Tag: life

hair

Be My Guest: Meet Maya Smart

With the social media buzz that I’ve been working on to get everyone excited about “Maggie Sinclair, Will You Please Fix Your Hair?!“, my own blog has not gotten the attention that it deserves.  It’s challenging to keep all the plates spinning, but it’s good to know you’ve got people who step up to help when called upon.

A few weeks ago, I reached out to several of my blogger friends, asking them to share some of their natural hair experiences with you! The response I got was wonderfully encouraging and across the board enthusiastic.

This week, I want to introduce you to Maya Payne Smart.  Maya is as genuine as it gets.  A self described “globetrotting writer who enjoys food trucks, toddler art and college basketball”, Maya is a renaissance woman who, along with her husband, is raising a curly girlie of her own, while simultaneously offering insight, reviews, opinions and amusement on her blog. I asked Maya to unpack for my readers how her experience being a naturalista influences how she chooses to care for her own daughters’ hair. Her thoughtful, moving letter to her three year old daughter Zora speaks volumes.

Dear Zora,

This is how you learn to love your hair in a world that requires such lessons.  First, you remember who gave you that glorious head of curls–your parents, your ancestors, your Creator.  Then, you care for it like a treasured inheritance.

Loving your hair, like loving your family, your days, your life, requires two things: reverence and effort.  To truly love your hair, you must hold it in high regard and you must behave like you do. As you behold it in a mirror or touch its willful strands, you must pause to consider what it does for you and to define what it means to you.  Then you must treat it accordingly.

You’re not yet three years old, so this whole discussion may be a bit premature, but not by much.  Your hair is cornrowed into a side ponytail today. You wear it that way because I’m calling the styles and long ago adopted a no heat, no chemicals, no fake hair policy for us both.

There’s no peer pressure for you to wear it any other way yet. Most of your friends rock afro puffs, box braids and two-strand twists.  But you can look to their mothers’ relaxed and pressed styles for a preview of what’s to come.  There comes a day when many moms of daughters with hair like yours reach for hot combs, flat irons and chemicals to “tame” kinky tresses.  And when they do, I expect you’ll notice the difference and have some questions for me.  Mommy, why doesn’t my hair blow in the wind?  Why can’t I run my fingers through it?  Why does it get curlier when wet and frizzier in the sun?

The decision to straighten or not is a personal one, albeit one loaded with social, cultural and economic significance for black people. From the moment slaveholders shaved off the elaborate hairstyles of their African captives, hairstyles have mirrored our rocky rise from anonymous chattel to distinctive humanity.  To this day, hair is impossibly tangled up in issues of black identity and social acceptability.  Just look at the debate raging over the U.S. military’s new grooming guidelines, which are biased against black hair that tends to grow out, not down.*

I want to raise you to love your hair in its natural state so that dying it, relaxing it or not will truly be a choice for you.  Some women say that they straighten their hair for fashion or convenience, but many are deluding themselves.  They are crushing the natural texture of their hair because they were taught to hate kinky hair or never learned how to love or take care of it.  They are relaxing, weaving and wigging their hair because in the twisted skin-shade, hair-texture hierarchies of American history, straight hair sometimes affords economic and social advantage**.

I am committed to teaching you this to fortify you against the crazy you will undoubtedly encounter.  Soon you’ll observe women who don’t swim or work out because they want to keep their hairstyles intact.  You’ll see some who will chemically process their hair to the point of baldness rather than embrace their God-given hair texture. You’ll notice others who would rather sport expensive wigs and weaves than take the time and do the research to nurture their own locks.

As you get older, others will look upon your natural hair and start jumping to conclusions about your class, your potential, your politics.  I know because these same people see my afro puff and label me “militant” and worse. (Note: The labels say more about them than about me. Like Whitman, I contain multitudes.)

Avoid their prejudice and make sure your natural hair love is never reduced to straightened-hair hate.  Not every naturalista is empowered and not every relaxer is rooted in shame.

When you are old enough to choose your own hairstyles, may they reflect great self-awareness, self-confidence and vision.  Always remember who gave you that head of hair–your parents, your ancestors, your Creator.  Then care for it like the inheritance it is.

Love,

Mom

maya-head-shotMaya Payne Smart writes to inspire women to live happy, meaningful, powerful lives.Of course, hair has everything to do with this.  Check out Maya’s advice, reviews, interviews and musings at MayaSmart.com.

 

 

 

 

* http://www.nytimes.com/2014/05/01/opinion/when-black-hair-is-against-the-rules.html?_r=0
**http://mayasmart.com/hair-story/
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IN: hair ON: July 10, 2014 TAGS: , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Sorry, Not Sorry.

A few weeks ago, I was talking with a friend of mine about how we have replaced the phrase “Excuse me,” with the phrase “I’m Sorry”. It seems that in our day to day doings, whenever we’ve needed to catch someone’s attention, perhaps interrupt two people having a conversation, or possibly just trying to get out of someone’s way, we’ve been saying “I’m sorry,” as opposed to “excuse me” or “pardon me”. Somehow, for reasons that she and I were both unable to put our finger on, we’ve been diminishing ourselves. Taking it one step further, I realized that I have actually been folding in on myself as I say, “I’m sorry”, especially when doing to that awkward stranger dance the ensues when you’re trying to get out of someone’s way.

“Seriously,” I began explaining it to her. “At the gym, the ingress and egress to the ladies locker room is series of short turns like you’d find queuing up for the movies or something. Instead of ropes, though, there are walls, so you can’t see if someone is coming around the corner. No matter if you’re coming in or going out, in all likelihood, you’re going to collide with someone.”

In these instances, laden with my gym bag, moving at a good clip to get a swim lane or a spot in Zumba, I’ve plowed into some women, some my age, most of them elderly. My subconscious started directing my body to take up less space as these instances increased. I would step into the entrance of the locker room, and if by chance was met with someone coming out, my shoulders would round in, my head would dip down, and my hands would seek each other out. I’d cough out an “I’m sorry” as I made my way past. If I was on my way out and someone way motoring in, the same thing happened. Why was I doing that? What was I sorry for? I’m trying to exercise just like everyone else. I didn’t knock anyone down in a race to a locker.

My friend suggested that as Black women living in the south, we feel the need to apologize for our existence, whether we believe we should or not. That’s a loaded statement right there, and one that I don’t have the time or space to expand upon. Suffice it to say; race is not the issue. Being overly gracious is the issue. The truth is, being excessively deferential is not the same thing as being polite.

The more we talked about it, the more we resolved to break ourselves of the habit. The next time I went to the gym, I slowed my pace as I approached the locker room. I stood up straight, squared my shoulders, adjusted my gym bag and walked in. Sure enough, someone was coming out. I looked her in the eye and said, “Excuse me,” then entered the locker room proper.

Earlier this week, I came across a Huffington Post article entitled “Pantene ‘Not Sorry’ Video Tells Women to Stop Apologizing So Much”. Through a series of short vignettes, the hair care company implores women to stop saying sorry for things that they shouldn’t. I watched the video and thought, “This is exactly what we had been talking about!” It should come as no surprise that women apologize more than men. What is surprising is the reasons why women do it. The article went on further to cite a March 2014 blog post written by Ani Vrabel, who said,

“At some point, I began using “sorry” as a synonym for “excuse me.” It came to mean, “I didn’t see you there and you startled me!” and “I have a question” and “I’m carrying so many things that I’m taking up more space on the subway than usual.” It rarely meant, “I made a poor decision or did something wrong and it impacted you negatively. I recognize this and feel bad about it and would like to make things better between us.”

Further on in the article, Karyn Polewaczyk’s piece from Jezebel suggested ”women over-apologize because they feel “undeserving.” Women preface their request and statements with self deprecating phrases like “I’m sorry,” “I hate to be a pain, “ and “This may sound foolish,” because they don’t feel like what they have to say is important. Many times, women feel that in order to be better received, that must sugar coat what they have to say. Think about the myriad of examples in the media depicting a man and a woman asking for a raise or making a suggestion or firing someone. If a man does it, he’s confident whereas if a woman says it, she’s a bitch. And we wonder why we’re apologizing.

Now, no one started a slow clap for me as I walked in the locker room that day. (Well, I did just in my head, but no one else heard it). Still, it was the beginning of a much-needed change. I started putting it into practice, not just at the gym, but also in areas where I’d apologize for no valid reason. Instead of telling the clerk at Chipotle, “Sorry, can I have fajita vegetables” after I told her and she forgot, I just said, “Excuse me, could you please add the fajitas?” When I made the clerk at Gap help me scour the store AND call the last store I had been to in hopes of finding my lost handbag (don’t worry, we found it), I didn’t say, “Sorry for being such a crazy person! Sorry for taking up your time!” I said, “Thank you very much for your help. I really appreciate it.”

By breaking this habit, I’ve empowered myself. I’ve challenged myself to speak freely. I was giving away my power by leading off statements with “Sorry” and now; I’ve taken it back and then some.

 

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IN: ON: June 25, 2014 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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A Little Knowledge is a Dangerous Thing

As you know, I’m a mom. I’ve got three little girls whom I love, love, love.  They challenge me to be the mom that they deserve and the mom that they need.  I do my best to wear many hats in order to fulfill their requests, desires, and needs.  Sometimes, I’m a chef. Sometimes I’m a hairdresser.  Most of the time, I’m a chauffeur.  All the time, though, I’m a teacher. I’m leading by example, whether I’m aware of it or not.  I have to take care in what I say, how I say it and in what I do and how I do it.  In order for them to be good people, I have to show them what that means.

We have our ups and downs.  We are steadily marching towards Big Kid status, as M turns 9 this year and C is hot on her heels turning 7. V is holding things down in toddler-ville, a full blown two year old. It’s challenging trying to find activities that appeal to this spectrum of ages, especially those that don’t involve electronics. We read a lot.  We do lots of “arts and craps”.  We spend time outside.  I recently got M a scooter and nothing gives me greater joy than seeing her whizz down the driveway, the skirt of her favorite dress billowing around her legs like the wind filled sail of a ship.  C comes next, either by her own scooter or with her jump rope ticka-ticking furiously on the asphalt.  V brings up the rear, sidewalk chalk in each fist, her little flip flops working double-time to catch up to her big sisters.  This has been the summer of skinned knees to be sure, but when the heat gives way to crisper air and changing leaves, I think the memories of outdoor play will be remembered most.

Today is an off day for us. We’re taking a break from the pool because M is getting her hair braided this afternoon.  She and C have been swimming just about everyday.  I spent a good chunk of the morning washing, conditioning and de-tangling her hair so that it would be ready for braids this afternoon.  While sitting in the bathroom, the girls listened attentively as I explained the importance of good hair care habits, why we try not to put a lot of heat on our hair and so on.  V sat for a bit, but then got up to empty out the contents of the bathroom vanity.  Once done with that endeavor, she grabbed for the storage basket of extra toilet paper rolls that I keep in the same general area. In addition to the rolls, the basket also had a magazine and soft zippered pouch where I keep my feminine hygiene products.  She unzipped the pouch and up-ended it, showering tampons and pads all over the floor.

“I know what these are!” C crowed, as she grabbed a handful and shook them under M’s nose. “These are tampoons!”

“I know they’re tampoons!” M said.

“Tampons.” I corrected, trying to corral the sanitary napkins with my foot while continuously blowing dry M’s hair.  “They’re called tampons. Those other things are called pads.”

“What are they used for?” asked C as she began replacing the items in the pouch.

“Grown up lady business.” I said.

“Grown up lady business, in the bathroom!” amended M.

“Yes, but what kind of grown up lady business?” C pressed. And just like that, I found myself in the middle of a teachable moment with my girls.  What should I do? Should I gloss over the purpose of pads and tampons? Should I just tell them never mind; I’ll tell you when you’re older? Should I just tell the truth as plainly as possible? How old was I when I had this conversation with my mom? Could I get her on the phone and have her explain it to them?  Tick tock, tick tock.

“Okay,” I said, setting down my hair tools. “Here’s the deal.  What I’m going to tell you is our private business.  That means, you keep it to yourself and you don’t need to share it with your friends.  I’m sure their moms will tell them what they need to know when they ask, so this is just for us.”  And then I launched into a brief anatomy lesson.  In truth, part of it was a review, because they had had some questions about V’s arrival several years ago.  This time, aided by M’s artists pad, I sketched out the female reproductive system. I likened the thickening of the uterus to the feathering of a nest. I explained how the uterus is constantly preparing itself in the event a baby shows up (I did gloss over that part), and how if no baby shows up, the uterus then cleans itself by shedding the nest and starting again.  M was “Mmhmm-ing” and “Oh, I see-ing” while C was listening with furrowed brow.  I plunged ahead, explaining that the pads  were what collected the “old nest” and how you used and disposed of them, the whole time peppering the conversation with “But this doesn’t apply to you right now!” and “This won’t happen to you for a few more years!”

“But what about the tampoons, I mean, tampons,” M asked, “How do you use them?” At this point, I felt as though I was bumping up against more info than they needed, but I’d come this far.  I went into my closet and came back out with the American Girls The Care and Keeping of You book.  I’d bought it years ago in preparation for a moment such as this.  I thumbed it open to the section of changes in your body and together, we read all about menstruation, sanitary napkins and the like.  Again and again, I reminded them that while all of this was good info to have, it wouldn’t be info they would need for a several more years.  Then M pointed to the paragraph that said, “Most girls begin menstruation between the ages of 9 and 15.”

“A few more years,” I repeated, praying the organic chicken I’d been feeding them would help stave off any hormonal accelerations.

I let M read the book a bit more as I finished her hair. C took the info for what it was and went back to playing Barbies with V.  I reminded them that our conversation was just that, our conversation and they heartily agreed.  I put the book away, finished M’s hair and that was that.

While the girls were busy doing whatever they were doing in C’s room, I went downstairs to make lunch, do the laundry, clear the counter-tops and extinguish the dozen or so other little fires that needed my attention.  I called the girls down for lunch, C and V galloping into the kitchen.  M had to be called a few times and when she finally came down, I asked her what she had been doing.

“I was in the bathroom,” she began, “And then I was washing my hands. I saw one of your tampoons in the trash, Mom, and I figured it was just your uterus cleaning itself out. ”

Yes, M, it was just that.

Me and my big mouth.

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IN: ON: June 17, 2014 TAGS: , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Salt Water: 3 Ways

Sweat

I work out five days a week.  There are days when I don’t want to. There are many days when I don’t want to, but I continue to go because I know I will feel better, both mentally and physically, if I do.  Sometimes, when I’ve wrangled myself into my swimsuit and topped it with a warm-up suit, I think about how I’d much rather be in my pajamas under the covers.  Sometimes, after I’ve dropped V off in the child care center and I’m unloading the contents of my backpack into my locker, I think, “I could just sit on this bench here and just do nothing until I have to pick up V in two hours.”   Sometimes, I have a poor performance in the pool and think, “That was a waste of time and energy”.  Despite all of those scenarios, though, I know I would feel much worse if I never crossed the Fitness Center threshold at all.  Truthfully, I don’t consider a workout successful unless there is a full on flop sweat coursing down my face. Physical exertion is one of the best ways to move through and beyond a sour mood.  The ordeal that is our morning routine is sure to leave several of us (okay, me) cranky and uptight before we’ve even left the driveway.  When I’m gripping the steering wheel like Homer on Bart Simpson’s neck, I know that once I get situated on the Elliptical or the Stairmaster and get the sweat flowing, I will be in a much better place.  Even as I type this, I’m struck by the thought of being bathed in sweat, the sweat actually cleansing me of negative energy. All of the nasty feelings, critical thoughts, nuggets of self-doubt or what have you are being carried out in rivulets of sweat and evaporating into the air. Poof! Gone, leaving me red-faced and soaked through, but considerably lighter in temperament.  The release of sweat re-calibrates my internal metronome, enabling me to march to my own beat without missing a step.

Tears

The Hubs and I are both in the midst of serious professional growth.  It’s been challenging for me in that I work from home.  There are precious few hours that I can 1) devote to my projects and 2) work on my projects with some semblance of focus.  I am getting up at five in the morning to put in some work before we start our day. I sneak in an hour or two while V naps, and then if I’m lucky (i.e. not delirious and cross eyed with fatigue), I get squeeze in another hour after lights out for the girls. Then it’s to bed and back up for a repeat performance the following day.  It’s a grueling schedule to keep.  I’ve never been much of a night owl; I’m more of an early to bed, early to rise kind of gal.  The cumulative effect of these early morning, late nights began to take its toll on me.  The day came when I could no longer keep it together after manning this ship on domesticity while the Hubs traveled for work. I was tired. I was cranky.  I was feeling unappreciated and overwhelmed.  I was resentful of the Hubs and his ability to just get up, get dressed, and get out the door unencumbered by the petulant whines and cries of three little people each with their own very strong opinion.  I was mad that I had passed another sleepless night and that I was caught in the hamster wheel of Monday through Friday. I flung the covers off, got out of bed. I stewed about what had happened and what needed to happen and I began to cry. Hard, angry, hot tears that caught the Hubs completely off guard.

“I’m just. . I’m so tired,” I snotted and sobbed into the shirtfront of my bewildered husband.  And when the Hubs in a Herculean attempt to calm me offered to go get bagels for the girls, I snapped out of it. I grabbed my big girl panties off of the shelf, stuffed my tears and general malaise up on the shelf in their place and carried on my day.  Despite his best efforts, bagels weren’t going to suffice.  Shelving my emotions was not a solution that would prove to be an enduring one, either.  As we continued in our roles, the feelings ballooned up until one day, I found myself clicking on the television to babysit the girls so I could go upstairs, lock the door and cry.  And cry. And cry. I lay face down on my bed with the comforter balled up in my fists, the corner of our decorative throw pillows catching the onslaught of water sluicing from my face. I cried furiously, thoroughly, in body-wracking disgusting sobs, hiccuping and snorting like truffle pig searching for chanterelles. I cried until I was scooped out and deflated, until the only sound in the room was the raggedness of my breath coming in ever diminished bursts.  It was a cry for the ages. When I peeled myself off of the bed, I saw how the shedding of tears left a soggy, Hilary-sized impression on the bedclothes.  I felt clean, like a slate had been wiped, like someone had hit the re-set button.  While my situation was the same, I was now empty of everything that had been weighing me down as I tried to manage it. With each tear, I jettisoned anger, frustration, fatigue,  and resentment.  I was hollowed out and determined to be replenished with only good things.

The Sea

I love the beach, plain and simple. I didn’t grow up near the beach. We didn’t vacation at the beach growing up or with any regularity as adults. I could choose my vacation destination, however, with the exception of Paris, I’d be going to the beach.  The calming, repetitive nature of the surf coming in to and pulling away from the shore is hypnotic.  I love the feel of the sand between my toes and watching the sugar-like crystals be swept away by the angry fingers of an ocean wave.  I’ve been lucky enough to visit beaches on the East Coast and West Coast, in both warm temps and not so warm temps.  It doesn’t matter, I love it all the same. I’d be just as happy in a rolled up jeans and a chunky sweater, strolling down Chick’s Beach in October as I would be in a bathing suit and Ray Bans laid out getting tan in Costa Maya in August. I’ll take it all and every point in between.

Our immediate family is trying to keep a tradition of a bi-annual trip to Martha’s Vineyard in motion. We’ve been more successful with this than we have been with Pancake Saturday, but I digress.  The beaches on Martha’s Vineyard are both public and private.  The Atlantic is cold and sometimes is met with rocky shores or smooth, windblown sandy beaches.  Whether it’s Tashmoo Beach, Longpoint Beach, the Inkwell or State Beach, it’s of no consequence.  The 12 plus hours it takes to get to the Vineyard are magically erased when I lay my towel down and pop open the umbrella. Everything is right with the world.  I don’t know much about astrology and zodiac signs, so I don’t know if or how my birth sign corresponds to the elements. According to the books, I’m more earth-centric, but given my way, I’ll take the ocean any day.

I remember laying back in the waters in Costa Maya, thinking about this old Foxtrot cartoon I had read.  Over the course of several installments, the Fox family goes to their cabin for the week The husband, Roger, locks the keys to the car in the ignition.  The rest of the family goes about the week while he tirelessly tries to unlock the door with a hanger. Once he successfully liberates the keys, he tries to share his joy with his son who replies, “Mom told me I have to pack.”  The next panel shows Roger floating in the lake, imploring the waters to soothe him, calm him, restore him to his balance.  By the fourth panel, we see his wife yelling, “C’mon, Roger, the car’s packed and running! It’s time to go,” to which Roger replies, “Hurry up, water! Hurry up!”  It’s easily been ten years of more, since I’ve read Foxtrot, but I can’t ever float in the ocean or in a pool without thinking of this cartoon and how we rely on the water to heal us.

What about you? How does salt water cure you?

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IN: ON: May 23, 2014 TAGS: , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Kill ‘Em With Kindness

I’d like to think of myself as  someone who has good manners, someone who has, as my mother likes to say, “home training.”  It doesn’t take much to do the right thing when it comes to our daily interactions with people.  If you’re entering or exiting a building and see someone close behind you, hold the door for them.  If the roles are reversed and someone holds the door open for you, say “Thank you!”  Or if an act of a Good Samaritan makes your life a little easier, pay it forward and do something nice for someone else.

I used to work for a real estate agent (what haven’t I done, right?), and this man said that whenever he and his wife were out having dinner, if he saw another diner that he could identify as being in the any branch of the military, he would automatically pay for that persons meal, no questions asked.  Rick, the agent, said that picking up the check for someone who would fight for our rights and freedoms was the very least he could do.  I have not ever found myself where I could take the steps that Rick took — I’m far less gregarious and usually running down wayward children to cast about for dining veterans, but the lesson shared was one that I haven’t forgotten.

It doesn’t hurt to be kind. In fact, it serves to bolster our self-esteem.  In this day in age, who wouldn’t want a little inoculation against things that would rob us of joy?  I try to hold doors open for people when I can.  If I’m in the grocery store, I will let a shopper with fewer items scoot ahead of me. I have read the #ChiptoleProblems on Twitter, so I make sure I am not on my phone, always say “please” and “thank you” and make eye contact when I’m ordering my food.  For that matter, as a former food service employee, I really try to be super courteous to wait staff.  I’ve seen what goes on at the bus stations and in the kitchen (blerg!)

When I was at the RAD show, I went to use the ladies room.  There were three stalls, two of which were occupied. As I made for the empty stall, one of the others open up and the woman said, “Oh no, no, no! Don’t go in there! Someone took a huge dump and didn’t flush it! Here; use this one.” I was surprised that 1) she forewarned me of what could have been a dry heave inducing experience and 2) she said “dump”.  I appreciated that honesty, catching a break is probably more apt. After I had used the stall, I noticed that the toilet paper roll was getting dangerously low and there weren’t any spares within reach.  When I came out, I told the line of women waiting that the deal was.  Would most people have just washed their hands and rolled out? Probably. Would I have been one of those people had it not been for my previous ineteraction? Probably.  Still, I’m trying to be better. I’m not necessarily living the golden rule, but I’m working towards it.

Today was a swim day, and I had been looking forward to getting in the pool.  I don’t know if I’m a strong swimmer, but I’m confident in what I can do.  Just as I was about to slip into the lane, a woman approached me and asked if she could share.  The other lanes each had one swimmer in them, save the very far lane of the pool which was reserved for open swim.  She explained that she asked before I got in because then she wouldn’t have to interrupt anyone and if she swam in the open swim lane, there was a chance that a class could come in and kick her out.  Here was my face:

I know, I just got finished say that I ‘m trying to be better, but I haaaaaaate lane sharing.  While I may be confident in what I can do, I’m not confident about what I can do when someone is swimming in tandem with me, less than 6 inches away.  I’m on hyper alert. Am I drifting too far to center? Did we say circles or splits? Am I too close to the lane line? Can I backstroke or will I get in her way? Is she trying to race me? What was supposed to be a relatively stress-free workout has been now all twisted out of shape because I’m trying not to encroach on someone else’s workout.  And I kind of doubt they’re worrying about me the way that I’m worry about them.  That in turn leads me to these kinds of thoughts:

  • I’ll just check the surrounding lanes after each lap
  • I’ll just won’t do backstroke today.
  • I’ll just stick with the crawl
  • I’ll just slide over a lane if another lane opens up.
  • Wait, why should I slide over a lane? I was here first. She asked me to share.
  • Yeah, but I’m not enjoying sharing, so if something opens up, I should move.
  • Well then, she’ll have won.
  • Won what, dummy?
  • She’ll have the lane to herself.
  • I’ll have a lane to myself, if I move over.
  • Yeah, but what if I move, then someone else comes and asks me to share and then I’ll be right back where I started.
  • #firstworldproblems

And then I sheared off the top layer of skin from my forearm because I was so busy wrangling logistics with myself that I cozied up to the lane line without even realizing it.  This went on for a good 20 minutes, and probably another 5 went by before I realized the woman had taken it upon herself to slide to an empty lane when the opportunity presented itself.

When I had finished my swim, I spent a few minutes stretching before I hopped out of the pool.  The woman pulled up in the lane next to me, removing her fins and adjusting her goggles.  I felt like I should apologize, but she didn’t know the inner monologue that I had been using to fuel my flip turns.  So,  I turned to her and said, “I’m sorry if I threw you off while I was doing the backstroke. I hope you were able to get your laps in.”  She shook her head and said, “Oh no, it was fine.  Thanks for sharing.”

She thanked me.

Yeah, I felt pretty small.

So, I’m going to toughen my resolve, make my mother proud, and make a conscious effort to go the extra mile for a stranger.  I can hold a door open. I can wipe down a toilet seat (not that I’m a sprayer, but just as a courtesy). I can offer a smile. I can always say “Thank You”. I can put the phone down when I’m checking out at Target. I can just be a better version of me and in so doing, maybe make someone else feel good.

I can learn to lane share, and I can do it without giving the Chloe side-eye.

Maybe. . .baby steps, people. . .baby steps.

 

 

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IN: ON: May 15, 2014 TAGS: , , , , , BY: Hilary
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photography projects & DIY recipes

Recipe Friday: Teddy Bear Beach Party

The week-end is already over and it’s only Thursday. I’m calling it because between now and Sunday evening, it’s go, go, go until we can face-plant among the pillows only to wake up on Monday and start fresh.  The kids are heading into end of year mode.  May marks one month until the end of this school year.  The first week-end in May kicks off the slide down that slope with Spirit Week, Field Day and Magic Dragon Day. Spirit Week involves the kids dressing up each day from a pre-approved theme.  Monday and Tuesday were Blue and White Day (school colors), Wednesday was Tie-Day day, and Thursday was Crazy Hat day.  Sadly, we have no “crazy” hats, but the girls looked, to quote M, “Stylish, sophisticated and continental,” in two of my church hats.  Friday is field day where each grade participates in relays, running races, and other fun games.  They wear their Magic Dragon Day shirts — the dragon being the school mascot, the shirt color pre-determined by the eldest family member attending the school (Go, Blue!) — and run around, getting hot, sweaty and grass stained.  It’s an early release day as well and I’m confident that this year, I’ll remember to get them at 1pm instead of the regular dismissal time like I did the last two years (oops!).

Magic Dragon Day is on Saturday and it promises to be a rolicking event.  Every year, the school hosts a carnival like event for the entire school.  There are booths with games of chance, tug-of-war contests in each grade, dunking booths, Spirit Wear sales, book sales, a cake walk and the highly anticipated kidnergarten May Pole Dance.  While this is our third MDD, this is our first May Pole Dance and cake walk experience.  The kindgergarten kiddos have been practicing since before Easter to kick off MDD with their dance.  The girls and boys wear their Sunday best and dance around the blacktop, lacing grosgrain ribbons up and down the length of a flower topped pole.  Once the dance is over, Magic Dragon Day can officially begin.

C is in kindergarten this year and has been protesting having to do the May Pole dance because she “doesn’t want to hlod hands with a boy!!”  Keep up that attitude, kiddo!  As we’ve gotten closer, though, she’s started to get more excited.  She’s picked out her dress, she’s decided what color flowers she’d like in the wreath that will sit atop her head.  She is ready to peel out of the dress with her friends and into her MDD shirt in order to paritcipate in her first ever tug-of-war.  I suppose it’s no surprise that her enthusiasm has been escalating. While neither she nor M have ever done a May Pole before, they’re third year MDD vets and ready to eat and play their way through the day.

In addition to the May Pole prep, kindergarten parents are also tasked with preparing two cakes (or 48 cupcakes or some combination of cake and cupcake) for the MDD cake walk.  Cake walk? What’s that, you ask.  The Cake Walk is one of the most fun and successful booths at MDD.  Similar to musical chairs, participants move along a serpentine path on the blacktop.  The path is sectioned off into numbers which correspond to numbered cakes set up in the auditorium.  When the music stops, the emcee draws a number from the pile and whomever is standing on that number, wins the corresponding cake.  The cakes are indeed prizes to be had!  The cakes are either homemade or store bought, and decorated within an inch of their lives.  The more decorations, the better!  In years past, cakes have been decorated as sand castles, treasure chests, dragons, Legos, Polly Pocket Beach parties and Star Wars themed cake toppers.

Earlier in the year, when talking with another kindergarten mom, we resolved to buy our cakes instead of fool around with the homemade foolishness.  At the time, the mandate was, homemade only — not necessarily from scratch, but definitely homemade.  I was all about “breaking the law” because I didn’t know what the heck kind of cake I could scrape together or whether or not I was really up to the challenge of finding something that could hold its own against other Pinterest-worthy cakes that were sure to come down the pike.  I went back and forth the Hubs about it, who clearly fell on the side of “Just buy the cake!” and my mom who was more of “Oh, c’mon, you can make it.”  Truthfully, I was doing a cost benefit analysis as to what was more cost effective: buying a pre-decorated cake or buying the uspplies and doing it myself.  In the end, I think it was a wash.  I found a recipe that looked hard, but was more time consuming than anything else.  Ultimately, my biggest challenge was making sure my cupcake cups were equally filled.  Well, that and trying to keep the girls from eating the decorations before I could put them on the cake.

Between the cake and the prep for the May Pole dance, which included hot gluing silk flowers to a ribbon encased wreath, it’s been straight up Crafty Town up in here. The recipe for the cupcakes follows the photos of my finished product. I baked the cakes and cupcakes a few days ahead of time so that I could focus solely on frosting and decorating.

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Teddy-At-The-Beach Cupcakes.

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Teddy’s lounging.

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Here’s my layer cake. Same premise as the cupcakes, but I got a little fancier with jelly bean rocks in the sand and icing trim around the edges.

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Here, fishy, fishy!

 

Enjoy and Happy Friday, y’all!

Teddy-At-The-Beach Cupcakes

recipe courtesy of Betty Crocker, found here.

Ingredients

  • 1 box Betty Crocker® SuperMoist® cake mix (any flavor)
  • 2 drops blue food color
  • 1 cup Betty Crocker® Whipped vanilla frosting
  • 1 roll (from 4.5-oz box) Betty Crocker® Fruit by the Foot® chewy fruit snack (any flavor)
  • 1/2 cup teddy bear-shaped graham snacks, crushed, or brown sugar
  • 1 tablespoon Betty Crocker® blue sugar, if desired
  • 12 teddy bear-shaped graham snacks
  • 6 paper drink umbrellas or small plastic umbrellas, if desired
  • 6 ring-shaped gummy candies
  • 6 multi-colored fish-shaped crackers

Directions

  • 1 Heat oven to 350°F (325°F for dark or nonstick pans). Place paper baking cup in each of 24 regular-size muffin cups. Make and bake cake mix as directed on box for 24 cupcakes. Cool in pans 10 minutes; remove from pans to cooling rack. Cool completely, about 30 minutes. Tightly wrap 12 cupcakes; freeze for a later use.
  • 2 Stir blue food color into frosting until blended. Frost remaining 12 cupcakes with frosting.
  • 3 Cut six 1 1/2-inch pieces from fruit snack roll; peel off paper backing. Use fruit snack and remaining ingredients to decorate cupcakes as shown in photo or as desired.

See also:  A Day at the Beach Cake! Recipe courtesy of Reloved Recipes, found here.

 

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IN: photography projects & DIY recipes ON: May 2, 2014 TAGS: , , , , , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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In Search of Sweet Dreams

I haven’t been sleeping well lately. There’s not doubt to the depths of my fatigue as of late, but when the time comes for me to power down and tuck in for the night, it doesn’t happen. In our household, when the Hubs says he’s going to bed, he shuts off his computer, puts on his pjs, and gets in the bed. He may read for a little bit, but usually the time between him announcing his departure for slumber and the actual lights clicking out is less than 10 minutes. Me on the other hand? I say I’m going to bed and proceed to do the following:

1. empty the dishwasher
2. clear the counter top of drying dishes
3. wipe down counters
4. move dry laundry to laundry basket
5. move wet laundry to dryer
6. clear off the kitchen table
7. push in all the chairs around the table
8. set the table for tomorrow’s breakfast
9. close the lid to the piano
10. collect wayward toddler, 6 year old and 8 year old detritus to bring upstairs

and this is ALL BEFORE I EVEN GO UPSTAIRS!

There’s another set of ten or so things that happen before I get in the bed, and then once I’m in the bed, I spend a few minutes massaging my leg with this scar cream that I think is really just a bottle of Nivea dressed up to look like a legitimate prescription. I put my bonnet on, strap my leg into my orthopedic boot (yes, I’m still wearing this thing), and turn off the lights. As I settle back into my pillow, my muscles uncoiling, my brain decides to remind me of the possible adventures that tomorrow will bring. If I get up 15 minutes later than usual, I’ll really enjoy a few more minutes of sleep If I get up 15 minutes earlier, though, I could knock out a few crunches before having breakfast. Or I could fold that laundry while I watch the news. Did I remember to pack the right amount of snacks in the girls’ lunches? Tomorrow I”m supposed to read at school before lunch or is it next Thursday before music class? How many trips to Target is it going to take to get all of the things on M’s camp list? Can I get it all done before V conks out for a nap? What is that noise? Did I remember to lock the front door?

Did I turn the lights off? Is my car locked? Where’s my wallet?

And so on and so on before my alarm is tolling me awake with increasing volume. I’m up and the cycle repeats itself. The last few days, this endless listing of what the following day will bring has been supplanted with the most disturbing of dreams. I don’t know if it’s something that I ate, if it’s something in my subconscious trying to get out or what, but I go to sleep and am immediately plunged into a dreamscape that leaves me more tired upon awakening than when I went to sleep.

Have you ever had one of those dreams that you know isn’t real, but you can’t escape it no matter how much you try? Have you have ever had one of those dreams several nights in a row? It’s exhausting. It started several days ago and the dream was basic in its premise. I was at home, but it wasn’t my home. I was with my family, but they didn’t look like my family. We had a cage full of a dozen ferrets that I was responsible for and, while it wasn’t verbalized, somehow I knew that if I didn’t take care of them, they’d go all Gremlin on me. This was the first time I’d ever had a roiling anxiety stomach ache in a dream. I’ve never had a ferret in real life! I know that they feel like liquid fur, they can be both cute and vicious and that even though they’ve had their scent glands removed, they still stink. The entirety of the dream was me taking care of these ferret, hoping that they didn’t freak out, with my nose full of musk and my stomach on pitching and rolling like I was on the deck of the Titanic. The whole while, I’m telling myself, “This isn’t real. This isn’t real. Wake up, dummy! Wake up!” No haps. When I finally did emerge from that bizarre tableau, it wasn’t because I had clawed my way into consciousness. It was more of a bucket of water in the face type of wake-up courtesy of my alarm. Nothing is more disorienting that going from sleep to wakefulness, but feeling like you haven’t really left the former behind.
Same dream the next night, with minor changes. And another night, same basic premise, but now the ferrets has evolved into anthropomorphic type creatures. . .and they were wearing clothes. They looked like those jet pack wearing, roller skating dogs from Madagascar 3 (hello, subconscious).

I have no idea what all of this means. I have read articles about the symbolism involved in dreams, but I’d be really impressed if there was a ferret related symbolism that has been discussed. Certainly, the feelings of anxiety are legitimate. There’s a lot going on in my life right and I’m doing my best to keep all my plates spinning in the air. Time management, which used to be my strong suit, has not been as easy for me to get my arms around. The to-do list grows and I find myself adding things that I’ve already done just so I can have the satisfaction of crossing them off.
Which brings me to today. This whole thing has been unnerving and I need to put a stop to it because my energy is flagging, my crankiness is skyrocketing and I am close to delirious from lack of sleep. I can’t mess around any more. The Hubs has been out of for several days and I am doing above and beyond Super Mom duty in his absence. There’s no time for poor sleep. Counting sheep, warm milk and the like isn’t my jam. I don’t want to take any sleep aids because I’m afraid that one of the children will need me and I won’t be able to respond to them. What’s a girl to do?

I’m going to start with food. No more to eat after 8pm. I’ve already cut my caffeine consumption dramatically. Instead of 2-3 cups a day, I’m down to like 2 or 3 a week. I’m drinking tea and even that’s decaffeinated. As for wine — I can never remember if it’s red before or what, but no matter. This Lenten experience with no alcohol has also altered my consumption of the grape and grain.

When I’m ready for bed, I’m going to get ready for bed. Wash the face, twist the hair, put on the jammies. I’m truly going to power down when the time comes. No more texting up until I turn off the light. I will actually turn the phone off, turn the iPad off, turn the computer off. I will use a real clock (what? they still make those?) as my alarm.

I will put lavender oil on my wrists.

I will use the same charm on myself that I give to the girls to ensure sweet dreams: Think about all the good things that happened to you today. Think about all of the good things that will happen to you tomorrow. Think about all the people that you are thankful for, whose lives you’ve touched and whose lives have touched yours.

I will use some old yoga skills to bunch and relax my muscles groups in an orderly progression from my toes to my head until I’m nothing but a puddle under my blankets.
I will stand on the edge of solid wakefulness, my toes moving closer to fathomless sleep.

I will step.

I will fall.

I will sleep.
I will sleep.
I will sleep.

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IN: ON: April 30, 2014 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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