Tag: venting

That Mom *

The girls went back to school today after having been home for spring break this past week.This was me.

(via)

This was them:

(via)

Don’t get me wrong. I love my kids. I enjoy spending time with them — however, we all need a break some times. Between the snow days, the delayed openings, teacher in service days, sick days and spring break, I really believe they’ve been to school about six days since January.

I have been saturated in all things kiddos and need to be wrung out. Truthfully, it’s my own fault.  I aspire to parental greatness. I want to be “that mom”.

I don’t want to be friends with my kids. I am big boss applesauce in the house.  What I want is for  them to grow up having had a great childhood.  I want them to well-rounded, at least bi-lingual, self-confident and equally comfortable spending time by themselves as they are amongst their friends, no matter how many they have in number.

So, I do this by scheduling playdates, signing them up for sport and foreign language classes, and taking them on trips to broaden their cultural minds.

And then I wonder why I’m tired.

Take spring break for instance.  As spring break approached, M and C were lamenting about how they never go anywhere, and that their friends got to go everywhere. While I know for a fact neither are true, I can understand feeling how you’re the only one missing out on something.  I didn’t go anywhere for spring break until I was in the 10th grade, and even then it was school trip. Sure, it was to Paris, but that’s beside the point.  I didn’t go away again until I was a junior in college and even now, I don’t know exactly how I finagled that.

I’m convinced that M and C are trying to have all of their life experiences before they turn 10 and 8, respectively.  That’s a lot of living to do between now and the end of September.

But, because I want to be “that mom”, I do my best to make things fun for them.  Spring break kicked off on Friday at noon, or rather, it should have but, wouldn’t you know it? Snow day! I got them up and out of bed, dressed and fed and off to the gym. M is old enough to join me in the fitness center, so she and I worked out with C and V did arts and crafts in child watch.  M and I put in about an hour’s worth of work in prepartion for The Alum Run in a few weeks, then we scooted home. I got everyone washed and dressed for their appointment at the portrait studio.  Yes, I said portrait studio. I had planned to take their photos in their Christmas dresses myself, but 2015 has cut me off at the knees: I just can’t get my feet under me. My backdrop was kaput, the new one wasn’t that great, only one or two of the girls had their hair done at any given time — I just couldn’t get it together. With the advance of spring break, though, I moved wash day up a bit and everyone was freshly coiffed.  We hit the portrait studio, snapped the pics and I deftly navigated the up-selling to get 4 portraits that I should have just sucked up and done myself.  Lesson learned.

We ran to Target for a quick going away gift purchase for a friend before we dropped C off for a sleepover.  On the way home, we scooped up a friend of M’s who’d be sleeping over at our house.  Home again for a bit before a visit from the aforementioned friend who was going away.  Sad to see our friend leaving, but very glad to have had time to say good-bye.  Shortly after exchanging hugs and well wishes, I order a pizza for the girls and plunk V in the bath. Pizza and a movie for the big girls, pizza and Peppa Pig for the little girl.  V has completely beaten down any nap that would have been had and is delirious from lack of sleep.  By 7, I was able to wrangle her into the bed with fewer complaints than I anticipated.  M and her friend finished their pizza, played some games and were ready for dessert and another movie. Hey, it’s a sleepover, so that what we did.  I swear, these kids have wooden legs.  Pizza, cupcakes, popcorn, and cup after cup of apple juice consumed Pac-Man style.

By 10pm, I was a little delirious myself, but I got everyone bedded and settled. I slid under my covers, closed my eyes and then felt V’s little hand patting myself, telling me it was morning time.

Because, of course it is.  Up and dressed (thank goodness for yoga pants), I got the girls breakfast.  I was planning on cereal or pancakes, but evidently MTO scrambled eggs were on the menu.  And between the three of them — two 10 year olds and a two year old, they put away half a dozen eggs, with V eating most of them. I rounded everyone up, got them in the car to drop off the friend and scoop up C.  The minute her butt hits the seat she asks, “What are we going to do now?!”

Really?

Are you exhausted? I am. And that was just Friday to Saturday.

I’ll spare you the details of the rest of the week. Suffice it to say, we took a trip to Hampton Roads to visit my parents. We did some activities like paint your own mermaid at the Mermaid Factory because, Norfolk. And mermaids. And our mermaid project (my goodness, we started that in 2009!).  We went to the Chrysler Museum and saw the exhibit on the history of video games.  From Atari through the current iterations — it was pretty incredible.  The girls got to play Donkey Kong, Pac-Man, and Super Mario Brothers before going on a museum wide scavenger hunt.  Naps were thrown to the wind! My parents are quintessential grandparents, letting the girls stay up late, eat cake for breakfast (seriously, cake, dipped in French Toast batter. For breakfast. When I was a kid, I couldn’t even get a box of Frosted Flakes!), Chinese food for lunch and dinner! And the screen time! Oh, the screen time! My dad is a big Family Feud fan and it wasn’t surprising to see him molded into the couch with a grandchild under each arm, one on the floor between his knees and gingerales all around while they shouted out answers at this giant television.

I don’t begrudge my kids these moments.  These are blocks upon which memorable childhoods are built.  Before I was married, before I had kids, I had an idea of what kind of place my house would be, what kind of parent I would be.  It was an idea, a framework upon which to build.  There were pieces of my own childhood as part of the construction, there were pieces from “The Cosby Show” and “Family Ties”, and maybe a little “Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle” thrown in.  And then, there was the quote, which I cannot find and leads me to wonder if I just made it all up. The quote in question, which I’m pretty sure came from “The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing” encapsulated for me the type of household that I wanted to have I was a mom.

What I remember reading (and I’m pretty sure it came from TGGTHF), was a description of a house the protagonist visited when she sought escape from her own less than Brady Brunch family.  What I remember was the description of the pantry and the fridge (food-a-holic, much?), specifically, slices of luncheon meat wrapped in pristine white butcher paper and how the whole place was never off limits for a kid who wanted a snack.  In my minds eye, I see creamy maple cabinets and drawers, a double door stainless steel fridge that when opened glowed with gastronomic possibilities.  There was a coffee pot and a cup of coffee that was perpetually hot.  Kids would come in and out, grabbing snacks and drinks with a “Thanks, Mrs. ___ “, before heading off to other areas of the house where they would do whatver it was kids of their particular age did.  And I would preside over hearth and home, never having to wonder that they were up to no good.  That!  That was the type of kitchen, the type of homey-home that I wanted to cultivate for my 2.5 kids when the time came. Such a simple description elicited such a deep in the bone response in me, I’m still surprised as how strongly I feel it.

I’ve been thinking about motherhood quite a bit for the past few days. The days are long, but the years are short.  How often have I heard that quote? Too many times to count. I started reading this book called, “All Joy, No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenthood,” by Joy Senior.  I started reading it; I put it down a few pages in because I was reading about my own struggle as a mother and feeling all the feels associated with it.

(via)

I remember flipping on Jimmy Fallon a while back when he had Jerry Seinfeld on as a guest.   I was thisclose to writing  Seinfeld a fan letter after he confessed to not “being a great believer in our style of parenting.”  Those words alone had me pitched forward in my seat to see what he had to say.  He followed up by saying, “Anybody who has kids now, I think we’re just too into it.”    Hello! Could you imagine what kind of uproar there would have been had a woman said that?! Jerry was preaching to the choir and drove it all home with his description of the bedtime routine, Chez Seinfeld.

“The bedtime routine for my kids is like this Royal Coronation Jubilee Centennial of rinsing and plaque and dental appliances and the stuffed animal semi-circle of emotional support. And I’ve gotta read eight different moron books. You know what my bedtime story was when I was a kid? Darkness!”

Yes, Jerry! Yes! I am with you on this 100%. I was then and I am now.  And yet, I am disappointed, too, because my agreement with him on how things were and how things are went at odds with how I had imagined things to be prior to putting a toe into the parenting pool. Heck, they’re at odds with my current parenting practices!   In my dream, I was just someone’s mom. My make-believe kids didn’t even have names or distinct features.  I don’t even know how many I had! Now, I’ve got three little girls that I am consciously and unconsciously shaping into respectable human beings.  I’ve got parameters within which to work, and my actions could classify me in any number of ways. Am I a Tiger Mom? A Helicopter Parent? A Mom-tator? Does it really matter? Do I really care?

Sometimes.

Sometimes I wonder what in the world I’m doing. How did anyone let me be responsible for the well being of these glitter covered pig-tailed bundles of questions? Sometimes I wonder if I’ll be found out for a fraud who is flying by the seat of her pants, making it up as she goes along, pulling snippets of good advice from TV and fortune cookies, trying to keep the F-bombs to a minimum. And then, there are other days. . .
Sometimes, I’ve got it under control.  There haven’t been any squabbles to squash.  No one cried when they were getting their hair done. Impromptu acts of kindness, acts of love and silliness reign supreme.   We are all fully engaged and present. We play board games and watch “The Property Brothers”.  The kitchen churns out delicious and nutrisoiu meals, all of which are consumed in their entirety and without complaint! s — and everyone ate them! — and spaghetti and meatballs and snacks that everyone enjoyed.  There are naps, quiet playtime, books to read and movies to watched.  It is Rockwellian in its domesticity.

Times like those, I will myself to remember, remember, remember. I’ve talked before about how when my girls are grown, I want them to reflect on their childhoods with smiles and funny stories about that time we did that thing and how funny it was.  Even as I type it, I realize that instead of focusing on a future that reminisces about the past, I need to be in the present to create it.  I think I just up-ended the space time continuum with that sentence.

I want for my kids to have a great childhood. Maybe I need to loosen my grip on what I think that is and let them define it for themselves.  Maybe instead of looking to what to do next, we all need to look at what we are doing right now.   I’m aware of how fortunate I am.   I’m aware of what a great life I have and I’m not going to be like Colette about it. I can be Hilary with One L and I can be a photographer and a writer and wife and and wear whatever else type of hat I want and choose to put on.  I be all of those things, which is being myself.  If I demonstrate that to my girls, cultivate that in them for themselves, then their childhoods will be just fine. That’s the mom I’m supposed to be.

And I’m supposed to have maple cabinets with granite counter tops and a Viking Range, I’m just sayin’. . .

 

*several paragraphs of this post were previously published in “That Mom” by Hilary Grant Dixon at www.hilarygrantdixon.com on March 5, 2014.

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IN: ON: March 16, 2015 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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Help the Bear

When I lacerated my ankle two years ago, it was undoubtedly the most humbling experience I’ve ever had.  I had to rely on others. I had to ask for help. I had to be taken care of and I am not a good patient.

With time, patience and determination, I recovered from my injury. I started walking unassisted. I started walking without a boot. I started exercising again. I started feeling like myself.  I continued to push myself to get to, and stay at, 100%.

The saying goes “time heals all wounds”, and to some degree that is correct. What they don’t tell you is that time heals all wounds differently.  I was naive.  I honestly believed that the surgery to repair my ankle would restore it to its former ability.  That’s not what happened.

I don’t ever want to be perceived as anything other than capable, but even superheroes have weakneses.  Because of this, because I’m proud, I went months before letting my doc know things didn’t feel quite right. My tendon was encased in scar tissue, thereby preventing me from pointing and flexing completely. My range of motion was limited.  According to my doc, despite my youth and high level of fitness, there wasn’t anything else I could do to improve the mobility except another surgery.

I didn’t relish another trip under the knife, but I wanted to walk. I wanted to run. I wanted to be myself again. So, I had the surgery to free the tendon.  I went back to physical therapy. I pushed myself to regain mobility and strength. I found myself doing better and better until the procedure was a memory with softened edges in the back of my mind.

In the two years since, I’m stronger and fitter than I’ve been.  I’m working out harder, but there are times when my gait isn’t very clean. There are times when I trip over nothing at all.  I’ve got a persistent ache where the procedure was performed.  I feel like if I could just get a really deep stretch, pull my toes as far forward as possible, everything would snap back into it’s proper place. Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen.

After a November fall on a Carytown sidewalk over nothing but my inability to completely lift my toes, I called my doc again.  Despite my hours in the gym, I can’t exercise this injury away. I can do calf raises and resistance band training for days, but what I’m working with is what it is.  My doc said maybe another surgery. . .

I thanked him for his time and decided to get a second opinion.  The Hubs knew of a foot and ankle specialist in Maryland who was supposed to be top notch.  I could either see him December 30th or wait until May.  I thought about how when I run, “lift your foot, lift your foot” loops through my brain so I don’t face plant on the pavement.  I thought about how I still wear a soft orthopedic boot at night in the hopes I’m training my foot to maintain a flexed position.  I thought about how I would wake up in the night to adjust the boot, remove the boot, then contort legs and feet to get some relief. I thought about a November fall on a Carytown sidewalk.

I made the December 30th appointment.

The new doc gave me a thorough examination. He watched me walk, he videotaped me walking. He tested the strength of all of the tendons in my foot. He had me rotate, pronate, flex, and extend. He palpated, he thumped, he thwacked. He pushed and he pulled.  He concurred that there was nothing else that I could do to improve the situation.  He concluded that what I’m currently working with is what I’ll be working with indefinitely. He offered a three prong surgical approach in order to provide me with between 10 to 15 degrees of greater range of motion.

I thought about a November fall on a Carytown sidewalk.

Damnit.

My surgery is schedule for April 13th.

How can I do this?

How can I not?

I’m in my late 30’s, with limited range of motion in my leg that has affected my gait and makes me paranoid that I’m going to trip and fall at any given moment. Do I want to live like that for the next 30 or so years? Nope.

I’m angry, though.  I’m angry that it was my own carelessness that broke a glass pitcher, which I didn’t dispose of properly, which I ended up tripping over, which sliced right across the extensor tendon, which brings me to this point in time.  I’m angry that going on three years later, I’m still dealing with this. I’m angry that my career as a foot and ankle model is over (I’m kidding, we all know I’m a hand model – -).

A few days after I made the appointment with the new doc, I was skimming through my IG feed.  My friend, Billy Parker, recently had launched a movement called Help the Bear and was using social media to spread the word. Curious, I clicked around to see what I could find.  Help The Bear comes from the saying “If you ever catch me fighting in the forest with a grizzly bear, Help the Bear.”

I clicked around some more and discovered that throughout his career as a professional football player, Billy has had his share of challenges and obstacles. I’ll leave you to read about them here, but the take-away is that you see him standing before you because he chose to stand up one more time.  He says,

“What is understood is that one should not worry about me, because I am going to defeat the Bear. The Bear might seem like an unbeatable opponent, but it is no match for me.  I will find a way to win. “

The Help the Bear Community is his brainchild to connect those who are being proactive in overcoming life’s obstacles.  The Help the Bear Community is a network of individuals who are choosing to stand up one more time. The Help the Bear Community is a place where you can “gain strength from the realization that you are not alone”.

Sometimes, you get a hand up when you didn’t even know you needed one.

This ankle injury and these surgeries are my bear.

I can be angry.

I can be a little scared.

But, I can stand up one more time.

I can grow stronger.

I can walk.

I can run.

I can fly.

I can.

So, if you ever catch me fighting in the forest with a Grizzly Bear, Help the Bear.

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 Learn more about Help The Bear here.

#one7htb

#ItsMoreThanJustAShirt
#HelpTheBear

#WhatsYourBear

#BeRelentless

#SeeItThrough
#Adversity

 

 

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IN: ON: February 16, 2015 TAGS: , , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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A December to Remember

 

 

The first of December.  Another month of experiences behind us and another month of possibilities laid out before us. I can’t help but marvel at how we got here.  I mean, I know how we got here.  The sun rises, the sun sets, the world turns and the days pass.  This year, however, has moved rapidly, hurriedly, late for an unknown cosmic appointment.

Usually, when back to school starts, the calendar ramps up with activities.  This was true for me again this year.  What was different this year, though, was the urgency that settled over everything as we moved from September and into October.  Maybe I should point a finger at the retailers who began bringing out sleigh bells and jingle bells in advance of Halloween.  Seeing red and green trimmings already available for purchase when it was still October was off-putting.  It set off an internal metronome that tick-tocked in the background as the days grew shorter and the months drew to a close. I have been feeling like I’ve gotta get stuff done! I gotta take care of this! Countdown clocks abound and I don’t even remember signing up to participate.

I clearly remember the beginning of November. I kind of remember the middle. I definitely remember the last five days; Thanksgiving and the associated family fun days that lasted well into the final throes of the 30th, bringing us to today.  The last five days felt like we were trying wring out every last bit of fall, every last bit of November, and at the same time, bring in December, Christmas and the holiday season while we were of a mind and inclination to do so.

Thanksgiving was quiet. Just us and my in-laws with more food that anyone knew what to do with. My contribution this year was pie.

Gingery Apple Walnut Crumb Pie

Pie was what I wanted to eat, so pie is what I made.  After dinner that included steaks, crab legs, a ham, collard greens, salad and rice and peas, I had just enough room for a slice of each of the pies I made.

And some ice cream.

And a little bit of wine.

And a little bit more ice cream.

I even went so far as to freeze the remaining halves of the pies so I wouldn’t be tempted to pick a little, pick a little, pick a little over the course of the week-end.  Of course, I spent the rest of the week-end thinking about it, thinking about it, thinking about it.

In those in between times, the Hubs I played board games with the girls — Beat the Parents, Life –, watched football, read books, and lounged around.  Once the girls were down for the night, but before we lost ourselves in our iPads, we played a Phase 10 and talked copious amounts of trash in the process.  Okay, I talked copious amounts of trash, but it had to be done seeing as I was beaten handily every time we sat down to play.  Those other minutes and hours? I lost many of them to “The Walking Dead” on Netflix.  I can’t even begin to tell you how much I’ve been shook and hooked at the same time. There was serious watching going on because I’m about 4 episodes shy of being all caught up on the seasons.  Yeah, it’s bad. . . but it’s so good. And I can admit it, Rick & Co. are the main reason I sleep with one eye open  (’cause you know. . .zombies).

Sunday afternoons, especially in the fall,  make me a little sad melancholy. Maybe it’s season affective disorder, maybe it’s daylight savings. Maybe it’s knowing it’ll be a full five days before the week-end and all of it’s busyness comes around again. Knowing that the week-end moments of not being beholden to the routine are coming to an end, even for just a few days, make me a little sad.  And I can admit that I already start missing the Hubs before he’s even left for the week .  That plays a part in it a bit, too.

Yesterday afternoon at about 4pm, the sun was slipping across the sky into the west, the game was on the TV.  Our Christmas tree was up, lighted and partially decorated.  The wreath had been hung and the candles were in the windows.  I watched the girls chase each other around the living room while the Hubs queued up some Bing Crosby on Pandora as he set to unwrapping ornaments.  I was struck by the simplicity, by the wholesomeness of the whole moment and by the fact that it felt like the calm before the storm.

In addition to the general feelings of “bleh” and “meh”, this past Sunday had a finality about it that I couldn’t put my finger on.  I’m not anticipating any great life changing events  – no marriages, deaths, moves, births or anything — in the next 31 days. It’s just that on the last Sunday of the month of November,  it felt like a the last good breath we were going to take before sprinting through the holiday season. I wouldn’t call it the push to the finish line for 2014. I’ve been moving at a good clip all year. I haven’t hit the wall, but I’ve got this anticipation going into the final stretch that has me wanting to put my head down and dig it out to the end.

That’s not a good way to go into the holiday season. I want to enjoy the holidays, enjoy my family and friends, look forward to what the new year has in store.  I don’t know if I’m alone in this feeling, but I do know that I have a choice whether or not to let it color my experiences.  I’m hoping to color them in reds and greens, silvers and golds and maybe a little Tiffany blue and white come the 25th.

I think of that commercial imploring us all to “Make it a December to Remember” and I plan to, for all the right reasons.  I’m hoping to take the girls on a light tour. We’re going to see Santa this week-end.  Our tree is up and the stockings are hung with their lists stuffed inside. I’m toying with the idea of baking Christmas cookies provided I can unclench my teeth/hands/butt long enough to give up control of the cleanliness of my kitchen for a little while.   I’ve already decided we’re having Chinese food for Christmas dinner. I’ve got a new nephew to shop for this holiday.  I also know that if I don’t do any of these things, that’s okay, too.  Like many others, I post pictures of our goings-on onto Instagram and Facebook. It’s easy to get caught up in sharing that you lose out on the actual doing.  There are times when I’ve been so busy deciding between Hudson and Valencia, I didn’t really get to enjoy myself.  I’m all for capturing moments for posterity, but at what cost? I’m already feeling like I can’t catch my breath.

Whatever I do (or not do) this year is alright.  I’m going to move through this month at my own pace, wrapped in good intentions, breathing evenly and calmly, enjoying each breath as it comes so when it comes time to say goodbye to December, I can do so without wondering where did it all go.

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IN: ON: December 1, 2014 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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Luxury or Blessing?

*disclaimer*  I really struggled with writing this post.  I read a very thought provoking article and accompanying comments, which could fill a book or two.   I was inspired to write my own thoughts about what I read.   When I played the voice memo I had used to capture my talking points, I realized that I was simultaneously supporting and contradicting the author.  I agreed in some areas and disagreed in others.  I couldn’t find the balance of what I wanted to say. I almost wrote, “Hey here’s an article that I think you all should read!” and just posted that. . .which in hindsight may not have been such a bad idea.

“Being a Stay-At-Home-Parent Is a A Luxury to Your Spouse.”

Normally, a loaded headline like that and I’m clicking onto the next article.  This particular day, however, I was deep into my feelings of angst and all but stood up in my chair, like a guest on Jerry Springer, “Yeah, that’s right! That’s right!” jabbing my index finger in the air to some unseen perpetrator of injustice.

Let me back up.

Like many married people with children, my husband and I have fallen into certain roles in our homes.  He is the primary financial provider. I am the primary domestic provider.  We didn’t sit down and assign tasks to one another; we slipped into these roles as we grew in our marriage and into parenthood.

The aforementioned article begans by the author, Chaunie Brusie, commenting on an article that she read discussing the trouble stay-at-home parents have when asked “What do you do all day?”  This questions raises hackles for a number of stay-at-home moms (myself included) — and before I go any further, I know that that are stay-at-home dads as well.  For the sake of this post, I’m using SAHM for brevity, but it does includes SAHDs.  In any event, Brusie read on through the article, sifting through comments until she found one that read:

“I work full time, and my husband is a stay at home dad. We have two kids in school full day (8 to 3). Don’t you realize how much easier it is to hold a full time job when you have someone home with the kids? I can work late and travel when I need to and not worry about the kids. Our weekends are spent relaxing, instead of racing around to get errands and chores done. I can go back to work on Mondays having actually recharged over the weekend. It feels like such a luxury to ME to have a stay at home spouse.” (Brusie’s emphasis).

Brusie says was “flabbergasted” that anyone would think that.  For a split second, so was I.  Why would anyone consider having a stay at home spouse a luxury? Despite it being well into the 2000s, there is still an undercurrent of disdain for moms who work in the home.  I know that I’m not alone in this feeling; I’ve talked with countless women who have turned themselves inside out in order to merit not having a 9 to 5.  Just last week, a friend from the gym was saying that she was girding herself against the inveitable lack of interest she was sure to experience when she went to a function for her husband’s job.  She, too, has been party to the  deflation of conversation that occurs when she remarks about how she’s a SAHM.  Never mind the fact that she did work in the past, works part time now, and is an all around amazing individual.

I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for almost a decade and let me tell you, there is only a small part of that that involves “staying home” — that’s another topic for another day, though.  Like several of my friends, I have tried to justify my existence as such by taking on Herculean tasks inside and outside of the home just so when asked, “What do you do all day?”, I could rattle off any number of things:

I made gluten-free, peanut-free, dairy-free cupcakes for the student bake sale!

I hand addressed 150 envelopes for the PTA fundraiser!

I read the entire collection of Shel Silverstein Poems to the first grade and then taught them how to write sestinas!

I stitched Girls Scout badges onto sashes for the entire troop so that they’re ready in time for to deliver cookies that I ordered, sorted alphabetically by type and bagged up in hand crocheted delivery bags!

It was vital to me that other people knew I wasn’t lounging around, catching up on the early 2000 equivalent of #TGIT and eating Chex Mix.  Again, I was worshiping at the Idol of Busyness because I had something to prove. I had to have an answer when met with a question that is inherently designed to create tension. I nkow that “What do you do all day?” is a pretty beningn question, but raise your hand if you read “What do you do all day?” in your regular voice? Raise your hand if you read “What do you do all day?” in a more judgmental tone.  Right.

The Brusie article acknowledged that being at home was a luxury for her.  After some consideration, she  realized that being at home was a luxury for her husband.

When I’m in the weeds of daily life, wishing I had a clone, what I really want are words of affirmation — it’s one of my love languages (so is receiving gifts, are we surprised?).  I do my best to remind the Hubs that I’m thankful for him and this life we have created together.  I know that he does the same for me. Recognition that we are in this together, we’re both doing the best that we can and there’s no one else we’d rather be doing it with — that’s what I’m looking for.  It’s the acknowledgement that who I am to him and to our family is paramount.

I’m having a hard time with the word luxury. I hear that word and think crushed velvet, mink coats, high count thread sheets, and flossing my teeth with freshwater pearls.  It’s a state of extravagance.  Having a second home is a luxury.  Having a cleaning lady is a luxury.  Having a spouse who is an exceptional partner and parent  who can  remove the worry, provide security in knowing that your children are well taken care of , and provide peace of mind in knowing that if there is an unexpected earache, forgotten bake sale items, and overdue library books, all of those knotted snafus will be untangled and laid straight — that’s not an extravagance, that’s blessing.

 

 

 

 

 

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IN: ON: October 16, 2014 TAGS: , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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hair

Spinning Plates

Time is flying by and I don’t really think I’m having a whole lot of fun.

Truthfully, I’ve been running, running, running ever since we came back from vacation.  In August.  I can clearly recall when the calendar flipped to the last day of school for the 2013-2014 school year. The entire summer stretched out before us, peppered with camps, play-dates, day trips and vacation the golden ring to reach for that would wrap it all up.

Once we crossed the threshold from driving straight from Martha’s Vineyard to Virginia, the pace didn’t slow down an iota.  It maintained and gradually picked up speed as we skipped from M’s birthday celebration to 4th grade orienation, followed by 1st grade orientation followed by pre-school orientation.  Then it was the first day of school.  Next was class picture day and back to school night and calendar meetings!  My planner was bursting with reminder notices and in an attempt to sync my iCal with my iPhone and my iPad, I got iMessage from Siri saying “I quit”. Even with three calendars a slew of reminders and post-its dotting my door frames, I constantly feel like I’m a pace behind.  I’m trying to work in the in between times of school, activities, and my responsibilities to others. I’m looking forward down time with the kids, but I also have to get groceries, wash hair (times 3), mail out copies of “Maggie Sinclair”, and attend to the multiple pieces of minutiae that life has liberally sprinkled over me.

Don’t get me wrong. This is not a pity party nor a raging rant.  I know I am not the first, nor the last, nor the only person to have responsibilities or wear a variety of hats.  I haven’t, as the father of a high school friend used to say, “forgotten to count”.  I’ve got so many blessings and good things going in my life, when I stop to think about it, I’m embarrassed for feeling overwhelmed by a situation of my own creation.

Many years ago, I attended a church service as a guest of woman I had met through a Kindermusik class.  I grew up Episcopalian. I went to a Catholic high school. I had a period where I wasn’t sure I wanted to participate in church because I felt like a hypocrite for reciting words that didn’t hold meaning for me. I wanted to understand what I was saying and why, not just reading from the BCP because it said to in my leaflet.   This was a journey that I had been on for a while, getting to this place where I am comfortable with church and my beliefs.  While I was going through it, though, I found myself being invited to church by a variety of different people. At the time, I viewed my beliefs as very private, especially since I was still working them out for myself.  When the latest invitation was issued, I felt God was practically knocking me on the head like, “Hey, I’m just going to keep inviting you until you accept!” —  so I went.  It was a Presbyterian church, a first for me, and more casual than the traditional high holy services I’d grown up with.  What I remember most about that service was section of the sermon given by the pastor, imploring us not to worship at the altar of the Idol of Busyness.  He went on to discuss how we measure our value or our success by how busy we are.  We take pleasure in not being able to participate in certain things because Look at all of these other things that I’ve committed to do already! I’m so busy!

Close to 10 years later, I still think of this message when I find myself at that altar of busyness.  When I’m whirling like a dervish over everything that needs to get done, everything I want to do and everything that I have to do, I need to step back.  To all outside appearances, I’ve got all the plates in the air, spinning in sync, and I’m reaching for some chainsaws to toss in the mix.

via

In truth, I want to yell “Don’t look at the lady behind the curtain!” That’s where the real me is, pulling levers, flipping switches and wiping sweat from my brow.  There are days when I feel like I’ve done nothing productive, nothing worthwhile, nothing that shows exactly how I’ve spent my day. Case in point, V has started preschool two days a week.  I had a list straining with the weight of things I was going to do with those precious hours.  Then I cracked my tooth.  Then the dentist decided I need to have a re-treatment on a root canal.  And that took multiple appointments and so much Novocain that my blinking is on a three second delay. So, I have spent virtually every available Tuesday or Thursday that she has been in preschool in the dentist chair, lamenting that I haven’t done anything and feeling like I’ve failed.  But failed who? Failed at what?  Who is setting up this unreachable bar of expectations?

Me.

So, I’m working on changing my thinking.  When I begin to feel like I’m so busy, that parenting and adulthood have turned me into a 2014 version of Sisyphus, I take a step back and start ticking off the ways in which I was winning at my life:

I’m alive.

I’m healthy.

So are my husband, my kids, my parents, my family and friends.

I’m working on projects that are exciting and I get to things that I enjoy.

I’m in an enviable position that I need to celebrate instead of wasting time worrying about achieving some arbitrary notion of productivity of my own ridiculous construct.  I’m giving myself permission to let the plates spin a little more slowly or maybe even take a few plates down.

Which of your spinning plates would you like to take down, if only for a little while?

 

 

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IN: hair ON: October 1, 2014 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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hair

#makingfriendswithmaggie

Several weeks ago, I read a post on Facebook that came from a natural hair board to which I belong.  The author of the post was asking other group participants to leave some kind words for a young curly cutie who had been subjected to some hurtful comments from other school kids because she had been wearing her naturally beautiful ‘fro.

From the message board:
“My little sweetheart, Boom (the pretty girl in the pic) has been rocking her natural beautiful ‘fro to the first grade and of course, kids will be kids and some have said some unkind things about her glorious crown. Her mom is working hard everyday to remind her how wonderful she looks but will you please leave a comment to encourage her to rock her beautiful mane?! Her mom will read each one to her tonight before bed. Thank you!!”

photo courtesy of C.J. Davis

I had an extremely strong reaction to this post. I ached for what that little curly cutie must have been feeling. Despite being a grown woman, I can recall quite easily what it was like to be the recipient of questions and unwanted attention because was my hair was different from my classmates.  Keep in mind, this was a time before being natural was as prevalent as it is now.  The comments and questions directed at me sprouted up whenever I changed my hairstyle (Braids one day! Ponytails the next! How does she do it?!) or when the humidity in the air snapped my ponytails into huge poofs (What happened to your hair?! and Your hair looks like a cotton ball!).  My mother would tell me things like, “People are afraid of what they don’t understand,” and “They say hurtful things because they are jealous. They are envious of what you have.”  At the time, it was little consolation, but now, I can appreciate how my mother did the best she could to assuage my feelings.

Now that I’m a mother, I think about how I would react if one of my girls were experiencing a similar situation. Believe me, the immediate response involved making sure elbows found soft spots on a big mouth’s body.  No, not really. . .but I did get very Mama Bear for a split second before coming up with possible strategies that my girls could employ if they did come home with tales of “So-and-so said such-and-such about my hair!”  The Hubs and I spend lots of time, consciously and unconsciously, building up our girls in all areas so that they never doubt how wonderful they are.  I irritates me to no end how despite our love and messages of positivity, one wayward comment from a passing acquaintance can unravel the threads of our work.  I’d like to believe that with every kind word we provide our children, we inoculate them just a bit more against low self-esteem so that eventually, any unpleasant comments bounce right off, never finding purchase.

I don’t know Boom’s mother, but I’m sure she cycled through various emotions of outrage and indignation before settling on ways to help her daughter.    I was encouraged by how thoughtfully her mother worked to ensure that Boom knew that she was beautiful. Taking to social media to enlist the help of other naturalistas was a great idea.    I was filled with hope as I read comment after comment lifting up this little girl.  The last time I checked, there were over 162 likes and over 125 comments, and they keep coming.

After I had read through the comments, it occurred to me that this is not the first time that I have heard of a little girl being teased, ridiculed, shamed, or even suspended from school over her hair. After seeing C wearing her Bantu Knots one day, a friend of mine replicated the style for her daughter.  The daughter, a middle-schooler, came home after wearing her knots, saying she was was going to take her hair down because the kids at school had said her hair looked like . . .well, I’m not even going to give power what was said.  Suffice it to say, it was enough to have her want to change her hairstyle immediately.  When I talked to my friend about it, we both said how by unraveling the knots, she was giving power to her tormentor.  Of course, being at the precarious middle school age, nothing a parent or a well meaning adult is going to hold sway over the system that is tween-dom.  So, she took her hair down.

There were at least two other news articles in the recent months where young curly cuties were asked to 1) change their hairstyles or 2) suspended from school for not conforming to school dress codes for having “unkempt hair” (i.e. naturals).  Both of those instances are discussions for other posts, I’m sure.  I bring it up to say, though, situations like those mentioned above, situations like Boom’s, situations that I’m sure my own children will face at some point in their lives — this is why I wrote “Maggie Sinclair”.  It’s more than just a picture book. It’s more than just a story about a girl and her grandmother. It’s a lesson in positivity so that children of color can have good examples relating to their hair, bodies, and abilities. It is crucial that they are taught to love themselves and the hair that grows out of their head.  In so doing, they can learn to love and celebrate their uniqueness and the uniqueness of others.

I asked to be put in touch with Boom so that I could send her a copy of  “Maggie Sinclair, Will You Please Fix Your Hair?” as a gift.  I wanted Boom to  have a touchstone that will remind her to continue to love, love, love herself and that gorgeous curly crown.  Judging by this photo, I think she’s most certainly will.

boom

photo courtesy of C.J. Davis

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IN: hair ON: September 10, 2014 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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hair recipes

Recipe Friday: Comfort Food

I’m in a bad mood.

I feel like Alexander, but instead of having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, it’s been a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad couple of days.  Okay, that may be a slight exaggeration, but it’s been kind off a rough week.  I’ve  been battling a summer cold going on ten days.  I’ve had a sore throat, a dry cough, and some serious post nasal drip.  I tried to beat it into submission with Vitamin C, Mucinex, and Nyquil, but it just won’t quit.  This cold took all of those measures and doubled down, leaving me waking up scared that I had pink eye because my eyelids were glued shut with gunk.  Thankfully it wasn’t pink eye, just (according to my doctor) the mucus in my sinuses  leaving from my eyes as well as my nostrils.  Wonderful. The sore throat comes and goes depending on how regularly I take a dose of Advil for my root canal. 

Oh, did I forget that part? Yeah, I had a partial root canal last a week ago Wednesday that left the left side of my face feeling like it was sliding down to my shoulder.  Last month, I chipped my crown and couldn’t get in to see the endodontist until last week.  He brings buckets of good news saying, “Oh, well let’s clean this out and treat what looks to be some kind of irritation in your gums. Then come back in three weeks and we’ll put a new crown on!”  My hopes of being able to use my whole mouth to chew were dashed.  I thought I was going to go in there, have them pop the new crown on and I’d be on my way.  I’m forever working against the clock: the girls are only at camp for three hours. The sitter comes for three hours  within the camp time frame.  I have to boogie to and from camp to get to the DDS and then back to get the girls.  Thankfully, I had had the foresight to ask a friend to scoop up my campers with hers.  What I thought was going to be a relatively routine appointment became a novocaine laced, dry mouth inducing two hour drill session.  And all this time, I thought I’d been taking care of my teeth!  In truth, my teeth are strong and healthy.  I just bit down on something the wrong way and caused the crown to chip off.  When I look at it, I can barely tell, but when I touch it with my tongue, it feels like the Grand Canyon.

So, root canal on the heels of a possible cold. And, I was supposed to go out of town for a girls’ week-end, too.  Those plans got scrapped.  Scratchy throat and puffed up face do not make for a good time.  I slogged through the rest of the week, my left cheek resting in my left hand as I went about my routine.  The pain in my face subsided as the pain in my throat gained traction.  Thankfully, the Hubs came home over the week-end and played nursemaid, plying me with tea and urging me to rest.  When he left to go on a business trip Monday, my cold peeped out of hiding and came back with a vengeance.

I kept pumping myself full of Vitamin C, orange juice, Advil, whatever I could get my hands on.  The doctor urged me to rest, but that’s a pipe dream.  I have kids.  Rest and I broke up a long time ago.  I tried to get brawlick on the cold and went to the gym, where I let the Cardio Kickboxing instructor jab, upper-cut and roundhouse kick us all into a sweat induced stupor.  The cure for anything is saltwater, right?

Well, I felt better after having worked out, but there’s this little patch of rough, itchiness at the top (or would that be back) of my throat that won’t quit.  I don’t have time for that!  I kept up the sweat regimen with weight lifting on Tuesday, Zumba on Wednesday and Step Aerobics on Thursday.  I feel like I’m getting the best of it, but part of me knows I do need to rest.  When the kids go down for bed, I’m usually hot on their heels.  However, we decided to break C of her pull-up habit this summer, which means taking her to the toilet several hours after she falls asleep and then again at the crack of dawn.  When it’s lights out at 8, I’m ready to go with them, but I hang on until 10, put her on the pot and then knock out.  Inevitably this past week, I’ve woken up coughing around 4.  I’ll get up and put her on the pot, my only consolation being that by doing this, I won’t have to wash the sheets at 7 in the morning.  Still, I think the only one being conditioned here is me.  Hello, Pavlov’s dogs?

Add to the mix the Sisyphean task of getting my book published.  Every time I think I’m ready to launch, I hit a snafu.  There have been some production issues. There have been some printing challenges.  There have been so many little aggravating sidesteps, I am starting to believe that this part is actually harder than the writing of the text.  I’ve had such good feedback and momentum from FaceBook and Pinterest about Maggie Sinclair. I feel like I’m letting people down when another day goes by and the book is unavailable.  I know, I know, good things come to those who wait. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Measure twice, cut once.  Practice makes perfect.  Patience is not a virtue I possess, but I don’t have a choice.  Still, I’d rather it be exactly how I want it to be than thrown together just to meet a deadline. I’m getting there, and I have to remind myself of everything that I have accomplished thus far.  The irony of that last statement is pretty strong because it is exactly what I tell the Hubs when he’s getting frustrated with his perceived lack of forward progress on his projects.

Like I said, it’s been rough week. My fridge looks like a barren wasteland — I think there’s a box of baking soda, a dried up apple and maybe a swallow of apple juice in the container.  The girls have been clamoring for the pool, ice cream, screen time on their devices, and trips to Target.  My good intentions and my execution are not in sync.  I think I’ve maxed out all the help available to me, and even asking for that was difficult.  You know how I hate asking for help.

I’m not throwing myself a pity part here —  Don’t cry for me, Argentina!  I just need to get some things off my chest.  When I was laid up in the dentist chair, my mouth open wide, no clue what was being done and only able to see the different drill bits out of my peripheral vision, I thought I was going to crack.  The dentist is a really genial, grandfatherly type of guy.  I knew if he patted my shoulder and asked me if I was okay, I’d probably start crying.  Shoot, when he jammed that needle full of Novocaine in my gums and told me what I great job I did, I almost did start crying.  I think I was in need of some kind of comfort, milk of human kindness. What I needed then, and now, is just some comfort. I’m looking forward to the Hubs coming home from his trip and getting wrapped up in his arms.

In the meantime, I’ll probably stuff my face with something that will be a poor, but delicious, substitute and keep pushing forward.

Happy Friday, y’all!

Blondies

via Smitten Kitchen

Blondies
Adapted from How to Cook Everything

Ingredients

8 tablespoons (1 stick, 4 ounces or 113 grams) butter, melted
1 cup (218 grams or 7 3/4 ounces for light; 238 grams or 8 3/8 ounces for dark) brown sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla or 1/2 teaspoon almond extract
Pinch salt
1 cup (4 3/8 ounces or 125 grams) all-purpose flour

Directions

  1. Butter an 8×8 pan
  2. Mix melted butter with brown sugar – beat until smooth. Beat in egg and then vanilla.
  3. Add salt, stir in flour. Mix in any additions (below).
  4. Pour into prepared pan. Bake at 350°F 20-25 minutes, or until set in the middle. I always err on the side of caution with baking times — nobody ever complained about a gooey-middled cookie. Cool on rack before cutting them

Further additions, use one or a combination of:  

  • 1/2 to 1 cup chopped nuts, toasting them first for even better flavor
  • 1/2 to 1 cup chocolate chips
  • 1/2 teaspoon mint extract in addition to or in place of the vanilla
  • 1/2 cup mashed bananas
  • 1/4 cup bourbon, scotch or other whiskey; increase the flour by one tablespoon
  • 2 tablespoons of espresso powder with the vanilla
  • Stir 1/2 cup dried fruit, especially dried cherries, into the prepared batter
  • Top with a vanilla butter cream or chocolate peanut butter cream frostingNew favorite combination of late (added 5/24/14): We’ve gotten on a kick making these again, but I’ve really wanted to increase the toasty butterscotch flavor and have done so by: browning the butter, using dark brown sugar but only 3/4 cup (I prefer these less sweet these days), increasing the vanilla to 1 1/2 teaspoons and the salt to 1/4 teaspoon fleur de sel or flaky sea salt, plus a few flakes crumbled on top. I use 1 cup chopped bittersweet chocolate and 1/2 cup chopped walnuts or pecans as the mix-ins. Hope this provides some inspiration!
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IN: hair recipes ON: July 18, 2014 TAGS: , , , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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