Hilary

You say Valentine’s Day, I say Monday

I was going to make this a sweet little post to my DH about how I love how he and I make we.  I found this cute photo here:
Then I threw up in my mouth a little.
I’m not a Valentine’s Day Hater.  Really, I’m not.  I’m all in favor of a holiday that encourages the giving of gifts, especially one where women a clearly the intended recipients.  Still, Valentine’s Day is just the 14th day in February. I’m not saying that because I’m married either.  I’ve come to believe that how you choose to demonstrate your love for someone else, shouldn’t be reserved for one day of the year. If you’re loving someone all day everyday, there wouldn’t be a need for over-the-top declarations, proclamations, exclamations and consummations of love.  
Call me a prude, but PDA (public displays of affection) makes me cringe. I’m a closed romantic, as in I keep my romance behind closed doors.   Certainly, if you feel compelled to put your heart on your sleeve, send singing telegrams and have Shakespearean sonnets spelled out in the sky, go for it.  Expressions of love can range from the far-out, uber-public to the private, thoughtful and just-between-us.
After I got engaged, my brother asked me how I knew that DH was The One. How did I know that I loved him above everyone else?  I’m no Voltaire, but every once in a while, I can truly wax philosophical.  The little love nuggets I passed to my brother were totally on the mark.  How do you know you know you love someone — and when I say love, I’m talking romantic love?  When you realize they aren’t the person you can live with, but that they’re the person you can’t live without.  
I know, I’m deep. 
So, even though Hallmark has the market cornered on Valentine’s paraphernalia (sorry American Greetings), they won’t be getting my business this year.  And too bad for you, dear reader, as you won’t be privy to what goes on between me and my Valentine, either.  Conjure up your own best ever Valentine’s Day scenario and just insert us as the characters. Keep it PG, people. 
Side Note:  I helped Morgan and Coever put together their Valentine’s to hand out to their classmates.  The selections at the store were overwhelming. Gone are the conversation hearts and in their stead you could have temporary tattoos, pencils, all manner of chocolate confection, Silly Bandz, stickers, and lip-glosses.   There were singing bears, kissing bears, hugging bears, and for the grown-ups, bears promising naughty favors all in the name of love.  There were heart shaped garlands, Cupid shaped garlands, streamers, balloons, and assorted party products.  Every major character got into the act — Hello Kitty, Tinker Bell, Woody and Buzz, Barbie, and Lightening McQueen.  The girls made their selections, though it was not without several changes of heart before we made it to the register.  Morgan kept insisting that we needed more stuff.  I couldn’t figure it out.  We had gotten her Valentine’s. She and Coever both had stickers at home, chocolates, too.  What could she possibly want or need? 
“We need to decorate!” she declared.
“Why would we need to do that?” I asked.
 “So that Cupid will know where to find us.”
 Yeah, I’ll get right on that. 

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IN: ON: February 14, 2011 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Say It Like You Mean It

I’ve got a sore throat and feeling like hot crap on toast.
Naturally, the public schools call for a snow day.
It’s going to be one of those days, where “Yes” will abound.
Can we go play in the snow at 8:26am?
Can we come inside from playing at 8:32 am?
Can we do pbskids.org on your computer?
Can we do Playhouse Disney on your computer?
Can we Skype on your computer?
Can we watch a video on YouTube?
Can we watch show on TV?
Can we watch a movie? 
Can we watch another movie? 
Can we do arts and crafts? 
Can we do more arts and crafts? 
Can we have a snack?
Can it be potato-chips?
Can we have a drink?
Can it be apple juice?
Can we have another snack?
Can we bake cupcakes?
Can we have more sprinkles? 
Can we eat the frosting?
And I haven’t even had my coffee. . .
Yes, you can have a sip. . .
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IN: ON: February 10, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Growing Up Is Hard to Do

I went to a bridal shower for one of my sorority sisters this past week-end.  The bride-to-be is one of the youngest of my sorority sisters from my pledge class.  We used to joke her that she was the baby, that we were bringing her up, bringing her along.

At her shower the other day, I noticed that she, her sister, and her bridesmaids are still in their twenties (late twenties, but twenties nonetheless).  Other guests included her mother, her aunts, her grandmother and other family and friends that were older than me.  Two other of my sorority sisters, one the same age as me, the other slightly younger, were also in attendance.  Talk turned to weddings, parties and receptions.  One remarked that if she were to do it again, she would love to have another big wedding.  The other said that if it were her, she’d keep it small and quiet.

“Why have another big wedding?” I ventured.  “Let’s just have a big blow out party just because. Or let’s do it for the next big birthday.  What’s that going to be anyway?”

*Pause*

“Thirty-five,” we said in unison.

Wow.

I don’t know if my other two sorority sisters felt what I did just then. It was this odd sense of being in an age limbo. Not quite as young as the bride to be and her attendants, but not quite as mature as the mother of the bride and her guests.  Maybe I’m over-thinking, building up that mountain out of nothing.

I never have given much thought to how old I am.  I don’t feel old. I don’t look old (at least not according to the bartender at McCormick and Schmick’s).  And yet, discovering that my next big birthday number is 35 was jarring.

Fact: I’m closer to 35 that I am to 30.  
Turning 30 wasn’t a big deal for a several reasons. 

1. Like I said, I’ve never given much thought to how old I am
2. Now that I share my birthday with Coever, truly, it’s her birthday, not mine.
3. 30 for me fell on the first day of school for the girls and my priorities were elsewhere.

When I turned 25, I had a big blowout at our house.  We hired a DJ, had it catered, had all manner of friends and family.  Truth be told, I liked the planning and the execution of the whole thing. I love getting together with family and friends; I wish we did it more often and on such a large scale.  I’d do it again for 35, but I think it would be more poignant for me because I, in fact, would be turning 35.

When you’re mistaken for 17 one day and then realize you’ll actually be twice that age in a matter of months, it’s easy to see how your nose can get out of joint.
What do you see here? 
 I’ve been blessed with good genes that will serve me in good stead as I mature.  My parents are into their late sixties and are often mistaken for being at least 10 to 15 years younger than they really are.  My brother, well, he’s 9 years older than I am and yet, there have been times when I’ve been mistaken for his older sister. I swear, he’s got a portrait of himself squirreled away in his attic. 
I do have to laugh at myself, though, because I’m sure I’ve lead to you believe that I’m going to be 35 this year.  
Not quite. 
More like in 2013.
 But hey, I’ve always been a planner. I’m just thinking ahead.  You know, as you get older, the mind’s the first thing to go. 
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IN: ON: February 7, 2011 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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February. Feet. Five-year old wisdom.

Yesterday’s insanely warm temperatures (hello, 71 degrees) had me wanting to shed the multiple layers that have been cocooning me against this winter’s nastiness.  Certainly, I wasn’t about to strip down to a tank and some shorts, though I did see some crazies out there attired as such.  I was about to swap out my Danskos for a pair of flip flops for the short walk to get the kids from school. Then I took off my socks and looked at my feet. 
Ugh.
I have some funky looking feet.  I know, I know, I said I was going to be nicer to myself, but truly, I’m just stating facts here.  The last time I painted my toenails, I only did so because we were going to a Christmas party and I was wearing peep-toe shoes.  Even then, I only painted the two toes you’d see through the peep hole.  Yeah, I’m that girl. 
I’m rough on my feet. I’m on them most of the day. I work out pretty vigorously either doing cardio training or pounding up and down the tennis court.  My feet don’t stink, but they do sweat. I’ll even ‘fess up to having a corn and what looks like the beginning of a bunion. It’s atrocious, but I’ve earned it with all the pointy toed shoes I’ve worn over the years.
Add to that, the genetic quirk in our family known as the Bennett Toe.  Left foot, second toe. Graciously passed down from my maternal grandmother, to my mother, to me, the Bennett toe, used to have me studiously avoiding open toed sandals during the warmer months. The toes just refuses to lie flat.  The nail is a speck of calcium that refuses to grow flat, but instead rises out of the nail bed like a cone. 
 It looks like a boiled turtle head wearing a party hat.
Anyway, no flip-flops for me yesterday. I wasn’t ready to turn people to stone by having them cast a wayward glance at my hooves.  
Last night while paging though pins on Pinterest, I kept seeing lots of tattooed feet.  Words, phrases, names, world maps. All inked on the tops, sides and insteps of feet.  

A friend of mine recently had her deceased grandmother’s name inked on her instep.  She had saved her grandmother’s signature and had it transferred onto her foot as a tat.  Very cool.  
I go back and forth about getting some more ink (yes, I said more).  I don’t think you’re ever too old, though DH would beg to differ.  Still, I’m at a point in my life where the places I may have put something when I was in college are not the places I would put something now.  
Morgan just looked over my shoulder as I was typing and remarked, “I’m never getting a tattoo because God gave me this skin and it’s beautiful just the way it is.”
Clearly, I’m doing something right, but just in case she changes her tune,  I am SO printing this out for future reference.
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IN: ON: February 3, 2011 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Grrrrrr!

So that funk I was telling you about? Yeah, it’s decided to settle in for a while.  I’m still trying to beat back the blues, keeping up with my favorite things, but I’ve hit the wall.  I really want to write, and yet, I’ve got nothing to say.  I used yo do this exercise in my journals where I would just write, “I have nothing to say. I don’t want to write. What am I talking about,” and inevitably, I would end up with pages of verses and paragraphs that I would string into poems.

I think that’s where I’m headed today.

What started as a”I don’t really have much to say” type of post has morphed into a “Let me tell what happened to me” type of post.  So, let me tell you what happened to me.  I sliced off the tip of my ring finger cleaning the tub.  Yes, if you draw blood with doing housework, it’s time to get someone else to do the housework.

Yesterday, in a fit of insanity, I decided to clean the bathtub. I was already wiping down counters, vacuuming carpets and sweeping floors like my name was Cinderella.  I was in the girls’ bathroom, scraping dried toothpaste from the sink and turned to give the tub a wipe.  Then I took a good look at the shoddy lick and a promise method I’d previously employed and decided to get serious with the Soft Scrub.

As I ran my cleaning rag around the rim of the tub, where the tile meets the tub itself, I felt a sharp stab of pain in my finger.  Then, I noticed red spots dotting the newly cleaned bathing surface.  I looked down at my hand.  Hmmm, you’re missing part of your finger there, chief. What the what? Turns out, a piece of tile close to the faucet some how cracked and separated from the wall.  In my zeal to clean, I just ran my hand around and basically scored the top of my finger off. Nice.

Still, I’m not going to let a missing fingertip slow me down. I’m not Jamie from Top Chef.  I had a lot of momentum going behind this cleaning binge and it was going to happen now or never. I grabbed a washcloth, wrapped up my finger and kept on cleaning.  The bleeding eventually subsided, but I found myself in a situation like when I sliced off the tip of my other finger using that flipping mandolin to make onion rings.  Yes, there is a lesson to be learned in all this.

I need a housekeeper.
And a chef.

Oh, and a transcriptionist (yes, that’s a real word)  to get all of these thoughts down while I tape up my finger tips.

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IN: ON: January 27, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Parenting Paradox

So, I’ve had to Barbie dolls tucked away in my closet for a few months now. I bought the dolls thinking that there’d come a day when I’d be in need of a respite and would gladly hand them over to Mo and Co for some playtime.  Today was that day.

The girls were finishing up their breakfast — yes, the tone of the day had been established quite early — and I brought the dolls down, setting them on the kitchen counter facing the wall. The plan was that after breakfast, I’d let   them pick a doll and they could go play while I had my International Foods Coffee moment.

Coever is notorious for bypassing her meal for whatever beverage is being served up.  As a result, we withhold the drink until she’s eaten at least 3/4 of what’s on the plate.  I had left her cup on the counter and went upstairs to get the dolls.  When I came back down,  I checked her plate, was satisfied with her progress and she came with me into the kitchen to get her cup of juice.  Morgan, who had been reading to herself on the couch, came into the kitchen and promptly began to relate the reason why the cup of juice that had been left on the counter was empty.

“And then, Coever came in here and drank up all the juice and put the juice cup back on the counter and then went to the table!” she finishes dramatically.

Then her eyes land on the Barbie boxes on the counter. “Are those for me?”

But wait a second.  The cup of juice wasn’t empty. There had been juice in it when I gave it to Coever.  Whether or not she sneaked a few sips while I was upstairs, who knows? But when I gave it to her, there was juice in it.

So I say to Morgan, “Why are you telling tales? There was juice in the cup. Why would you do that?”

“Well (aah the infamous well), um. . .sometimes. . .I. . .get,” and she is steadily eyeing the Barbie’s.  “Sometimes, I get cranky when Coever doesn’t give me time by myself to get myself together.”

“Well, Morgan,” I say, “You’re going to have plenty of time to get yourself together right now. Go on into the other room, please.” I scoop up the dolls and head off to the laundry room to put them out of sight and out of mind.

“But Mommy,” comes the plaintive wail, “What about the presents?!”

“Morgan,” I say, “you lied to me about something, so I’m not going to reward you by giving you a doll.”

“Oh. Please don’t tell Daddy!”

That’s the extent of her concern. Not that she slandered her sister, but whatever.

Morgan, clearly in the wrong, will not be receiving a doll today.  The question I have though, is what about Coever? She, having done nothing wrong (as far as the juice is concerned), could have her doll. But should I give it to her and then deal with the inevitable Morgan-sized fall-out? I’m just not up for that.  Surprisingly, Coever seems to have forgotten about seeing me bring the dolls downstairs in the first place, so I might just get off the hook on that little technicality.

I have a feeling one, if not both, of them is going to bring it up.  Yes, I am the grown-up. Yes, I don’t have to give it either of them today, tomorrow, or ever. Still, I’m curious.

What would you do?

What would you do?

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IN: ON: January 17, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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