Tag: motherhood

Levelling Up

This past week-end, I was fortunate enough to attend an “Eat, Drink and Be Married” celebration for two of my college friends, both of whom had gotten married within months of one another.  It was a great time spent with a handful of folks from my college days, their spouses, stories about what we’ve all been doing over the past handful of years and so on.

Despite the abundance of seating throughout the house, we all congregated in the kitchen.  It never fails; host a party and the crowd is drawn to the heart of the house buoyed along by laughter and the promise of food and drinks.  As I stood around, sipping on a delightful vodka limeade, I watched my friends engaged in conversations, sharing iPhone photos of their little ones and reminiscing about “that one time, at the delis. . .”.  Looking at these little pockets of catching up,  I realized, that no one’s parents were in attendance.  I mean, someone’s parents were in attendance; all of us there were parents, but our parents were conspiciously absent.  We’ve become “the parents”; we’ve leveled up.

I had a second drink on which to mull that over.

One of the ladies must have seen the wry smile on my face because she asked me what I was thinking about. I shared with her my observation, to which a look of “buzzkill” flitted across her eyes before she shook her head in acknowledgement of my observation.  She hated to admit it, but I was right. 

“God, that’s so weird,” she remarked, pressing a hand to her abdomen as if she couldn’t even digest the thought. “I still feel like I’m 17!”

Oh yeah, I get that.  I don’t feel like I’ve got 13 years between me and my last day of college. I don’t feel like I’m old enough to have an 8 year old (I don’t know what that’s supposed to feel like, actually).  I don’t feel like I’m old enough to be standing around someone’s kitchen a la The Big Chill for the 2013.

After I left the party, I headed home to help The Hubs get ready to entertain some friends of ours who were coming over for dinner.  We got the girls fed, scrubbed, and pajamma-ed just as our guest arrived.  The girls said their hellos, and beat a hasty retreat to their rooms to play until they were called to go to bed.  As The Hubs and I sat around the table with our friends, we were laughing, debating, pouring wine and just enjoying adult conversation.  It shouldn’t have surprised me when C materialized at my elbow saying that she was tired and could she just go to bed now, but it did.  It was deja vu in several ways. 

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 I can distinctly remember being 7 or 8, having been summarily dismissed by my parents as they nibbled wine and cheese with their friends.  After a good 30 minutes or so, I would creep back downstairs to observe them doing whatever it was they were doing (usually eating, playing cards and talking shit), before striding into the room to announce that I could not sleep and could they please keep it down. Somewhere between that announcement and my being escorted back to bed, I filched some chips or nuts or whatever munchies were on hand, maybe a sip of my mom’s drink, or a dollar from the pocket of a generous neighbor. 

There were definite perks of being the youngest kid in the house and of my parents’ social circle.

Now, here I was on the other side of that circle, giving C a taste of my dessert before showing her back to her bed. Surreal just touches the tip of how I felt.

When you level up in a video game, there’s usually some booming announcer voice, or some blinking icon dancing across the screen, bleating “Level Completed! Level Completed!”   When you notice the change in perspective —  instead of peering through the forest of panty hose clad or chino encased legs as you fight back yawns with a teddy tucked securely under your arm,  you’re smoothing the panty hose on your leg or brushing a crumb from your husbands chinos, picking up a teddy to place back onto some Hello Kitty or Star Wars Bed comforter —  that’s when you know you’ve leveled up.

Chances are, you probably didn’t press right arrow, left arrow, X +Y to get there, either.

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IN: ON: August 5, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Summer Fun or Bust

I have started this post several times today and nothing is working.  Summer vacation has us in it’s humid and sticky grasp, rendering the best of intentions into nothing more than shiny, sweat-stained puddles. 

It hasn’t even been a full week and I need a vacation from the vacation.

The girls are doing some mini camps this week; a few activities that I think they will enjoy.   Sometimes I’m right, most of the time, not so much.  Mo is enrolled in a 5 day lacrosse camp, just 2 hours a day.  Yes, it’s summer. Yes, it’s hot. To hear her tell it, you’d think she’s one of those Temple of Doom kids, working in the mines instead of outside, growing strong and confident in her athleticism. Trying to explain concepts like “privilege”, “fortunate” and “gratitude” without staging a full on after-school special is challenging.

Several posts ago, I mentioned that I was going to try to not over-commit.  Aside from the couple of activities that were already on the calendar, I was looking forward to just taking it one day at a time and seeing where the highways and bi-ways of the River City took us.  We haven’t got much beyond the circuitous route of home-YMCA-home-library-home-swim practice-home. 

Somewhere in the back of my head, I thought that if I had a less regimented summer schedule,  I could be one of those parents that just throws the kids, some snacks, and a devil-may-care attitude into the car to spend the day exploring. 

But I’m not that kind of mom. I’m pretty sure I’m hardwired against being that kind of mom.  I don’t think I have those kinds of kids either, primarily because I’m not that kind of mom.  We get in the car and it’s a Battle Royale of who will sit where, who is touching whose book/leg/seatbelt, and why there aren’t any snacks (No, Mom, I mean good snacks).

Smiling faces, excited faces rolling along the road.  It’s a fun fantasy to entertain.  
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I imagine us laughing along to silly songs on the satellite radio. I toss back washed, organic fruit and chubby bottles of water, which my girls gleefully catch mid-arc.  The baby is in high spirits, having just awoken from a well rested nap, as we end up at the zoo/museum/botanical gardens/(and dare I dream) the beach.  Our house, just a postcard in the rearview window, we’ve set out for memory making with our good humors intact and run up the car antennae like our house sigil. 

And yet.  . .

The sun is shimmying down below the horizon tonight as we wheel up the driveway from swim practice.  The girls are crabby and water-logged.  The baby is a 20 lb. red welt from where the mosquitoes have taken nibble after nibble on her irresistible thighs and arms.  The coffee that powered me through the after-lunch lull is dragging me to the finish line of the bedtime routine. 

They’ll be fed. They’ll wash and dry.  They’ll put on their pj’s inside-out or backwards and simply shrug when I point it out.  Nature’s Vitamin D coupled with the sheer fact of being 7, 5, and 1 will wring them out like sodden washcloths.  They’ll resist bed, as is their role.  I’ll insist on it, as is mine.  I’ll tuck them in, and re-tuck when they get up for one more book or one last trip to the toilet.  The lights will go out,  though the sun will still peer through the blinds, an all-seeing eye.

In the twilight of the day, I’ll sit outside with a sweating glass of water and think about how to re-calibrate things. How to change my attitude? How to change theirs?  Can we be free-wheeling and foot-loose, traveling down the road, sharing snacks, busy-bags and memories?

I don’t know, but I’m certainly going to try.

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IN: ON: June 11, 2013 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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Keeping It Real

 *disclaimer* My children are not bullies. They are not being bullied. I am fully aware of what is going on at their respective schools and with their respective classmates.  There is nothing to be aghast about. I’m giving you an abbreviated version of a conversation that I thought was funny. No child had their feelings hurt in the making of this post. **  By the way, that last line was sarcasm.

The other day, the girls were talking about how to resolve differneces on the plyaground. Mo was telling me about a child who likes to play with her and several other little girls, but has a tendency to dominate the playing, trying to change the game and boss the others around. 

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“Tell her that if she’s going to do that, she can’t play with you all any more,” I told her.

“Well, we can’t tell people they can’t play with us. The princicapl said so,” she replied.

So, I said,   “Then tell her that whatever it is you guys are playing, she’s welcome to play, but if she doesn’t like it, then she should play something else.”

“Maybe. . ” Mo said, which is basically her way of saying, “Yeah, I’m going to pretend that you didn’t said anything and just do what I want to do.

Co decided to offer her take on how to handle the situation.  “You know, Mo,” she began, “when I was have a problem with Suzy Q (not her real name), I just tell her that I don’t like how she’s treating me and then I walk away from her.”

At this, I looked up from what I was doing because, 1) I noticed she used present tense, and 2) Co had just gone to a birthday party for Suzy Q not that long ago. 

“Wait a second,” I said. “You and Suzy Q are still having an issue? I thought you guys were friends.”

“Nope. We’re not friends.”

“But you begged me to let you go to her party.”

Co gave me a full body eye roll, which for her fun-size five year old frame is pretty huge.  “Mom. I don’t really like Suzy Q, but I really, really like birthday parties.”

Oh boy.

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IN: ON: May 17, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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False Start

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I have started to write this post three times already today and am just not getting it done. I started to write about how 42% of mother’s have Pinterest related stress, but once I wrote that statistics, I thought, “I can believe it.” Then there wasn’t much else to say.

I thought I’d write about my current challenge on this photo-a-day thing I’m working on, but it came off as really whiney and an invite to a Hilary With One L pity party.  That got scrapped immediately.

Then, I thought I’d do a Mother’s Day recap, complete with the blow-by-blow of my day, my meal (which I failed to snap a photo of), my gifts and so forth.  It was a good idea until my conscience sidelined me with thoughts of “Fake-booking” and “Insta-glamming”.  This is a thing now you know, creating these utopian images and status updates for Facebook and Instagram that portray you in a nothing but a rainbow dappled light.  I know for some folks, what you see is really what you get — the kids getting along nicely, a chef style meal prepared at home, a fantastic outfit for a fantastic date or ladies’ night out.  Other times, what you see couldn’t possibly exist anywhere but on the pages of Pinterest or Tumblr — the kids getting along nicely, a chef style meal prepared at home, a fantastic outfit for a fantastic date or ladies’ night out.

I kid, sort of.

delete. delete. delete.

I thought I’d write about what I know.  True story: I know a little bit about a whole lot.  That post was just a bag of crazy with a dash of no direction thrown in for flavor.

I looked at the date and realized that May is just about half-way over.  Huh! The girls will be getting out of school for the summer in three weeks. 

Holy crap-cakes.

I mean, I know they get out the first week of June. I’ve got it written down.    When I looked at a calendar and saw that’s about three weeks, okay four weeks, away, as the young kids like to say, “Shit just got real.”  Three weeks!   That’s gonna happen real, real soon.  For all my previous proper prior planning, I ain’t got nothing this time around.

Again, I kid. Sort of.

I’ve got some things lined up, but it’s no where near the activity filled fun-fest that was last summer.  Maybe that’s a good thing.  Maybe instead of being constantly involved in this, that and the other, we’ll just keep it fast and loose.  They’ll do a few camps here and there, those 9 to 12 type of deals, as well as VBS.  After that, who knows.  Maybe we’ll hit the zoo. Maybe we’ll do the fountains at the mall.  I’m even toying with a day trip to Chick’s Beach for old time’s sake, though the last time I did a baby at the beach, I only had two kids and at least half a dozen other mom’s in my playgroup to run interference.

In my head, I hope our summer will be kind of lazy. I see us going to the pool and the library. I see the girls running through the sprinkler and learning to ride their bikes (finally).  I see faces smeared with popsicle juice and arms slick with bubble solution.  I see skinned knees and legs dotted with mosquito bites.  I’m seeing walks around the neighborhood, catching fireflies in a washed out pasta jar, and lots of chalk drawings crawling across our driveway.  There will be barefeet, sunkissed faces, and halos of pool scented hair.  There will be trips for ice cream, trips to the mall, trips to the museum.  Friends will come over. Bedtime may even be pushed back.

Who knows, maybe some of that will happen. Maybe none of it will happen.  I’m pretty sure if my girls got a hold of that list, they’d do it all on the first day — before lunch — and then ask, “Now what can we do?”

This time, I’m not kidding. 

Guess I better get planning.

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IN: ON: May 13, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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recipes

Recipe Friday: Mother’s Day Edition

To all the mothers, grandmothers, godmothers, aunts, like-a-mothers and company, have a very happy Mother’s Day.

My kids are sticklers for giving gifts on the designated day that gifts are supposed to be given. So, I have no pictures of their Mother’s Day artwork as they are guarding it fervently until Sunday morning.  Instead, I leave you with this note from a little girl named Emma, whose card has been dubbed “The Best Mother’s Day Card Of All Time” by the Huffington Post. 

It is pretty awesome.

best mothers day card of all time
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She loves her mom more than chocolate, and even more than mustaches! If this mom ever doubted her parenting skills, she can totally rest easy!  And the use of that colorful language, hey, young Emma did preface it with an apology. Let her mother worry about where she learned it after Mother’s Day has passed.

To my own mom, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t know of Andreas Vollenweider,  would have never conducted a French Fry taste test between McDonald’s, Burger King and Wendy’s (McD’s was the clear winner), or would have known how to give the stanky eye-brow.  You’re gifts keep on giving and they have served me well. 

Here’s to you, Mom.  Thank you and I love you never seem like enough, but I’ll keep saying it.  I’d planned to post a recipe that you often served during my chilhood, but Lung Yan’s Chinese Restaurant doesn’t have an online menu.

Just kidding. . .they really do. 

XOXO! Happy Mother’s Day, y’all.

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IN: recipes ON: May 12, 2013 TAGS: , , , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Isn’t this Ab-tastic

I recently read an article about Diastasis Recti, or the separation of the abdominal muscles due to weakened core, pregnancy or hormonal changes. I had heard of this condition before; basically, the sheet of abdominal muscles separates.  It’s not life threatening (at least, nothing I read said that it was), but you are supposed to use caution when doing crunches and sit-ups in the off chance that your cause further separatation of the mucles. 

From what I remember from anatompy and phys., of the multiple sets of abdnominal muscles you have, your rectus abdominis is the sheet of muscles that is where you get your six pack.  The muslces are connected by a tendon that runs down the middle.  The tendon has no elasticity in it, which means if you put on a lot of weight (as in the case with a pregnancy), the muscles separate, the tendon gets stretched.  After you lose the weight, the muscles, which have elasticity, retract, but the tendon is still in the same stretched out shape it was in when you put the weight on, thereby causing the gap between the muscles.  Here’s a pictorial representaiton.

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So, why am I talking about this, you ask? Well, I’m at the gym pretty much five days a week, just working on my fitness.  I’m trying to maintain the level of health that I currently enjoy as well as keep my pants buttoned without too much discomfort.  Truth be told, I enjoy working out. I like putting in work, sweating, feeling my muscles engage and all of that. Since my injury, I’m limited to the eliptical, the Nordic track, and sometimes the stair climber. I throw in some weights and I recently started swimming twice a week to mix things up. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back on the treadmill or actually pound pavement outside. I’m a little skittish about how well I can get my legs pumping in rhythm such that I won’t fall flat on my face.  After I do my time on the machines, I do the weights, some squats and recently, some ab work.

I’m in my 30s. I’m pretty sure that unless I go gluten-free, sugar-free, white flour free, and taste free, the weight I’m carrying now is mine to keep. I can feel my abs (serrator anterior, specifically), underneath the layers, but because I’m not going to wear a corset day and night for three months straight á la Jessica Alba, I’m just going to have to content myself with knowing that they’re there.  So, I figured I’d get them as firmed up as possible. I found a series of ab exceries during my recent combing of the Internet, which lead me to find this article about the diastasis recti. 

After I had had Mo, I participated in a Mommy-and-Me type exercise program several days a week.  We pushed the stollers around the mall, did resistance band type exercises and ended with ab work. The instructor often spoke of diastasis recti, encouraging those of us who had it to modify the ab work until our cores were stronger.  She even taught us how to diagnosis whether or not we had it.  Then, as with now, I’m no doctor, so I never really thought I was checking properly and just kept on working on my reverse crunches and bicycles.  Then I read this article which talked about how to check if you’ve got it.

“To check yourself for diastasis, lie on your back with your knees bent.  With your fingers pointing down toward your feet, hold two fingers flat on your bellybutton.  Press your fingers down as you slowly lift your head (keep your shoulders on the ground).  Do you feel a gully between the two muscles?  Measure how many fingers wide it is (mine is about 2.5 fingers wide).  If you can fit two or more fingers inside, you should not do crunches or sit ups.  If this is you, I would recommend halting all traditional abdominal exercises and doing the workout on this page until your separation heals.” — taken from Dear Diastasis Recti, I’m so over you by insperedrd on June 19, 2012

The earliest chance I got, I’m on the floor with my knees bent, fingers in my belly button. I’m kind of thinking whatever’s about to happen is going to make me less than pleased, but I soldier on. I start to slowly lift my head and let me tell you, my abs parted like the Red Sea and my fingers were Noah.  Sweet fancy Moses! I’m pretty sure I could have pulled Jimmy Hoffa, Ameila Earheart, and the Holy Grail out of the gap between the muscles. 

*le sigh* Ultimately, the gap is what contributes to the nefarious “mommy pooch”, and apparently it can be overcome by strengthening the core.  So, what’s a girl to do? No crunches, apparently.  The website provided a list of alternative exercises to do to strengthen the muscles, but I honestly don’t believe a gap like mine or the ones described can just be “healed” (their word, not mine).  I picture one of those holy roller type of churches where the pastor with the big Chicklet teeth smacks you on the forehead and says, “Be Healed!” right before you collapse into the waiting arms of church elder as other congregants dance in the aisles and sing songs of praise. 

Yes, I’m a cynic.

I’m also kind of tired, which is why I started in one direction and now find myself over here. 

You know how there are times in your life when you see something or hear sometihng or experience something that is so off=putting or weird that you keep re-visiting it? Or that you want to share it with someone else so that they’ll be as put off as you? Like, my brother used to pull off his sweaty gym socks after football practice, take a big whiff of the sock (I have no idea why) and say, “Oh my God, this smells so bad. C’mere and smell this!”

And yes, you know I smelled it because I was young and thought my brother spat nickles and farted rainbows.

Well, the gully in my gut is just like that. I’m disgusted and intrigued and totally want everyone to stick their fingers in my belly button so I can sit up and be like, “See, what I’m talking about? I get nauseous every time I do it!”

It is what it is, which is part of the fabric of who I am.  Once I stop messing with it — because I check it like every five minutes to marvel at how my body has changed yet again — it’ll be no big deal.  I’ll probably look into incorporating some of the non-crunch core moves into my routine at some point.  Or maybe I’ll look for a corset afterall. . .

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IN: ON: May 9, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Rock with You

My  mom often talks about how, when I was a baby, she never got anything done becuase all we did was “play, play play” all day.

I never really understood that. 

I’m a mother three times over and playing is so not my thing.  I build a tower out of blocks, someone knocks it down. I build another tower out of blocks, someone knocks it down. I put the blocks in a box, someone empties the box on their head, then bangs the box on their sisters head.  My Barbie’s have no conversational skills and their backstories are lame.  Don’t even get me started on fairies, mermaids and unicorns.  Coming up with detailed CVs for a realm of imaginary creatures must have been the creative writing class I missed that one time.

When the girls ask me to play, I pawn them off on one another. “Go play with your sister!” is a favorite refrain.  Not as popular, but just as common is , “Why don’t you play with your sister so I can finish up [insert chore], and then we’ll all play together!”   They haven’t picked up on the fact that the second part of that nugget is just misdirection on my part. 

I’m at home with Vivi a good portion of the day.  We sort of play together.  I get down on the floor with her and push the blocks around or make the stuffed animals dance. She’s young enough still that I’m not required have a character spreadsheet and blueprints for the cardboard castle we have yet to build.  I know the time will come when the girls will be beyond playing and into things that firmly tether them into the tween-age world.  When that time comes, though, while playing may be part of it, I know one thing that I’ll readily miss even more.
 
Now that strep throat is in my rearview, I’m ready to get back to tasks at hand.  This morning was a rough re-entry as Vivi decided to have a few middle of the night wake-ups.  I was getting REM sleep in short 2 hour bursts, followed by the Hubs with an early morning wake-up of his own.  The girls claimed they had just closed their eyes when I went to rouse them and burrowed back under the covers like moles when I flipped up on the lights.

We made it through the morning routine. Kisses were given, backpacks and lunches handed over, and the day got underway. Vivi and I hit the Y, run a few errands and head home. It’s barely 10am.  We get home, she’s all smiles, as am I, since I know a nap is in her future.   I try to take the snack trap away from her so I can dislodge her from her carseat, and let me tell you,  Bruce Banner ain’t got nothing on her.  She set up a yell so loud and so gravelly, I checked her pockets for a bullhorn and some Newports.  Seriously, I couldn’t get us in the house fast enough for fear that someone in the neighborhood was going to come walking around the bend and tell me to “stop pinching that baby”.  Now there’s a southern eupehemsism that I’ve heard repeatedly when clearly, pinching is the least of the baby’s problems.

In the house we go. I set her up in her high chair and hand back the snack trap. On the floor it goes. I hand her a sippy cup. She takes a few pulls and tosses it over her shoulder like it’s a red solo cup and she’s at the frats.  So, I unbuckle her from the seat, get a Cheerio crusted baby slap to the face for my trouble.  She leans in as I pick her up and  gives me the Harvey Fierstein of baby cries in my ear. Again.  Somewhere in this house there’s a pacifier and I must be on the good list today, because I easily locate it.  I pop it into her mouth, gently pressing her head to my shoulder as we start up the stairs for her room.

Typically, I’d just plop place her into her crib, pull up the blanket and moonwalk out the door.  Today, however, I needed a few minutes to regroup myself, so I settled us into the rock-a-bye-chair.  We’ve had this green glider since Mo was born, but it’s always been dubbed the rock-a-bye chair because that’s what I called my rocking chair as a kid.  I sat back and started us on a gentle glide.  The repetitive motion was soothing for both of us because soon, Vivi had stopped whimpering around the pacifier and I stopped enumerating the things that I planned to do.

We rocked and we rocked.  I stroked her hair and marveled at how quickly her legs had grown long enough to be folded under her to fit comfortably in my lap.  She had one arm draped across my own, her fingers curling into the sleeve of my shirt, anchoring herself to me, even in sleep.  We rocked and we rocked.  I rubbed her back and noticed how my the span of my hand took up the distance between her waistband and the nape of her neck.  Her breath came more evenly, as the space between the ragged post-crying breaths grew longer and longer.  We rocked and we rocked. I inhaled her baby scent, so easy to identify, so hard to accurately describe.  It’s a combination of skin, and warmth, and sun, and something that’s just inexplicably baby you want to stick your nose in the crook of their neck and build a home there.  We rocked and we rocked. My eyelids started to close as the weight and pressure of her little body pressed down heavily on my own. I thought about how the girls will ask for a ride in the rock-a-bye chair to stave off beditme just a little bit longer.  I’ll always agree, even if we have to jam in there like toes in a too-small shoe.  I thought about how even now, I’ll ask my mom for a ride in the rock-a-bye chair. After she finishes laughing, she’ll let me perch myself over her lap for a few minutes before someone needs us.  The last thought before I dozed off was, “Sometimes, you just need your mom.”

(Vivi at one month)

For a few minutes, I didn’t care that there were dishes in the sink, that there was unfolded laundry in the buckets, and lightbulbs that needed to be replaced in the hall.  Right then, gliding back and forth, that what I needed to be doing.  I thought about the times I rocked Mo and Co in that very chair.  The only constants in each memory is the chair and my telling myself to remember that moment.  I can close my eyes and exactly recall the position of the glider in the room, the way the light from outside filtered through the slats on the the blinds, the way her eyes raced underneath her eyelids like she was reading ahead in her dreams.  I remember the Hubs gently chiding me to put her in the crib, put her in the crib, put her in the crib, and me wanting just a few more minutes, just a few more minutes, which I’m glad I took.  With Co, I remember the creak of the floorboards underneath the glider as we rocked back and forth. There’s the pops, hisses, and clinks of the radiator in the room, giving additional harmony to my humming as I ran my hand over her head again, and again.  I remember willing myself to remember, taking mental snapshots that I could come back to when I needed them.

I know a baby can’t sleep all day. Every nap time can’t be something out of a storybook, but I would gladly get nothing done, toss my best laid plans, forgo a shower and a second cup of coffee for the chance to glide in the rocker with my baby, listening to her breathe, and falling in love over and over again.

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IN: ON: May 6, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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