Small. . .and Blue

A few weeks ago, the girls and I were coming home from another long day of school and activities. As we trooped into the house, shedding bags and sweaters and such, I started reminding them what needed to be done in order to get dinner on the table as quickly as possible.

They’re hungry when they come home from school. They’re especially hungry when they come home from school when they’ve had piano or tennis or tutoring or whatever else I’ve got them doing to make sure they are well rounded individuals. They’re so hungry, they “literally can’t do anything, Mom, until dinner is ready.”

I, however, am not the only person living in this house, as I like to remind them. It takes all hands to make things run smoothly and efficiently. So, if you want to eat dinner before your stomach begins to think your throat is cut, put down that copy of “Big Nate” or “The School For Good and Evil” and put “Crossy Road” and “Bunny Buns” on pause (you shouldn’t be having screen time anyway) and come set the table.

On this particular evening, I was doling out the chores as the girls made their way upstairs. M headed up first with a reminder to empty the trashes. C was hot on her heels with instructions to bring all of the laundry downstairs. Bringing up the rear was V, trying to dip, dodge, duck, dive and dodge in-between her sisters in order to avoid her marching orders.

Actual footage of the children running from their chores

No luck for her, though. I called her back downstairs and she met me in the kitchen, adamant that she couldn’t possibly do what I was about to ask her to do because: life. It ain’t easy being six.

“I wanna rest, and go to school, and have peace and quiet.”

We had some back and forth and back and forth before I remembered,”Oh, wait a second! I’m the mom!”, whereupon, I got down in her face. Speaking lowly and slowly, reminded her to fix her face and fix her attitude before I fixed my foot up in her behind. Normally, I’m all bark and no bite, but V has tested me in ways her older sisters have not. I actually have to follow through with tough talk.

Thankfully, this chick got hip to the game and stomped up the stairs to pull herself together before handling her chores. Minutes went by and I called up to her, “V, come down and empty the dishwasher!”

Stomp.

Down the stairs and into the kitchen she comes, planting herself between me and the dishwasher.

“Do you see my earrings?” she asks.

I look at her recently pierced ears. In one ear, she has a small gold ball, about the size of pinhead. In the other ear, she has a blue flower, its tiny petals splayed open. “Yes,” I say. “I see them.”

“When you’re mean to me? And when you yell at me? It makes me feel small. . .and blue.” And as she speaks, she touches each ear in turn to make sure I understand.

Her eyes are dancing. The expressions on her face are warring. On the one hand, she knows she ought to look pitiful; on the other hand, she is pretty flippin’ pleased with herself.

The thing with having a smart kid like V is that you can’t let them know you find them hilarious. If you do, they’ve got you. And V is hilarious.

I know it.

You know it.

She knows we know it. And as the saying goes, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

IN: odds and ends writing ON: April 24, 2019 TAGS: funny, funny stuff, honesty, life, my girls BY: Hilary

introspection writing

That Time I Started Writing Again

I don’t even know if I remember how to do this.

It’s been months since I’ve written anything. More specifically, it’s been 5 months and 12 days. Not that I’m counting, of course.

5 months and 12 days. When I’ve made the time to write, I haven’t had anything to say. When I get an idea, it’s usually when I’m in the middle of something else — pumping gas, folding laundry, in the shower. Attempting to abandon whatever I’m doing to grab a pen and scribble it down is like trying to carry gallon of water in my hands to a cup across the floor. Whatever thought I’ve had is up in the ether before I can disentangle myself from a freshly laundered fitted sheet.

I’m a writer that doesn’t write.

I don’t know if I want to display myself any more. I don’t know if I want to share everything that’s been going on. Exhibit my triumphs and my failures. My momma said these are my thoughts and feelings and I don’t have to share. And yet, even as I write this, I know I’m gonna share it.

Why am I not writing? Nothing’s happening. Everything sounds the same. Trite, boring, unremarkable. I’ve lost what makes me special. Did I ever even have it? Ugh, don’t do that! Don’t be a. . .don’t be a . . . What’s the word? What’s the word? Why don’t I have the words?

I don’t have the words. They are loose change that dribbled out of the hole in my pocket when I walked down the street. They are the the chapstick you leave in your best friends car. They are the Starbucks sitting on the roof of your car as you wheel out of the Target parking lot.

I drink coffee and it makes my brain itch. I don’t think my neurons are on speaking terms. Or maybe they’re speaking a foreign language? Mother tongue that I’ve forgotten? Oú est la biblioteque?

I need to disabuse myself of the idea that I will write the combination of words and sentences and paragraphs so compelling, it your hurts chest not to read it again and again. Something like that requires actually having something to say.

I’m mute.

I got nothing.

My fingers are poised over the homerow keys, ten sprinters at the ready in the blocks. They’re waiting for the crack of the gun.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Let me see what’s happening on Facebook real quick.

I’m slowly disconnecting from social media. I’m posting less. I’m commenting less. I’m checking with less and less frequency. Quiet as it’s kept, I’m unfriending names from my newsfeed and ghosting from groups. It feels like the part of the novel where affairs are being put in order before a great change.

Maybe I just need to cut my hair.

Instead of jumping into the deep end of the pool, I pivot and dive into the corridors of Pinterest. I work on my office, curate the space to uncork whatever is preventing the creativity from pouring out. I rearrange the shelves and organize my books according to genre, then color, then size. I pick out storage boxes that make me smile to look upon them. I go a little crazy on Etsy picking out prints for the walls. I am creating in a different way, but I don’t have the words to tell you about it. All I can say is that it looks like Kate Spade threw up in here.

I like it.

Sometimes I want to lift my brain out of my skull and give it a good shake, Magic 8-Ball style. Reply hazy, try again later. The good ideas are in there, I know it. I just can’t see them for all the clutter of pop culture references, random bits of info, and factoids I was assured would be used daily as an adult (looking at you CPCTC).

When my Headspace App tells me to breathe deeply and release my mind for a moment, I imagine my brain detaching from its tether and just floating peacefully on the current cerebral fluid its nestled in. I can almost physically feel a detachment, like tiny belch of release. Sweet relief.

The tv is on.

The laptop is slowly roasting the tops of my thighs.

The phone is in my hand, my thumb scrolling, scrolling, scrolling.

I can’t focus.

I can’t pay attention.

I think I’m getting more dumber-er.

I read books — self-help books whose margins I destroy with armies of exclamation points and arrows, novels whose prose I bite off the page and hold in my mouth to savor, essays and short stories that leave me both destroyed and renewed.

In my desk are pages of ideas. There notebooks with plot summaries, character profiles, and a thousand different ways to say “nice”. What would happen if I just shred it all? What would happen if I just open to a clean page and picked up my pen?

I’ve got a flop sweat going on and my armpits are tingling.

What would happen if I just picked up my pen?

Let’s find out.

IN: introspection writing ON: February 19, 2019 TAGS: honesty, introspection, my life, writing BY: Hilary

introspection writing

Take Care

This summer has been a finger snap. We’ll no doubt be heading into the final third of the summer like we’re being chased by responsibilities and realities of the fall — full throttle, trying to get in as much of everything and nothing as the daylight hours allow.

The girls have been at camp for the past two and half weeks, which has left me on my own to alternately do nothing and everything. This is their fourth summer away and the fourth summer where I have planned to make the best use of my time. M asked me what I was going to do while they were gone. “Nothing,” I replied. That was my plan; do nothing. I spend so much of my time ripping and running, crossing items off of lists, and cross checking iCal with my planner, it’s nice to have no plan at all.

A quote attributed to John Lennon says, “Time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted”. I’ve thought about this quite a bit since the girls have been gone. In the quite hours of the evening, when I would usually be steering the girls toward their bedtime routine, I’d wonder if I’d made the best use of my time that day. Should I have organized the linen closet? Could I have cleaned out the myriad of crumbs and wrappers from the corners of the backseat? I probably could have done the back to school shopping, at least.

As these thoughts bloom in my brain, the mom guilt comes tip-toeing in close behind. You had an opportunity to do, do, do! How could you not have done this, that, and this? Instead of reading that last chapter/watching that last episode/taking that clinic, you could have done that, this, and that!

Thankfully, I’ve learned to smack that noise down before it takes root.

who knew guilt wore sweater vests?

Yes, I could have done those things. I could have done more. I am used to doing THE MOST. However, I’m fed up with the girls coming home from camp and feeling as though I spent so much time on everything else, I’m on empty before they’ve even gotten their trunks into the car.

So, how do I put a cork in the guilt and re-charge myself to be fully present when the girls come home?

I’m practicing self-care.

Self-care is a topic that is batted around quick a bit these days, but not always easily defined. Self-care can seem like squishy, maybe even selfish concept. I’ve read articles and seen blurbs from self-help books that point to everything from “Treat Yo’self” type of experience to an introduction to mindfulness to hugging a puppy. The one thing that all of those articles and books have in common is that self-care is vitally important to your routine and that above all else, it is deliberate and self-initiated. No one can do it for you.

source

I will admit, this is all very new to me. I’m an eager, over-achiever as we all know, so I take comfort in the fact that self care is a practice. There’s no reason rush, no finish line to cross, just small steps to take towards feeling fulfilled and happy. And as we all know, if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. . .

What do you do to practice self-care?

Tell me about it in the comments!

IN: introspection writing ON: August 1, 2018 TAGS: honesty, life, writing BY: Hilary

introspection writing

That Time It Was Summer

It’s been a while, I know. That last post about periods really took it out of me.

Now, though, we are fully immersed in summer. Like, flying leap off the sun baked pool deck into the deep end while the lifeguard and your mother simultaneously yell “No running!” but it’s too late because you’ve tucked your knees up to your chest and let gravity rocket you to the bottom of the well, letting that cold, chlorinated, (and let’s face it, diluted urine laced) water swallow you up, like the last mouthful of melted Flavor-Ice squeezed from the bottom of the tube.

Ahh, summer. . .that magical time of year when the days are longer, the temperatures are higher, and the children eat as though they’re preparing for hibernation.

Remember everything I said last summer about not liking summer break? About not letting my children’s happiness supersede my own? About how dumbstruck I am to hear people say, “I love summer break! I don’t have to make lunches!” — I still own all of that, make no mistake. I’ve tried to enjoy summer, really and truly I’ve tried. I reread an old start of summer post to motivate myself, which read, in part,

I’m hoping that me and the three love-bugs will spend many days outside just watching the clouds roll by and waiting for the delicious melody of the ice cream man rolling through the neighborhood.

There will be sidewalk chalk.
There will be bubble juice and every conceivable contraption to make bubbles.
There will be sprinklers and new bathing suits.
There will be trips to the pool.
There will be trips to the playground.
There will be Popsicle stained mouths and dirt stained knees.
There will be bug bites and lightning bugs trapped in jelly jars.
There will be cook-outs with ketchup stained paper plates.
There will trips to the Vineyard, to the grands.
There will be smiles and laughs and happiness.

Let’s get started. . .

We’ve been on break since the first week of June and by the first true day of summer, I was like. . .

and I make lunch everyday. . .

How do I fill up the time? How do I make the summer fun for the girls without losing my mind? How do I keep the girls entertained while trying to get the mundane stuff done? How do I keep the girls from climbing the walls when it rains or when I don’t have an activity planned?

I became captain of Team Do the Most. There have been day camps! There have been road trips! There have been sleepovers with friends! There have been trips to the pool, the zoo, the Science Museum! There have been late afternoon movies matinees by dinner out at a restaurant of their choosing! Twice! In the same week!

What is happening?!

When I put chin in hand and really think about it, I’m ultimate trying to avoid 12 weeks of this:

Me:

Them:

My father asked me why insist on doing this. When I tell him that sometimes I want to do nice things for the girls, he tells me I’m too nice. He tells me that my kids live a “tit life” (*snort*). He tells me that I don’t have to any of the things that I jotted down in my “Summer ’18” folder (hey, can’t be Captain of Team Do the Most if you aren’t organized).

Me: But, sometimes, it’s nice to go out for ice cream.

Dad: Okay, but you don’t have to do it two, three times a week!

Me:

Dad:

Me: But I like getting ice cream two, three times a week!

Last year, I talked about how I made my kids’ happiness the most important thing. Instead of dialing it back from the marathon of the school year, I have been tacking on another 13 miles and trying to run it with my best time ever. Don’t get me wrong, I want my kids to be happy, but I want me to be happy, too.

I said that I was willing to do the work to change my perception of what summer has to be. I said that I would going do things that make me happy which in turn will benefit the girls in the long run. We go to the movies twice a week — sometimes you just can’t wait for Netflix. We literally spend all.day.at.the.pool — I honestly didn’t think that was something you could do. We go to the Science Museum and walk the entire thing top to bottom, left to right, leaving no stone unturned and no public restroom unvisited.

And guess what? Everyone’s happy! #winning

Maybe we’ll get an ice cream to celebrate. . .

Tell me about your summer plans in the comments.

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IN: introspection writing ON: July 26, 2018 TAGS: activities, honesty, life, motherhood, summer BY: Hilary

introspection

What I Know About Parenting, Part 3

I’m just going to come out and say it. I’m going to talk about periods.

I’ll understand if you want to stop reading right now.

Still here? Fabulous!

It’s challenging to parent a child who is mature beyond their years. Sometimes you can lose sight of the fact that despite how they carry themselves, they are still a child. Case in point, my eldest is 12 going on 45. She is bright, a voracious reader, and she remembers everything. Everything — not just facts and figures, but every McDonald’s Happy Meal Toy that I “donated to charity”, every favorite piece of clothing, every time I’ve ever said, “Maybe” without ever giving a definitive answer.

We’re at the point in her development where she is firmly smarter than me in math and history, my equal in the number of books read, and is just about looking me in my eye. Strange is the day when the little person who fit like a loaf of bread in the crook of your arm is now slipping into your shoes and jacket with ease to go run the trash out to the bottom of the driveway.

M is also very much in the throes of adolescence. We’re experiencing all the changes that come with this particular season of life — a touch of a growth spurt, a sprinkle of acne, a pinch of hormonal imbalance, and a large dose of tween-age angst. And yes, the tidal wave of chaos that comes with starting a period (she died a slow death when she overheard me talking about with my mom, so I know she would die a thousand times if she knew that I was talking about this with *gestures to the crowd*).

I knew that I would have my work cut out for me when the time came to talk about all the changes she could expect as she grew up. We’ve never baby-talked her; she asks, we answer (within reason). As puberty loomed on the horizon, M had an idea about periods that probably consisted of behind the hand whispers exchanged with her friends.

Eight or so years ago, when she saw the sanitary napkin dispenser in a public bathroom, she asked if it was like the machines that gave out snacks and drinks. I told her not exactly, that it was just for grown up ladies to worry about.

Four years ago, when baby V liberated all of my tampons from under the bathroom sink and onto the bathroom floor, we talked about tampons versus pads and why women needed them in the first place. I likened the process of monthly menstruation to getting your home ready for out of town guests. I am the master of on-the-fly analogies. Click here and here to see what I mean.

Two years ago, when she first started asking questions about menstruation, I got her the American Girl’s “Care and Keeping of You.” She read it; I read it. She asked questions; I answered them though my face probably looked like this the whole time:

The truth is, despite my belief that she and I would both be prepared for when the “big day” actually arrived, we really weren’t. I’m not talking about having the talk so that she knew what to expect or not having supplies on hand or anything like that. I’m talking about the bits and pieces of information that only come through experience.

The very first evening of her period, I handed her a zippered pouch that I had put together months before that contained extra pads, some baby wipes, some Midol, a chapstick, a Hershey bar, and some other fun odds and ends that she could keep in her backpack at all times. If she caught unawares at school, she’d be prepared. I practically broke my arm patting myself on the back for all my proper prior planning. The books she read probably had a line or two in there about the benefits of being prepared in case of an emergency. Having me regale her with my memories of navigating sixth grade, part of the Liz Claiborne purse-toting period posse, was more impactful than any cartoon uterus could be.

After we’d talked about how to properly pronounce “menstrual” — her insistence on making it a long -u followed by -s had it sounding like some kind of Scandinavian dessert — and how many pieces of chocolate were really needed to combat PMS, I tucked her into bed. The next morning, M came down the stairs, sheets balled up against her chest.

Me: What happened?

Her: I leaked on the sheets!

Me: Okay, that’s okay. We can wash them. Sometimes, your pad can shift at night and that happens.

Her: What do you mean your pad can shift at night?

Me: Your pad? That you wear at night? When you’re sleeping, it can get bunched up.

Her: You never told me had to wear one at night!

Me: *blinks*

Her:

Despite all of our talks and all of our reading and all of our preparation and all of her smarts and maturity, it never — not once — occurred to me that I’d have to tell her to wear a pad at night. The book doesn’t say to wear a pad at night, at least I didn’t see a paragraph or blurb that specifically said, “Don’t forget to wear a pad at night!” The book also didn’t talk about sticking pads up your sleeves so that you can use the restroom without taking your purse thereby alerting everyone you’re on your cycle.

image courtesy of Jasmin Nahar/Buzzfeed

Okay, yes, the book does remind young ladies to keep their supplies on hand. It doesn’t specifically say that you must do that every month going forward until further notice. M is constantly stunned when she realizes in the middle of Target that she needs to use the bathroom and is completely empty-handed. It’s like Groundhog Day, except for periods. You mean, I need to be prepared? Every time until it’s over? Uh, yeah.

That’s called having a period, kiddo.

So, here’s the parenting tidbit to put in your pocket: You can’t rely on books and blogs and magazines to give you all the answers. You’re going to have to learn and expand upon what you’ve learned by being in the moment. Sometimes, you’ll be caught completely unprepared (Hello, M in the middle of Target); other times you’ll nail it with a finesse that has you polishing your nails on your lapels.

That’s called parenting, kiddo.

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IN: introspection ON: May 25, 2018 TAGS: honesty, life, motherhood, my girls BY: Hilary

writing

#RaisingDigitalNatives

I’ve got a love/hate relationship with social media. In particular, I mean the big four — Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Snapchat. I love being connected with people who I might otherwise not be. I love a good photo and these platforms provide food for my creative soul. I love a good joke, pithy commentary, and hilarious witticisms about pop culture.

I hate, however, how what starts off as a “quick” scroll through a feed becomes an hours long time fall down the vortex of unproductiveness.

I’ve got a Facebook page. I’ve got a Twitter account that I hardly ever use because I don’t get Twitter at all. I’ve got a Snapchat but really just use it for the filters. I’ve got an Instagram account which I love, but even then, I don’t cultivate it the way others do. I post in bursts, rather than a steady stream. Most, if not all of my accounts are public because as a writer and photographer, it’s important to me that others are able to learn about my work.

While keeping my account public has been good for business, recently, it’s been troubling for a reason that really makes me feel weird. My 12-year-old daughter’s friends follow me on Instagram.

I’m not posting anything untoward, but I feel SUPER uncomfortable when I click on an innocuous name and discover that it’s one of M’s pals. The questions slide into my brain like skee-balls ready to be tossed.

Who is QTKayTee05? Wait, is that — – -? How did she find me? Why is she liking all these photos? Does her mother know about this? Should I block her or just ignore it? What’s going on over on her account? *clicks over* Private.

My girls don’t have access to social media, much to their chagrin. I reluctantly let them try music.ally when it was all the hype, and even TBH. That’s one where you can give compliments to people earning gems in the process. Those two were hard-won apps for M and C, let me tell you. I take consolation in the fact that after all their pleading to get the apps, the novelty quickly wore off. Just like with rainbow loom, fidget spinners, and fingerlings, after a while, the girls stopped using it and moved onto the next thing.

I’m in a unique position as are many of my peers. We are digital immigrants — people born before the advent of digital technology. We are raising digital natives — the generation of people born during or after the rise of digital technologies. We are walking a tightrope.

I can clearly remember when we first got internet access in my house. These were the days when waiting for an internet connection was akin to watching water boil.

And heaven help the poor soul who picked up the phone while you were trying to connect.

Nowadays, we’ve got access to the internet 24/7, 365 and we aren’t afraid to use it. Not only do I try to be judicious with how much screen time the girls have, I try to balance my own usage. I’ll challenge myself not to use my phone while I wait in line at the post office or the grocery store. I’ll get a hardcopy of a book rather than use the digital download, just so that my eyes don’t take on the permanent sheen of a backlit screen. I ask myself why I’m scrolling through IG when I should be going to bed. It’s a constant dance of responsibility and one that I am trying to teach by example.

I am constantly figuring out which way to go when it comes to social media and how much of it I’ll allow the children to be exposed to. There’s no one right answer; believe me, I’ve looked. Like with everything else, you have to do what’s best for your family.

The girls have asked me if they can download Snapchat and Instagram to their devices and I’ve drawn a hard-line on that.

It’s a fine line, to be sure. On the one hand, as their mother, it’s my job to protect them from things that could harm them. The prevalence of bullying (cyber and otherwise), shaming, and the scores of social media related foolishness that has become part of this generations make-up is frightening.

On the other hand, I have to instruct them on protecting themselves, both in real life and online. Trying to raise conscientious digital citizens is no easy feat, especially when the medium in which you’re trying to talk about changes so quickly. It’s not enough to just say, “Don’t text anything you wouldn’t say out loud,” and “If someone you don’t know sends you a friend request, don’t just accept it.” We unpack each scenario, talk it out to its potential end, so that they can see how far a momentary lapse in judgement can really reach.

Fold into this mix my own recollection of feeling like the kid who was always last to get the cool gadget or clothes or what have you (Yes, Mom, I still remember wanting these little cloth Mary Jane shoes that all the girls were wearing and never getting them). I want for my girls to be able to hold their own (for lack of better phrasing) with their friends, but at the same time I keep thinking, “Well, if their parents let them do it, why don’t you go see if you can live with them!”

Gah! Every time I open my mouth, my mother flies out.

As social media evolves, so to will my approach on how to deal with it. I’ll #post, #tweet, and #snap, all about it.

featured image courtesy of www.dreamstime.com

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IN: writing ON: January 11, 2018 TAGS: honesty, life, motherhood, my girls, the things you just do BY: Hilary

introspection writing

Babe, You’re the Real MVP

Last Saturday, I was having an all out crank-out. I was out of sorts, tired, and just feeling “meh” about everything. Talk about waking up on the wrong side of the bed. I woke up on the wrong side of the house, the street, and the neighborhood. The level of crankiness I achieved had not been seen in our house since the girls were in diapers. There was no rhyme or reason to it. I was just cranky.

Thankfully, I have an amazing husband, who, rather than gather up the children and flee to higher ground (i.e. anywhere outside of my vicinity), drew me in close as if to tell me a secret and whispered in my ear his plans for us to have an impromptu date night later on that evening. His recognition of my distress, his playfulness, and his solution, were so timely (and so appreciated), I couldn’t help but loosen my grip on the bad mood and watch it float up, up, and away.

He’s good like that. Handsome, smart, ambitious, and can talk me down off the ledge with the promise of fajitas and margaritas? He’s definitely a keeper.

This particular day, he outdid himself.

Same day, later on in the afternoon, we were relaxing in the living room while the girls played on their own. I had to run an errand in a little while, and I asked the Hubs to remind the girls to take care of their chores while I was gone. I asked him to do it because (IMHO) they’re more likely to listen to him than they are to me. I said as much and then started to unspool a story to back it up. The Hubs came over to where I was sitting and all but put his finger to my lips to hush me up.

“C’mon now,” he said, “Let’s not take the express train to Negative Town.”

I was so caught off guard, so instantly deflated, I couldn’t do anything but laugh. “The express train to Negative Town?!” And then I realized, I was literally standing on the platform, waving my ticket in the air. I was about to jump onto that train and ride it all the way into the city center, where no doubt I’d spend an inordinate amount of time belly-aching and stewing.

And for what reason? There’s no feeling better on that ride. There’s just picking up every slight and snub until your pockets full and you can barely shuffle along.

With one unexpected and timely suggestion, the Hubs effectively pulled me away from the tracks and tore up my ticket.

I’ve never considered myself a damsel in distress, but I certainly got rescued that day.

Since then, whenever I’m starting to feel the desire to air my grievances, I think about the express train to Negative Town. Almost immediately, whatever I was about to carry on about seems ridiculously unimportant.

The express train to Negative Town? Why? There are so many better places to go and I’ve got the best guy to go with me.

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IN: introspection writing ON: December 8, 2017 TAGS: feel good, funny stuff, honesty, life, writing BY: Hilary

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Tag: honesty

Small. . .and Blue

That Time I Started Writing Again

Take Care

What do you do to practice self-care?

Tell me about it in the comments!

That Time It Was Summer

What is happening?!

Tell me about your summer plans in the comments.

What I Know About Parenting, Part 3

#RaisingDigitalNatives

featured image courtesy of www.dreamstime.com

Babe, You’re the Real MVP