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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.

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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.

 

 

 

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IN: ON: March 4, 2015 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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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:

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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.

 

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IN: ON: February 24, 2015 TAGS: , , , , , BY: Hilary
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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.

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 Learn more about Help The Bear here.

#one7htb

#ItsMoreThanJustAShirt
#HelpTheBear

#WhatsYourBear

#BeRelentless

#SeeItThrough
#Adversity

 

 

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IN: ON: February 16, 2015 TAGS: , , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Because I’m Happy

So February is hitting me full on in the face with some bitterly cold temperatures and the promise of six more weeks of winter.  Yeah, I don’t think I signed up for that.  I know I didn’t sign up for that.

I’m trying to find some type of redeeming quality about dark mornings, frosted window panes, and winds that disrespect my hat, gloves, and scarf.  Haven’t found any.  I think about the commercial I saw where this dad, in an attempt to recuse the family cat off of the roof, falls off the ladder. His daughter implores him to go to his happy place. Ahh, my happy place, my ideal spot that allows me to take a mini mental vacation.  Funny enough, I actually have to think about it. While there are scores of places on my bucket list that I’d like to visit, when it comes to just closing my eyes and picturing myself somewhere nice, nothing immediately comes to mind.

Right this minute, however, my happy place would be in seclusion where I can finish this post.  I’m working from home today while we’re having a few rooms painted. Turns out the paint I pulled from out utility closet has dried up, so I have to run out and get some more.  Should I have checked prior to his arrival? Probably, but I didn’t.  45 minutes later, I’m home with a gallon of paint, ready for both of us to resume working.  He goes to get started on the job and guess what? Wrong paint color.  It’s not like I asked for blue and got red.  It’s that what I thought was the correct color on the can that I pulled from the shelf was the wrong can for the room. Even though the dried paint on the can looks EXACTLY like the room we’re painting, it’s not even close when we did a test patch on the wall.  All I’m trying to do it paint over one wall. So, gotta put a pin in this post for a minute while I go back out and see if I can get the right color based off a piece of the wall he chipped off as a sample.  I know, #firstworldproblems, but this would be an example of jetting off to that happy place in order to regroup.

After further thought, I realize I’ve come to rely on my bathroom as my escape pod hidey-hole happy place.  The thing is, I’m trying to use it in real life, but it’s not working  Every time I step foot in there to catch my breath, someone is hot on my heels.  Even when I’m just going in to take of personal business or to hang up towels or maybe even wipe the sink — which on that last one, I wouldn’t mind the audience if they would eventually catch on and relieve me of this task, but I digress — doesn’t matter what I’m in there for, someone always finds me.

The other night, I got everyone squared away with dinner, cups of juice, their books, and the promise of desert if they’d keep their butts in their seats for 15 minutes while I put away some laundry.  I was hanging up fresh towels in my bathroom, caught a look at myself in the mirror and decided to shape up my brows. No sooner did I unzip my make-up bag, I hear feet on the steps and a V’s little voice saying, “Mom? Mom? What you doing?”.   She finds me, sees the make-up bag and declares, “Do my lips! Do my cheeks! I need cheeks!”  I’m not even doing all that; I’m just trying to do a little brow maintenance, lady.  And I prefer to be alone, if you don’t mind. I don’t know, maybe the Calgon commericals from my youth have me brainwashed into thinking the bathroom — at least the master bath — should be sole domain.

This is not my bathroom, but it should be.

It’s not like my bathroom is an oasis. There’s not a rain shower head with multiple jets in the walls. There isn’t a soaking tub or a bidet with lavender essential oils infused in the water.  There’s no wall mounted television or even an old Hollywood style bulb studded vanity.  It’s double sinks and a water closet, and while the paint on the walls is a calming Stonington Gray, it’s not like I’m going to unfurl a futon and take a snooze.

Last week, my happy place would have been anywhere that there wasn’t snow. Snow-pacalypse preparations made me think zombies were going to falling from the sky instead of wet flakes.  Truly, I didn’t think we’d even get snow this winter, seeing as I planned ahead and bought the girls snowpants, boots, and jackets.  Still, they got to wear their snow gear for a fleeting fifteen minutes, half the time it took me to get them into it, before they came in ready for hot chocolate, cookies, and movies.  At 8:12 in the morning, of course.  As a kid, I loved snow days — who didn’t, right? But as an adult, I now know why her left eyelid twitched like a rabbit’s nose when school closings were announced.

I suppose your happy place doesn’t have to be limited to just one location. Maybe the place varies on the situation that makes you call up on it in the first place? Maybe your happy place could be anywhere but where you currently are.  It doesn’t have to be Santorini or the English countryside or Krispy Kreme when the “hot” sign is on, although any of those would be nice.

Recently, I started employing this deep breathing technique I read about when I start feeling as if I’m about to “Hulk Out”.  I breathe in through my nose for seven counts, breathe out semi-forcefully through my mouth for eight counts.  I’m supposed to do this three times or until I’m feeling better, but given the demands on my time and usually the source behind the reason for breathing, I’m lucky if I get one cycle.  When I close my eyes to take in my breath, I find myself in an room that is empty save for a chair. Maybe the chair is for me to sit upon, maybe it’s for me to put my stress on or maybe it’s just a chair. Whatever it’s there for, whatever the otherwise empty room symbolizes, it helps me to calm down with these breaths.  Am I happier when I open my eyes? Meh. Calmer, maybe, but that might be a first step to happiness.

Do you have a happy place?  Tell me about it in the comments!

 

 

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IN: ON: February 3, 2015 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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hair

Respect the Hair

Let me tell you a story.

V and I were in Target about a week ago. I passed two women who were doing their shopping. One of the women had on this really smart outfit — black turtleneck, herringbone shorts with black tights and little black booties.  She looked super cute; her outfit was just so. I told her as much as we passed in the aisle.  She thanked me and resumed talking with her friend. As perused the shelves for my product, I heard the friend remarking that V’s hair looked like the child of one of their friends.

“What a cutie!” the friend said as she scooted her cart closer to ours. “Doesn’t her hair look just like [_____]’s? Can I just touch it?”

And as the words were coming out of her mouth, her hand was moving steadily forward towards V’s head.  I shifted myself between her and V, saying firmly and clearly, “I would rather you didn’t.”

The speed with which she recoiled and the look that crossed her face — a combination of  incredulity and indignance — you would have thought I dropped an f-bomb right there in among the paper products.

“Oh!” she said.  “Oh!” she said again and whatever modicum of general politeness and decorum that had just passed between us evaporated.

Because I told her not touch my daughter’s hair.

V’s to young to understand it now, but M and C know as well as I do.  Our hair is an extension of our body. I wouldn’t let some random person stroke my cheek, pat my buns, or rub my tummy (someone almost lost a finger doing that when I was pregnant).  I am certainly not going to let someone touch my hair. This is a lesson that I share with my girls and continue to share with them because it is a situation that, sadly, is not a one time thing. What is most disheartening to me is the conclusion that the girls have reached: If my hair wasn’t like this, then people wouldn’t want to touch it.   If my hair was straight, then people wouldn’t want to touch it.

Not long before this incident at Target, my mother had a similar occurrence with someone in her exercise class.  The woman asked to touch my mother’s hair.  When my mother plainly said no, the woman asked, “Why not?”.  Now, my mother can throw an eyebrow better than The Rock, which is exactly what she did as she very succinctly told this woman, “Because. I. Said. No.”

We all know that the hair struggle is real. All over the internet, social media, magazines and television, we see and hear women talking about how to wrangle, manage, and tame their locks. This blog is no exception.  The natural hair movement has steadily grown over the last few years, with particular emphasis placed on how to style one’s hair, the best products to use and the ways in which to encourage health and growth. When it comes to loving one’s hair and having others respect your hair,  it seems that those topics don’t get the same amount of attention.

As mothers, caregivers, sister-friends and such, we do our part to foster self-esteem and self-love in our curly cuties.  The pervasiveness of unrealistic standards of beauty serves to undermine the strong foundations we wish to cultivate.  How can one grow to love and respect a hair type that has been made to be considered “less than” and “distinctly other”?

Respect is at the core of this issue.  If we can’t respect our own hair, we can’t expect others to do so.  Even when we do embrace and love our hair, we must actively demonstrate that respect so others will follow suit.  There must be strong role models, who appreciate themselves and encourage others to do so.  There must be resources that promote, uplift and positively reflect what is seen in the mirror. There must be tools given to help our curly cuties navigate situations where they can be made to feel secure and confident in who they are as opposed to “distinctly other”.

I’ve read that when you let other people’s negative words effect you, you are giving away your power. I’ve been guilty of this. I’ve seen it happen to my children.  I want to provide them with tools — arrows in their quiver and at the ready — so that they can respond to whatever anyone says with respect for themselves and their hair, their power fully in their possession. It’s not about creating an air of superiority, nor is it about going H.A.M on someone who just doesn’t get it.  As much as I chafe under the idea that I have to teach someone else how to treat me, thereby teaching them how to treat others, it must be done in order to create and environment whereby natural hair, curly hair, relaxed hair, and all hair types in between are no longer viewed as  novel, but as normal.

Yesterday, as part of a news segment on the Today Show, I learned that a study commissioned by Dove determined that “girls, as young as 5, are six times more likely to have an aversion to their hair if it’s curly. And they’re nine times more likely to believe that if they had straighter hair they would be happier and have more friends.”*

This particular nugget of information was part of a larger discussion of Dove’s new campaign to help girls love their curls.  In addition to Dove’s findings, Nikki Walton from www.CurlyNikki.com was featured.  Walton, a licensed psychotherapist, author, professional blogger and naturalista, weighed in on the issue, pointing out that the lack of self-esteem for one’s hair has been and continues to be an issue in the community.  Citing the aforementioned unrealistic standard of beauty, as well as the psychological root that often hinders personal growth, Walton’s message was clear: If these feelings weren’t really an issue, there wouldn’t be a need for campaigns such as Dove’s.

Listening to the examples given was touching, but I challenge you to watch this commercial and not experience all manner of feels.

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I was good until the big musical reveal to the girls.  Throat got a little tight.  Got a little verklempt.  Can you imagine how different a conversation this would be if something like this had been made 10 years ago? 20 years ago? We might be having this conversation at all.

Last week, I talked about each one, teach one, with respect to having the girls learn how to do their own hair.  Respect of one’s hair must be included in that lesson as well. . . maybe a few shaolin moves for those who get too close.

*Dove, “New Campaign Aims to Help Girls Love Their Curls“.  www.todayshow.com. 20, January,2015.
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IN: hair ON: January 21, 2015 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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hair

Each One, Teach One

Yesterday, I took M and C to the hair salon to get their hair cut. More accurately, they got a trim, but you would have thought the 2 inches that they lost between the two of them was the equivalent of Demi Moore shaving her head in G.I. Jane.  What pleased me most, however, was seeing them realize how much better their hair felt and looked after it had been cut.  Add to that the fact our stylist left their hair in big, giant afros, flying free also added to their good moods.  It’s rare that I let their curls just be out, and as I de-tangled, sectioned and braided well past bedtime last night, I remembered why. I’m thinking it’s time to let my little curly girlies be more proactive in their hair care.  While they often ask for blow-outs and press-outs, I constantly remind them to love the hair that’s growing out of their heads. If they learn to take care of their own hair,  that can only reinforce what I’ve been saying.   A little self-empowerment can lead to a lot more self-love.  So where to start?

It occurred to me this morning, as scooped my own hair into a high puff, I have been wearing my hair naturally for close to 15 years.  15 years! Sure, I’ve had one or two moments of weakness when I returned to the creamy crack, but in each case, those were brief reconciliations, neither one lasting longer than 10 months.

What surprises me most about my natural hair journey is how much has changed in 15 years.  Women have been wearing natural hair for a long time. That’s nothing new.  What has changed is the prevalence with which natural hair is now embraced, celebrated, encouraged, and applauded.  Maybe, 15 years ago, people were just starting to explore and understand natural hair. Maybe 15 years ago, the scope of the movement was greater than where I was living at the time.    All I know is that when I did my Big Chop, the term Big Chop wasn’t part of the lexicon. A few of my college classmates also did a big chop, each of us for our own reasons. We relied on Elasta QP Gel and Infusium 23 Leave In Conditioner to get our curls coiled and defined.  Our wash and go’s were literally wash — and go. I figured I’d be using Sebastien’s Wet Gel on my curls and coils for the forseeable future. Never would I have imagined that there would be multiple product lines, salons, books, websites, and YouTube channels all dedicated to natural hair.

As time has passed, I’ve learned more about my hair and what it requires in order to stay healthy and strong.  The more information that has become available, the better equipped I am to keep my hair looking good. In turn, I’m able to share that with my own curly girlies in the hopes that they will always love their natural hair.  We have enough products — shampoos, conditioners, creams, gels, lotions, puddings, oils, you name it — to open our own pop-up shop.  A lot of trial and error occurs on our Sunday wash days, figuring out which combination is going to work best for our hair different types of hair. Between the 4 of us, we’ve got at least 6 different curl patterns going.

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I look to hair typing simply as a guide to help me better describe and care for the hair I’m working with.  I don’t subscribe to the “this type is more desirable than that type” foolishness.  All hair is good hair. My job is to keep it that way.

I have the honor of being Test Subject A when it comes to trying out new methods and products in our household.  I figure if it works for me, then we can let it trickle on down through the ranks and let M, C, and V benefit from my experiences.  What I’ve been doing is called the L.O.C method.  This method enables curly girlies to have well hydrated and moisturized curls without having to go through the process day after day.

LOC is an abbreviation for Liquid, Oil, and Cream — though I have seen some bloggers and naturalistas substitute Leave-In Conditioner for the L.  The name itself represents the order in which you apply your products and while it may seem as though you are layering a lot of product on your hair, you’re doing so in order to retain the moisture your hair desperately needs.  The liquid, usually water or aloe vera juice, provides the moisture.  The oil and the cream, preferably a butter based cream, act as sealants to trap the moisture in the hair.

After many weeks of using the method, I’m a believer. My hair is hydrated. My curls are defined. My hands are out of my hair which means, my frizz is kept to a minimum.  My products of choice have been Kinky Curly Leave-In Conditioner, Trader Joe’s Coconut Oil, and then Shea Moisture Curl Enhancing Smoothie. Recently, however, I switched up and used Aloe Vera Juice, which helps promote hair growth, as my L.  I use Jojoba Rosemary Mint Oil from Two Curls One Mission as my O, and the Deva Curl Curl Enhancing Cream for my C.  I finished it with a little Deva Curl Light Defining Gel.

So, how does it all go down?  Well, in the shower, I saturate my hair with the water.  I use a spray bottle to soak my hair with the Aloe Vera Juice and I separate my hair into two sections.  What is tricky about this process is that I work from the nape of my neck forward, meaning, I’m bent over at the waist while I work.  Water up the nose? Yup, that happens, but I’ve found that it’s easier for me to detangle and distribute product when I can see the hair in front of me.

I begin to detangle my hair, one section at a time, using only my fingers.  Once my hair is fully detangled, I apply the Jojoba Rosemary Mint oil, paying special attention to my roots and my ends.  This particular oil smells fantastic and the mint is stimulating to my scalp.  Moving on going one section at a time, I coat my hair with the cream making certain to keep the section detangled.  I then combine the two sections and then, using a dollop of gel, I work that through my hair making certain to coat every strand.  If you’re going to have your fingers in your hair, this is the time to do it. I usually end up with a big wad of shed hair for my efforts, too.  I’ve been told by my stylist, as well as by several naturalistas that this is entirely normal.

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Still bent over, I use one of the Hubs old undershirts over my hair like a turban to absorb the moisture as I finish my showering and dressing routine.

I use the undershirt because that fabric is gentler on my hair. Also, I try not to put a lot of heat on my hair as a general rule.  With the exception of a diffuser on high pressure and low heat, I don’t really use a hair dryer.  For the next six months, I’m participating in a no heat challenge. I’m still eating relatively cleanly, taking some vitamins and drinking lots of water, all of which promise to aid in the hair growth.  I’m excited to see what happens, and if there’s little to no growth at all, well, I know that I’m treating my body very well otherwise.

After the majority of the moisture in my hair has been absorbed by the t-shirt, I unwind it and let my curl fall down.  I put a thin coating of oil on my hand before manipulating a few wayward curls into place in order to minimize frizz.  After that, I may give my head a shake and let things settle a bit more, and then I’m out the door.

Over the course of the day, my hair dries, and shrinkage sets it.  I’m not a fan of shrinkage, but I recently read that if you have a lot of shrinkage, it means your hair is healthy.  After a quick Google search, it turns out shrinkage is a reflection of lack of heat damage and lack of over-moisturized hair.  Good to know!

At night, I pineapple my hair and throw on a satin bonnet.  In the morning, I use a bandana to keep my curls in place while I workout.  When I’m ready to get on with my day, I untie the bandana and let the steam from the shower make my curls fall back into place.

This entire process is way more labor intensive than anything I ever did 15 years ago.  But like I said, a lot has changed in 15 years.  I am fully a part of the natural hair community. I write about it on my blog. I share tips and tricks with friends and family, even complete strangers, who are also looking for the perfect combination to achieve healthy hair. Instead of having my dad touch up my afro with his clippers, I seek out salons that cater to natural hair for quarterly trims. Oh, and I’ve written a book about it, too.  It is more than fitting for the next step in my hair journey would be to help my curly girlies discover and employ the variety of options available to them when it comes to their respective hair journeys.

For right now, I’ll continue to wash their hair myself and gradually build up to letting them take the reins on such a multi-step process.  In the interim, we’ll start with the basics.  First lesson: Mastering the high puff.

 

 

 

 

 

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IN: hair ON: January 14, 2015 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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Start Fresh Sunday

Okay you guys, I’m pulling back the curtain. I’m almost embarrassed to show you this.  This is my linen closet.

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I think I’m pretty organized person.  I’m someone who has their -ish together, about 85% of the time.  But, when I’m feeling myself and am in need of a reality check, I go pull some towels of the linen closet and let the bedsheets, washcloths, and other household detritus come tumbling down around me.  Rather than just folding things nicely and putting things away — which, I did when we moved in three years ago — I’ve just started shoving stuff onto the shelves in a semi-organized system. Towels on the top, linens in the middle, sewing machine paraphernalia, quilts, old pillows on the bottom shelf, and luggage, a pack-and-play and off-season clothes on the floor.  See? It’s organized in that I know what’s where.  It’s not organized in that it looks like I just tossed stuff in and slammed the door shut.  .  .  .probably because that’s what I did.

This thing has gone completely off the rails.

I love organization. A place for everything thing and every thing in it’s place. I’ve always been that way.  I like knowing what I have, where it is and where it needs to go after I’ve used it.  That’s part of the reason why I’m forever haranguing the girls about putting something away after they’ve used it.  Not just because I don’t want to clean up, but because who doesn’t love neatness and orderliness? Growing up, my desk in school was used as a model to emulate (yes, I was that kid).  My locker was a thing of beauty: books color coded by spine, binders stacked by increasing widths, and even my pictures, comics, and motivational quotes that adorned my locker door where organized in an orchestrated arrangement to appear haphazardly thrown up.

I love baskets and fabric covered bins to store everything form hair supplies to toilet paper rolls to magazines.  I want my stuff corralled and I want it to look good.

I have spent copious amounts of time on Pinterest — quelle suprise— looking a pins on great ways to organize, color coding, labeling.  Ahhh, labeling!

I love folders and labels. Satisfaction is emptying out my hanging files and replacing old folders with new ones affixed with labels hot from the printer.  *squeee* !   In the kitchen, I love nesting bowls and tupperware with interchangeable lids. When I decided to give the linen closet it’s proper make-over,the pantry was roped into the adventure as well.  What started out as just putting some groceries away after a failed trip to Target became a foray into putting a little polish on a closet in the house.

Sadly, I didn’t take a before and after of my hard work, because at the time, I hadn’t planned on even tackling the job.  What started out as making room for some new groceries became a huge undertaking of cleaning shelves, removing bags of cereal from boxes, finding the aforementioned tupperware big enough to hold all the loose snacks, flakes, and crispies floating around.  A normal person would have thought it out, measured shelves, checked what they already had and  you know, had a plan, before doing something like that on the last Sunday night of Christmas break.

Suffice it to say, the kitchen was already in disarray between the grocery bags, my multi-tasking making dinner and the next day’s lunches.  Why not add another log on that fire? My tupperware collection is extensive because my mother-in-law likes to bring food with her when she visits.  Some things get frozen, some things get eaten right way, but regardless, the tupperware never makes it back home with her.  I’ve tried to send it back with no luck.  The stuff kept multiplying.  My cabinet became full of more tupperware than I could possibly use. Until, I decided to clean up the pantry.

What is crucial to understand in this story is that this all happened on Sunday, like I said.  Sundays are the days when we really dig in and  get ready for the coming week.  What should be pretty mundane tasks that take little to no time, ends up becoming this bizarre quest for me to suddenly organize everything. Every Sunday without fail, at some point in the day, I start organizing stuff.  It’s like I’m doing a tabla rasa on the past week.  If I can get myself and my stuff and my people organized going into the week, then we’re primed to kick butt all week long!  And every Sunday I find something to organize — the toy box, the playroom, my sock drawer —  but the linen closet is never on that list.

So, the last Sunday of the holiday break. There were football games on, Christmas paraphernalia to be stored, hair to be done, clothes to be lain out, SO many things to be done. I threw open the doors to the linen closet for fresh towels, had a brain cramp and decided that the closet needed to be organized.  I got out my tape measure and measured the height, the width, and the depth of the shelves.  I measured for all the compartments that I thought I was going to need. I got out my clipboard and set out to make a list of the type and size of bins and baskets that I thought it would take to get some order and clarity into the linen closet and some satisfaction into my system.

In my head, I had this vision, partially aided by the flier that came in the mail from Target, imploring me to come and shop their New Year Sale. I mean, how timely right? It’s the new year and people have resolved to get their -ish together — literally and figuratively.  The image that they chose for the flier was a beautifully organized linen closet.  Bins, baskets, rolled towels, labels all facing the same way with the contents of each container artfully written in scripted font.  I took a look at that and thought, “Oh yes, it will be mine!” New year, new me, new linen closet. So, on with the measuring, list making and the trip to Target where I took hold of a red cart, piloted to the Home section and. . .

was completely overwhelmed because I really had no idea what it is that I want.  Do I want the towels for our bathroom to be rolled? Should the kid’s towels be rolled? If so, how many baskets do I get? Do I get bins instead? What about wired containers versus the sea grass ones? If I go with fabric lined, which fabric do I choose? Do I even have a color palette here or are we going for a minimalist look and go clear or opaque? Does clear or opaque even count as a slot on the color wheel? What about the toiletries and cleaning products? I don’t really keep our products in the linen closet, I keep them in the bathroom under the sink in their own little bin. So does that mean I replace the existing bin or try to match it to new bins? Does that mean I have to switch? Does that mean I have to move the bin from under the sink to the linen closet in order to make it work? What if I get some baskets, but then you can’t see them because the ironing board is hung on the shelf rather than on the door? Does that mean I should get towel racks to install on the inside of the linen closet? How did I end up in Health and Beauty and why is there a Chestnut Praline Latte in my hand?

And then pffft! My head exploded.

When I came home, I was in a funk and disappointed at my lack of progress.  I started to put away some of the grocery items and opened the pantry. I looked inside, it was ugh and no better off than the linen closet, which brings us to how the pantry got a mini make-over before the linen closet.  Granted, it doesn’t quite look like this:

but, I made enough of a difference that when M opened the door looking for dessert, she said, “Whoa, the pantry is like really clean now. It looks awesome!”

I didn’t really think anyone would notice, but apparently my hard work showed.  An organized pantry and high praise from my daughter? Double win.

Start Fresh Sunday — yet another challenge of my own creation.  Seriously, though, if I can just get the slate clean on Sunday, we can go into feeling full charged.

I just need to get organized.

Better organized.

More organized?

I don’t know.

I want to take all my organizational pins and make it happen in real life. You know, if you like a pin or re-pin something, it should just appear in your closet, your fridge, or whatever.  Why haven’t we developed this technology?!

The linen closet, that prickly beast that I’m trying to get my arms around hasn’t bested me forever.  I will create a closet that is both aesthetically appealing and functional, like the myriad of pins I keep clicking on and drooling over.  Maybe I can get it together by Sunday.

 

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IN: ON: January 7, 2015 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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