, I’m back in the carpool line to pick them up. Once buckled in backseat, M says, “Mom! Mom! Mr. J- says I need to bring in another ball if I have one for religion class. It’s for part of the dance routine. There’s another ball in the shed. Can I bring it in tomorrow?”

Hmmm. We just brought in a ball today. Now we need another one? Is this going to be a recurring theme until the actual chapel service? I say to M, as we head back to our house, “Do you have a sheet or something that has a list of the supplies you need so that we aren’t waiting until the last minute for stuff?” She gives me a little speech that begins with, “See, the way my religion class is set up. . .” that has me wondering if she’s been listening to Kevin Hart on Pandora when I’m not paying attention. In any event, there’s no sheet. Further inspection of her religion folder at home produces a piece of notebook paper with a list in her handwriting that includes balls and not much else. I tell M that she can have the other ball if she can find it, which she did. I make a mental note to follow-up with her homeroom teacher and/or the religion teacher, but get sidetracked by life and forget.

A few days later, as we are in the midst of the bedtime routine, M tells me that her teacher wants her to bring in tutus for the dancers in the chapel program. When I think back about what happened next, I realize, she caught me at a bad time. She and C had both just finished plays in their respective grade, which required multiple trips to Target for long sleeved shirts, leggings, and hats, as well as a few panicked calls to Grandma to outfit them in their respective costumes. I’d also picked up supplies for Valentine’s Day for all three of their classes, and set up little reminders for myself for the other volunteering responsibilities that I’d signed up for back in September. I was maxed out at that point. Sure, I’m not the only parent to take on tasks, volunteer to bring things in and so forth. I know lots of parents who revel in that kind of thing. At that point in time, though, with the addition of a handful of tutus that, no doubt, had to be brought in the following day, I was ready to pass the buck.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling my dinner in my face in attempts to eat it while 1) it was hot and 2) M, C, and V were otherwise occupied, therefore not in need of any immediate assistance. But, I’m like Doc Brown and they’re the Libyans. Even if I took my plate into the laundry room, shut the door and perched upon the agitator, they’d find me. And M did, a request for tutus tumbling out of her mouth.

I put down my fork and sighed, probably ran a hand over my face in dramatic fashion. “Look,” I said, “I haven’t seen any notices or emails from the teacher about what you need to bring in. I think we’ve contributed enough to this project, okay? You tell Mr. J- that we don’t have any tutus. It’s not my job to outfit the entire 4th grade for this thing.”

Well, you can guess what happened next.

I’ll give you a hint. Your girl M went to school the following day and when she was asked about the tutus said,

“My mom said that we don’t have any tutus and it’s not her job to outfit the entire 4th grade for this thing.”

Which is what she told me she said when she got in the car that afternoon, to which I replied:

via

I suppose I should be lucky she didn’t embellish it at all. It’s not like I was muttering and mumbling filth-a-flarn-flarn-filth or something. I didn’t tell her to share the message like that Kevin Hart bit. I just didn’t specify what she was to share and what she was not. I didn’t realize I needed to.

I used to say, “Mother of Pearl!” and “Crap on toast! ” in place of the four and five letter words best left to the Sopranos for fear of having them sprinkled like confetti during a toddler playdate by one of my own precious gems. Turns out, it’s not the expletives or inappropriate jokes that you have to be wary of being repeated. It just the run of the mill directions, lacking in clarity, that will get you in trouble. Turns out, I just need to sandwich everything with a hearty helping of, “Don’t repeat that!” because if I don’t, they will.

IN: ON: February 24, 2015 TAGS: honesty, motherhood, my girls, school, sharing, winter BY: Hilary

Help the Bear

When I lacerated my ankle two years ago, it was undoubtedly the most humbling experience I’ve ever had. I had to rely on others. I had to ask for help. I had to be taken care of and I am not a good patient.

With time, patience and determination, I recovered from my injury. I started walking unassisted. I started walking without a boot. I started exercising again. I started feeling like myself. I continued to push myself to get to, and stay at, 100%.

The saying goes “time heals all wounds”, and to some degree that is correct. What they don’t tell you is that time heals all wounds differently. I was naive. I honestly believed that the surgery to repair my ankle would restore it to its former ability. That’s not what happened.

I don’t ever want to be perceived as anything other than capable, but even superheroes have weakneses. Because of this, because I’m proud, I went months before letting my doc know things didn’t feel quite right. My tendon was encased in scar tissue, thereby preventing me from pointing and flexing completely. My range of motion was limited. According to my doc, despite my youth and high level of fitness, there wasn’t anything else I could do to improve the mobility except another surgery.

I didn’t relish another trip under the knife, but I wanted to walk. I wanted to run. I wanted to be myself again. So, I had the surgery to free the tendon. I went back to physical therapy. I pushed myself to regain mobility and strength. I found myself doing better and better until the procedure was a memory with softened edges in the back of my mind.

In the two years since, I’m stronger and fitter than I’ve been. I’m working out harder, but there are times when my gait isn’t very clean. There are times when I trip over nothing at all. I’ve got a persistent ache where the procedure was performed. I feel like if I could just get a really deep stretch, pull my toes as far forward as possible, everything would snap back into it’s proper place. Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen.

After a November fall on a Carytown sidewalk over nothing but my inability to completely lift my toes, I called my doc again. Despite my hours in the gym, I can’t exercise this injury away. I can do calf raises and resistance band training for days, but what I’m working with is what it is. My doc said maybe another surgery. . .

I thanked him for his time and decided to get a second opinion. The Hubs knew of a foot and ankle specialist in Maryland who was supposed to be top notch. I could either see him December 30th or wait until May. I thought about how when I run, “lift your foot, lift your foot” loops through my brain so I don’t face plant on the pavement. I thought about how I still wear a soft orthopedic boot at night in the hopes I’m training my foot to maintain a flexed position. I thought about how I would wake up in the night to adjust the boot, remove the boot, then contort legs and feet to get some relief. I thought about a November fall on a Carytown sidewalk.

I made the December 30th appointment.

The new doc gave me a thorough examination. He watched me walk, he videotaped me walking. He tested the strength of all of the tendons in my foot. He had me rotate, pronate, flex, and extend. He palpated, he thumped, he thwacked. He pushed and he pulled. He concurred that there was nothing else that I could do to improve the situation. He concluded that what I’m currently working with is what I’ll be working with indefinitely. He offered a three prong surgical approach in order to provide me with between 10 to 15 degrees of greater range of motion.

I thought about a November fall on a Carytown sidewalk.

Damnit.

My surgery is schedule for April 13th.

How can I do this?

How can I not?

I’m in my late 30’s, with limited range of motion in my leg that has affected my gait and makes me paranoid that I’m going to trip and fall at any given moment. Do I want to live like that for the next 30 or so years? Nope.

I’m angry, though. I’m angry that it was my own carelessness that broke a glass pitcher, which I didn’t dispose of properly, which I ended up tripping over, which sliced right across the extensor tendon, which brings me to this point in time. I’m angry that going on three years later, I’m still dealing with this. I’m angry that my career as a foot and ankle model is over (I’m kidding, we all know I’m a hand model – -).

A few days after I made the appointment with the new doc, I was skimming through my IG feed. My friend, Billy Parker, recently had launched a movement called Help the Bear and was using social media to spread the word. Curious, I clicked around to see what I could find. Help The Bear comes from the saying “If you ever catch me fighting in the forest with a grizzly bear, Help the Bear.”

I clicked around some more and discovered that throughout his career as a professional football player, Billy has had his share of challenges and obstacles. I’ll leave you to read about them here, but the take-away is that you see him standing before you because he chose to stand up one more time. He says,

“What is understood is that one should not worry about me, because I am going to defeat the Bear. The Bear might seem like an unbeatable opponent, but it is no match for me. I will find a way to win. “

The Help the Bear Community is his brainchild to connect those who are being proactive in overcoming life’s obstacles. The Help the Bear Community is a network of individuals who are choosing to stand up one more time. The Help the Bear Community is a place where you can “gain strength from the realization that you are not alone”.

Sometimes, you get a hand up when you didn’t even know you needed one.

This ankle injury and these surgeries are my bear.

I can be angry.

I can be a little scared.

But, I can stand up one more time.

I can grow stronger.

I can walk.

I can run.

I can fly.

I can.

So, if you ever catch me fighting in the forest with a Grizzly Bear, Help the Bear.

Learn more about Help The Bear here.

#one7htb

#ItsMoreThanJustAShirt
#HelpTheBear

#WhatsYourBear

#BeRelentless

#SeeItThrough
#Adversity

IN: ON: February 16, 2015 TAGS: help the bear, honesty, life, sharing, venting, winter, working out, writing BY: Hilary

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It keeps going, and going. . .

A Response to Staying in the Picture

Reading Is Fundamental