Tag: self-esteem

If You Don’t Have Anything Nice to Say. . .

 About a year ago, I wrote a pretty strongly worded piece about being the recipient of backhanded compliments.  I described how another woman simultaneously complimented and insulted me in a single breath.  I implored my readers, especially my female readers, to stop doing such things.  Men don’t behave that way.  Give a compliment because you mean it, otherwise don’t say anything at all. 

In the course of one evening, I was the recipient of both a snarky and a genuine compliment, one compliment from a man, the other from a woman.   One guess as to who gave me which one.

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Last Friday,  I was was shooting some portraits for a mother’s group to which I belong, at a dance studio when this whole thing went down.  The venue was split into two rooms and the main room where I had been shooting.  After each child had their portrait taken, they then moved into the adjoinig room for their practice. The parents, however, remained in the main room until the children were done.

Up until that point, I had been casually talking with some of the parents as I made sure each child had been photographed and that their names had been spelled properly.  As I went to grab some gear out of my bag, one of the mothers called to me to ask about her daughters’ photo.  She was concerned that her daughter wasn’t dressed up enough for her portrait and wanted to make sure I thought she looked alright.

As we walked back over to my set-up where I could check my list, this woman says, “I heard that you are also one of the mothers in this group? Is that true? That is just disgusting!”

“What?” I spun around to see who she was talking to.

“You’re a mom in the group? You look like a kid! That is just disgusting!  And you have three kids? THREE? You’re so skinny! That is just disgusting!”

At which point, I took a deep breath, confirmed that her daughters’ photo had been taken, that it was lovely, and then I walked away from her, using long, strong strides that brokered no argument that our conversation was finished.

Rather than wondering about my professionalism, my head was swimming like, “WTF just happened? Really? Why is this ok? Why does this keep happening?”

Well that’s the thing of it.  It’s not ok. It’s never ok. As a matter of fact, it’s disgusting.  I don’t see what these other women see.  And this is by no means a pity party I’m about to invite you all to attend.  It’s not that I don’t realize that I’m attractive.  I have my good days.  I’m just saying, my awkward phase was a hard one to pass through, so that colors my perception of myself

 This woman, who I had never before me, felt familiar enough with me to attribute my size and my youthful appearance as something worth her disgust.  Her own sense of self, or lack thereof, has nothing to do with me.  She doesn’t know me.  She doesn’t know what battles I’ve fought or continue to fight. 

The rest of the shoot passed without incident. I packed up my gear and met up with one of my girlfriends, N,  for dinner at a restaurant not too far from the dance studio.  Upon arrival, I see N at the bar, chatting with some other patrons.  After we say our hellos, she includes me in the conversation she is having with this father and son who are having a drink before they head downtown for another event.

As we waited for our table, we shot the breeze with this duo. The son we learned had just turned 30 and the dad. . .well, I don’t know what his story was. He talked enough for the both of them, but he was mostly asking us questions about how N and I knew eachother, what we thought of the Saints game and then. . .what year we were in college.

This dude thought I was a junior or a senior in college. When I said that I was 35, married with 3 kids, he straight up called me a liar.  Then he apologized, saying that I was beautiful and that I must have some really good genes.

That was it.  There was no side dish of derision served up.  There wasn’t any underhanded coda to his remarks.  He paid me a compliment, which I accepted, and then we talked about something else.  Had this exchange not happened, I probably would have never sat down to write this piece, but over the week-end, the whole thing was a splinter in my side.

You may say that I’m naive and of course an older man is going to pay a young woman a compliment, especially if you’re standing at a bar and everyone has a drink. I’d like to think that he and I could have had that same exchange in any venue — at the gym, at a church, in a bookstore.  It doesn’t have to automatically mean that there is an agenda going on.  A compliment was given and a compliment was accepted.  Done.

So, all that being said, I’m working on my arsenal of retorts for when situations like the one at the dance studio arise.  I wasn’t prepared last year when the woman said, “You’re so skinny, you whore!”.  I wasn’t prepared when this other woman said, “You have three kids? You’re so skinny! That is disgusting!”

I’m going to be prepared going forward.  Part of me wants to just go for the jugular and retort something like, “It’s disgusting? You’re husband doesn’t think so,” but I’m too classy for that (plus, that just came to me).  Maybe if someone says I’m skinny, I’ll offer to take them to gym with me.  Or offer to slap the burger and fries out of their hand.

Or maybe, I’ll just walk away with long, strong strides, effectively ending the conversation, for as George Bernard Shaw said, “Silence is the most perfect expression of scorn.”

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IN: ON: January 13, 2014 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Busy as a. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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IN: ON: November 19, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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With(hold) Your Compliments

I honestly don’t know what to make of this.  So, over the week-end, the Hubs and I took the girls to a birthday party.  We were greeted by the birthday girls’ mom and shown into the main part of the house where a number of the activities were going on. As we walked in, our hostess mentioned that a mutual friend of ours was here.  We hadn’t seen this person in a while and as we approached, she opened her arms to give me a hug.  As she did so, she exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, look at you! You’re so skinny, you whore!” and then she flashed me a giant mega-watt smile.

The Hubs had been waylaid into a conversation with the birthday girl’s grandfather and simulatneously trying to keep Vivi from gouging out the old man’s eyeballs.  He says given those circumstances, he didn’t hear our friend say that, even though he was standing right at my elbow.

I heard it for damn sure, and was thoroughly taken aback because, I’ve never been called “whore” before, in all seriousness or in jest.  I  was stunned that she said that, especially after having been called a “skinny bitch” just a few weeks ago.  I mean, I know I’ve been amping up my work-outs, but I didn’t think it warrants this kind of feedback! It was surprising and off-putting, coupled with the fact that she followed it up with a big ass smile.  The smile was the gesticular eqvuivalent of saying “Bless your heart”.   It’s a Southern mannerism, saying “bless your heart” whereby you can get away with saying some downright nasty things about someone so long as you add that key phrase somewhere in the mix (i.e. Oh, Mary Sue’s little girl looks like she hit every branch falling out of the ugly tree, bless her heart!).

I had done quite a bit of reading recently about Mommy Wars and the ways in which we as women pull eachother down, crabs in a bucket style.   Why do we think we’re doing eachother a favor by complimenting one another in such a backhanded fashion?  It’s so two-faced and back stabby.  Personally,  I’d rather you just keep it to yourself. I appreciate someone complimenting me on how I look; that’s nice, but let me have the compliment in it’s entirety.  Don’t tell me I look good, and then diffuse or downplay the good feeling I’m bound to get by calling me a whore as a followup.  The take away of the exchange is not that it’s good to see me, or even that I look skinny (thank you very much), but that I’m a whore (for looking skinny in comparison to you). 

Think of it from this perspective.  What if I was naturally a Rachel Zoe or Nicole Richie size?  Then, the next time you saw me, I was looking healthy, more Christina Hendricks-esque.  I don’t think anyone would say, “Oh my God! Look at you! You’re so curvy,  you whore!”

Sounds ridiculous, right? So don’t do it.

I guess it goes back to my expectations of other people.  I don’t behave in a certain way and I expect other people to behave the way I do.  It’s not that difficult.  I’m not Mother Teresa or Ghandi, so I think my behaviors are pretty attainable.  I mean, if you boil it down, it’s all about the golden rule.  If someone looks good, then I’ll tell them so and leave it at that.   I don’t need to undercut the positivity. I have a problem with using “bitch”, “whore”, “skank” or even “cunt in jest.   Whore is kind of strong, you know? And yes, I understand about reclaiming the word to take the explosiveness out of it, but I’m not buying that.   I’m hard pressed to think of an example where dudes do this to one another.  I mean you might know of some guy that is always calling someone a “douchebag” or  a “ball sack” or whatever guys call eachother, but it’s never in the context that women choose to express themselves.

I’ve never heard a guy compliment a guy on the way he looks, so maybe right there lies the difference.  But even still, imagine two male contestants on Top Chef complimenting eachother.

Hey Joel, that chilean sea bass with bacon foam was delicious, you douche-bag!
C’mon, Michael! Your roasted corn and saffron sea scallops were righteous, you f-cking nut sack!

I kind of laughed a little to myself just then because it sounds SO outrageous!

Going back to the mommy war part of it, I think it’s no longer the mothers who work outside of the home versus the mothers who work inside the home. It’s now the stay at home moms versus other stay at home mom’s.  It’s about the mom’s competing against one another about who’s taken the most Pilates and barre classes. Who spends the most time in the gym, who gives their kids the most unique, non-traditional, gender neutral name, and has the most pairs of Tory Burch shoes.  All of the things that make these women caricatures are being held up as some kind of brass ring to strive for and yet, I don’t remember signing up for that contest.  Hell, I didn’t even know there was a contest.  I’m not trying to be about that.  

It’s hard enough being a woman,
and a wife,
and a mother. 

It can be very lonely and isolating.  When I make friends, I don’ t want the kind that call me a whore because they think we’re in competition for some grand prize.   I’m not competing against you or anyone else. I’m just trying to get to the end of the day. . .

. . .and keep the top button of my pants buttoned. 

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IN: ON: March 27, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Facebook, Friends, and Feeling (Not So) Good

I was reading the latest issue of Real Simple magazine the other day. No, it wasn’t while I was snuggled under a plush cashmere throw with a piping hot cup of coffee while Mo, Co and Vivo frolicked in the snow.  It was while I was trying to slap together a PB&J for myself, while making “Meatless Monday” (how I loathe it) dinner for the kids and convince them that they were old enough to eat salmon.  Yes, that was their excuse, “We’re not old enough to eat this kind of fish.”  I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there were legal ramificaitons involved in the consumption of certain types of seafood among the elementary school set.

Anyway, I had the magazine propped open against the paper towel holder, and the page fell open to an article entitled “Feel Better Already”.  Saints be praised! The Universe has spoken loud and clear.  Eagerly, I flipped ahead with peanut buttery hands.  In short, the article was a list of 21 tips and small changes that you can follow to put an upswing in your well-being. 

A few suggestions, such as “Smile, even if you don’t feel like it” and “Snack on dark chocolate!”, I’d heard of and already put into practice (hello, sea salt and dark chocolate. I’ll see you this evening).  Some of the tips didn’t really apply to me, like using your daily commute as a mini break or getting rid of your dust-ruffle (you’ve got some freeloading dust mites just whooping up in that thing), since I’ve got neither of those.  And there were the tips that I could probably do if I remembered to put it on the to-do list. There was talk of vitamins and microexercise, taking a hike, using epsom salts.  The one tip that reached off the page and tweaked the end of my nose was number 9: “Get some perspective on Facebook.”

Do tell. . .

Basically, Facebook can make you feel like crap.  Most people have pretty large networks of friends.  Each time your newsfeed burbles up with photos said friends lounging on a white sandy beach, or your Zumba instructor knocking off numbers 1, 7 and 12 off of your bucket list,  it’s like a paper cut to your self-esteem.  Your brother’s exgirlfriend just got a job promotion? Paper cut. Your tenth grade lab partner moved to Paris?  Paper cut.

We spend time on Facebook, but the more we see others doing or having,  we then look at ourselves and  start tallying up what we’re not doing,  what we aren’t having.  Imagine the amount of time you spend on Facebook times the number of times your newsfeed coughs up another happily-ever-after status update.  I’m no math whiz, so I’ll just say paper cut. Paper cut. Paper cut.

Ironically, I got this image from a webpage about Facebook Statuses

I gave up Facebook for Lent.  I deactivated my account and deleted the app from my phone.  When I told the Hubs that was what I planned to give up, he was all, “Really?! For Lent? You know that’s like 40 days, right?” I knew that I was teetering on a Facebook addiction when even Mo expressed disbelief at my choice.  I had asked her what she was giving up for Lent or rahter, what best practice she would adopt, when she tried to put one over on me by asking what I planned to do.  “I gave up Facebook,” I told her.  “No way!” came her response.  “Like forever?!”

That’s problematic. 

I’ll admit it. I was wasting spending way too much time doing the voyeuristic thing. Sure, I was catching up with friends, admiring photos, but then I’d check my watch and realize, “Oof! I should get off this thing — -in like 10 more minutes.”  Dilney Goncalves, PhD., an assistant professor of marketing at IE Business School and the study leader quoted in the Real Simple article was saying:

“It’s natural to compare our lives with those of others, but people tend to post disproportionately positive updates and neglect the not-so-glamorous aspects of their lives on Facebook.”

Well sure, who wants to see the plain, ugly truth? When you see those drama filled Facebook updates like, “Wondering if it’s all worth it,” and “Gonna need more than prayers,” called vaguebooking, do you really want to know the unpleasant stuff that’s sure to follow? Do you want people to know you have unpleasant stuff?  There are drama updates sprinkled in the mix because we all have unpleasant stuff that come into our lives.  Some of us choose not to show it.  Some of us choose to hide it behind status updates and photos so ridiculously perfect they make a shimmering rainbows or a galloping unicorn seem like day old, stir fried doo-doo.

We use Facebook as an escape. It’s a time suck. It’s a way to pass some minutes waiting at the doctor’s office, for the movie to start or the light to change.  We’re looking for something to zip us away from what’s in front of us, if only for a few seconds.  The grass is always greener, right? But when it rains, it falls on both sides of the fence.

Easter is this coming Sunday and with it comes the end of Lent.  Throughout the last 40 days, I’ve learned that I can indeed survive without Facebook.  There are a crap-ton of other social media outlets on which to waste time and stay connected with people.  Will I get back on? I don’t know.  In order to spread the word about my writing and my photography, I may have to.  Facebook is everywhere, and if I want my name and my brand to be everywhere, well. . .

Check out this article by Dilney Goncalves about why you shouldn’t have more than 34 Facebook friends.  If you un-friend me after reading it, I’ll understand. 

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IN: ON: March 26, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Sticks and Stones

I got called a “skinny bitch” yesterday.

True story.

Vivi and I were running errands at the mall.  As we threaded our way through the women’s’ department at Macy’s, I saw two women putting together the sunglass boat in the middle of the floor.  My eyes quickly cast over in their direction before continuing to navigate between the racks and rounders to the elevator.

No sooner than I took my eyes of the pyramid of sunglass boxes, did I hear one of the women call my name.  I turn, and as she’s confidently striding toward me, I realize it’s K, cousin of my really good college friend, A.

“K?” I’m surprised to see her here; I thought she lived out of state. While K and I have a relationship that is tied solely to our relationship to A, I’ve met her enough times to know, she’s got a really grating personality.  She’s brash and brusque, which can be misconstrued as rude. Not to mention insanely irritating.  Actually, it’s not misconstrued. . .she’s brash and brusque and sometimes irritating.

K’s personality runs on one-upping and self-deprecation, with the latter being far from of that “aw, shucks” variety.  She vacillates between talking about eating Snicker bars while laying up on the sofa as she watches A place in a body building contest (true story) and talking about her new promotion (“I hate it”) with no trace of pride, inviting you to ask about it so she can gripe about it.

“I knew I recognized that blonde puff!” she hooted, triumphantly.  Guess I’ll never be a bank robber, what with this hair.  She and I caught up a bit, trading updates on our jobs (her aforementioned promotion), being in RIC (really enjoying it), and how A was doing (amazing).

Then the conversation stalled for a heartbeat.  I mean, I did have things to do, but I didn’t want to be all, “Hey! Bye!” about it. Like I said, her cousin A is a really good friend of mine and I really enjoy their family.  So, remembering that K was a mom, too,  I went on to ask how her little person was doing.

She gave me this chapter and verse, complete with a voice re-enactment, of how her four-year old daughter is effectively running things at their house. K was in full one upping mode because she began with, “You know how your kid does, XYZ? Well let me tell you about mine!”  Evidently, her daughter is the type that makes the Devil say “#@$!,” when her little Stride Rites hit the floor.

United by motherhood, I nodded my head in sympathy to her plight and said, “Oh, I know. I’ve got a 7 year old and 5 year old, too.”

K eyeballed me up, down and sideways. “Skinny bitch!” she cawed.

I don’t remember much else after that.  I was kind of perplexed at the backhanded compliment she had just dished up.  I’m working on taking a compliment with just a simple thanks.  This, however, didn’t feel like a compliment as much as it did an attack. So, I reverted to thanking it away by saying something like, “Oh, please. You see I’m in my work-out clothes. I’m no A, getting all tight and toned for that contest.” With that, I effectively put K back on track with her self-flagellation about her weight, her hair, her kid and whatever else she could offer up to me to look at and point out all the flaws.

It wasn’t until I was at home later on that afternoon that I thought back on what had transpired.  I mean, “Skinny Bitch” is a phrase that gets tossed around quite a bit among women, usually in jest, but there is always a little bite behind it.  As in, “I’m recognizing your relative thinness in comparison to mine and while kudos to you, I’m angry that I’m still struggling.”

I’ve got a friend who has to work exceedingly hard to put and keep weight on.  The first time I heard about her situation, I was all, “Must be nice!”, but I didn’t say it to her face.  Oh, I’ve thought it a thousand times over.  One day, I grew up and realized that I have no idea what she’s going through.  It could be completely exhausting for her, just as it is enervating to me.  We are two sides of the same coin.   I know that she’s not just walking around stuffing her face full of Chipotle, Coldstone Creamery and the like.  She’s doing shakes and lifting weights, and all kinds of combos so that she can look and feel good when she puts on her clothes.  “Look and feel good when [she] puts on her clothes” – – – that sounds really familiar.

K called me a Skinny Bitch, the title of a New York Times best selling book that is a rough and tough approach to weight loss.


“Authors Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin are your new smart-mouthed girlfriends who won’t mince words and will finally tell you the truth about what you’re feeding yourself. And they’ll guide you on making intelligent and educated decisions about food. They may be bitches, but they are skinny bitches. And you’ll be one too-after you get with the program and start eating right.”
-excerpted from www.SkinnyBitch.net
I’m pretty sure, this wasn’t what K had in mind when she said it, though.  I’ve heard that by taking possession of a harmful word away from your detractors, then it becomes less harmful.  Think about in Pitch Perfect Rebel Wilson’s character introduces herself as “Fat Amy”:

Aubrey: What’s your name? 
Fat Amy: Fat Amy. 
Aubrey: You call yourself Fat Amy? 
Fat Amy: Yeah, so twig bitches like you don’t do it behind my back. 

I get it, oh believe me, I get it.  I’m pretty sure I high-fived the TV, too. Still, I’m not taking bitch as a personal banner and I’m not going to call anyone else that either.  As for skinny, well you can call me skinny all day, everyday and twice on Sunday. . .

  
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IN: ON: February 12, 2013 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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(The Return of) Monday’s Message

I’m a real cynic when I hear people talking about the Universe and “When you put stuff out into the Universe, things happen!” or “Such-and-such happened to you because the Universe was sending you a message (see ankle-gate 2012).” To which I reply,  **koff,koff*bull-isht*koff,koff*.

Sometimes, though, things literally appear right before my eyes.  Then I’m forced to admit, maybe I need to pick up what’s being put down (see ankle-gate 2012).

The other day, I was sitting in the carpool pick up line and clicked onto Tumblr. The first thing in my newsfeed was this quote.  
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Those are some powerful words.  Immediately, I reblogged it on tumblr. Then I emailed it to myself and put it up on insta.gram (curly_girlie78).

See, when it comes to me and friendships, I feel like this is the story of my life.  I suck at making friends.  Contrary to popular belief, I’m pretty shy.  Shyness can be misconstrued as snottiness or uppityness.  When that is the case, making friends is pretty difficult.  Once people get to know me, they inevitably say, “You know, when we first met, I thought you were SO stuck-up!” I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been told that.  I’m neither of those; I just don’t like putting myself out there.  I  still feel like the braces wearing, coke-bottle glasses sporting, Superman “S” curl hair-do having tween-ager who’s the first one to fall asleep at the sleepover.  You know, I’ve got that I’m a kid at the grown-ups table thing going on.  

Whatever the case is, as I’ve matured, I’ve tried to approach things differently.  I was talking with a friend shortly after we moved back to RIC.  She had said that it must be nice coming back to a place where I already had a network of friends.  In truth, coming back really crystallized the old adage, “You can’t go home again.”

After a five year absence from the RVA scene, things had changed.  We don’t live in a vacuum and you can’t preserve relationships in amber.  The group of W&M grads that made RVA our home in the early 2000s had morphed from young, newlyweds into no/one/two or three+ child families.  Some couples had divorced. Some had moved away.  The dynamic that made me pine for relationships lost while we made a life in Norfolk was no more.  A new dynamic was in place, and it was like starting over.

Case in point (and I’m leaving off names here for a reason): There was a woman with whom I was really looking forward to reconnect with once we got back to town.  She and I had been new moms together, which is pretty significant.  We went through early childhood milestones — me with Mo and her with her little biscuit — together.   I leapfrogged over her by having not one, but two more kids.  My triumphant return to RVA lead me to believe we would just pick up where we left off;  my kids and her kid would be fast friends.  

It didn’t happen.  

Suffice it to say,  we got together once or twice and found that we just didn’t have anything in common any more.  That’s not unusual, seeing as how people grow and change as just a normal part of life.  I realized that I was extremely reluctant to tell her that I was expecting Vivi because I knew that it was going to be the last nail in the coffin.  Sadly, I was right.  I haven’t heard from her aside from the obligatory Christmas card. 

In hindsight, I wonder if maybe I dropped the ball by not inquiring as to what happened.  Maybe she was having fertility issues and felt that I was flaunting my overachieving ovaries or something. Maybe she was having some kind of life situation that just made it difficult for us to be friends.  I’ll never know for sure, but I’d like to think I would have taken that type of admission from her with some grace instead of just being dropped off on the side of the road.

Believe me, that smarts.  

Here’s another doozy of a story.  There’s a woman I met shortly after we moved back, about two summers ago.  She was a friend of a friend.  She’s the type of woman you see and think, “Wow, she is SO cool.”  She’s the Carrie Bradshaw, the Leslie Knope, the Liz Lemon or the Olivia Pope type that would so perfectly compliment you.  Not hanging out with her would be like asking Kim Kardashian for parenting advice. 

Anyway, she and I caught up at few other places where we knew people in common.  I suggested we grab coffee sometime, which we did.  We had our kids have playdates together.  We’d text and make plans to hang out, but then the plans were never executed.  I didn’t notice it at first, I mean who doesn’t have a crap ton of things to do all the time?  I’m bad about returning texts.  I break plans sometimes.  It happens.  If she and I couldn’t get together, then we’d plan for another time.  

Then we were planning for another time.  Which brings us to the last time. We planned to get together for coffee after doing our respective carpool runs one morning.  Just as I am pulling up to our coffee spot (oh, who am I kidding, you know it’s Starbucks), I get a text from her saying that she can’t make it because Verizon was coming to her house that afternoon. 

Afternoon.  It’s 8:20 on a Thursday morning, but then I got it.  I was being dismissed.  So, being at Starbucks, I got myself a latte.  Then I sat and stewed. 

Was it my breath? Was I a hanger-on? I kept thinking about what it was that I had done or not done.  But in the end, I stopped trying to lay blame and decided that it was her loss. Maybe, the universe was trying to tell me that she wasn’t the type of person I needed in my circle of trust. 

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After I’d had that epiphany, I fired off a “too bad, so sad” kind of text, purposefully omitting any “Oh, let’s reschedule” type of talk. I sipped my latte and decided:

I’m not going to chase you. 

That afternoon in carpool, the above quote pretty much leapt out at me, and I knew I’d done the right thing.   Oh, and as a post-script to that story?  This broad had the nerve to call me up later on the in the week to ask me if I could take a few pictures of her child for some look-book she wanted to submit photos for. . .as a favor!  

Deep cleansing breath. . .deep cleansing breath . . . 

Anyway, I have decided that this above quote is going to be my touchstone going forward.  I can’t change people. I can only work on myself and I need to remember that. I will be me. I will do my own thing. I will work hard.  I will cultivate the relationships with the people who belong in my life, for they truly are the right people.  Our friendships will endure. 

Oh, and one last thing. . . I am going to make sure my girls read, repeat, and remember this, not just for their little girl-friends, but when the young men start to enter the picture.  I’m just sayin’!



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IN: ON: January 14, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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A Response

The other day, I read an article over at Mommyish by Carinn Jade entitled “I Lost By Baby Weight In Three Weeks But I’m Still Not Comfortable In My Post-Baby Body.” By the time I finished the last paragraph, I felt like I could have written that article myself.  Not that I lost any baby weight from any of the girls in the three weeks, but I could strongly relate to the author’s feeling that her outward appearance was not in sync with her inner self.  I started commenting at the end of the article, but it turned into something more.

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When I first saw this quote, I thought, “EXACTLY!” Ugh! I was so disrespectful to my pre-baby body. I have been disrespectful to it for a long time. I went to an all girls high school, where unbeknownst to probably everyone, I never felt like I fit in. Of a class of 66, I was one of three Black girls. Being Black made me stand apart from the other 63 classmates who weren’t.  Being a fair-skinned separated me even further from the two other girls of my race.  Let me explain: I doubt the other two girls had to defend their paternity to our history teacher during Black History month.   My teacher declared that  my father had to be white because:

1. He has green eyes.
2. She saw him.  –> her actual quote, “He must be white! I’ve seen him!”

Oh, okay.  Thanks that dollop of mortification on top of my precarious confidence.

High school is hard enough with fluctuating hormones and constantly trying to find your place in the ebb and flow of the social hierarchy.  Back then, I felt very obvious.  That made me  continuously see ways in which I was lacking.  I wasn’t the crush of the right boy. I didn’t have the right  hair. I didn’t wear the right size; whatever it was, it was bigger (in my eyes) than everyone else.  Everything just wasn’t right.  When it came to sports, activities and school-work, I threw myself into it. That was something I knew and I could do.  Self-confidence about being a teenage girl was elusive.  I was grasping for something that I thought could be conferred on my by someone else.

When I thumb through my yearbooks, I look at myself and think about the time I wasted.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed high school.  There were dances, proms, holiday brunches, sleep-overs and the like.  There were plenty of distractions to pull my attention from cataloging my perceived deficits. Besides, the list was private; I’m sure if any of my classmates were reading this now, they’d be surprised.  I realize now, how much more fun I could have had instead of wasting time thinking about how to be cuter or prettier or (and I’ll admit it) skinnier. I should have been nicer to myself, but since I can’t change that, I can change how nice I am to who I am now.

I worked hard to get to a place where I was comfortable enough to not have my body be my own for nine months.  I worked hard to get back to that place after each of the girls were born.  With every subsequent pregnancy, there was almost an implicit challenge among other pregnant women and moms about how quickly one could shed the baby weight.  We were all (and continue) to compete against one another for a prize that doesn’t exist.

Think about all the scrutiny that surrounded Jessica Simpson and her never-ending gestation. When she did have her little girl, all eyes turned to the scale and the ticking clock perched above it.  The sooner a woman loses weight after giving birth, the bigger a hero she becomes.

When Beyonce popped out Blue Ivy (if you didn’t believe the pillow conspiracies) and popped up on a date night a few weeks later looking better than she had before, you could hear the collective groan from the mommy-verse.  She set the bar way high for the rest of us, came the refrain.  But did she really? I don’t think she turned to Jay-Z and said, “You know what? I’mma make it rain on these broads. Ka-Pow!”  Don’t even get me started on the Victoria Secret Triumvirate that is Adriana Lima, Alessandra Ambrosio, and Miranda Kerr.  The bottom-line is it’s their job to look good.

My job? Keep the kids alive and if they become worldly, well-rounded, well-adjusted, contributing adults, consider that a bonus.

I kid, of course.  My job is more complicated than that.

My pre-baby weight is gone, but so is my pre-baby body.  There’s a difference between the two. I’m grieving the loss of the body way more than the weight.  It’s not a death sentence, though.  Sure, I’d prefer that some things be where they used to be (or at least a little bit higher) and that other things would be more firm, less poochy.  Things have settled differently; it happened after Mo, it happened after Co, it happened after Vivi.  

Because I’m aware of how my body has changed, I’ve always dressed it appropriately. I’m not going to squeeze myself into two sizes two small just because I can pull it up, close the clasps, and zip the zipper.  And I’ll admit it, I’ve got Spanx — multiple pairs (would that be Spanxes? Spanxi?).  Whenever someone would tell me how wonderful I was looking, I would immediately explain it away with something like, “Oof! You wouldn’t believe the scaffolding I’ve got going on under here!”
I felt like I didn’t deserve the compliment. I didn’t want another woman to feel less than because of how she saw me.  I wanted that woman to know, “Hey! It’s a facade! I’m still ten shades of crazy and everything jiggles when I walk.  My boobs must be having an affair with my belly button because when I take my bra off,  that’s where they go to hang out!”  
But I couldn’t say that. I had to be like the Great Danton and maintain the illusion.  I felt like I was the only person who was doing so — then I read Carinn Jade’s article.  She said,
“In clothes, everything superficially looks the same. This mistakenly prompts people to remark “you look fantastic!” or “I can’t believe you’ve had two kids!” It’s always nice to receive a compliment but this one feels more like a jab. The truth? I am so uncomfortable with this new body.    Other mothers tell me how lucky I am to look the way I do.  What they see on the outside doesn’t match what I feel on the inside.  They assume I am confident, that I don’t struggle somehow — because I’ve dropped the baby weight?  The truth is I am confident about very little since becoming a mother.”

Hah! I’m not alone!  I could have kissed her after I read that! Who among us knows what we’re doing with absolute certainty? I don’t.  I’m doing the best I can with what I know how.  I’m relying on my own experience as a daughter, folding in tidbits that I glean from parenting books and magazines and conversations with others.  Do I get it right all the time? Nope.  Do I get it right some of the time? I certainly try.

When I was trying to get back into shape after Vivi, Mo saw my Weight Watchers foodstuffs in the pantry and the fridge. She asked me why she couldn’t eat it, why was it only for me.  Hello, teachable moment.  So I told her how my body grew to make room for Vivi, to ensure Vivi would be healthy and strong.  I told her that now that Vivi was out and about, I didn’t need to carry this extra weight around any more. She seemed satisfied with that answer, but also told me that I needed to share the snacks.

When I was pregnant with each of the girls, every night I would pray that they would have all of my strengths and none of my weaknesses.  As I would roll those words around my mind, I could readily call up weaknesses I wanted them to avoid.  Over time, I decided I needed to call up the strengths instead.  I have to inoculate my girls against low self-esteem.  I have to boost their self-worth, remind them that it’s not tied to a number on a scale, a number in their jeans, the length of their hair, the color of their eyes or the color of their skin.  They will learn to take a compliment, not explain it away.  I can’t guarantee that these things will happen, but I can pray that they will.  Often times one wry word from an outsider can tear down these ministrations, but I will build them back up. And when they see me do that for them, they will learn to do it for themselves and each other.

That’s my job, and it begins with me.

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IN: ON: October 31, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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