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I’m So Crafty

Valentine’s Day is on Friday and with the coming Snow-magedden, it looks like we’re giong to be home boudn for a bit.  I have been trying to stockpile activities for the girls so that when the come back inside from their five minute romp in the snow, we can avoid tears (theirs and mine).

What I should have done was waited until the last minute to do their Valentine cards, but when have I ever waited until the last minute for anything? Never.  We did their Valentine cards during the Super Bowl pre-game show and I had been sitting on the idea and supplies for welllllll beyond that.

When it comes to crafts, I like to do things that are fun, easy, and take up relatively little time. I spend a lot of time on Pinterest looking at ideas, but I’m not going to be making thumbrpint jam cookies from scratch using jam I made with my organic, hydroponic berries in my DIY 4×4 rubbermaid wheelie tub.  I’m not that kind of DIY.  I’ve got a glue gun, but no glue sticks. I’ve got tons of scrapbooking paper, a Fiskar’s straight edge paper cutter with a dull blade, and an old pickle jar full of multi-colored brads. Truth be told, I’ve got a decent crafting kit.  I can knock out some cute thank you notes if I’m ever in a pinch. When the Hubs coached C’s pee-wee soccer team, I made the team little paper ribbons.  I didn’t spend more than $7 on supplies and the whole thing was done and cleaned up in about 90 minutes. My kind of craft.

Since the girls have been attending school, they haven’t really had to do cards for Valentine’s Day until M hit the first grade.  In kindergarten and pre-k, it was okay if you wanted to do something, but you didn’t have to.  I probably sent in some kind of treat for the class party, but at that time, they were too young to really get the gist of handing out Valentine’s.  Come first grade, though, the stakes are amped up and I gladly accepted the challenge.

The first year, M’s class sent home a flyer instructing the parents to decorate a shoebox so that the children can bring it in for a Valentine’s exchange.  Well, I figured if I was going to decorate the box, I was oging to go all in on the cards, too.   If I have to get out my crafty kit to decorate the box, then I’m about to wreck shop on the Valentine’s themselves.  I’m going full on craft-tastic.  I only have myself and Pinterest to blame. Valentine’s Day 2012:

 In truth, this project is pretty simple.

Step 1: Find a willing participant. Once I showed Morgan what I had in mind, she practically threw my camera at me and struck a pose. As for C, well, she said she wasn’t handing out Valentine’s in pre-k, so she became my (un)willing assistant.

Step 2: Have your subject pose holding their arm outstretched, their hand in a fist.  We tried a couple different poses and decided to use these two.

Step 3: Upload the photo to your editing software of choice and add your desired text.

Step 4: Print out the images using 4×6 dimensions.

Step 5: Punch a hole or make a small X above and below the fist so that the stick of the lollipop slides through the card.  I’d also put a piece of tape on the back so that the lollipop doesn’t slide out.  Forgive the quality of these images. I was trying to make dinner, take the picture, stop the girls from eating the lollipops, and bouncing from foot to foot because I needed to go to the bathroom, but of all the things going on, that one always takes last place.

I printed these out on regular paper, but I would advise using cardstock or photo paper.  The weight of that kind of paper is more durable and less likely to buckle under the weight of the lollipop.  I’m also considering uploading the prints to one of the many online photo websites (i.e. Snapfish, Shutterfly, Kodak Gallery) and letting them do the printing and cutting.

And guess what? In 5 steps, I have justified spending countless hours on Pinterest finding things to demonstrate my prowess as a craft-master.  Everybody wins!

For Valentine’s Day 2013, I went back to my Pinterest board and scrolled through what had been Plan B for the previous year.

Basically, you take a bunch of funny pictures of your little person.  Using a program like Picasa or Google +, you can collage the pictures and add text.  Print out the collages on regular paper (or get extra fancy and print them on cardstock) and affix them to Hershey Kiss filled baggies.   Ta-Da!  Done and done.  I think the most time consuming part was the picture taking and the collage making.  What I love about this one, besides the ease with which it is made, is that the photos totally capture the girls’ personalities.  The bottom right picture for each of them is the pictorial representation of who they are through and through: Captain Crazy and Sweetness.

So, you know I’m at it again for this year, despite having read The Bloggess post about  Valentine’s Day Under-Achieving.  That just simply re-enforced my Type A commitment to this foolishness. I’ll leave you with the link here.   This year, I decided against using photos (don’t want to saturate our audience) and switched it up.

M & C want you to “O’ FISH-ALLY” be their Valentine!

Will You O'-FISH-Ally Be My Valentine?

Again, this was super easy. The hardest part was getting them to agree on what kind of fish to use — Goldfish or Swedish Fish and then trying to get the fish in the bags instead of their gaping mouths! I printed out the little sign from a download and stuck it to some card stock to give it some weight.  We filled the bags with about 20 fish and stapled the card to the bag, sealing it off.  The greatest amount of time was spent gluing and pasting, but again, all told, the whole things probably took an hour and a half.

If the snowfall is anything like what they’re predicting then I had better get back on Pinterest to start planning for next year’s card. We can probably knock it out between the first trip out in the snow and breakfast!

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IN: ON: February 12, 2014 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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Traditions

A few weeks ago, I attended a luncheon where we had to participate in an ice breaker.  This particular ice breaker involved popping balloons that had slips of paper inserted into them prior to them being inflated. When you popped the balloon, the slip of paper appeared and you then answered the question on the paper.

My slip of papers asked, “What do you like to do on Saturdays. . .”

Immediately, my train of thought pulled away with from the station full of competing ideas. What do I like to do? What do I want to do? What do I wish I was doing? Do you mean this particular Saturday or every Saturday? Do I have to be grammatically correct and expletive free? Should I give a safe, vanilla answer or should I just say the first thing that comes out of my mouth?

In a matter of nanoseconds, I sorted and discarded a variety of options before settling on the one that made the most sense.  The fact that it was the honest truth didn’t hurt either. I introduced myself and my connection to the group and read the words on my slip of paper.

“On Saturdays,” I began, looking around the room, “I like to eat pancakes.”

Some time ago, I latched onto an idea of creating a tradition for our family.  I wanted to do something with regularity such that when the girls got older and had families of their own, they could look back and say, “We always did XYZ on such and such day.  I loved doing that!’  Now, the Hubs and I aren’t made of money, so as much as I wanted the tradition to be annual trips to the Vineyard or skiing in the Swiss Alps, I reached for something that was within the realm of possibility.  I decided that every Saturday morning, we’d have pancakes for breakfast.

Mmmmm. . . .pancakes. . .

Mmmm. . .pancakes. . .

Sure, I’ve tried to maintain the family dinner routine, but as it turns out, it’s not so much that every sits around the table and eats together as it is they are all present and accounted for.  On Saturdays, however, everyone is home, we don’t really have anywhere to be — at least not before 10 on most week-ends — and everyone needs to eat breakfast.  Besides that, from a culinary stand point, pancakes are easy to make (hello, Bisquick Shake and Pour), don’t take a lot of time and leave very little detritus when it comes to clean up.  And do I even have to say that pancakes are delicious! I love pancakes! Who doesn’t love pancakes?

Apparently, my family.

My family does not love pancakes.

At first, the girls were on board with Pancakes Saturdays.  They were drowning the cakes in syrup, mopping up remnants with pieces of crispy bacon and planting sticky kisses on my cheeks.  I made small pancakes. I made large flapjacks. I made pancake muffins whose golden tops were studded with bacon or pecans.  I made saddlebags,  sandwiching fried eggs and bacon in between to pancakes doused with syrup.    But several weeks into this burgeoning tradition, when they saw me taking out the milk, eggs, and mix, they began to reach for the cereal, causally reminding me that “Oh, yeah, we’d like some bacon, too, please.”

Several Saturdays went by and I was the only one eating pancakes — which, don’t get me wrong, was delightful to my palate, but left a little smudge of hurt on my feelings.  The Hubs, sweet and wonderful man that he is, took a few turns at the griddle on occasion, making pancakes for me, eggs for himself and pouring cereal for the girls.  I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t disappointed at how my attempts to forge some family traditions had morphed into a short order cook-line instead.  But I suppose, when you sweep away the spilled mix and wipe off the splash of milk, the point was for all of us to be together, spending family time. We were gathered around the family table, laughing and talking.  What was on the plate in front of us was irrelevant.

Pancake Saturday still soldiers ahead with me its lone standard bearer. I’m determined to keep this thing alive — even when out of town, if it’s Saturday and breakfast is to be had, I’m having pancakes.  Back at home during the normal course of our lives, I eat my pancakes as I see everyone else eating what makes them happy.  And instead of the girls growing up saying, “Oh, we always had pancakes on Saturday,” the plot has changed to, “My mom always ate pancakes on Saturday. She would let us bite her bacon and our dad would sneak us sips of his coffee. I loved those Saturday breakfasts. ”

. . .and they lived happily ever after.

 

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IN: ON: February 9, 2014 BY: Hilary
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365 Days Later

A year ago today, I decided to challenge myself by participating in a Photo A Day Challenge. What started as a test to see if I could snap a new photo over the course of the month became a year long contest between myself, friends and followers. In the beginning, I used pre-made monthly challenges from www.theidearoom.net which served to direct my creativity. I found myself turning my eye away from the easy to get shot, instead looking for the clever. I posted all of my photos to my Instagram account and later, created a Tumblr dedicated only to the challenge.

As the months passed, I created my own monthly challenges, picked up some followers on IG and Twitter as I chronicled my progress with the challenge. Several hashtags were created after I challenged my blog readers to pick up their camera phones and snap along with me. It has been all in good fun and I’m so thankful for the experience that I’ve had.

I have been looking back over the photos I’ve amassed and they tell an interesting story. I can distinctly remember the reasons why I chose certain subjects for certain days. I can tell when I was phoning it in and when I was really trying to stretch myself, stylistically. I’ve grown as an artist, as a photographer, as a visual storyteller.

I’ve been asked if I’d do this challenge again and as of today, right now, the answer is probably not. While this one was great and it pushed me to look for the extraordinary in the ordinary, I’m ready to take on other challenges. There are a variety of 365 projects that I can tackle. I can make them as broad as I did with this past challenge, or specific as only blue colored pieces of clothing on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, street signs on Tuesdays, and food on Thursdays. The possibilities are as far reaching as my own imagination.

I decided to celebrate the conclusion of one challenge with the unveiling of the new home of my blog. Hilary With One L was born on Blogger on November 27, 2007, when I was a newly minted mother of two, looking for an outlet to express my thoughts and feelings on motherhood. My first post was three short paragraphs, followed by a quote from Rita Mae Brown (trying so hard to be so deep). I re-read that post now and just shake my head at how simple it was and how far I’ve come. Close to seven years later, I’ve now got three children, I’ve moved twice, I’ve started a flourishing photography business and have some additional projects in the works. When held up to the photographic catalog of the past 365 days, I’ve made some serious strides.

So, if you’re new, welcome to the new home of Hilary With One L. If you’re a seasoned follower, thanks for sticking around. I’m looking forward to sharing where my next strides take me. . .

 

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IN: ON: February 1, 2014 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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I Don’t Like Snow Days

I really don’t like snow days.

I didn’t always.

As a kid,  I wore my pajamas inside out. I did the snow dance and every other tip and trick kids concoct in order to get the flakes to fall.  I relished in the possibility of being home from school while the outdoors was blanketed in velvety folds of snow.  Whether it was powdery or full on frost filled, any snow that closed school was good enough for me.

I grew up in New Jersey, but I’m originally from Massachusetts.  I’m familiar with snow.  A school cancellation because of snow was practically unheard of.  It had to be blizzard style conditions or a massive run on salt leaving the trucks paralyzed in order for the kids to get to stay home.

During one of my elementary school years, the forecast called for a storm of massive proportions.  The shelves at all the grocery stores were picked clean and vultures circled over the parking lots eyeying those fools who thought they could wait until the last minute to get bread and milk.  The schools were locked down tighter than a chastity belt.

No snow fell.

Would you belive the sun came out and the temperatures actually peaked that day? It was nuts.  Instead of slipping and sliding down the slopes, we were outside swinging on the swings.  And this wasn’t the first time the superintendent called for a school closing and nothing happened.  This was like his second or third poor call.  So guess what happened the next time they called for snow?  They didn’t cancel school and it dumped buckets upon buckets.

Of course it did.  It was inevitable.

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When I was in high school, probably around my sophomore year, there were record school closings.  I went to an all girls, private high school with a serpentine driveway that sat high atop a hill. Navigating the driveway to school was precarious on a sunny day what with soft shoulders, lots of  trees and deer.  Add black ice and snow, the headmistress was calling off school just about every other day.  We missed so much school that year, no one took final exams because we never got through the curriculum.  I’m going to say it was my sophomore year beacuse I learned nothing in geometry that year.  Yeah, that’s what happened.

Fast forward to snow days and school cancellations as an adult.  I love seeing that commerical that shows the kids waiting to see if their school is closed.  The anticipation on their faces.  The joy that comes when their school name appears.  The chest bumps, fist bumps and fist pumps.  It’s hilarious.  What they need to show, though, are the parent reactions.

Oh, how I loathe seeing the girls’ school come rolling across the bottom of the TV screen.  And thanks to social media, I get a tweet, a voicemail, an email, a Snapchat, a Vine, and an XPro II tinted IG picture of the school mascot.

Ughhhhhhh. . . .

So here’s what happened this week.

Monday: The girls were off for the MLK holiday.

Tuesday:  With the threat of a snowfall of about 3 inches, school is cancelled.  Nothing falls from the sky except a big blob of bird poop on my windshield.

Wednesday: School is cancelled again.  This time, there is a legitimate snowfall, icicles and the full on winter freeze.  After the Hubs and I shovel out the cars and salt the driveway, I try to finagle a few minutes to myself to write.  Guess how that goes.

Thursday:  The girls have a delayed opening, which for them, is kind of like another day off.  They don’t have to be dressed and functional until 9:30 and because they can’t tell time, that means they can stay in their pj’s saying, “What can we do now?” until I promise to hang them outside by their heels. Which brings us to today.

Friday: They went to school.  For the whole day.

In the counties today, school was closed.  The YMCA was straight pandemonium with kids who should have been in school.  I ran into a friend whose kids also go to a private school that was in session today and we might as well have been rubbing our hands together, laughing “Mmmwhahahaha” at our luck.  It’s been a long few days. A five day week-end for the kids, as M pointed out.

See, as hard it as it may be for you all to believe, it is not a three ring circus, chock-block of good times at Chez Hilary with One L.  I work from home.  When the kids are home, guess who isn’t working.  On snow days, they catapult out of bed with more force than on Christmas morning, eyes bright in anticipation of not having to get educated for the day. When it snows, they want hot chocolate pumped directly into their veins. Their 30 minutes of daily screen time (yes, I do that), is over before they make it to the next level of Candy Crush.  They want to eat every ten minutes.  They’ve read every book, played every board game, dressed and undressed every Barbie.  They want me to build forts, make cookies, have pillow fights, and let them binge watch My Little Pony: Equestria Girls until their brains start oozing out of their ears.

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I’m not that mom.  I tell them to practice their piano. I tell them to do their math drills.  I tell them go play in the playroom.  Go outside and build a snowman — of course that’s a 30 minute chunk of time getting everyone bundled up for a 10 minute run around the yard. Then they’re back in the house for hot chocolate and another snack, usually the snacks that I’ve squirreled away for me because they’re rooting around in the pantry like crazy chipmunks.

So, I ply them with popcorn and turn on the TV.  I put the baby down for a nap.  I run up to my office and tell myself, “She’ll sleep for an hour and change, M &C will watch a movie and then we’ll do something fun.”  Then V wakes up early, M gets bored with the movie, C has eaten all the popcorn and is still hungry and I’ve done nothing but look at Pinterest for some ideas on what to do for the rest of the snow day afternoon.  For a split second, I think about just letting them play on their devices or watch TV or do whatever they like so I can stop being a short order cook and cruise director on this sinking ship.  The tsunami sized wave of guilt that washes over me, though, stops me.

It’s a snow day.  A little more tv, a few more snacks. It’s not the end of the world, despite the names we give these snowfalls and cold temps.  They sound more like Michael Bay movies than weather systems.  Polar Vortex! Snowmageddon! Snowzilla! Snowpocalypse!

I’d watch that – – – with some hot chocolate, popcorn and the girls, from inside our pillow fort on the next snow free snow day.

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IN: ON: January 24, 2014 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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If You Don’t Have Anything Nice to Say. . .

 About a year ago, I wrote a pretty strongly worded piece about being the recipient of backhanded compliments.  I described how another woman simultaneously complimented and insulted me in a single breath.  I implored my readers, especially my female readers, to stop doing such things.  Men don’t behave that way.  Give a compliment because you mean it, otherwise don’t say anything at all. 

In the course of one evening, I was the recipient of both a snarky and a genuine compliment, one compliment from a man, the other from a woman.   One guess as to who gave me which one.

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Last Friday,  I was was shooting some portraits for a mother’s group to which I belong, at a dance studio when this whole thing went down.  The venue was split into two rooms and the main room where I had been shooting.  After each child had their portrait taken, they then moved into the adjoinig room for their practice. The parents, however, remained in the main room until the children were done.

Up until that point, I had been casually talking with some of the parents as I made sure each child had been photographed and that their names had been spelled properly.  As I went to grab some gear out of my bag, one of the mothers called to me to ask about her daughters’ photo.  She was concerned that her daughter wasn’t dressed up enough for her portrait and wanted to make sure I thought she looked alright.

As we walked back over to my set-up where I could check my list, this woman says, “I heard that you are also one of the mothers in this group? Is that true? That is just disgusting!”

“What?” I spun around to see who she was talking to.

“You’re a mom in the group? You look like a kid! That is just disgusting!  And you have three kids? THREE? You’re so skinny! That is just disgusting!”

At which point, I took a deep breath, confirmed that her daughters’ photo had been taken, that it was lovely, and then I walked away from her, using long, strong strides that brokered no argument that our conversation was finished.

Rather than wondering about my professionalism, my head was swimming like, “WTF just happened? Really? Why is this ok? Why does this keep happening?”

Well that’s the thing of it.  It’s not ok. It’s never ok. As a matter of fact, it’s disgusting.  I don’t see what these other women see.  And this is by no means a pity party I’m about to invite you all to attend.  It’s not that I don’t realize that I’m attractive.  I have my good days.  I’m just saying, my awkward phase was a hard one to pass through, so that colors my perception of myself

 This woman, who I had never before me, felt familiar enough with me to attribute my size and my youthful appearance as something worth her disgust.  Her own sense of self, or lack thereof, has nothing to do with me.  She doesn’t know me.  She doesn’t know what battles I’ve fought or continue to fight. 

The rest of the shoot passed without incident. I packed up my gear and met up with one of my girlfriends, N,  for dinner at a restaurant not too far from the dance studio.  Upon arrival, I see N at the bar, chatting with some other patrons.  After we say our hellos, she includes me in the conversation she is having with this father and son who are having a drink before they head downtown for another event.

As we waited for our table, we shot the breeze with this duo. The son we learned had just turned 30 and the dad. . .well, I don’t know what his story was. He talked enough for the both of them, but he was mostly asking us questions about how N and I knew eachother, what we thought of the Saints game and then. . .what year we were in college.

This dude thought I was a junior or a senior in college. When I said that I was 35, married with 3 kids, he straight up called me a liar.  Then he apologized, saying that I was beautiful and that I must have some really good genes.

That was it.  There was no side dish of derision served up.  There wasn’t any underhanded coda to his remarks.  He paid me a compliment, which I accepted, and then we talked about something else.  Had this exchange not happened, I probably would have never sat down to write this piece, but over the week-end, the whole thing was a splinter in my side.

You may say that I’m naive and of course an older man is going to pay a young woman a compliment, especially if you’re standing at a bar and everyone has a drink. I’d like to think that he and I could have had that same exchange in any venue — at the gym, at a church, in a bookstore.  It doesn’t have to automatically mean that there is an agenda going on.  A compliment was given and a compliment was accepted.  Done.

So, all that being said, I’m working on my arsenal of retorts for when situations like the one at the dance studio arise.  I wasn’t prepared last year when the woman said, “You’re so skinny, you whore!”.  I wasn’t prepared when this other woman said, “You have three kids? You’re so skinny! That is disgusting!”

I’m going to be prepared going forward.  Part of me wants to just go for the jugular and retort something like, “It’s disgusting? You’re husband doesn’t think so,” but I’m too classy for that (plus, that just came to me).  Maybe if someone says I’m skinny, I’ll offer to take them to gym with me.  Or offer to slap the burger and fries out of their hand.

Or maybe, I’ll just walk away with long, strong strides, effectively ending the conversation, for as George Bernard Shaw said, “Silence is the most perfect expression of scorn.”

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IN: ON: January 13, 2014 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Best Laid Plans. . .

I had really planned to stay on top of the blog once this new year rolled aournd.  Of course, when you make plans, life gets in the way and reminds you that you really don’t have a say in the grand scheme of things.

Truly, my goal of the new year was to make it to Monday, the 6th, which was when the girls went back to school.  On the eve of back to school, C complained of an upset stomach. This had been an ongoing thing with her probably since New Year’s Eve.  Dear sweet C, finicky eater that she is, had completely fallen off good eating habits during the break.  Hadn’t we all, though?  Still, I don’t ever recall my grandma letting me eat ice cream for breakfast, stay up late, sleep in, and do all manner of devil may care type shenanigans.  I digress.  The 6th finally arrived and after I had successful delivered them to school, a little bit of a praise break ensued.

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I was so sure that life would return to some sense of normalcy. Again, the best laid plans of mice and men, aimirte?

Suffice it to say, all of that good time going on caught up with C. Your girl gets sent home early for horking up her goldfish in the classroom wash sink. Now, before you get all CPS on me and call me callous and unfeeling, let me tell you that I was truly concerned.  Sure, I had a split second of, “Really? On the first day back?” but that was immediately followed by my Ego slapping my Id upside the head and my maternal instinct kicking in.

With gastric related issues, the kids have to be kept home from school for at least 24 hours.  The remainder of the day and into the next, C regaled me with how her tummy was good, not so good, okay, kind of funny, hungry, rumbly and everythign in between.  Because of her limited 6 year old vocabulary, I took to having her draw me a picture of how her tummy looked when it was anything other than okay. 

(Arrrgh!)

Not encouraging.

It’s frustrating not being able to help your child. I tried to explain to her what was happening, how her “plumbing” was clogged, but even the most simplistic terms were not allowing her to make the connection.  She was clearly uncomfortable, and she, too, was frustrated because she couldn’t articulate what the matter was.  A visit to the pediatrician provided us with an answer: reflux and constipation.

She was so backed up from eating poorly and being out of sync with the normal routine, it was giving her GERD.  Ugh, my poor little biscuit.

We have been on a steady diet of fiber rich foods, lots of water, and strict bedtimes.  She’s not happy about that, but after she “handled her business”, there was a noticeable spring in her step.

So, I relay all of this as an excuse attempt to reassure you, my dear readers, that I haven’t totally disappeared or forsaken this little piece of blogosphere for something else.

As a matter of fact, I have a few things I’m working on which I hope to reveal as they come to fruition and completeion.  I know the last time I said that, I ended the post with a snapshot of a sonogram.  Relax yourself, Hattie — that was a one time thing. No more wee ones, just some creative ideas that I’ve been marinating on and am ready to fire up.

Stay tuned!

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IN: ON: January 10, 2014 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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I Resolve. . .

The new year is not even 24 hours old and I’m already throwing in the towel.

I can give you an example of how in one day, I did the complete and utter opposite of everything on this list. I suppose I could give myself a gold star for being committed to being contrary. 
I just wanted to write a little something about a whole lot of nothing before the day got away from me. You know, just another Wednesday.  Now, it’s an hour and a half before Thursday and I’m still typing when I should be snug-a-bug comfy in my bed.

When you are sitting with your hands poised over the keyboard, not typing anything because you’re desperate to end your post with some kind of cheeky witticism, it’s time to go to bed.

Sweet dreams.

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IN: ON: January 2, 2014 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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