Tag: honesty

What Does A Memory Smell Like?

The cover story for Real Simple Magazine this month is the 26 Best Beauty Products of All Time.  Kristen Van Ogtrop is the editor of Real Simple Magazine and hers is one of the few editor’s notes that I read.  The opening lines of the editor’s note reads, “Imagine if Proust had known about Jean Naté.” I must have re-read that sentence at least three times before continuing on to Van Ogtrop’s description of her relationship with the unique scent of after bath splash.   When she stated that if she were to smell the fragrance from that yellow and black bottle, she’d be “transported back to the long, narrow upstairs bathroom in [my] parents house with the print of three cows on the wall above the racks where [my sisters and I] hung our towels.”

I read that line and was like, “Yes! Yes! I know exactly what you mean!” See, I’ve got a special place in my heart for Jean Naté. If I happen to pass by that yellow and black bottle while I’m in a store, I usually pop the top and take a sniff.

Immediately, I am five years old, being plucked all pink and wrinkly from my grandmother’s bath tub.  She would wrap me from neck to ankles in a towel so old, it had gone from soft to scratchy to soft again. Once fully cocooned, Gram would stand me upon the closed lid of her toilet and shimmy her hands up and down my arms and legs, drying me off.  Beside the commode stood the sink, above which was her medicine chest.  Inside the medicine chest were all manner of vials, pots, bottles, and jars.  Nestled among them was a huge bottle of Jean Naté.

While tepid bathwater gurgled and burbled down the drain, Gram would take the bottle of Jean Naté out of the cabinet.  With a flair normally reserved for Broadway shows, she’d whip off the bulbous top.  I’d thrust out my arms, wrists up so that she could daub some after bath splash on my pulse points.  Then, I’d cock my head from one side to the other as she’d press a little behind each of my ears.  She’d dot a little Oil of Olay on my nose,  pat my buns with the Jean Naté powder pouf and dispatch me to her room to get into my pj’s.  I was five, fragrant and fabulous.

My Gram passed away in 2006, and of all of the memories I have of her, standing atop her toilet waiting to be splashed with Jean Naté is probably my favorite.  Like I said, I sometimes take a whiff of after bath splash when I pass it on the shelf in a store. It’s amazing to me how one product, something so benign and probably often overlooked, can elicit such a strong sensory and emotional response.  It never fails to make me crack a wistful kind of smile, reminding me of being warm, clean and secure. It keeps my Gram close to me in a way that I’m lucky to experience.

Maybe I’ll send this piece to Kristen Van Ogtrop, letting her know how much her note resonated with me.  Maybe I’ll include a gift set of Jean Naté to go along with it.

Continue Reading
IN: ON: February 15, 2014 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading

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. . .

 

Continue Reading
IN: ON: February 1, 2014 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading

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.

(image)

 

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.

(image)

 

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.

Continue Reading
IN: ON: January 24, 2014 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading

C is for Cynic

Last week, I realized that I was really close to matching, and possibly surpassing, the number of posts I wrote last year.  I think I had about eight left to tie, nine to go for the win.  Pretty achievable considering how many days were left in the year. Plus, I knew one of the posts was going to be a gimme because it would be the photo challenge for January.

And then, the Christmas reached out and punched me in the face.  In the days leading up to Christmas, I  bought groceries, I wrapped presents. I bought more groceries, I wrapped more presents. I prepped Christmas dinner while running multiple loads of laundry. I roller set M and C’s hair while playing peek-a-blocks with V and trying to clear a constant tickle from my throat.  I did two photos shoots (yay!), addressed and mailed a dozen more cards, wrangled a Z pack from my GP to stave off the impending flu and then face planted on the couch December 24th.  The 25th came in, gut checked me, and leaving me with tinsel in my hair, wrapping paper stuck to my shoe,  and peppermint on my breath.  I didn’t write word one, let alone squeeze out multiple posts. 

Now it’s the 27th and I’m like, “Meh, there’s always next year.”

Ahhh, next year.

(image)

A mere five days away and we will all be bombarded with words of inspiration, hope, motivation and change. Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter — all social media outlets will spew out memes and twee-grams of goals, work-out plans, promises to love oneself and one another.

Yes, I’m a big ol’ cynic.  I have tried in years past to set goals for myself in the never-ending quest for self perfection.  I’ve vowed to be more patient, to be more kind to myself, to work out more,  and to eat less.  I’ve made motivational boards, actual pin-boards in the pre-Pinterest days, of things that I wanted to achieve or possess.  I’ve got so many bucket lists, you’d think I’ve got nine lives.

Three years ago, as I was about to lace up my kicks for another run around the ol’ hamster wheel of unrealistic goals, I decided that I simply wouldn’t do it.   I got tired of the whole “New-Year-New-Me” mentality. I’d tried it.  New Year’s like a fresh start bonanza, but  I’ve flamed out spectacularly year after year.  And sadly,  my goals weren’t even that far reaching.

New Year’s Resolutions of Years Past:

  • Floss.
  • Remember to floss.
  • Remember to leave the floss out so that you will remember to floss. 
  • Eat less red meat.
  • Only eat red meat on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
  • Eat less dessert.
  • Only eat dessert if you’re willing to share it with the children.
  • It’s okay if the children have their own dessert several times a week.
  • Write at least three times a week.
  • Get off Facebook (for reals this time).
  • Be more patient, especially with yourself. And the children. And the Hubs. And humanity in general. You don’t know what battles someone is fighting.

Crash and burn.  I’m done with self-improvement. It’s all about maintaining the status quo.  My expectations of other people, of things, of life in general, are too high. I expect more from others because I am willing to do that much for them.  So, how do you solve a problem like that?  Well,  if I keep the bar where it was last year (low, low, low), I won’t be disappointed if I don’t honor my resolutions.  In other words, I’m resolving to keep it real.  I’m going to try not to make things worse and if in the process I end up bettering myself, well, Hilary with One L for the Win.

So, here’s to keeping the expectations around knee level. And who knows, maybe in the next few days, I’ll have revised the whole thing and resolved to be less cynical.

That’s setting the bar kind of high, though.

Continue Reading
IN: ON: December 27, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading

Busy as a. . .

The other day, I had been talking about how I was doing my best to take things slow. I had found myself sitting at my desk with half a dozen different things spread out before me.  I end up doing a little of this, a little of that and a whole lot of nothing ever gets completed in it’s entirety.  Then I get frustrated that I haven’t made the best use of my time, create a new “to-do” list and vow to double down on the productivity the next day.  Guess what happens?  Same thing.  It’s like Groundhog Day for the Type A among us.  So, like I said, I’m trying to slow down. 

For instance, right now, I’ve just got my computer on and nothing else. Don’t know where the phone is (that’s good and bad, I guess), iPad is on the floor, my planner is closed (hallelujah!) and I’m just focusing on what is in front of me.  I’ve been considering why it is so difficult for me to just do one thing at a time.  Ironically, I find myself telling the children to do one thing at a time several times a day.  Or, I remind them that I can only do one thing at a time when I’m trying to put away groceries, make dinner, empty the dishwasher, change a poopie diaper, and braid some hair when they ask me to read them a story.  Times like those, I really should drop everythign and read the story — there’s going to be a day when they’ll stop asking.  That’s the reason why I will still pick up my 48 pound 8 year old when she asks me to hold her; one day, she might not let me.  But, I’m going off in an entirely different direction. 

I was talking about slowing down.  I fall prey to the Idol of Busyness far too often.  “‘The Idol of Busyness'” you ask? “Hilary with One L, what is that?”  Basically, in our tech filled, immediate gratification desirous lives, we have fallen down to worship at the Idol of Busyness. We take pride in how overcommitted, strung out, over worked, over shceuled, and over accomplished we are.  This notion of idolatry isn’t something that I came up with.  It was a concept I heard in church about six years ago that burrowed into my subconcious and took root.  When I am in the eye of the storm of commitments and responsibilites, the idea of the Idol of Busyness burbles up to the forefront of my mind, totally unbidden by my consciousness.  I’m convinced that when I’m in danger of spiraling into self-aggrandizement of how much I’ve done, the Idol pops up to remind me to come back to center.

Another spoke on this wheel is my (former) need to justify what I do because I am a mom who works from home.  Keeps your knickers on, Edith — this isn’t about to be a SAHM vs. Working Mom debate.  I’m just talking about me and MY OWN perceptions of myself.  I used to — thankfully, not so much anymore — spew forth every little detail of what I did over the course of a day when The Hubs would come home from work. It was like, “Ooh, ooh! Look what I did! And then look what I did! See, it’s good that I’m at home with the kids!”  It was like I had to prove to him that I hadn’t been sitting on the couch eating bon-bons all day — as if that’s even possible with kids underfoot.  As the girls got older, and B.V. (before Vivi), I would do the same thing when I would meet people whose eyes would glaze over upon learning I didn’t work outside of the home.  I would list my CV, my volunteer experience, my memberships in organizations, and where I saw myself in ten years.  All of these things were futile attempts to to impress and engage with people who I was probably never going see except for annual holiday functions.

I thought the more I filled up my day, the more things I did, the more I checked off my list and the busier I became, well, then I was a real person.  I was a person worth paying attention to.  I was just as busy as you, as him, as her because my time was SO busy, just like yours, his and hers.

(image)

 The number of things I do in a given day doesn’t make me better or worse than anyone else. I’m not getting validation for that; I’m getting tired, and how tired I am isn’t something I’m going to be rewarded for.  There’s no prize for overflowing your waking hours with commitments and engagements that leave you worn out and run down.  As we enter into this holiday season, there will be a great temptation to out-Pinterest one another in holiday swag, gift giving for teachers and service providers, and meal preparation.  There will always be something that has to be done on our never ending to-do lists.  The best we can do is take each day, each activity as it comes and hope for the best. Of course, always have a plan B and a nice set of hand soaps pre-wrapped for an unexpected hostess gift. 

Continue Reading
IN: ON: November 19, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading
recipes

Milestones

(image)

This upcoming week-end has been on my mind for a while.
Saturday will mark the one year anniversary of the great ankle debacle.
Sunday I’m turning 35.
I’m not really sure how I feel about either of these things.

It’s mixed emotions to be sure.  As far as the ankle goes, I’m going to bypass the negative and start with gratitude.  Grateful that I have had such a great recovery. Grateful that my team of docs, when faced with a bizarre injury such as my own, rose to the challenge to make sure that my mobility returned, but also that the lingering scar would be as minimal as possible.  Grateful for all of the help and support that was offered and that I had the common sense to accept.

My family and friends circled the wagons and enabled me to rest up while secure in the knowledge that everything else had been taken care of.  There were days when it was a one-man pity party going on over here, and there were days when it wasn’t so bad.  When faced with the option of an additional surgery to ameliorate some aching and release an ensnared tendon, I was kind of reluctant.  Surgery meant being off my feet, literally. Two weeks of the boot, crutches, not working out, relying on others.  That last one was the biggest impediment to my making a rush decision.  In the end, the chance for increased mobility outweighed anything else.  Sure, my career as a foot and leg model may be over — it never really got off the ground — but I’m walking.  I doubt I’ll ever take that for granted again.

As for the upcoming birthday, it’s significant for a few reasons. First of all, seeing as how my whole ankle thing happened the day before my birthday last year, I really need this one to be less traumatic.  Secondly, while 35 isn’t 40, it’s still kind of big deal.

My mom was 35 when she had me. Her mom was 35 she had her.  At 35, I’ve know the Hubs half of my life.  35, for me at least, feels like I’m firmly and irrevocably an adult.  My youth is pretty much behind me (that ain’t all that’s behind me). I know that I don’t look 35 — what’s that supposed to look like anyway? I don’t feel 35 — what’s that supposed to feel like? I’ll spare you the introspection of what I should have accomplished in my life thus far and the self congratulations of what I have already successfully achieved.  There are equal notches on both sides of that tally sheet. 

For the past six years, I’ve shared my birthday with Co; she was scheduled to be delivered on the 10th, but I went into labor (and denial) on the 7th around noon, holding out hope it was merely indigestion.  Come 1am, we were en route to the hospital and shortly thereafter, Co made her debut.  From that point on, September 8th has been “Co’s birthday”.

Suffice it to say that this year, I kind of don’t want to share. I mean, yeah, yeah, Happy Birthday, kiddo, but — and I’m going to be honest — I’m feeling a little selfish and would like to be fêted on my own.  Yes, I’d like for it to be all about me.  I know, that sounds like I’m turning 5 not 35, but nyah, nyah, nyah!

My dad asked me today what I’d like for my birthday and I about dropped the phone, I was so giddy with delight.  I can’t really recall when I was last asked that question.  In fact, I really had nothing to suggest by way of a gift.  Thankfully, Dad gave me some time to think about it before solidly retracting the offer.  I need to come up with something, pronto.  I hear the tick-tock of the gift clock running down and given the speed with which time is passing, I’ll be turning 36 before I get my hands on something to unwrap. 

Continue Reading
IN: recipes ON: September 4, 2013 TAGS: , , , , , , , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading

Help. Thanks. Wow.

I wake up everyday with the best of intentions.  In my heart, I know that I am impatient.  I know that I need to be better about having more patience with the girls, espceially because they’re young. I keep going back to that old adage about how the days and long, but the years are fast.  Soon, very soon, the things that make me want to gouge out my eyes with a spoon will be the very things that I want to come back to when I’m in my twilight years and a certified (and possibly certifiable) empty nester. Of course, I hope to be living in the south of France by then, so I might be all “C’est la vie!”

I kid.

I’ve been thinking about this, because it all goes from sugar to shit so quickly.   I suppose it’s all subjective;  I mean, my shit and your shit could be two totally different things.  My shit might be your sugar or your shit might be my sugar.  Or the whole thing could be one sugar covered shit or a shit covered sugar shake.

Sorry. . .I lost focus for a minute.  Got caught up in the sugary shitty sugar shit.

I like the word shit.

Sorry. .  I did it again.

In order to gain some perspective and to take a step back when things start bubbling to a boil,  I’ve started praying.  Yes, it’s come to that. Used to be that I would pray when faced with some kind of Herculean type challenge.  And I would wait until the end end of the day, right before I would go to bed to phone in my request.

(image)    

I guess I got it ingrained in me that the only time you could pray was on your knees at the bedside.
Somehow, over the course of this parenting journey, I’ve come to realize, any time is a good time for prayer. 

I picked up Ann Lamott’s book “Help, Thanks, Wow” a few weeks ago.  I’ll admit, I didn’t read the whole thing; life got in the way, but the chapter and a half that I did read? Well, now, I can tell you about that.  Lamott says that she prays many times a day, and my first thought was “How?”  I was still hung up on the whole “Now I lay me down to sleep,” type of prayer schedule.  As I continued to read, however,  my take away was that any time is the right time for prayer.  And it doesn’t have to be all elaborate and right out of the BCP (Book of Common Prayer), though sometimes, I find myself saying the prayer of Confession as easily as my own name.    No flowery language needed. No haths, thous, wilsts, and so forth.   Toss out a help me make it through this day. Help me my friends with the battles they’re fighting and keep their feet on the path. Help me to keep what is most important in the forefront.  Just cough up a thanks for another day. Thanks for that last breath.  And Wow.  Just wow at this world in which we live. Wow at my family, they’re amazing and they’re mine.  Wow, another day of life and health.

That’s it. Help. Thanks. Wow.

So, when things are going from sweet to sour, I’m trying to stop and offer up a seven second prayer of Help, Thanks and Wow.  Help me be a better friend, a better wife and a better mother.  Thanks for my kids, because even though I need Your help in keeping a cool head, I know that they’re a blessing.  Wow, at how amazing my kids are, because not only are they negotiating a later bedtime, they have some pretty compelling arguments.

And when I’m too proud to ask for help (and we all know that pride comes before the fall), when the last thing I want to do is give thanks, and when the only time I saw “Wow” is when it preceded, “I can’t believe this shit,”  I’m turning to this prayer by Thomas Merton (original post here).

MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
I can admit, reading this poem left me in tears. When I try to read it aloud, I get choked up.  I’ve not once had an experience like that before.  I carry a copy of this prayer around with me in a notebook. I read a few lines at a stoplight.  I am far from having it memorized, but it gives me comfort when I don’t even realize I need it.  I was asking for help without knowing it. 
I got it in this prayer. 
Wow.
Thanks.
Continue Reading
IN: ON: April 4, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
Continue Reading
1 … 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 … 14