Thoughts on a Tuesday

I’m Type A. I know that about myself and I embrace it whole heartedly. I love making plans. I like lists. I like nothing more than taking a piece of paper and filling it with the fine minutiae of what will suck up the minutes of my day. Even simple things that are part of our everyday routine, like “Drive the girls to school” make it on the list so that I can have the satisfaction of crossing it off when I’m done. It’s the little things in life, right? Well, that and new pair of shoes. . .ooooh, I’m going to add that to my list.

Anyway, finding some time to write and something to write about has been topping my list as of late. I haven’t been any busier or any more tired than normal. I just haven’t felt compelled to write. Or more likely, when I do have a minute to write, the great ideas I had slamming around in my head have disintegrated into “What am I going to have for lunch?” and “What happened to that ice cream I hid behind the frozen peas?” and stuff like that.

Sure, I have thoughts on Trayvon Martin, Samantha Brick, Sandra Fluke, placenta pills, red-shirting your kids, and the on-going SAHM vs. working mom vs. OAM debate. There’s a lot to discuss out there and I’d rather have a meaningful discussion about it with some friends over coffee than just put my two cents into the mix, step back and see what happens. A lot can get lost in the translation between my head, the keyboard, and whomever chooses to read what I’ve written.

So, I gravitate towards lighter fare.

Photographs and pictures that inspire me.

I do believe in mermaids. I do, I do.

Recipes that I want to try.

Pie in a Jar

Clothes that I’d like to have (and somewhere schmancy to wear them to).

All dressed up with places to go.

Crafts I’m (pretty sure) I can make.

Where we met, married and live map

Places I want to visit.

Ahhh, Venice.

Books I’m reading.

I don’t know if I’m impressed or depressed.

At first, I was going to take this blank space of a post and write about how I’m already planning Co’s 5th birthday party. Yes, I have OAM tendencies, but I’m taking medication for that.

SN: My mom got on my case when I whipped out my folder of ideas and notes. “Her birthday is still in September, right?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“And you do know that it’s April, right?”

“Yes, Mom.”

After my first paragraph about list making and my internal monologue about “proper prior planning prevents piss poor performance”, my train of thought took a different course. And I just started writing just to write. I have come across several other bloggers giving tips on how to get started with blogging, or how to improve your blog. Sometimes, I want this blog to be a little more than it is. I want it to have substance (the word gravitas keeps flashing in my head). I go through periods where I’m ready to scrap it as my personal sounding board and really try to pinpoint some topics that I think are worth intellectually stimulating.

I want it to be something that people say, “Did you see what was on the One L today?” (of course, that would necessitate more writing, but I’m working on that). I want to have fully formed, thought-provoking opinions on topics that matter. BUT, I also just want to look at pretty things, eat good food, read books that have me thinking “Just one more page and then I’ll put it down”, and take pictures of my family and friends that really capture just who I am and what I’m about.

I focus on the tidbits that make up my little plot of earth: how my girls are the smartest and funniest bundles of the best parts of me and my hubs, how we’re getting ready to become a family of five, and my attempts to be a better person. I show off a few things that I’ve made — I just finished making little ribbons for Co’s soccer team (pictures forth coming). I’m still working on those Norfolk Mermaids. I’m slowly growing a photography business. I’m busy in ways that matter to me and that matter to those people who are most important to me. I might not be the wittiest, the funniest, the craftiest blogger out there, but I’m doing what I know how to do the best way I know how to do it.

In college, when I became a member of my sorority, I was given a name that represented who I was and who I had become throughout my sorority experience. At the time, I didn’t really get it’s significance, but as I’ve *ahem* matured, I’ve come to appreciate it even more. I’ve definitely grown into it. I understand how it truly represents the person I’ve become.

e·thos

[ee-thos, ee-thohs, eth-os, -ohs] Show IPA

noun

Sociology . the fundamental character or spirit of a culture;the underlying sentiment that informs the beliefs, customs,or practices of a group or society; dominant assumptions ofa people or period: In the Greek ethos the individual was highlyvalued.

the character or disposition of a community, group, person,etc.

the moral element in dramatic literature that determines acharacter’s action rather than his or her thought or emotion.

This blog is just an extension of that. This is what makes my blog my own. I don’t need to be like every other blogger out there. They’re already filling niches; why cram myself in? I’m going to stick with what I know. Just doing my own thing and crossing things off my list as I go.

IN: photography projects & DIY ON: April 17, 2012 TAGS: activities, honesty, Mermaids, my girls, photography, pinterest, projects, random, sharing, summer BY: Hilary

recipes

Gotta Get Away

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I have to buckle down this week and get through some things that I’ve been putting off, so I don’t know how much extra time I’m going to have to bloggity, blog, blog, blog. I’d rather doing something. . .anything. . .else than this massive to-do list. *le sigh* The joys of adulthood. Hope to catch up with you again for Recipe Friday!

IN: recipes ON: February 28, 2012 TAGS: baking, cooking, food, honesty, om nom nom, random, recipes BY: Hilary

hair

Hair We Go Again

So, after a little less than a year with a pixie cut, I decided to go back to my natural curly ‘do. I’ve been relaxer free (again) since November of 2010 and I’m still trying to figure out my hair.

I don’t know why I was surprised to learn that harsh chemical treatments might have long term effects on my hair. What used to be a pretty consistent curl pattern from front to back has morphed into a more relaxed pattern in the front moving towards more tightly coiled curls in the back. For those curly girls out there, from my forehead to my crown, I’m like a 3b and from my crown the nape of my neck I’m a 4a. I kept telling myself that the front was still perm that was growing out and that I just needed to go get it trimmed off once and for all.

Truth be told, I’d had enough of hair salons for a while. During my days of the short cut, the time, maintenance, and upkeep involved was not fun. Sure, my hair was cute when I left the salon.

But, I’m not a professional and sweat a lot in my head when I work out. I missed the convenience of just jumping the shower, running some product on my wet head and heading out the door. So when I went back to natural, I went back to my old routine of DIY hair care. After a few months, I realized, I’d outgrown that, too.

The fact is, I’ve really grown in how I come to care for my hair and how I understand my hair. My mother has a totally different hair texture than I do; my thick curls are courtesy of my paternal grandmother — the one who is always asking me when I’m going to do something with my hair. When I was younger, mother’s solution to my kinky curls was to perm often. Whereas she might have had her hair straightened every 8 to 10 months, I was going every 8 to 10 weeks. Crazy, I know. But she didn’t know what to do and I learned to care for my hair by watching her do my own. Here’s how clueless I was. . .I had no idea you could buy a perm kit at the drugstore and do it yourself. When I was in need of touch-up to my roots and didn’t have enough money, I just told the stylist to cut it all off. It was just hair. What’s the big deal? I had about an inch of curly hair all around and the only thing I did was add some gel and roll. As it grew into a more fuller afro, I would have my brother or my dad trim it up with their clippers. Seriously, I was about as low maintenance as you could get. I didn’t know anything about curl types or sealing moisture into my hair with oil or satin pillowcases. I don’t know what I was busy with, but it certainly wasn’t my hair.

This time around, though, I decided the best way for me to get the results that I wanted:

(i.e. my old hair)

I needed to understand what I had and how best to treat it.

So, I talked with some friends about their curly hair experiences. I listened to other curly girls expound on their love and loathe relationship with natural hair, everything from botched cuts from professionals claiming to know how to shape and cut to that one day when the stars aligned, the humidity was just right and the curls were perfect. I started a Pinterest inspiration board, teeming with images of awesome natural hair, so that when my resolve started to crack, I could bolster myself up. went to websites and looked up curl types, best hair brushes, highly recommended de-tanglers and so forth. I tried different products. . .many different products.

My arsenal of products

I found a stylist in a local salon who, after a lengthy conversation, said she would be able to trim out the rest of the relaxer and get me on my way to my curls of yore. When we met, I discovered she wore her hair naturally (bonus!) and was really listening to my concerns and needs about my hair. She was the one who told me that in truth, there wasn’t much relaxer left in my hair. The scraggly pieces I was seeing was how my natural hair responded to the relaxer over time. Whether or not the front would match the back would remain to be seen.

From that appointment on, I have been more pro-active in what I do to my hair. There’s more detangling involved. More parting my hair into quadrants and applying product on tedious section at a time, but I’m beginning to see more of what I want and less of what I don’t. I invested in a Denman brush that I quickly gave to the girls, and a Tangle Teezer, which is fan-freaking-tastic. I got my hands on another set of products called Komaza and thus, adequately armed, jumped back into the natural, curly girl fray. Here’s what happened.

Took off the sleep cap to reveal this Medusa-esque tangle of hair. Into the shower, I go.

It’s rough, I know.

I washed with Miss Jessie’s Super Slip Sudsy Shampoo. It’s very slippery in your hands, but feels tacky once it’s on your hair. It claims to remove all product build-up and leave your hair manageable, but my hair felt really dried out, even while wet (if that makes sense). I suppose that was a testament to how truly clean my hair was. After the shampoo, I used Komaza’s Califia Leave-In Conditioner and combed it through with my Tangle Teezer. I wrapped a tee-shirt around my head, got out of the shower, and got dressed. Once I was dressed, I unwound the tee-shirt and my hair was very damp. I sectioned it off and then used Komaza’s Califia Moisturizing Cream and finger styled the rest.

Squeaky clean. Hair was still pretty wet. Just put in the product.

By the end of the day, I was still pretty pleased with my hair, though there was some curl shrinkage. I really want a product that is going to be heavy enough to let my curls hang down, but not something that is going to dry them out and cause frizz. And since I’m making requests, I’d also like $10 million a year, every year for the rest of my life. Thanks.

End of the day. Dry hair, lots of shrinkage (in my opinion)

Not a bad start. There’s room for improvement and I’m talking about my own technique. I plan to go back to the salon, have my ends trimmed to keep things healthy and just take the rest one day at a time. I’ve also decided to stop calling this experience a “hair battle”; my hair is probably taking offense at that and I need everyone to cooperate.

And now I’m off to Sephora to remedy this hot-death-warmed-over look I’ve got going on. . .

IN: hair ON: February 16, 2012 TAGS: hair, honesty BY: Hilary

Come on out, Baby!

I promise, I’m not going to turn into one of those bloggers who, once they start popping out kids like Pez , they don’t have anything else to talk about except stretch marks, poopy diapers, and cracked nipples. I will say, however, observing the girls and their reactions to my pregnancy has been pretty hilarious.

So, the other day, we were on our way home from school when Coever announced from the backseat that come June, when it’s time for the baby to be born, I will, “go into the bathroom and poop it out.”

Her sister, also known as Fountain of Infinite Knowledge, said, “Uh no! When the baby is ready to be born, the doctor will cut it out of Mom’s tummy.”

If I hadn’t been doing 35 on a twisty road, I’d have banged my head on the steering wheel. Repeatedly. *Le sigh* Where to begin.

I opened with asking the girls what they knew about muscles in the body. What are muscles and how do we make them grow? No problem. They answered that like Ken Jennings on final Jeopardy. I went on to say that men and women have different muscles and that the place where a baby grows is a muscle unique to women called a uterus. I flicked my eyes up to the rear view mirror to see if they were still with me or if I needed to turn back to Absolutely Mindy on Kids Place Live. My girls were hanging on my every word, so I plunged ahead.

A uterus, I went on to explain was a muscle that was like a house for the baby. The muscle grew to accommodate the baby as the baby grew.

“And then they cut you open to take the baby out!” Morgan finished for me. She was delivered via C-section and has heard the story so well, you’d think she actually brought herself forth from the inside out.

“Well, sometimes a doctor has to make an incision to take the baby out because the baby is facing the wrong way or is in trouble and has to come out fast. Most of the time the baby comes out another way.”

“When you poop!” Coever announced! This girl and her poops, what is up with that?

“Not quite,” I went on, wishing that we were at home instead of hitting every single red light between the school yard and house. My brain was whirring and ticking as I thought on how to thoughtfully explain the whole uterus/cervix/vagina extravaganza that is natural childbirth. So, I went back to the uterus and likened it to a house where the baby lives until it’s ready to be born. “In order to get out of the house, what do we go through?” I asked them, pretty certain they’d get it.

“A door!”

“Right,” I said, gaining momentum. “So the uterus is the house and the vagina is the door the baby goes through to come out into the world.

Dead silence.

And then the plaintive exclamation from Morgan, “But it’s SO small!”

Nothing gets past her. Not a thing.

“Well,” I said, trying to wrap this up as quickly as possible, “that’s true, but after the baby is born, everything goes back to the way it was.” If you’re lucky, I added under my breath. Thankfully, we were wheeling up the driveway at that point, so I was able to redirect that conversation to more important things like the collection of backpacks, mittens, snack wrappers and other junk. Later on, when I was retelling this to Craig, I realized, better to have a conversation about how the baby was getting out instead of how the baby got in. We’re going to need more than an after school pick-up to discuss that one.

IN: ON: January 23, 2012 TAGS: honesty, my girls BY: Hilary

Spare a Dime

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My friend Anita, over at Beyond the Diapers and Spills, wrote a really thought provoking post about panhandlers and whether to give or not to give. I struggle with this one, believe me. I’ve been always been taught to think of my fellow man, to help those less fortunate, to give back to community. For the most part, however, all of that giving has been on a much larger, anonymous scale. As a Girl Scout, I we had coat drives, and we participated in the Angel Tree project. I’ve done community service projects through my sorority like giving to the Foodbanks and donating toiletries to the homeless. Those are situations where there really isn’t a person, a face, an outstretched hand imploring for help. You’re serving an idea, a cause and you feel good about having given your time and energy to that end

On my daily route to pick Morgan up from school, I’ve noticed a guy holding a “Homeless Veteran” sign at the exit ramp off of the highway. If it weren’t for the camouflage rain parka and his low-riding, dirt smeared baseball cap, you might think it was a very lean, out of work Santa Claus. He sits on this bucket day after day, holding his sign and waiting. His position is at the foot of a traffic light, so when the light is red, cars have no choice but to idle right next to him. He sits on his bucket unless something is proffered. While I wouldn’t lean out of the car and hand him some money, I have been tempted to give him some of the snacks I usually have on hand. Considering I leave the house like Matthew Henson going on an expedition, there’s always a snack in the car. I just haven’t gotten up the guts to roll down the window and give it away.

Truth be told, I’m scared. I’m a suburbanite through and through. I will cross the street, clutching my purse if I even think the Cub Scout coming towards me has a five o’clock shadow. I don’t think my fears are unfounded. This person may have a desperation that exceeds rational thought. I mean, what if I roll down the window and he makes a grab for my purse? For me? What if he tries to get in the car? Whipping a can of soda and a brown bag lunch at his head while I burn through the light probably undermines the whole charitable giving idea, you know?

If I do ever muster up the guts to give something, I feel better about getting food than money because who knows what the money is going for. I’ll admit it, I can be a Scrooge when it comes to parting with my dollars. I think everything should cost $20 or less and am always stung when it rings up otherwise.

The other day, I dropped the girls off at swimming lessons and carried myself over to the Starbucks drive-through for a late afternoon caffeine fix. I pulled into the parking lot when this well dressed guy in a Toyota or some such flags me down. He angles his car such that I can’t pull forward and then he rolls down his window, indicating for me to do the same. I pinch it down just low enough to stick out my nose and he lays on me this story: He was from Farmville, lost on his way from a job interview, had no money for gas, had been to the gas station next to the S-bucks and they couldn’t help him and blah, blah, blah. I was about to say “Sorry, can’t help you, ” or my standard, “I don’t carry cash,” which is often true, but then, I saw there was a baby seat in back of his car. No baby in it, just the car seat. Call it maternal instinct, call it stupidity, I forked over $5 and said, “Get home safely”. Then I wheeled into the drive through.

He was far from the stereotypical panhandler; he was well dressed, he was pleading his case using SAT words and his voice was breaking in desperation. Or he was just a excellent actor. Was getting up of of a Lincoln the worst part of my day? No. Didn’t I still get my coffee? Yes. But I felt more like I’d lost $5 then having helped someone in need. I think I just gave him the money so that I could get him out of my way and I could get my coffee. I didn’t feel overwhelming good about myself for helping this stranger. Part of me expected him to be in the Starbucks ordering a Venti, sugar-free, non-fat, vanilla, soy, double shot, decaf, no foam, extra hot, Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha with light whip and extra syrup so that I could just say, “AHA! I knew!” Part of me was super relieved that he wasn’t.

I wasn’t looking for thanks (he did give me several “God bless you’s”, though). I wasn’t looking for soul shining redemption for my myriad of foibles. As I think about it, maybe the point of helping those less fortunate, of seeing them live and up close in dire straits is being – moved to act. The discomfort you feel spurs you into action.

But shouldn’t doing a good deed make you feel. . . well, good? I’m sure there will be other opportunities for me to be a good Samaritan. I hope my conviction is restored when that time comes.

IN: ON: November 5, 2011 TAGS: honesty, life, sharing BY: Hilary

Monday’s Message

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My dad says that my expectations of other people are too high, and that’s why I’m consistently disappointed when things don’t go the way I think they should. I have a hard time just accepting this overly- pessimistic assessment of people, but could never point to a reason as to why it wasn’t true or why it shouldn’t be that way. “It’s just not right. . .” and “Why shouldn’t I expect more from people. . .” — those are pretty weak retorts.

A couple of days ago, I found this quote and realized, that’s why my expectations are where they are. I know what I’m willing to do.

What about you?

IN: ON: October 10, 2011 TAGS: honesty BY: Hilary

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Hilary With One L

Hilary With One L

Tag: honesty

Gotta Get Away

Hair We Go Again

Come on out, Baby!

Monday’s Message

Tag: honesty

Thoughts on a Tuesday

e·thos

Gotta Get Away

Hair We Go Again

Come on out, Baby!

Spare a Dime

Monday’s Message

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