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Sounds of the Season

On the way to school this morning, DJ Mo-Dizz was in the back seat calling out her all time favorite Christmas songs. Topping the list was “Carol of the Bells” (color me surprised), selections from the Nutcracker, and “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” by the Jackson Five.  Not a bad little playlist she has going on there.  
Not to be outdone, Co chimed in that those were her favorite songs, too, and couldn’t I please turn on the Christmas channel on the radio.  
“Lite 98! Lite 98!” Morgan crowed from the backseat as I fumbled with Pandora on my phone at a stoplight.  
“I know, I know,” I said, but evidently, before 8am Lite 98 is still playing selections from the Hall and Oates and Peter Cetera catalog. No Christmas music.  I hit search on the XM radio, hoping to find some holiday music, but came up with “No Diggity” on the 90s channel, “I Need You Tonight” on the 80s channel, and “Jar of Hearts” on the Blend.  
We were going to miss out on some holiday tunes before the girls got to school if I didn’t get it together.   Going with one of my favorites, “All I Want for Christmas Is You” by Mariah Carey (the original, sans Justin(e) Beiber), I created a holiday station that got their little voices rising and falling with the chorus of “Joy to the World”, “This Christmas,” and “Santa Baby.”  
With the advent of Spotify, Pandora, I Heat Radio and the rest, my iTunes Christmas playlist is practically a relic.  Still, in the month of December, I like to load it up, turn it to shuffle and let it do it’s thing.  If you don’t have these on your rotation, do yourself a favor and add them before you get put on the naughty list. 
1. Walking in a Winter Wonderland by Peggy Lee
2. What Child is This by Vanessa Williams
3. Stay a Little Longer Santa by Shemeika Copeland
4. Santa Baby by Eartha Kitt
5. Carol of the Bells by the American Boys Choir
6. My Favorite Things by the Supremes
7. Sleigh Ride by the Ronettes
8. Baby It’s Cold Outside by Dean Martin
9. The 12 Days of Christmas by Straight No Chaser
and of course, number 10. All I Want for Christmas (Is You) by Mariah Carey.  I know there’s a video of Mariah frolicking in the snow, and I know that there’s a video of Mariah and Bieber frolicking through Macy’s.  The video below, though, will get your holiday spirit soaring, or maybe just your sides splitting.  

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IN: ON: December 6, 2012 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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You Got Some Explainin’ to Do

I was driving the girls home from school the other day, listening to them talk about what had happened over the course of the morning and early afternoon.  Their chatter was pretty mindless, filled with descriptions of who reigned supreme on the monkey bars, who got called out during Comments, Questions, and Concerns, and why some parts of their lunch continue to remain uneaten (see: I do not like “crasty” sandwiches).

As we looped through the neighborhoods back to our own house, somehow their conversation turned to Vivi, what she had been doing, how cute she was, and oh, by the way, how’d she come out of your tummy anyway, Mom?

Mo, the current know-it-all in the bunch, volunteered to set Co straight.  “See,  what happens is that Mom goes to the doctor and they just cut her open and pull the baby out. “

Mo knows that she was born via C-section, but when we talk about her birth story, I know I didn’t use words like “cut” and “pull”.  Mo likes to rile her sister up.  This time, it didn’t work.  Whereas Mo is my more cerebral child, Co is my comedian.  Her take on how they were born?

And I quote: “Mom just pooped us out! Bwhahahahaha!”  I think she likes saying “poop”.

Far be it from me to allow either of those pearls of wisdom to be perpetuated on the playground.  We ended up having a rather in depth anatomy lesson and birthing story on the way home.  Oh, how to begin?  Well, since they weren’t interested in the beginning, we could skip to the end.  They knew the baby was “in my tummy”, so I wanted to make sure that whatever I said was truthful and accurate.  I was completely making it up as I went along, but I think it worked.  You decide.

Me: Okay, so you know how men and women have different body parts? Well, a woman has a muscle in her body called a uterus.

Co: Do I have a uterus?

Me: Are you a woman?

Co: No, I’m a kid.

Me: massive eye roll. Yes, but you are a young woman. A girl. A female. Not a boy, right? So you have lady parts.  And one of the lady parts is a uterus.

Mo: Mom?

Me: Yes?

Mo:  Can you please tell the story?

Me: Yes, dear.  Alright, so you’re with me so far about the uterus, right?

silence, so I take that as a green light and push forward. 

Me: Okay, so a woman has a uterus.  The uterus is like a house that the baby lives in as it grows.  That’s why a woman’s middle gets big as the baby grows.  It looks like it’s her stomach, but it’s really the uterus.  Your stomach is where your food goes.

Co: When do you poop it out? *giggles*

Me: You don’t poop it out.  What happens is. . .well, okay, so you know how I said that the uterus is like a house?

M & C: Yes. . .

Me: And when you are ready to leave the house, how do you come out?

Co: Through a door!

Me: Right, so the vagina *ugh, please don’t let them repeat this on the playground, please don’t let them repeat this on the playground* is like a door that the baby goes through in order to be born.

*and here’s where I die a thousand tiny deaths*

Mo: But. . it’s so SMALL!!

Me: I know, but it’s a muscle like the uterus and it stretches so the baby can come out.  And, if you’re lucky, it’ll snap back when it’s all over!

(image)

Mo: So when do they cut it open?

Me: Well, sometimes the baby can’t fit through the door or the baby is trying to come through the door the wrong way. Sometimes a doctor has to help the baby come out by making an incision to –

Co: What’s a in-siss-on?

Me & Mo: A cut.

Me: But an incision is more precise and it’s a medical procedure..

Mo: Mom, the baby.

Me: Yeah, I know.  So, going back to the house and door. What if you were trying to get out of the house and all the doors were locked? How would you get out?

Mo: Through a window!

Co: Out the screen porch! Or I’d wait for you to come home and open the door.

Me: Let’s go with window.  The incision the doctor makes is a different way, like using the window instead of the door, to take the baby out. Okay?

M & C: Okay.

Me: Okay. . .who wants a snack?

And end scene.  Whew!  I suppose I should be thankful they weren’t asking me how she got in there, right?  I need to have another house, door, window analogy at the ready. Like, the uterus is a rental property the baby leases for nine months? Not rent to own, or anything. It’s like a timeshare? Oy. . .I got some work to do.

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IN: ON: December 3, 2012 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Oh, hello again!

Ugh, my poor, poor blog.  I’ve been neglecting you, I know.  Thanksgiving has come and gone with a wham! bam! no more turkey ma’am!  And I’m standing here with nary a leftover!

I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving. We traveled to Florida to visit with the Hubs’ side of the family. Fastest trip to and from Florida ever. Left on Wednesday and came back on Friday.  Thanksgiving dinner was outstanding, and I am not even worried that the button and the button hole of my pants have broken up.

I caught myself being super prepared for traveling to Florida.  Everyone had one set of pi’s, an outfit for traveling in and an outfit for Thanksgiving.  Baggage fees are ridiculous and I was trying squash as much in a carry-on as possible.  The first night away from home, I’m trying to wrangle the girls away from their cousins so that they can get ready for bed — an exercise in futility for sure, but you gotta try.

I’m pulling out a pair of lightweight pi’s for Co – it’s 75 degrees in South Florida, by the way — and she turns her nose up at them.  This little biscuit, clad in nothing but a pull-up, starts telling me she wants her other pajamas, the ones with the feet.  I don’t have any other pajamas and I for sure know that I didn’t pack any fleece, footed pajamas!  Yet, Co keeps saying that they’ve been packed.  Like a dummy, I’m digging in the bag that I packed myself, wondering if I put a second pair of pajamas in there.  Finally, I sit back on my heels and say to Co, “Look, I don’t have any other pj’s for you.  This is it.”

“Oh, I remember!,” Co says and literally slaps her palm to her forehead.  She turns to her backpack, tosses aside a Monster High Doll, two coloring books and some crayons before  fwipp! She pulls out a pair of fleece, footed pajamas.  “I packed them myself! “

And so I added “self-sufficient children” to my list of thanks.

Like I said, the trip was quick. I’m pretty sure we spent more time traveling to and fro than actually with family.  Still, the time together was great.  My nephews have grown so much and yet they weren’t too big to play Wii, hide and seek, and whatever else the girls wanted.  It was shame we didn’t have more time, but I’m hopeful we will all get together again soon.

This is the first year in a while that we didn’t watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.  The TV was permanently fixed on the series of football games that were being broadcast.  I don’t mind football, but I would have liked to have at least seen the Rockette’s in the parade this year.

Last year, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade was on television while the family was in the kitchen prepping for the main event.  The girls floated in and out of the family room, pausing in front of the screen to take in the sight of marching bands, super sized floats, and the scores of cartoon characters inflated high in the sky over the crowds.  I checked some things out when I heard the broadcasters mentioned a name or group that I was particularly interested in seeing.  Somehow, between setting the table, shuffling pots and pans, and trying to sneak off with a book for a hot minute, I caught the Rockettes the same time that Morgan and Coever did their pass by the TV.

Growing up, my grandmother used to tell me that she was the first Black Rockette.  There wasn’t any evidence to back up her claim.  There weren’t any fliers, there weren’t any photographs tucked into a worn photo album.  There wasn’t anyone who could corroborate her story.  She just repeated it every year, especially around the holidays when the Rockettes were more visible during the parade and their holiday extravaganza at Radio City.  She was almost Pavlovian in her reaction.  Rockette’s on TV? Here comes Gram, “I remember when I was Rockette, doing all those high kicks. “

For years, I believed her.  Then with the cynicism that comes with early adulthood, I jumped onto Google one year to find out who indeed the first Black Rockette truly was.  Her name is Jennifer Jones and she made her debut in 1988.  Was I depressed at learning the truth? No, I was kind of proud. Gram had been consistently bestowing a gift on me year after year.  Sure, she wasn’t the first, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t be if I wanted to.  Whatever I wanted to be, I could.

Last year, when the girls and I caught the Rockette’s doing their performance, I thought about Gram. I thought about her maintaining her status as “the first Black Rockette”.  When those ladies lined up to do their iconic line kick, I found myself tearing up.   My throat grew thick with missing my gram, and the temptation to just whisper to the girls, “You know, your Great-Gram was a Rockette.”

I didn’t tell them, of course. What with their access to Google and all things digital, they’d quickly figure things out.  Instead, I told the story of how their Great-Gram Eleanor told me she had been a Rockette.  I told them of how she had a department store’s worth of perfumes on her dresser, how she always said, “Hey, doll!” when she answered the phone.  I told them that even though she passed away when Mo was just a baby and that Co and Vivi had never met her, she loves, loves, loves them dearly, and always will. I told them how lucky I was to have had an adult relationship with my grandparents and how lucky they are, too.
I guess I’m getting a little maudlin in my old age. 

But enough with the trips down memory lane.  To catch up on what’s been going on. . .hmmmm. . .nothing and everything.  We have been busy in the minutiae of just living.  Once we got back to VA,  we decided to get a jump on the Christmas season.  We got our tree on Saturday, if you can believe it.  I’m the type of person who waits until a week before Christmas to get the tree and I’m already undressing it on Christmas afternoon.  This is a big step for me!  I think far enough ahead to get the girls’ Christmas photo snapped and our cards ordered.  I decided that I was going to book a few jobs for holiday shoots and it would be best to get mine done early.  I’m glad I did because I had a great shoot yesterday and two in the pipeline.  

And I added “new and repeat clients” to my list of thanks.

My brother and his fiancee came by on their way home from my parents house on Saturday afternoon.  It was a quick visit but a worthwhile one. Their wedding plans are underway and they officially invited Mo and Co to be flower girls on the big day.  There’s an item Mo can check off her bucket list.

We are just moving right along, one day to the next, taking what come along with it.  Tomorrow I go to the doctor and see where I am with my recovery.  I’m hopeful that I can get out of this walking boot once and for all.  I’m running out of wide leg pants!

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IN: ON: November 26, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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What had happened was. . .

So I was in PT yesterday and sadly, Waldorf and Statler weren’t there.  My PT guy and I got right down to business, and let me tell you, it’s surprisingly challenging considering I’m not doing a whole heck of a lot.

The first time I ever had PT was because I had arthroscopic knee surgery when I was in college.  I did the crutches thing for a while, but this was when I was in my 20’s with just myself to look after.  It wasn’t so bad.  The PT was intense because I had to get serious range of motion back in my leg.  I had to learn how to bend it again.  For anyone who has ever had any kind of injury, you become pretty timid when you have to engage that area again for the first time. Considering the amount of pain I’d been in post knee surgery, having to put it back to use gave me some pause.  The therapists know this and they start you off relatively slowly. After a while, they amp up your drills to get you moving and grooving.  My range of motion on my knee was coming along, but my PT person thought I wasn’t giving it 100%. I remember laying up on this table while she manipulated my leg for me.  She mentioned something about degrees of flexion and the next thing I know, my knee is practically tucked up under my chin.  Uh, you know how people say when they’re in pain, they see stars? Yeah, I say the whole Milky Way, and let me tell you, there weren’t no chocolate involved.

Keeping that in mind, this time around, I showed up in my gym clothes. I was ready to sweat through some leg lifts or walking lunges or something.  I knew I would be walking in no time.

Not even close.

I’ve only been three times and the closest thing to cardio I’ve done is putting a crap-ton of marbles from the floor into a red solo cup. . .using my toes.  The only reason I broke a sweat was because that entire exercise is an exercise in frustration and little else.

When I’m not showing off my pedal dexterity, I spend a lot of time getting my leg massaged.  There are pros and cons to that, of course.  Massage? that’s a pro.  However, you know how in the winter time, lots of ladies like to hang up their razors and go au naturale in the leg hair department? I’m one of those ladies.  Since I got somebody rubbing on my leg twice a week, I’m up to my knees in Nair on a regular basis.  That’s a con for sure, but sometimes you gotta suck it up for the good of the masses. And don’t even get me started on my pedicure situation. Oy!

In order to avoid the potential awkward silences that can come while someone lotions up (it puts the lotion in the basket!) and massages your leg, you are constantly grasping at things to talk about.  We’ve covered kids, restaurants, movies, education, and sport.  Currently, my PT guy and I are coming up with a list of better stories to explain my accident since tripping over a trash bag pretty much sucks as a story and in real life.

Here’s what we’ve come up with so far:

1. Cliff diving gone wrong.

2. Running with the bulls in Pamplona
Outta the way, snitches!
(image)
3. Shark bite.

4. Bar fight.
(image)

5. Choreography mishap on Beyonce’s latest tour.

The hubs and I are going out tonight to a reception at a gallery. I’m sure there will be someone whom I haven’t seen or never before met who will ask me what happened. I hope I can tell them with a straight face!

Which is your favorite? Which one should I use? Got any suggestions?

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IN: ON: November 15, 2012 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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So two guys walk into physical therapy. . .

Monday was my first day of physical therapy for my ankle.  Let me tell you, I have been looking forward to this for a long time.  Then let me say, man, did I do a number on myself!  I mean, I realized that recovery was going to be slow going following surgery and the soft splint. And then the hard cast. And then the boot. And then finally getting rid of the crutches.  I had no idea just to what extent I had lost muscle and mobility until I was asked to do a few things sans la botte.   

I’m laying on my stomach, my feet dangling off the end of the therapy table and I can feel my calf muscle of my injured leg just give up the ghost. I can’t really describe how unnerving that is.  It’s like this:  Ladies, you ever take your bra off after a long day? Then you lay down in your comfy clothes and your boobs slide like two fried eggs up under your armpits? Yeah, my calf muscle is kind of like that now.  

*le sigh*

Anyway, before that great realization took place, I spent about ten or fifteen minutes in the waiting room before my appointment.  Already seated were two older fellows who, by the sound of their conversation, were familiar to one another.  They kind of reminded me of these guys:

(image)

The waiting room was small and I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.  It just tickled me so, I had to share.  They both had these super thick Southern accents which made everything they said that much more entertaining.  So Statler starts telling Waldorf  about how he watched his infant granddaughter while his daughter (dotta) and wife (why-fuh). went out.  Here’s what happened? 

Dotta: How’d ya do?

Statler: Purty good, ’til Ah had to chay-unge her die-puh! Ah couldn’t find a die-pug peen!


Dotta: Die-puh peen! They haven’t used those in twenty ye-uhs!

Statler: Well no wonder Ah couldn’t find one! Good thing Ah had this here duct tape.


Dotta: You wouldn’t day-uh!

And then Statler and Waldorf both cracked up, just like on the Muppet Show! 

Then they moved onto heart attacks. 

Seriously. No segue, nothing.  Waldorf just launched into, “So, after my second heart attack, I had lost lost 30 pounds because Ah couldn’t swallah. Ah had to eat with a fork in one hand and a glass a woe-tuh in the otha.”

Not to be outdone, Statler says, “Ah can just look at someone and gain weight!” Now, I have never, EVER, heard a man, let alone a full grown old man talk about his weight.  Especially not how he can look at someone and gain weight.  That sounds like it would be more appropriate coming out of the mouth of his “dotta” or his “why-fuh”.  

Next topic of discussion was church, which segued into jokes about death and dying.  I’m serious.  These two were in rare form. They had to have heard me snickering because the whole situation was just so ridiculous.  Here are several of the jokes I was able to remember:


So, a cat dies and goes to heaven. He meet St. Peter at the pearly gates and St. Peter says, “Welcome to Heaven.  Whatever you would like to have, just say it and it’ll be yours.  So the cat says, “Welp, I’d like a place where there are no kids.  Kids were pulling on my tail and my ears my whole life.  So no kids. I’d a soft, warm place to sleep and plenty to eat.”

St. Peter says, “No problem. Right this way.” He takes the cat to his little corner of heaven and goes back to the gate.  Shortly thereafter, a bunch of mice come up to heaven and up to the gate. St. Peter greets them just as enthusiastically as he did the cat.  He asks them what they’d like.  The mice confer amongst themselves and decide they’d like a place that is free of mouse traps.  They ask St. Peter if they could have some roller skates for their feet because they’re tired from all the running around they did.  St. Peter agrees.  

Some time goes by and St. Peter goes to check on how everyone is doing.  He starts with the Cat. 

“How are things, Cat?” asks St. Peter.

“Oh, everything is wonderful!” says the cat.  “I feel great. I have a great place to sleep and those meals on wheels were a nice touch!”

*ba-dum-tish!*
Wait, there’s more!
So this woman dies and goes to heaven. St. Peter meets her at the pearly gates (SN: this is a recurring them with Statler and Waldorf, evidently). St. Peter says to her that before he lets her in, she has to spell a word.  The woman is confused by the odd request, but she agrees.  St. Peter asks her to spell the word “God”. 

“G-O-D.” spells the woman. 

“Excellent, ” says St. Peter. “Welcome to Heaven. Now listen, I have to run an errand right quick, and I need you to watch the gate for a second.  I don’t expect anyone to show up, but just in case, here’s what you do.  When they get here, ask them to spell any word of your choosing. If they get it right, they  can come right in.  If they get it wrong, send on down below. I’ll just be gone a second.” And off he goes. 

No sooner does St. Peter disappear does the woman’s husband show up at the pearly gates.

“What are you doing here?!” she asks him.

“Well, I was celebrating your death. I threw out all of your clothes. I sold all of your jewelry and I took shovel to your prize flower bed. I got so carried away, my heart gave out.”

“Well,” says the woman, “you have to spell a word to get into Heaven.”

“Okay, what word?”


*ba-dum-tish!*

By that point, my name had been called for therapy.  All I could do was shake my head and stifle my giggles.  I hope they’re back in the waiting room when I go today.  If not, there’s always the original! 


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IN: ON: November 8, 2012 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Lady Products

This past week-end, the family took a road trip to Northern Virginia to visit with friends.  We got a late start leaving the house as the morning was a frenetic mash-up of gymnastics, laundry, and cleaning.  I would much rather put in the work on the front end so the only mess I’ve got when I get home is whatever is in the suitcase. 
Anyway, the trip to NOVA was going along pretty well until we hit Garrionsville on 95.  Then everything just stopped.  I mean there were brake lights as far as the eye could see and no discernible reason as to the cause.  I can’t call our forward movement “rolling along” because that would imply that there was some kind of forward movement.  There wasn’t any.  
Miraculously, all of the girls were quiet and entertained. I had a book and the hubs was behind the wheel, plumes of smoke curling out from his ears as he white knuckled the steering wheel, silently imploring the traffic to just vanish so we could zip up the road.   He and I both had a a sense of déja vu;  four years ago, we were trying to get up to NOVA for an event, this time leaving from Norfolk.  We crept along and crept along before the traffic came to an excruciating halt right around Williamsburg.  It had taken us 2 hours to go exactly 45 miles.  By the time the traffic cleared (if it did at all), we’d have missed the event anyway.  So, we detoured to the ‘burg, showed the girls the campus and had a very enjoyable Plan B. 
Fast forward to the present: things were looking strangely familiar. Rather than sit on that road to nowhere or bust a U-turn and head home, the hubs took the next available exit.  We rolled through towns that literally had one traffic light.  There were more cows lolling on grassy hillocks than there were signs for McDonald’s, Starbucks, or Panera.  Oh the humanity!  
We drove a handful of miles before coming through into civilization and (praise be!) a Super Target.  SUPER TARGET!!  Sweet fancy moses, that thing is ah-may-zing!  To the Target so everyone could have a potty break and a snack break!  The hubs took Vivi to the snack bar for her bottle and I took the girls with me to the ladies room. 
Normally, when we go to a public bathroom, there are enough stalls for each of us to do our business in private.  Unfortunately, we caught the Super Target bathrooms during their hourly cleaning.  The only available bathroom was the family restroom.  No big deal; we use that one all the time. 
The girls and I go in. I take their jackets and my bag and toss it onto the baby changing table.  I remind them to line the seats and to wipe properly.  I’m trying to distract them because I really don’t want them all up in my business.  See, I had some feminine products I need to make use of and I was really too tired to explain the who, what, and why of it all.  
As I palmed a Tampax into my pocket, ol’ eagle eye Co says, “Hey! Mom, what’s that?!”
“What’s what?” I ask, trying to camouflage my little bag of stuff in my coat pocket. 
“That thing! That thing you just pulled out of your sleeve.”
At this point, I’m trying to re-line the seat so I can go, and also trying to re-direct them to the sink so she can wash her hands.  I’m so busy issuing commands (Use soap! Don’t use that much soap! Use the paper towel, not your sweater! Don’t open the door! Don’t you see I’m on the toilet?!), I almost miss Mo enlighten her sister by saying, “I know what those are! Those are tampoons! They’re lady products that come out of the wall.”
And then the two of them proceed to stand next to each other and watch me while I wrangled said “tampoon” from point A to point B, using my coat as a stragically placed lap shield. At the conclusion of that educational experience, they turned to each other like this:
“Hey, so long as she knows what she’s doing.”

Next time, I’m insisting that the hubs take them in the bathroom with him! I can hear it now: “Mom, did you know they giant Sweet Tarts in the mens wall toilet?!” blechhhh!

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IN: ON: November 6, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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A Response

The other day, I read an article over at Mommyish by Carinn Jade entitled “I Lost By Baby Weight In Three Weeks But I’m Still Not Comfortable In My Post-Baby Body.” By the time I finished the last paragraph, I felt like I could have written that article myself.  Not that I lost any baby weight from any of the girls in the three weeks, but I could strongly relate to the author’s feeling that her outward appearance was not in sync with her inner self.  I started commenting at the end of the article, but it turned into something more.

(image)

When I first saw this quote, I thought, “EXACTLY!” Ugh! I was so disrespectful to my pre-baby body. I have been disrespectful to it for a long time. I went to an all girls high school, where unbeknownst to probably everyone, I never felt like I fit in. Of a class of 66, I was one of three Black girls. Being Black made me stand apart from the other 63 classmates who weren’t.  Being a fair-skinned separated me even further from the two other girls of my race.  Let me explain: I doubt the other two girls had to defend their paternity to our history teacher during Black History month.   My teacher declared that  my father had to be white because:

1. He has green eyes.
2. She saw him.  –> her actual quote, “He must be white! I’ve seen him!”

Oh, okay.  Thanks that dollop of mortification on top of my precarious confidence.

High school is hard enough with fluctuating hormones and constantly trying to find your place in the ebb and flow of the social hierarchy.  Back then, I felt very obvious.  That made me  continuously see ways in which I was lacking.  I wasn’t the crush of the right boy. I didn’t have the right  hair. I didn’t wear the right size; whatever it was, it was bigger (in my eyes) than everyone else.  Everything just wasn’t right.  When it came to sports, activities and school-work, I threw myself into it. That was something I knew and I could do.  Self-confidence about being a teenage girl was elusive.  I was grasping for something that I thought could be conferred on my by someone else.

When I thumb through my yearbooks, I look at myself and think about the time I wasted.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed high school.  There were dances, proms, holiday brunches, sleep-overs and the like.  There were plenty of distractions to pull my attention from cataloging my perceived deficits. Besides, the list was private; I’m sure if any of my classmates were reading this now, they’d be surprised.  I realize now, how much more fun I could have had instead of wasting time thinking about how to be cuter or prettier or (and I’ll admit it) skinnier. I should have been nicer to myself, but since I can’t change that, I can change how nice I am to who I am now.

I worked hard to get to a place where I was comfortable enough to not have my body be my own for nine months.  I worked hard to get back to that place after each of the girls were born.  With every subsequent pregnancy, there was almost an implicit challenge among other pregnant women and moms about how quickly one could shed the baby weight.  We were all (and continue) to compete against one another for a prize that doesn’t exist.

Think about all the scrutiny that surrounded Jessica Simpson and her never-ending gestation. When she did have her little girl, all eyes turned to the scale and the ticking clock perched above it.  The sooner a woman loses weight after giving birth, the bigger a hero she becomes.

When Beyonce popped out Blue Ivy (if you didn’t believe the pillow conspiracies) and popped up on a date night a few weeks later looking better than she had before, you could hear the collective groan from the mommy-verse.  She set the bar way high for the rest of us, came the refrain.  But did she really? I don’t think she turned to Jay-Z and said, “You know what? I’mma make it rain on these broads. Ka-Pow!”  Don’t even get me started on the Victoria Secret Triumvirate that is Adriana Lima, Alessandra Ambrosio, and Miranda Kerr.  The bottom-line is it’s their job to look good.

My job? Keep the kids alive and if they become worldly, well-rounded, well-adjusted, contributing adults, consider that a bonus.

I kid, of course.  My job is more complicated than that.

My pre-baby weight is gone, but so is my pre-baby body.  There’s a difference between the two. I’m grieving the loss of the body way more than the weight.  It’s not a death sentence, though.  Sure, I’d prefer that some things be where they used to be (or at least a little bit higher) and that other things would be more firm, less poochy.  Things have settled differently; it happened after Mo, it happened after Co, it happened after Vivi.  

Because I’m aware of how my body has changed, I’ve always dressed it appropriately. I’m not going to squeeze myself into two sizes two small just because I can pull it up, close the clasps, and zip the zipper.  And I’ll admit it, I’ve got Spanx — multiple pairs (would that be Spanxes? Spanxi?).  Whenever someone would tell me how wonderful I was looking, I would immediately explain it away with something like, “Oof! You wouldn’t believe the scaffolding I’ve got going on under here!”
I felt like I didn’t deserve the compliment. I didn’t want another woman to feel less than because of how she saw me.  I wanted that woman to know, “Hey! It’s a facade! I’m still ten shades of crazy and everything jiggles when I walk.  My boobs must be having an affair with my belly button because when I take my bra off,  that’s where they go to hang out!”  
But I couldn’t say that. I had to be like the Great Danton and maintain the illusion.  I felt like I was the only person who was doing so — then I read Carinn Jade’s article.  She said,
“In clothes, everything superficially looks the same. This mistakenly prompts people to remark “you look fantastic!” or “I can’t believe you’ve had two kids!” It’s always nice to receive a compliment but this one feels more like a jab. The truth? I am so uncomfortable with this new body.    Other mothers tell me how lucky I am to look the way I do.  What they see on the outside doesn’t match what I feel on the inside.  They assume I am confident, that I don’t struggle somehow — because I’ve dropped the baby weight?  The truth is I am confident about very little since becoming a mother.”

Hah! I’m not alone!  I could have kissed her after I read that! Who among us knows what we’re doing with absolute certainty? I don’t.  I’m doing the best I can with what I know how.  I’m relying on my own experience as a daughter, folding in tidbits that I glean from parenting books and magazines and conversations with others.  Do I get it right all the time? Nope.  Do I get it right some of the time? I certainly try.

When I was trying to get back into shape after Vivi, Mo saw my Weight Watchers foodstuffs in the pantry and the fridge. She asked me why she couldn’t eat it, why was it only for me.  Hello, teachable moment.  So I told her how my body grew to make room for Vivi, to ensure Vivi would be healthy and strong.  I told her that now that Vivi was out and about, I didn’t need to carry this extra weight around any more. She seemed satisfied with that answer, but also told me that I needed to share the snacks.

When I was pregnant with each of the girls, every night I would pray that they would have all of my strengths and none of my weaknesses.  As I would roll those words around my mind, I could readily call up weaknesses I wanted them to avoid.  Over time, I decided I needed to call up the strengths instead.  I have to inoculate my girls against low self-esteem.  I have to boost their self-worth, remind them that it’s not tied to a number on a scale, a number in their jeans, the length of their hair, the color of their eyes or the color of their skin.  They will learn to take a compliment, not explain it away.  I can’t guarantee that these things will happen, but I can pray that they will.  Often times one wry word from an outsider can tear down these ministrations, but I will build them back up. And when they see me do that for them, they will learn to do it for themselves and each other.

That’s my job, and it begins with me.

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IN: ON: October 31, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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