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| photos by hgd photography
That suit gets shorter every year and one of these days, it’ll fit you just right. Until then, in my heart, I’ll keep you as little as you were when we first met.
August 23, 2005
12:39am
7 lbs. 10 oz.
21 inches long
I love you to the moon and back.
I love you batches and batches.
I love you, my gorgeous girl.
Happy, Happy Birthday! |
I am drawing upon some previously unknown reserves to finagle a few minutes to sit down and cough this up. We are in the homestretch!
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Summer vacation is just about done and we made it. It’s not like it was a huge obstacle to overcome, but I was a little uncertain at the beginning of June when the weeks and week stretched ahead of us, shimmering with tentative plans and chlorine.
Interestingly enough, the girls are ready to go back to school this year. We had a good run with our activities and playdates. We have spent so much time at the library, the girls have taken to re-shelving books when they’re done making their selections.
This week, I started the unwelcome task of putting the wee ones to bed at a reasonable time, only to wake them up when the day just starts to break. I can’t fathom trying to hit the ground running next Monday on the first day of school (well, I can fathom it, but I’ll be out of town and won’t get to experience it) without having had a few warm-up drills. The orientations that the girls have this week have served nicely as a raison d’etre to get up and at ’em the past few days. On top of the that, Mo is turning 8 on Friday and is practically vibrating with excitement. No, not practically .. . is. She is vibrating with excited. Back to school shopping done! New first day of school outfit ready! Orientation! Birthday! It’s a wonder she hasn’t combusted from it all.
As for me, I’m quietly putting things in a suitcase as I prepare to make my escape departure for a long week-end in Las Vegas with my sorors. *ahem* I mean, my saw-rahhhhhhhhhhs! This trip has been in the works for a while, plus the fact that I get to have some quality time with seven of my sisters?! No kids? No spouses? No kidding, it’s about to go down!
My parents and the Hubs are acting like I’m coming up for parole. “Just hang on for a few more days,” has been the constant refrain whenever I start to get the look. You know, this one. . .
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Oh, I give the stinkeye like it’s my side hustle. It’s a wonder my face hasn’t frozen like that. But, I digress. I’m looking at my planner to see what all must be done between now and the time I throw my bag into the waiting taxi. Quite simply, a crap-ton. I’m not worried about it, though. Your girl here is a list maker and a planner. It’s all handled. And come the first day of school, I’ll flip my “Summer Vacation 2013” folder inside out, take a Sharpie to it to write “Summer Vacation 2014” and gear up for the next go ’round.
This past week-end, I was fortunate enough to attend an “Eat, Drink and Be Married” celebration for two of my college friends, both of whom had gotten married within months of one another. It was a great time spent with a handful of folks from my college days, their spouses, stories about what we’ve all been doing over the past handful of years and so on.
Despite the abundance of seating throughout the house, we all congregated in the kitchen. It never fails; host a party and the crowd is drawn to the heart of the house buoyed along by laughter and the promise of food and drinks. As I stood around, sipping on a delightful vodka limeade, I watched my friends engaged in conversations, sharing iPhone photos of their little ones and reminiscing about “that one time, at the delis. . .”. Looking at these little pockets of catching up, I realized, that no one’s parents were in attendance. I mean, someone’s parents were in attendance; all of us there were parents, but our parents were conspiciously absent. We’ve become “the parents”; we’ve leveled up.
I had a second drink on which to mull that over.
One of the ladies must have seen the wry smile on my face because she asked me what I was thinking about. I shared with her my observation, to which a look of “buzzkill” flitted across her eyes before she shook her head in acknowledgement of my observation. She hated to admit it, but I was right.
“God, that’s so weird,” she remarked, pressing a hand to her abdomen as if she couldn’t even digest the thought. “I still feel like I’m 17!”
Oh yeah, I get that. I don’t feel like I’ve got 13 years between me and my last day of college. I don’t feel like I’m old enough to have an 8 year old (I don’t know what that’s supposed to feel like, actually). I don’t feel like I’m old enough to be standing around someone’s kitchen a la The Big Chill for the 2013.
After I left the party, I headed home to help The Hubs get ready to entertain some friends of ours who were coming over for dinner. We got the girls fed, scrubbed, and pajamma-ed just as our guest arrived. The girls said their hellos, and beat a hasty retreat to their rooms to play until they were called to go to bed. As The Hubs and I sat around the table with our friends, we were laughing, debating, pouring wine and just enjoying adult conversation. It shouldn’t have surprised me when C materialized at my elbow saying that she was tired and could she just go to bed now, but it did. It was deja vu in several ways.
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I can distinctly remember being 7 or 8, having been summarily dismissed by my parents as they nibbled wine and cheese with their friends. After a good 30 minutes or so, I would creep back downstairs to observe them doing whatever it was they were doing (usually eating, playing cards and talking shit), before striding into the room to announce that I could not sleep and could they please keep it down. Somewhere between that announcement and my being escorted back to bed, I filched some chips or nuts or whatever munchies were on hand, maybe a sip of my mom’s drink, or a dollar from the pocket of a generous neighbor.
There were definite perks of being the youngest kid in the house and of my parents’ social circle.
Now, here I was on the other side of that circle, giving C a taste of my dessert before showing her back to her bed. Surreal just touches the tip of how I felt.
When you level up in a video game, there’s usually some booming announcer voice, or some blinking icon dancing across the screen, bleating “Level Completed! Level Completed!” When you notice the change in perspective — instead of peering through the forest of panty hose clad or chino encased legs as you fight back yawns with a teddy tucked securely under your arm, you’re smoothing the panty hose on your leg or brushing a crumb from your husbands chinos, picking up a teddy to place back onto some Hello Kitty or Star Wars Bed comforter — that’s when you know you’ve leveled up.
Chances are, you probably didn’t press right arrow, left arrow, X +Y to get there, either.
Pow! Here it is, your August Photo-A-Day Challenge.
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For those of you unfamiliar with the Photo A Day Challenge, I’ve provided you with a list of prompts or suggestions for each day of the month. On the designated day, you snap a photo of the suggestion or a photo of your interpretation of the suggestion and post it to Instagram. You can add a caption to your photo, as well as the hashtag #hilarywithonel so we can keep up with you. If you input #hilarywithonel in the Instagram search box, you’ll be able to see what others have already posted.
Don’t beat yourself up if you miss a day. It’s just a fun way to be creative. No penalties for missed days, and no prize for hitting all the days – well, satisfaction is a prize in and of itself right?
Snap on, my friends, snap on.
The other day, as I was ferrying groceries from the car to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the pantry and from the kitchen to the upstairs, I started thinking about the cycle I’ve found myself in. I don’t get political on my little piece of the blogosphere. I don’t raunchy, get up on a soapbox, beat my chest or tear my clothes. I keep things light and entertaining.
I have, in my possession, more than a little bit of useless information that will serve me well on Family Feud or Jeopardy one day. I put the well-being of myself, my husband and children at the forefront, making sure that everyone is well fed, well-groomed and well mannered before setting them free into the world. I find, though, that there’s a little flame sputtering inside of me, gasping for some air so it can blossom into something more. That little flame is a desire to be fully invested in a cause, a campaign, something that is permanent and worthwhile. Something that has some weight behind it.
I can remember reading various magazines that profiled everyday people and celebs who, after being faced with a serious disease, become champions for awareness and eradication of said disease. Call me a cynic, but if they never fell ill in the first place, would they have come to be such a supporter after all? Through my membership in various organizations, I’ve given money, time, and energy to the March of Dimes, CASA, Heifer International, and Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. Thankfully, my family — nuclear and extended — has been healthy. The biggest challenge we’ve faced so far is a bout of contact dermatitis and while we’ve worked through it, I’m not called to be the face of prevention and care.
I do want to invest in something, though. I want to roll up my sleeves and become fully immersed in a subject and the ways volunteers can spread the word about it. Maybe because I recently re-wrote my will, I started thinking about my legacy and I want it to mean something.
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I saw the above quote while trolling through tumblr one day and felt like the words reached through the screen, wrapped themselves around my heart and squeezed really, really hard. I try to be a role model for my children, for my friends children, for my friend even. I don’t set out to do it every morning, mind you. I just do the best that I can with what I’ve been given. I’m fallible. I make mistakes. I snap at my kids, let my husband make is own dinner, and eat Cookie Butter right out of the jar with my fingers. Yeah, really. But I keep coming back to this flame flickering inside of me, this urge to want to do something, learn something, embrace something that gives me a sense of satisfaction that I’m not getting right now. I know that I’m capable of great things. I do great things every day. I also know that I’m capable of something more. I just have to find out what it is. I am desperate to know, because I truly want someone to look at me and say, “Because of you, I didn’t give up.”
There had been an article in Real Simple (my go-to mag) about how to ensure your charitable contributions are actually received and disseminated to their intended recipients. When you see things about sending five cents for clean water, or 20 cents a day feeding a hungry child, how do you really know where your money goes?
The real question is, what do I feel passionate about (clearly it’s not grammatical correctness)? The usual suspects when it comes to charity and volunteering boil down the these:
1. Environment
2. Arts & Culture
3. Hunger
4. Education
5. Children and Families
6. Grassroots Initiatives (which I had to look up because it was SO not what I thought it was)
7. Animals
8. Health
9. Water and Sanitation
10. Disaster Relief
They’re all important. I can tie to myself to any and all of them, no matter how thin the thread. Which of them, though, is the one that speaks to me? Which of them is the one that will reach out and squeeze my heart so that I will give, participate, and not give up?
If there is a cause that speaks to you, please share it in the comments.
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Thirty-three days.
One month and two days
4 weeks and 5 days. 792 hours.
47,520 minutes.
2,851,200 seconds.
All of our scheduled activities are behind us. The remainder of summer stretches in front of us, a distance speck on the horizon that comes closer with every passing day. I can clearly recall the beginning of summer lumbering toward me like a bristling, tusked wildebeest. Now, here I am, with the better part of the summer behind me, wondering where it all went.
There were camps. There were visits to the grandparents. There were those two weeks of recuperation from tenolysis surgery where I ended up doing less convalescing and more running interference between the children. There was the week to myself while the girls were away, followed by several days of foolishness with my brother.
We had swim team. We had play dates. We went shopping. We went to the library. We went to the fountains at the mall. I wrote. They colored. The TV was on and the gaming system put to use. I followed my own advice and said “yes” to the things that were fun, that I would really enjoy doing with the kids and “no” to the things that would require more of me than I was willing to give.
I want our summers to be spent at the beach, dashing to and from the surf, our noses peeeling, our bodies a chestnut brown and smelling of sunscreen and sunshine. I realize that sometimes it can’t always be that way, so you make the best of what you have and plan for the future.
Ultimately, summer is not about how much you can cram into your days so when the first day of school comes around, you can crow about how busy you’ve been. There’s no prize for filling up your summer with camps and activities, unless you count fatigue. I don’t. There were days and I’m sure there will be a few more, when I reconsidered my stance on having the girls go to camps. Then there were other days when the planets aligned, and I was more patient. The girls responded in kind and that made for wonderful times.
My oldest spent the better part of the summer asking me what comes next, what comes next, what comes next. Finally, I told her that it was frustrating for me to be harangued like that. I explained that sometimes, I didn’t know, or sometimes I’d rather not say for fear of the wrath of disappointment that could follow. I don’t know what comes next between now and the first day of school. Probably more of what we’ve been doing — library, pool, visiting family and such. Maybe we’ll go to the zoo or Maymont. Maybe we’ll play with some friends at the playground. Maybe we’ll all take naps (yeah, right!). I’m not worried about it, though. The next day will come and we’ll keep on going strong all the way through to the end of the season.
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On the 14th, the photo-a-day challenge word was “love”. Rather than snap a photo of my family or some bacon, I decided to share a more personal representation of love. Above is a box of love notes that I have written to my daughters over the years.
Now, before you string me up as an over-achieving super mom (not that there’s anything wrong with that), let me say that I can’t take credit for this project. It was something that I decided to do after reading an article in Real Simple Magazine entitled “Inside the God Box“.
In the article, author Mary Lou Quinian relates how her own mother began a tradition of placing petitions to God in an ordinary trinket box. Any concerns, pleas, requests for help, guidance or faith all went into the box, often times written on “any old piece of paper—the back of a receipt, a torn paper towel, or a while-you-were-out slip sufficed”. The petition would be dated and inserted into the box. What began in the late 1980s with one box blossomed into 10 boxes bursting with notes by the the time Quinian’s mother passed in 2006.
Quinian didn’t realize how fully invested in the box her mother was, chalking it up to her mother’s strong Catholic upbringing, until she discovered the boxes, brimming with nearly every concern and care she and her brother shared with her mother over the years. Reading Quinian’s words about her mothers constant thought for the well being of her children, her husband, family, friends and even strangers plucked something inside of me. When I first read this article several years ago, I was probably trying to do my best to be the mother that my girls deserve. Parenting is a fluid experience; what works one day probably won’t work again tomorrow. There are highs and lows and while you are in the thick of it, you wonder if you’ll ever return to some semblance of normalcy. Someone once told me that with parenting, the days are long, but the years are fast. At the time, I scoffed it off as some ol’ empty nester regret, but I now know how right that person was.
I want for my children to have wonderful life experiences that shape them into outstanding young woman and citizens. My greatest fear is that my children will look back on their childhoods and say, “My mom always said ‘No'” or “We never really did anything outside of school, sports and Kumon.” Sure, I want for our family to have adventures and make memories that spawn inside jokes and impromptu re-enactments. I also want for them to have good manners, well rounded educations, and all the bits and pieces that will serve them well in life. What I don’t want is for the fun times, the love that I have for them, the pride that I have for them to get lost along the way.
Enter my version of the “God Box”. I took the lead of Quinian’s mother and just started writing love notes to the girls whenever I thought to do so. Whenever I would “catch them doing good” as the phrase goes, I noted it and put it in the box. Then life got in the way. I don’t know where or when or how I fell off. I just did. My box sat in the closet for months, then years. It moved with us from Norfolk to Richmond. It moved from my closet to my office. From my office in plain view to my office cabinet. And then, I pulled it out and decided, I needed to write some notes. Should I bang off a few and post-date them? Should I write an apology note to each of them for not sticking with it, as I encourage them to do when facing a new venture? I pulled out a pad of patterned scrapping paper and some markers and got to work. I ended up reminding them individually of how much I love them. I wrote out my prayer for the health and well being. I wrote about my pride in their recent accomplishments. I wrote about how I’ve noticed that the days are long but the years are fast, especially when we’re all fitted snugly in the rock-a-bye chair. I wrote and I wrote, maybe a dozen little notes in all in one day.
I capped my markers and flipped my pad closed, placing them all in my work-bag so that they are never far from hand. As for the box, I’ve left it out on my desk with the lid off. It’s a reminder to fill it up with notes of the good things all around me, especially when the days seem long.