I just found out that one of the loves of my juvenile life is playing in concert where I live next month. Hall & Oates. As in Daryl Hall. I'm pretty sure if he asked me to run away with him, I'd give it a serious consider. I know I am not alone in this.
I fell in love with Hall & Oates in 1981, at the age of ten. I must have played "Private Eyes" 987,889,735 times a day for a year. I'd sing to it with a cardboard paper towel roll (microphone) and drive my parents batshit crazy with it blaring nonstop. I don't know how they didn't develop a drinking problem with my behavior, something to be thankful for I imagine. As time went on their hits just kept coming and I was damn near obsessed. When "Maneater" came out I found new terrain. Now, I had no idea what a maneater was, only that Daryl was warning me to stay away from her, but kinda seemed to like her too. That was enough for me- I wanted to be a maneater too! I would take a bath towel and wrap it around my head for long hair and whip around the room warning my stuffed animals to "watch out boy, watch out boy!" Glorious.
I'm a little taken aback as a 43 year old Mom of three just how excited I am to see him in concert. I simply cannot WAIT. Daryl for his part has been a busy boy. He has taken to restoring houses and a few years ago bought a property a few miles away. Husband had to talk me out of sleeping outside his bedroom window. "The police will not understand" he would tell me. I was a good girl. No stalking order for me. Yaay Andrea!
So why is it that I am downright giddy to hear his yummy voice again? Is it the onset of grey attacking my temple? Is it the laugh lines sprouting like weeds? Do I long for a simpler time of dancing around my bedroom?
I wonder how I will feel when I see that Daryl is no longer his 1981 MTV self. Does he look in the mirror and pluck the grey terrorist strands too? Does he come to concerts hoping to be his 2015 self only to be bitterly saddened that the audience screams for "Rich Girl" instead? I doubt it. I bet he's just rolling with it. Should I just be rolling with it??
I think that's what the draw of Daryl is for me. Surrounding us are baaaad examples of how not to age (frenzied botox, mcmansion-boobs) extremes that make us feel better with our wrinkles. We sit in judgment, "well, will you look at her and what she has done to herself??!!" Ewww, we say. Boo, we say. Battle lines are drawn about women not being good girls as they age. Madonna gives a big fuck you to anyone who tells her how to do it. Bravo we say, but we still read the "what not to wear after 40" articles. Sigh.
But surprisingly instead of Madonna, Daryl is my beacon. He is smiling, without angst, traveling the globe, rehabbing houses singing his old songs with a new twist to them. There always seems to be something new in his voice. He's himself. He's honoring what it is that we all fell in love with; all the while quietly, fiercely, bravely showing us who he is NOW.
Maybe I love Daryl because he is showing me once again a glimpse of what's next for me, of how I may want to proceed in my days ahead. Because after all, it's way more fun now that I actually know what a Maneater is. I still kinda want to be one.
Thanks Daryl.
Love Always,
Andrea
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Rule #1 of Parenting: Never wear socks with holes to Music Together class
There are many rules to parenthood; don't put the diaper on backwards, don't drive away with the car seat on the hood, don't swear like a sailor on leave in front of little Sabine, you know, the basic's.
But there are (hushed tone) some horrific, almost unspeakable rules that you must NEVER break, not even once.
I dare say these must follow rules make you literally responsible for not just yourself, not just your kids, but all other parents as well. I know, you already have one foot out the door with your bag packed yelling; “no way did I sign up for this action movie with Nicholas Cage! I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR THE WHOLE WORLD TILTING OFF IT'S AXIS PRESSURE!!”
Sure you did. Right at the moment you got knocked up. Sorry. (really sorry, not just I bumped into you on the train brushing your purse off your shoulder sorry, but really, really sorry.) Hey, I was duped too! Shall we continue?
Rule #1
Never, I mean never, wear socks with holes in them to your kids' Music Together class.
You will look down at your feet (because even in freakin' February you have to freeze your arse off by taking your shoes off at the door- (for WHAT?! So little Sebastian doesn't get dirt on him?) You will be sitting uncomfortably in class with your stretched out crap maternity bra and your muffin top squished outward to look more like a bundt cake top and all this won't matter a bit because 1) you are freezing 2) topping off this hot mess you are now depressed and aredepressing everyone else. Why you ask? Because Mom, your holy socks are a reminder. An urgent reminder and extension of your life not being your own any longer. Of you only combing one side of your hair because that's how much time you had to get ready. Of you not having a blessed moment to fully empty your bladder. You, in short order, will have spread this realization like a contagion, leaving you hovering on the brink of tears. All this because right at that moment of realization you loving gaze at little Sabine and Sebastian and they look bloody fantastic! Their socks are plushy and sans holes. They have the cutest stinkin' outfit on and every hair is coiffed like a hair team came in. You on the other hand, you have toothpaste down the front of your shirt and holes on your feet. Yes, your children are a miracle and your greatest happiness. This we know. But my long winded point is this Mama: you have to put the oxygen mask on first before your child's. Get yourself a good pair of socks for class, sweet girl. It's a world spinning on it's axis correctly kinda thing.
Rule #2
Screw that laundry! Throw it in a big pile in your backyard and set it on fire!
OK, maybe a tad extreme with the last part but heed my warning!
Nothing will ever suck the life out of you like a vampire on crack than laundry. Nothing. (Don't argue with me, it's true!) There are two very important points about this rule: 1) Don't forget that you put a load of whites in the washer lastMonday. 2) DO NOT PUT THE LAUNDRY TO FOLD ON YOUR BED. Hey Sister, I know what your motivation is: “if I put this here I will HAVE to fold it before I go to bed!! Hahaha! I am so smart!” Um, no, no you are not. For the simple fact that it is now 11:45 pm and you are swearing (too loud I might add) about how it is ON THE BED (“what lunatic would put this here?!”) You need to sleep. Like, now.
Rule #3
Do not say yes to anything more than your day to day responsibilities (anything outside of keeping the kids alive and work deadlines gets a big NO!)
I DON'T CARE that everyone else seems to wake up with birds sweetly chirping around them as they change diapers-make breakfast-pack lunches-write a proposal-make 100 cupcakes-take out the dead ant farm-run their company andthen head up the bake sale, school raffle, teacher appreciation and school car wash so Sabine can get new pom poms for cheer leading! YOU DO NOT WANT TO BE THIS PERSON! (It needs to be said that I am very, very happy/grateful these people exist for my own selfish mental health and well being) but to everything a season right? It ain't your season. Survive the day and go get that laundry out of the washer. Everything else is gravy.
Lastly, Rule #4 which is a “do” rather than a don't. Sorry for the false advertising, but I was drinking to recover from not following rules #1,2,3. Oopsy!
Please, dear ones, take a shower. Do not be like me who went days without one because there just wasn't any time. I know you are weary, I know you want to shank someone, but please, do this for yourself. Just like your own Mom said to you, you will feel better afterward. You don't need to recreate the PBS 1900 house show with their weekly baths (I cried with empathy during that part) just get in and lock the door. But don't take your Big Gulp wine glass in there with you- that's an accident waiting to happen, trust me. Do shower. If not for people starting to talk, but because you will have to do more laundry; like sheets because you are leaving a grime impression on them.
So. Many. Rules. So much life-filling wonderful craziness. Try and remember every six months or so or as a daily mantra; Oxygen masks on first, sweet Mama's.
Andrea Ardito is a freelance writer from Portsmouth NH who with her three kids did does all the things she is telling you not to do. But hey, if you can't be a good example you can always be a horrible warning, right?
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Whoop--ee....I think.
So, yes, they are back in school and I am back to my 16 cups of tea before 6:30 am and it's nice to be able to breathe for a moment and not attend to or wipe anything after 8:30 am. BUT I kinda... miss them....
The noise (yelling) the lazy days, the moments of sibling care (few but there) I miss that. Already.
Now we are headlong into paperwork and pretend smiles on the playground. Back to adjusting and hurried pace. Back to realizing that even though we may be going into this school routine for the 1st time or the 15th time, time is fleeting and somehow we need to appreciate the paperwork, unconscious mornings and tantrums over hair elastics. And even though I said I would never be one of those people who tell you to "cherish every moment" here I am with my liar-liar-pants-on-fire wardrobe. We are going to blink and snow will be falling, Spring will be swooning and we will then have our toes in the sand. We will meet in this back to school place once again with our droopy everything and try to catch time with an insect net. So go grab that extra tea and join me in a moment of thanks. It's OK if you bitch the moment after. That's allowed :-)
The noise (yelling) the lazy days, the moments of sibling care (few but there) I miss that. Already.
Now we are headlong into paperwork and pretend smiles on the playground. Back to adjusting and hurried pace. Back to realizing that even though we may be going into this school routine for the 1st time or the 15th time, time is fleeting and somehow we need to appreciate the paperwork, unconscious mornings and tantrums over hair elastics. And even though I said I would never be one of those people who tell you to "cherish every moment" here I am with my liar-liar-pants-on-fire wardrobe. We are going to blink and snow will be falling, Spring will be swooning and we will then have our toes in the sand. We will meet in this back to school place once again with our droopy everything and try to catch time with an insect net. So go grab that extra tea and join me in a moment of thanks. It's OK if you bitch the moment after. That's allowed :-)
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
OMG OMG OMG WE. MADE. IT. (!!!) NOW PICK UP YOUR TIRED ASS OFF THE FINISH LINE! IT'S TIME FOR SUMMER!
Wahoooo here we go! Yes, I know I am delusional thinking rainbows are coming out of my kids bottoms because it's Summer! No more school with the 17,000 end of the year field trips and teachers gifts and the terror of packing lunch. By the end I wanted to hand them a fruit roll up and a twenty and ask "are we good?" But now, now we are off a schedule and we are going to be so very, very happy together! Days at the beach! Library time! Catching fireflies! Blueberry picking! Bring it!!! Right?! Right????!
For some reason I never learn. Like smashing my head into concrete again and again I think each year will be different. I get to day two of beach time ( I don't want to go-it's boring-she threw sand at me-I'm hungry!) to blueberry picking (it's hot-we have been here, like, forever-he's eating all the blueberries!) and everything in between. It goes on and on until everyone is yelling and I want to drink my way through the day.
Adjustment. That's all it is. Like we tell our kids, emotions pass, this is will pass.
What a crock of crap.
Like the days of spit up and poop-up-the-back diapers we will feel the length and hot searing heat of these Summer moments until bright crisp September rolls around. And we will dance in the kitchen (as we make that first non-fruit roll up lunch with a love note enclosed!) We will lament as we watch them leave the house for school and remark on how much we will miss them. Funny enough that lasts about 13 minutes....
But I digress. Stick with it Peeps. Summer is built for those light bulb bugs and sleeping in. You will be as tired as a ninety year old at the end of the day and that will be great. Grit through your teeth how "we don't TALK TO EACH OTHER THAT WAY!!" and laminate the house rules that no one but you will read. Do soak in those moments of laughter. The tiny minutes of silence. The smell of beach on their skin. The gift of parenthood that we have been given for such a brief time.
And if that doesn't work try rum. That'll work. Definitely.
Wahoooo here we go! Yes, I know I am delusional thinking rainbows are coming out of my kids bottoms because it's Summer! No more school with the 17,000 end of the year field trips and teachers gifts and the terror of packing lunch. By the end I wanted to hand them a fruit roll up and a twenty and ask "are we good?" But now, now we are off a schedule and we are going to be so very, very happy together! Days at the beach! Library time! Catching fireflies! Blueberry picking! Bring it!!! Right?! Right????!
For some reason I never learn. Like smashing my head into concrete again and again I think each year will be different. I get to day two of beach time ( I don't want to go-it's boring-she threw sand at me-I'm hungry!) to blueberry picking (it's hot-we have been here, like, forever-he's eating all the blueberries!) and everything in between. It goes on and on until everyone is yelling and I want to drink my way through the day.
Adjustment. That's all it is. Like we tell our kids, emotions pass, this is will pass.
What a crock of crap.
Like the days of spit up and poop-up-the-back diapers we will feel the length and hot searing heat of these Summer moments until bright crisp September rolls around. And we will dance in the kitchen (as we make that first non-fruit roll up lunch with a love note enclosed!) We will lament as we watch them leave the house for school and remark on how much we will miss them. Funny enough that lasts about 13 minutes....
But I digress. Stick with it Peeps. Summer is built for those light bulb bugs and sleeping in. You will be as tired as a ninety year old at the end of the day and that will be great. Grit through your teeth how "we don't TALK TO EACH OTHER THAT WAY!!" and laminate the house rules that no one but you will read. Do soak in those moments of laughter. The tiny minutes of silence. The smell of beach on their skin. The gift of parenthood that we have been given for such a brief time.
And if that doesn't work try rum. That'll work. Definitely.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
I'm digging in my garden. It's that time of year. Thinking of Mom and wanting to bring this post out into the light of day again....
Motherless child
May is a hard time for me. Mother's Day rolls around and I'm a bit twitchy, there is a definite edge in the air. Even though the torch has been passed to me in celebrating the day, it always goes back to my own Mother. How could it not? Like the nightlight we forget to turn off in the morning, she's always there in the background.
I lost my Mother 16 years ago to cancer. Lost is such a funny word in describing death don't you think? Like she went into the grocery store with me and just wandered off. With so many years passed and so much having happened in those years it feels like my life is truncated into two parts: my childhood with her and the beginning of my adult life. That's a really strange compartment. Comparable to playing in the sand one minute to having a house on it the next.
She missed so much. She will never know my husband, the man who transformed the way I love. She will never look into my children's eyes. She will never see them come into the world, never hold them, never comb their hair. Never be part of any Christmas or Birthday, never again ring in the new year. She will not see the radiant smiles walking down the aisle, not laugh at the antics of my Dad. All this I know. I wear the finality of it like a coat. There is nothing to be done with it but sit with it and invite it to the table; less painful than having it linger by the door.
I feel less alone now than when my kids were babies. So many nights wondering: is this normal? /did I ever have a rash like that?/was she as exhausted-elated-exhausted as I am? I'd watch my friends Mum's with that look in their eyes- bottomless love, enchantment, that buffer; how they would relish their time; the tender lessons only a Grandmother can teach.
I could do many things but I could not trace her footprint in their lives.
I'll say it. I'll say it out loud. I felt cheated.
Gradually though and with much inner destruction, I realized not all paths were meant to be ours.
The ouch of it all did ease with my husband's Mother. She was not my Mom but she loves her Grandkids. My heart melts every time she plays Crazy eights with them. Isn't that funny? Crazy eights. Who knew that would be what dulls the ache. My kids are surrounded by people who love them. My Dad's wife dotes on them like they were her very own. It's enough. We all pretend it fills the cup that is cracked. We put napkins on the floor to cover the drip. It's enough.
So now May comes around and I garden. I dig and plant and arrange and concentrate. I clean my house. I fold my laundry. I write. I smile during the Spring tea's at school and love my homemade cards. And every year I silently say the only prayer I can muster; Happy Mother's day Mom.
Motherless child
May is a hard time for me. Mother's Day rolls around and I'm a bit twitchy, there is a definite edge in the air. Even though the torch has been passed to me in celebrating the day, it always goes back to my own Mother. How could it not? Like the nightlight we forget to turn off in the morning, she's always there in the background.
I lost my Mother 16 years ago to cancer. Lost is such a funny word in describing death don't you think? Like she went into the grocery store with me and just wandered off. With so many years passed and so much having happened in those years it feels like my life is truncated into two parts: my childhood with her and the beginning of my adult life. That's a really strange compartment. Comparable to playing in the sand one minute to having a house on it the next.
She missed so much. She will never know my husband, the man who transformed the way I love. She will never look into my children's eyes. She will never see them come into the world, never hold them, never comb their hair. Never be part of any Christmas or Birthday, never again ring in the new year. She will not see the radiant smiles walking down the aisle, not laugh at the antics of my Dad. All this I know. I wear the finality of it like a coat. There is nothing to be done with it but sit with it and invite it to the table; less painful than having it linger by the door.
I feel less alone now than when my kids were babies. So many nights wondering: is this normal? /did I ever have a rash like that?/was she as exhausted-elated-exhausted as I am? I'd watch my friends Mum's with that look in their eyes- bottomless love, enchantment, that buffer; how they would relish their time; the tender lessons only a Grandmother can teach.
I could do many things but I could not trace her footprint in their lives.
I'll say it. I'll say it out loud. I felt cheated.
Gradually though and with much inner destruction, I realized not all paths were meant to be ours.
The ouch of it all did ease with my husband's Mother. She was not my Mom but she loves her Grandkids. My heart melts every time she plays Crazy eights with them. Isn't that funny? Crazy eights. Who knew that would be what dulls the ache. My kids are surrounded by people who love them. My Dad's wife dotes on them like they were her very own. It's enough. We all pretend it fills the cup that is cracked. We put napkins on the floor to cover the drip. It's enough.
So now May comes around and I garden. I dig and plant and arrange and concentrate. I clean my house. I fold my laundry. I write. I smile during the Spring tea's at school and love my homemade cards. And every year I silently say the only prayer I can muster; Happy Mother's day Mom.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Hippity hoppity here comes Mommy losing her marbles
It needs to be stated that I am one of those people who should never have a medical 'signs and symptoms' dictionary in her house, nor ever click unto Web MD. I will think I am dying of every disease, just days away from perishing. I believe it's important to own your neurosis.
So it comes as no surprise that I would panic tremendously when during mid-yell at the teenage daughter I stumble over my words- ME, Italian-Irish girl- having a problem getting out rapid fire retort to her snark. I tell myself (before the dysfunction takes hold) that I have many things on my mind and that even though I have always struck with lightening verbal speed, this is normal. I have many reasons for my falter. She was upsetting my zen flow. I was looking for my chapstick. I was interrupted buttering my toast, which as we all know, takes great mental effort and clarity!
Within moments though, the crazy settles in. I have dementia. Early onset Alzheimer's. I am having a stroke.
Even teenage daughter tells me I am off my game. I do not like to be off my game.
Two glasses of wine later (red as it improves cardiovascular health and memory!) I accept the real, very unglamorous truth: I am not 28 anymore.
I can no longer:
1) Stay up all night (without wanting to commit homicide the next day)
2) Wear 6 inch heels (my back can barely manage 3")
3) Drink in the afternoon (I will fall asleep)
4) Tolerate asshat (it's a turning 40 thing)
5) Give my time to asshats (see above)
6) Pretend I like Parent Open Houses (My face hurts from pretend smiling)
7) Wear bras without padding.(see #4)
So life changes. So maybe I'm not as spunky as I used to be. So what? There are still PLENTY of things I can do.
The "can" list:
1) Wear a miniskirt and still look appropriate (I know my days are numbered, shut up!)
2) Remember any lyric from 1985-1993 (it's just after that time that gets a bit fuzzy)
3) Say no when I need/want to (it's a 40's thang)
4) Dream of what I want to be when I grow up (late bloomer)
5) Be kind to asshats (if I uttered 'stick it' I would know Dementia was a real possibility)
6) Still do a shoulder stand in yoga (it may hurt for three weeks to turn my head but I can still do it!!)
7) Laugh at myself (especially in mid-yell to teenage daughter)
So it's humbling. You try to banish the fear and let family know that you won't have an answer to everything and you will forget what word to say next; not from memory loss but because your brain is filled with so MANY moments/memories/to do's that it's hard to contain it all. And that is OK. It's evolution Baby!
So feel like you are having a stroke but then remember more likely you are just having a life.
It needs to be stated that I am one of those people who should never have a medical 'signs and symptoms' dictionary in her house, nor ever click unto Web MD. I will think I am dying of every disease, just days away from perishing. I believe it's important to own your neurosis.
So it comes as no surprise that I would panic tremendously when during mid-yell at the teenage daughter I stumble over my words- ME, Italian-Irish girl- having a problem getting out rapid fire retort to her snark. I tell myself (before the dysfunction takes hold) that I have many things on my mind and that even though I have always struck with lightening verbal speed, this is normal. I have many reasons for my falter. She was upsetting my zen flow. I was looking for my chapstick. I was interrupted buttering my toast, which as we all know, takes great mental effort and clarity!
Within moments though, the crazy settles in. I have dementia. Early onset Alzheimer's. I am having a stroke.
Even teenage daughter tells me I am off my game. I do not like to be off my game.
Two glasses of wine later (red as it improves cardiovascular health and memory!) I accept the real, very unglamorous truth: I am not 28 anymore.
I can no longer:
1) Stay up all night (without wanting to commit homicide the next day)
2) Wear 6 inch heels (my back can barely manage 3")
3) Drink in the afternoon (I will fall asleep)
4) Tolerate asshat (it's a turning 40 thing)
5) Give my time to asshats (see above)
6) Pretend I like Parent Open Houses (My face hurts from pretend smiling)
7) Wear bras without padding.(see #4)
So life changes. So maybe I'm not as spunky as I used to be. So what? There are still PLENTY of things I can do.
The "can" list:
1) Wear a miniskirt and still look appropriate (I know my days are numbered, shut up!)
2) Remember any lyric from 1985-1993 (it's just after that time that gets a bit fuzzy)
3) Say no when I need/want to (it's a 40's thang)
4) Dream of what I want to be when I grow up (late bloomer)
5) Be kind to asshats (if I uttered 'stick it' I would know Dementia was a real possibility)
6) Still do a shoulder stand in yoga (it may hurt for three weeks to turn my head but I can still do it!!)
7) Laugh at myself (especially in mid-yell to teenage daughter)
So it's humbling. You try to banish the fear and let family know that you won't have an answer to everything and you will forget what word to say next; not from memory loss but because your brain is filled with so MANY moments/memories/to do's that it's hard to contain it all. And that is OK. It's evolution Baby!
So feel like you are having a stroke but then remember more likely you are just having a life.
Monday, February 4, 2013
OHHHH BOY.
The other morning I ran in 10 degree weather. I ran out and then back in for another layer. I ran along cursing silently as my face (the only naked part of me exposed) started to freeze. As I was contemplating the best treatment for frostbite, I started to wonder if I was really meant for this NH weather. My answer is no. My answer is that in my head I am meant to live as a free guest of St. Maartin my entire life and that every time I feel stressed I just climb up my own private coconut tree and while throwing down a coconut (which I will drink from) I will take in the view.
Does anyone else want to throw something at the T.V. when the Key West commercials come on? Who are these people??!! On the beach, laughing, holding hands, KAYAKING! How dare they!!! They don't have frozen hair! They don't have to stand out on the arctic playground for what seems like centuries waiting for their children to come out! They don't even have children! And if they do, they are so busy making sandcastles they don't even ask for a snack!
Every year it is like this. The heart of Winter. And every year instead of getting all introspective and zen-like, slowing down and 'hybernating my spirit' I rail against it like a leopard in a cage. February is the longest month of the year. Don't argue with me because it will not be safe for you. I don't care about the 28/29th day thing. Us cold-living people want out come February. Our skin is all pale and cracky. We can't get out of bed, nor do we want to when it's 17 degrees out. Our cars whine. Our kids whine. And yes I am whining. And ready to cut the Groundhog for promising something that will not be delivered soon enough for me: An early Spring.
Take heart peeps, throw kleenex boxes at the commercials for therapy and cross off the days. We will get through this together. Oh, and drink. In my imaginary St. Maartin world they say rum makes the time go by faster.
The other morning I ran in 10 degree weather. I ran out and then back in for another layer. I ran along cursing silently as my face (the only naked part of me exposed) started to freeze. As I was contemplating the best treatment for frostbite, I started to wonder if I was really meant for this NH weather. My answer is no. My answer is that in my head I am meant to live as a free guest of St. Maartin my entire life and that every time I feel stressed I just climb up my own private coconut tree and while throwing down a coconut (which I will drink from) I will take in the view.
Does anyone else want to throw something at the T.V. when the Key West commercials come on? Who are these people??!! On the beach, laughing, holding hands, KAYAKING! How dare they!!! They don't have frozen hair! They don't have to stand out on the arctic playground for what seems like centuries waiting for their children to come out! They don't even have children! And if they do, they are so busy making sandcastles they don't even ask for a snack!
Every year it is like this. The heart of Winter. And every year instead of getting all introspective and zen-like, slowing down and 'hybernating my spirit' I rail against it like a leopard in a cage. February is the longest month of the year. Don't argue with me because it will not be safe for you. I don't care about the 28/29th day thing. Us cold-living people want out come February. Our skin is all pale and cracky. We can't get out of bed, nor do we want to when it's 17 degrees out. Our cars whine. Our kids whine. And yes I am whining. And ready to cut the Groundhog for promising something that will not be delivered soon enough for me: An early Spring.
Take heart peeps, throw kleenex boxes at the commercials for therapy and cross off the days. We will get through this together. Oh, and drink. In my imaginary St. Maartin world they say rum makes the time go by faster.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Welcome January (I think)
Welcome to January folks! Reposting this piece as the new year brings awareness to how much I need to get a grip on the unmentionables...yikes!
A good bra can fix anything
I don't care what it is, any problem, no matter how monstrous or trivial, life altering or mundane, can be solved with just one thing; a good bra. Think about it- world peace, in-law troubles; you name it- all can be taken care of by the simple action of finding that splendid unmentionable and connecting it's maddening hook clasp between our shoulder blades. A good bra makes us stand a little taller, smile a little brighter, shine that little speck more. We all know what happens to our morale when we put on a saggy, misshapen, dingy-drab from so many washings it looks like it was grey in the first place- bra. We feel like that. We feel the blah, we feel the misshape. We greet each new set of eyes with an Emily Dickinson-like stare, please don't really see me, I'll be the wallflower in the corner, thank you.
We can't blame ourselves for this, it truly is not our faults. When we are teenagers and our boobies appear we think they, like the mole on our arm will forever be with us just as they are in that moment. We take them for granted. We walk around letting them fly free. We do not care! We are 13, 18, 26, 30! We should be getting the forklift ready for their descent but we don't. No, we just ignore and look away, we pretend not to see them melting like the polar ice caps. We get pregnant. We get forty. We breastfeed. We run that 5k with that terrible shot elastic in our sports bra. And then BAM! One day, they don't greet the sun quite like they used to. Or they deflate like a balloon popped by a horrific child. We look around, we want to yell "WHO IS THAT KID ANYWAY??!!"
We want to blame somebody. What do you do when there is no one really to blame?
You stop blaming. Like the stages of grief you finish your bargaining, anger, and pleading and you hit your own version of acceptance. You stop buying your bra's at Wallmart and your march yourself into Victoria's Secret. You ignore the 16 year old asking "Ma 'am, can I help you?" and you keep walking because homicide is not on the calender for the day. You tell the most mature salesperson you can find (21 year old girl) that you need something that will help you with the breasts that have betrayed you. You tell her you want to take the fat from your ass and inject it into your breasts but that you will not do that because:
1) You can't afford it
2) How would you justify it to your daughters that you convince yourself are looking up to you??
Once you have explained all of this to the 21 year old who is texting security you take a deep breath, lift your shirt and say- "can you, for the love of God, help with this please??" "
I have been told that there is a panic button for this kind of moment at Victoria's Secret. A hush falls over the store, walkie talkies are involved. You find yourself escorted into a special back room with not a florescent light in sight. You are placed in a vault-like dressing room where bra's are slipped to you through a secret compartment in the door; gingerly handed to you like little sticks of dynamite. Tentatively, with jaundice and malice you try the bra on. Like a golden arch of sunlight piercing the dressing room door, a miracle occurs- you look in the mirror and Voila! What has forsaken you has been restored, the prodigal son has returned!
You wear it out-you have no concern for the way clothes are made with formaldehyde these days- you can't be bothered with such trivial details! The world has changed! Hell--oooo! You go to the counter. You don't check the price- you don't care- you would mortgage your home for this bra! You walk out of the store with it on under your shirt and close to your heart; your heartbeat and bra are one! You let people pull out in front of you in traffic! You laugh at your Mother in-law's comments about how she had it harder than you! You saunter into your children's school at pick up time and wipe off any trace of Emily Dickinson! You and your new bra look them all in the eye with the fearlessness of an outlaw at high noon; you don't look away! You start that letter to the United Nations and it begins with "listen up 'cause this is how it's gonna get done!" Yes, things are going to be different now folks. Look out, nothing is ever going to be the same again. A good bra can fix anything.
We can't blame ourselves for this, it truly is not our faults. When we are teenagers and our boobies appear we think they, like the mole on our arm will forever be with us just as they are in that moment. We take them for granted. We walk around letting them fly free. We do not care! We are 13, 18, 26, 30! We should be getting the forklift ready for their descent but we don't. No, we just ignore and look away, we pretend not to see them melting like the polar ice caps. We get pregnant. We get forty. We breastfeed. We run that 5k with that terrible shot elastic in our sports bra. And then BAM! One day, they don't greet the sun quite like they used to. Or they deflate like a balloon popped by a horrific child. We look around, we want to yell "WHO IS THAT KID ANYWAY??!!"
We want to blame somebody. What do you do when there is no one really to blame?
You stop blaming. Like the stages of grief you finish your bargaining, anger, and pleading and you hit your own version of acceptance. You stop buying your bra's at Wallmart and your march yourself into Victoria's Secret. You ignore the 16 year old asking "Ma 'am, can I help you?" and you keep walking because homicide is not on the calender for the day. You tell the most mature salesperson you can find (21 year old girl) that you need something that will help you with the breasts that have betrayed you. You tell her you want to take the fat from your ass and inject it into your breasts but that you will not do that because:
1) You can't afford it
2) How would you justify it to your daughters that you convince yourself are looking up to you??
Once you have explained all of this to the 21 year old who is texting security you take a deep breath, lift your shirt and say- "can you, for the love of God, help with this please??" "
I have been told that there is a panic button for this kind of moment at Victoria's Secret. A hush falls over the store, walkie talkies are involved. You find yourself escorted into a special back room with not a florescent light in sight. You are placed in a vault-like dressing room where bra's are slipped to you through a secret compartment in the door; gingerly handed to you like little sticks of dynamite. Tentatively, with jaundice and malice you try the bra on. Like a golden arch of sunlight piercing the dressing room door, a miracle occurs- you look in the mirror and Voila! What has forsaken you has been restored, the prodigal son has returned!
You wear it out-you have no concern for the way clothes are made with formaldehyde these days- you can't be bothered with such trivial details! The world has changed! Hell--oooo! You go to the counter. You don't check the price- you don't care- you would mortgage your home for this bra! You walk out of the store with it on under your shirt and close to your heart; your heartbeat and bra are one! You let people pull out in front of you in traffic! You laugh at your Mother in-law's comments about how she had it harder than you! You saunter into your children's school at pick up time and wipe off any trace of Emily Dickinson! You and your new bra look them all in the eye with the fearlessness of an outlaw at high noon; you don't look away! You start that letter to the United Nations and it begins with "listen up 'cause this is how it's gonna get done!" Yes, things are going to be different now folks. Look out, nothing is ever going to be the same again. A good bra can fix anything.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
To the shore
I thought I was prepared. I really thought I was. If one could ever truly be prepared for a silent earthquake that swallows families whole. I told myself I would be able to hold onto the railing as strangers wiped their eyes, speaking of the ones already in the water and the ones lost long ago. In reality I was ill prepared to know the scope and depth of how much cancer has touched the lives of so many. As I undertook the challenge of running my first marathon for Dana-Farber I knew it would change me. I just couldn't imagine how much. My chest feels now these many months later like it's been cracked open with a sweetness only rebirth can claim credit for. I know now. I have seen. I have touched. I wake sometimes in the middle of the night remembering how you talked about your Sister or how your Father was so brave. I will never forget your face. It is my face, staring back at me in the mirror. I listen when you tell me not to wait to come visit. I don't. That is what cancer does to us. It takes us by the shoulders, shakes us to our core, tells us that life will never be the same. And one thing is for sure, cancer does not fuck around. It means business. In all the powerlessness swirling around cancer we sometimes forget that we still have choices. How to treat. To forgive or not to forgive. What we want to say to those we love the most. To fight with everything in us. What to bring forward, what to leave behind.
I know now that I will not forget what a miracle love, support, kindness & friendship bring. Cancer can have none of it. When we rally for those we love the energy that surrounds those afflicted is changed, and in that, their lives are changed. When we hold a hand, when we listen, we bring healing to those who need it most- sometimes the person with cancer, sometimes ourselves. We can also feel a roller coaster of emotions. We sometimes cannot recognize ourselves in the midst of the wave that is pulling us down.
I struggle with hating cancer. And when I say struggle I mean I have to actively work to not punch walls when I hear another and another and another is fighting. Taking. Taken. I have to actively tell myself it is OK; when there is nothing OK about it that the person I have loved beyond measure is only alive in her photos. I sit with them telling myself the fade will not begin. I remember. I remember, her.
I wonder if all my moments of hating cancer give it more power- like drinking poison and waiting for someone else to die. But there is no sense in cancer. She did not come to argue, she came to rip and shred. Or heal. Or awaken. Or sometimes we don't ever know why she came. What we do know is that everyone, everywhere, rich or poor; the joyful and the miserable, the lonely and the full, all have a story. Their stories are the life rafts we cling to, and like religion, how we choose to navigate through is a very personal choice. One thing I am certain of, however we choose to travel the road with cancer; it is those who are on the road with us that matter most. And that is a blessing that cancer cannot touch.
Andrea Ardito is a Mother, Writer, Reiki Practitioner &Teacher. She is running the Boston Marathon on April 16th for Dana-Farber in honor of her Mother Barbara, who lost her battle with cancer.
You may reach her at andrea.df.bostonmarathon@
I wonder if all my moments of hating cancer give it more power- like drinking poison and waiting for someone else to die. But there is no sense in cancer. She did not come to argue, she came to rip and shred. Or heal. Or awaken. Or sometimes we don't ever know why she came. What we do know is that everyone, everywhere, rich or poor; the joyful and the miserable, the lonely and the full, all have a story. Their stories are the life rafts we cling to, and like religion, how we choose to navigate through is a very personal choice. One thing I am certain of, however we choose to travel the road with cancer; it is those who are on the road with us that matter most. And that is a blessing that cancer cannot touch.
Andrea Ardito is a Mother, Writer, Reiki Practitioner &Teacher. She is running the Boston Marathon on April 16th for Dana-Farber in honor of her Mother Barbara, who lost her battle with cancer.
You may reach her at andrea.df.bostonmarathon@
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Getting Out From Under
Sometimes the first steps are the hardest. All the way through, from toddlerhood to old age, it seems it's always the first steps that require steel eyed courage and matter the most. I don't care if it's stepping into that first yoga class where you don't know a soul or leaving your jerk of a husband, without that motion forward you stall.
Drift.
As in, no oars in the boat kinda deal.
As I get older I wonder if we forgot how vital it is to keeps making steps forward.
When we are younger motion forward is expected of us, demanded. We navigate through first days of school, first days of soccer, new teachers, new neighborhoods, you name it, we are led by the collar with change. As we get older we seem to settle into things and the ride starts to slow down for us. Years go by and somehow we mellow and the malleable parts of us show themselves. Don't get me wrong, it's OK and necessary in some cases to do this--I think we all know the flip side of not making this change; ever watch over the hill Peter Pan's running around? Ew. Oh-so-not-attractive.
So where is the balance? When to ignite, throw our hat into the ring, keep things fresh? Researchers tell us those who are living healthy and alert into their 80's and 90's have one thing in common; they are passionate about something. Whether it's birdwatching or ballroom dancing, they love it, do it often and have a can't miss frame of mind around it.
I often find myself watching in awe those who push beyond the boundaries, those who don't take no for an answer from life. It would be an understatement to say I worship these people. I think about them on my runs. I dream about them at night. It's like having a PSA in my brain throughout my day. It speaks to me on kind days to "keep going!" and on not so kind days to "stop whining!"
I recently ran a 200 mile overnight relay. It was really hard. Not just the running but the lack of sleep, the cold, the port-o-potty's! I remember feeling especially sorry for myself at one point and at just that moment, almost on cue, whizzing past me comes this guy running- with a prosthetic leg. He has a smile on his face. He has Obama 2008 "yes we can!" campaign energy. He has me feeling like a tool.
We NEED people like this in our lives, heck, we need to be these people. In a society of instant gratification and comfort we need to push back and wake ourselves up from nodding off.
Only then will we be the ones teaching a classroom of kids to hula hoop when we are Ninety-five.
I am getting my hoop out of storage today.
Join me?
Drift.
As in, no oars in the boat kinda deal.
As I get older I wonder if we forgot how vital it is to keeps making steps forward.
When we are younger motion forward is expected of us, demanded. We navigate through first days of school, first days of soccer, new teachers, new neighborhoods, you name it, we are led by the collar with change. As we get older we seem to settle into things and the ride starts to slow down for us. Years go by and somehow we mellow and the malleable parts of us show themselves. Don't get me wrong, it's OK and necessary in some cases to do this--I think we all know the flip side of not making this change; ever watch over the hill Peter Pan's running around? Ew. Oh-so-not-attractive.
So where is the balance? When to ignite, throw our hat into the ring, keep things fresh? Researchers tell us those who are living healthy and alert into their 80's and 90's have one thing in common; they are passionate about something. Whether it's birdwatching or ballroom dancing, they love it, do it often and have a can't miss frame of mind around it.
I often find myself watching in awe those who push beyond the boundaries, those who don't take no for an answer from life. It would be an understatement to say I worship these people. I think about them on my runs. I dream about them at night. It's like having a PSA in my brain throughout my day. It speaks to me on kind days to "keep going!" and on not so kind days to "stop whining!"
I recently ran a 200 mile overnight relay. It was really hard. Not just the running but the lack of sleep, the cold, the port-o-potty's! I remember feeling especially sorry for myself at one point and at just that moment, almost on cue, whizzing past me comes this guy running- with a prosthetic leg. He has a smile on his face. He has Obama 2008 "yes we can!" campaign energy. He has me feeling like a tool.
We NEED people like this in our lives, heck, we need to be these people. In a society of instant gratification and comfort we need to push back and wake ourselves up from nodding off.
Only then will we be the ones teaching a classroom of kids to hula hoop when we are Ninety-five.
I am getting my hoop out of storage today.
Join me?
Friday, August 5, 2011
Capture
From the time our hormones kick in (13 for me) we are propelled into this allusive game of chase. Do we or don't we? Do we meet the cutest boy you ever set eyes on after school or do we glance his way, smile casually and keep on walking?
For me I had a bit of a wild streak. I so related to my beloved horse books where the untamed colt refused to be stifled, her spirit unbroken by all who attempted to reign her in. I like to think of it as pre-Thelma and Louise for girls.
That way of thinking followed me into my twenties. I liked to be caught for a bit but then would soon tire of the same old pasture. Not so much because of who attempted to own me but for the simple fact that my heart wanted bigger terrain. The sad, strange thing was that even though I would bristle at first under the saddle, I eventually would be lulled into a relaxed state.
I would get comfortable. I would forget the whiff of adventure in the far off breeze. I would settle in. I would want to please. I wouldn't kick up a fuss. How remarkable that on one side I was the demure girl, on the other, the racy you -better -run -if -you -corner -me -girl. Both roles made me well, uneasy. I didn't wear either coat particularly well. Inevitably I would be in a corner quietly pulling at loose threads or attempting to rip the damn thing off me.
I remember my Mother saying to me she thought I always did better without a man, I was more "myself." I never quite knew what she was trying to say to me intellectually, but I got it in my gut. Alone I stood taller, had a handshake that would make grown men wince and liked being a person who was up for anything, no requirements please. To this day one of the most treasured things ever said to me was being compared to an orchid--"beautiful and a little wild." I hold onto that when I am doing laundry. When I am in line at the grocery store, when I am so fatigued from giving giving giving I feel like I am going to crack;
I silently say to myself like a prayer, I am a wild beautiful orchid.
'Yeah right', the little voice in my head says. 'In your dreams cutie pie.'
When do we get to the point where we run to the harness instead of away from it? When do we say to ourselves we are ready for the capture as long as we have a view to look to? As long as we have our moments racing down the highway, sun blazing, hair flying, feeling the invincibility of 16?
I like to think that the right capture is the one that lets air under the saddle. The one that understands there will forever be a person inside us that wants to be encompassed by love but also has it within to flee in the middle of the night.
The right capture lets us exhale fully, lets us become who we are meant to. The right capture has us smile heartily and fall hard when we need it.
We hope we can do the same for them.
We hope we don't pinch them into doting versions of some 1950's TV show.
We hope they feel they can yell they hate us, even though they don't.
We hope they can be swept away and live, wringing every last moment out of their existence, not just seeing a quote on a fridge about it but LIVING damn it, to do what they are meant to do without ever saying "I wish I could but..."
Knowing fully this wicked-wild crazy ride of stepping in and outside of lines; only for the bold of heart, only for the ones who really want it, only for the ones who capture us; our hearts, our spirits- they are the ones who are deserving to own all of us; every last sticky, flawed, wonderful, messy, ecstatic, frightening part of us.
I can tell you I wanted nothing less. I can also tell you I fell hard trying to get it. I failed. I was stupid, reckless, beneath myself, foolish. I was quiet, delusional, childish, selfish, broken. I spoke love but only knew a shadow of it.
When I finally see, the glimmer, the too bright light that you politely ask to turn down please, it's giving me a headache, it's giving me vision, it's giving me a momentary flicker of what could be and dear God I don't know if this bravado girl can handle it.
I don't know if the dead on look I give strangers will hold when I look into my future husband's eyes.
I don't know why when I say my vows to him I am barely a whisper, so profound, so humble is my offering.
The man who captures me takes it; cups my burnt offering in his hands and with kindness scatters the ashes around to show me what they all add up to.
How they swirl and stick to my eyelids, words, the parts of my life. He welcomes to our table the two versions of me; the warrior and the little girl. He wraps them in, folding tight with his own fragility, recklessness, strength. I see that the view is there. All at once I look to him and I look outward. I put the harness on gladly, completely, with honor. I wander and I dream. I come home.
The light is always on.
For me I had a bit of a wild streak. I so related to my beloved horse books where the untamed colt refused to be stifled, her spirit unbroken by all who attempted to reign her in. I like to think of it as pre-Thelma and Louise for girls.
That way of thinking followed me into my twenties. I liked to be caught for a bit but then would soon tire of the same old pasture. Not so much because of who attempted to own me but for the simple fact that my heart wanted bigger terrain. The sad, strange thing was that even though I would bristle at first under the saddle, I eventually would be lulled into a relaxed state.
I would get comfortable. I would forget the whiff of adventure in the far off breeze. I would settle in. I would want to please. I wouldn't kick up a fuss. How remarkable that on one side I was the demure girl, on the other, the racy you -better -run -if -you -corner -me -girl. Both roles made me well, uneasy. I didn't wear either coat particularly well. Inevitably I would be in a corner quietly pulling at loose threads or attempting to rip the damn thing off me.
I remember my Mother saying to me she thought I always did better without a man, I was more "myself." I never quite knew what she was trying to say to me intellectually, but I got it in my gut. Alone I stood taller, had a handshake that would make grown men wince and liked being a person who was up for anything, no requirements please. To this day one of the most treasured things ever said to me was being compared to an orchid--"beautiful and a little wild." I hold onto that when I am doing laundry. When I am in line at the grocery store, when I am so fatigued from giving giving giving I feel like I am going to crack;
I silently say to myself like a prayer, I am a wild beautiful orchid.
'Yeah right', the little voice in my head says. 'In your dreams cutie pie.'
When do we get to the point where we run to the harness instead of away from it? When do we say to ourselves we are ready for the capture as long as we have a view to look to? As long as we have our moments racing down the highway, sun blazing, hair flying, feeling the invincibility of 16?
I like to think that the right capture is the one that lets air under the saddle. The one that understands there will forever be a person inside us that wants to be encompassed by love but also has it within to flee in the middle of the night.
The right capture lets us exhale fully, lets us become who we are meant to. The right capture has us smile heartily and fall hard when we need it.
We hope we can do the same for them.
We hope we don't pinch them into doting versions of some 1950's TV show.
We hope they feel they can yell they hate us, even though they don't.
We hope they can be swept away and live, wringing every last moment out of their existence, not just seeing a quote on a fridge about it but LIVING damn it, to do what they are meant to do without ever saying "I wish I could but..."
Knowing fully this wicked-wild crazy ride of stepping in and outside of lines; only for the bold of heart, only for the ones who really want it, only for the ones who capture us; our hearts, our spirits- they are the ones who are deserving to own all of us; every last sticky, flawed, wonderful, messy, ecstatic, frightening part of us.
I can tell you I wanted nothing less. I can also tell you I fell hard trying to get it. I failed. I was stupid, reckless, beneath myself, foolish. I was quiet, delusional, childish, selfish, broken. I spoke love but only knew a shadow of it.
When I finally see, the glimmer, the too bright light that you politely ask to turn down please, it's giving me a headache, it's giving me vision, it's giving me a momentary flicker of what could be and dear God I don't know if this bravado girl can handle it.
I don't know if the dead on look I give strangers will hold when I look into my future husband's eyes.
I don't know why when I say my vows to him I am barely a whisper, so profound, so humble is my offering.
The man who captures me takes it; cups my burnt offering in his hands and with kindness scatters the ashes around to show me what they all add up to.
How they swirl and stick to my eyelids, words, the parts of my life. He welcomes to our table the two versions of me; the warrior and the little girl. He wraps them in, folding tight with his own fragility, recklessness, strength. I see that the view is there. All at once I look to him and I look outward. I put the harness on gladly, completely, with honor. I wander and I dream. I come home.
The light is always on.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Can I get an Amen?!
The blessed first week of camp! Last drop off, kisses and hugs dispensed and I'm off! Gleefully in my car, windows down and the wind blowing through my matted down hair. Matted down because I haven't showered. In two days. Or really eaten a meal sitting down when I think about it.. in.. actually, well, lets see, since the kids got out of school. It's been just shy of a month since I wrote last. I am embarking on the quiet stillness; needing to empty the writing bin in my head that taunts me as I make PB&J sandwiches fifty times a day. Two hours of alone time coming my way! Yay! What to do..what to do.. lets see, I can:
fold laundry/do laundry/go grocery shopping/pick up the toys-mess-laundry-wrappers on the floor/clean the bathroom/vacuum/remove gum from the bottom of tub/drop off the overdue books at the library/shower/run/yoga/write. I can fit it all in. Sure. No problem.
That's it though, it never gets fit in. I may do most of all of the above but inevitably a shower gets missed or my butt doesn't get in the chair to hit the keyboard. I'm all preachy to anyone who will listen about the importance of balance in one's life. Yeah, whatever. Even I want to tell myself to shut up.
There is no balance. There, I have said it.
No. Balance. There is no balance in Motherhood.
There are moments of calm, there are moments away, there are moments you may even think you have got this thing down but there is never truly balance. How can there be? Your life is not your own!
And as I say now, a reformed balance militant crazy woman, that is A-OK.
Just as you embrace that new wrinkle sprouting angrily from your lip line
(Mantra: I still can rock it, I still can rock it) embrace this:
Maybe there is a infinite lesson here...grace under pressure, keeping our heads above water, finding the humor, all the things we tell our children are important in life- things that can never be put to use if they are not desperately called upon to be tested out.
Time to take the training wheels off and fall. Get the band aids ready.
I was always so afraid if I didn't run the house like Julie McCoy from the Love Boat something awful would happen. Don't ask me what that awful was, I have no idea, just that it would be well, be a poopstorm I wouldn't easily walk away from. I remember a movie I watched with a Mother talking about all the balls in the air that she juggles and how she cannot under any circumstances crack under the pressure of effortlessly having them in flight.
Exhausting.
I'm getting the Post it notes out for the bathroom mirror. So what if you make jello for dinner? So what if the laundry piles so high you post avalanche warnings? So what if you rock in a corner for a few minutes feeling like you are going to implode? Feel it. Let the balls clamor to the ground. Lose your balance and fall.
Nobody said you couldn't get back up.
You know Alice from the Brady Bunch felt like this. Sure, she hid her rage in her apron next to her bourbon bottle, but I know she felt it. Hell, we felt it for her through the T.V. screen. Wouldn't it have been so much better if she just let it rip one time? Think of what she could have taught us! Better than any public service announcement. "Alice loses her shit- tune in at 5:00 to see it happen...."
So, this Summer I am forgiving myself of Julie, Alice, and anyone else I may have picked up along the way. Forgiving that my hair looks like dreadlocks, forgiving that no article was written this week. The laundry is still there but so are the smiles on my kid's faces. We drop into bed at night with a full day had. I wipe my perfection mask off and replace it with sunscreen. Pretty soon balance will be back. For a moment she will sit and have tea with me. It will be a nice visit, one I will look forward to, all the while knowing she won't be staying long. Hey, if she stays to help with the dishes, that's fine with me.
fold laundry/do laundry/go grocery shopping/pick up the toys-mess-laundry-wrappers on the floor/clean the bathroom/vacuum/remove gum from the bottom of tub/drop off the overdue books at the library/shower/run/yoga/write. I can fit it all in. Sure. No problem.
That's it though, it never gets fit in. I may do most of all of the above but inevitably a shower gets missed or my butt doesn't get in the chair to hit the keyboard. I'm all preachy to anyone who will listen about the importance of balance in one's life. Yeah, whatever. Even I want to tell myself to shut up.
There is no balance. There, I have said it.
No. Balance. There is no balance in Motherhood.
There are moments of calm, there are moments away, there are moments you may even think you have got this thing down but there is never truly balance. How can there be? Your life is not your own!
And as I say now, a reformed balance militant crazy woman, that is A-OK.
Just as you embrace that new wrinkle sprouting angrily from your lip line
(Mantra: I still can rock it, I still can rock it) embrace this:
Maybe there is a infinite lesson here...grace under pressure, keeping our heads above water, finding the humor, all the things we tell our children are important in life- things that can never be put to use if they are not desperately called upon to be tested out.
Time to take the training wheels off and fall. Get the band aids ready.
I was always so afraid if I didn't run the house like Julie McCoy from the Love Boat something awful would happen. Don't ask me what that awful was, I have no idea, just that it would be well, be a poopstorm I wouldn't easily walk away from. I remember a movie I watched with a Mother talking about all the balls in the air that she juggles and how she cannot under any circumstances crack under the pressure of effortlessly having them in flight.
Exhausting.
I'm getting the Post it notes out for the bathroom mirror. So what if you make jello for dinner? So what if the laundry piles so high you post avalanche warnings? So what if you rock in a corner for a few minutes feeling like you are going to implode? Feel it. Let the balls clamor to the ground. Lose your balance and fall.
Nobody said you couldn't get back up.
You know Alice from the Brady Bunch felt like this. Sure, she hid her rage in her apron next to her bourbon bottle, but I know she felt it. Hell, we felt it for her through the T.V. screen. Wouldn't it have been so much better if she just let it rip one time? Think of what she could have taught us! Better than any public service announcement. "Alice loses her shit- tune in at 5:00 to see it happen...."
So, this Summer I am forgiving myself of Julie, Alice, and anyone else I may have picked up along the way. Forgiving that my hair looks like dreadlocks, forgiving that no article was written this week. The laundry is still there but so are the smiles on my kid's faces. We drop into bed at night with a full day had. I wipe my perfection mask off and replace it with sunscreen. Pretty soon balance will be back. For a moment she will sit and have tea with me. It will be a nice visit, one I will look forward to, all the while knowing she won't be staying long. Hey, if she stays to help with the dishes, that's fine with me.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Octomom on my shoulder
It took me being called Octomom to snap out of it. There I was in a puddle of my own doing, crying over my last baby graduating Kindergarten when a voice whispered to me....you know, it's not too late....
I could have another baby, I could delay this transitional pain, I could just very well postpone it to another day.
It could happen.
I am after all newly 40 and fit, love being a Mom, do it well most days and hope to the heavens my kids forget the days I don't. It could happen. Why not??
As I mulled this over, gnashing it about in my head I made the mistake of actually saying it out loud. My girlfriend, who has known me since I was a child, practically screamed at me, her words shaking me at the keyboard- "ARE YOU CRAZY???!!! DON'T YOU KNOW YOU ARE ALMOST THERE??? YOU CAN SEE THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL FOR CHRISTSAKES!!! VACATIONS ON THE BEACH! NO RESPONSIBILITIES! KNOCK IT OFF OCTOMOM!!!!!"
That did it. At the same time repelled by the comparison while completely understanding it, I saw the reflection in the mirror. And I didn't like it. Nope. Not one bit.
I consulted my Midwife friend who has grown children of her own but also gets to hold delicious babies on a daily basis. I asked her, "does this feeling ever go away?? The I could syndrome?"
"Never" she says.
"Welcome to womanhood" she says with a laugh.
I do not find her funny.
I think I have amnesia. You know how women get amnesia about labor? I get it with the early years. I have completely glossed over the sleepless nights, breast infections, toddlers running around your ankles so fast you are sure they are an inch away from running into traffic. I forget my exhaustion, the balancing act, the doing 17 things at once to keep all from the brink of some imagined disaster. I especially forget the seemingly endless thrown up food particles in my hair.
What I do remember is all that has filled me up. I remember the dead of night, sitting silently by the Christmas tree nursing my Son, the only sound, his burroughed contentment against me. I remember first words and first steps, the joy of seeing snow for the first time, the undiluted giggles of, well, everything.
It's a freakin Hallmark movie in my head.
I don't think I am done. That is what the little Octomom on my shoulder tells me. "Nooo, you are not" she insists. My husband and she fight often. They surely would not sit next to each other at the Thanksgiving table.
Because he remembers.
Everything.
He does not don the rose colored glasses Octomom and I stylishly wear.
He pays the bills, the bills we can barely pay now.
"But couldn't we"....she nudges back as she passes the gravy to him.
"No we can't" he says.
"No we won't" he says as he struggles not to throw the gravy boat at her.
Husband is right. We don't have it in us. We have this wonderful, crazy, joyful family, this total full plate and as much as I want to put one more piece of pie on it I know my stomach would be churning within minutes.
Isn't that how it is though? We always think we should have more of what is good. My inner Octomom struggles with the boundaries nature has placed upon my body, spirit, emotional capacity and finances.
And let us not forget at the end of the day what looms; gasp-- the next phase I am slowly with each passing year inching towards. One where dinner does not need to be made, laundry does not need to be folded, permission slips do not need to be signed. Even though I may as well be decades away from that moment it is still there, beckoning me, telling me that now is not forever, all roads are not endlessly open or mine.
Appreciation and gratitude are what brings me down the river. Like that beautiful flower you place in a vase, you know it's wonder will not be there but for a moment. All of which makes the intoxicating smell, uniqueness and awe of it demand to be enjoyed for the time that it graces your table.
I could have another baby, I could delay this transitional pain, I could just very well postpone it to another day.
It could happen.
I am after all newly 40 and fit, love being a Mom, do it well most days and hope to the heavens my kids forget the days I don't. It could happen. Why not??
As I mulled this over, gnashing it about in my head I made the mistake of actually saying it out loud. My girlfriend, who has known me since I was a child, practically screamed at me, her words shaking me at the keyboard- "ARE YOU CRAZY???!!! DON'T YOU KNOW YOU ARE ALMOST THERE??? YOU CAN SEE THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL FOR CHRISTSAKES!!! VACATIONS ON THE BEACH! NO RESPONSIBILITIES! KNOCK IT OFF OCTOMOM!!!!!"
That did it. At the same time repelled by the comparison while completely understanding it, I saw the reflection in the mirror. And I didn't like it. Nope. Not one bit.
I consulted my Midwife friend who has grown children of her own but also gets to hold delicious babies on a daily basis. I asked her, "does this feeling ever go away?? The I could syndrome?"
"Never" she says.
"Welcome to womanhood" she says with a laugh.
I do not find her funny.
I think I have amnesia. You know how women get amnesia about labor? I get it with the early years. I have completely glossed over the sleepless nights, breast infections, toddlers running around your ankles so fast you are sure they are an inch away from running into traffic. I forget my exhaustion, the balancing act, the doing 17 things at once to keep all from the brink of some imagined disaster. I especially forget the seemingly endless thrown up food particles in my hair.
What I do remember is all that has filled me up. I remember the dead of night, sitting silently by the Christmas tree nursing my Son, the only sound, his burroughed contentment against me. I remember first words and first steps, the joy of seeing snow for the first time, the undiluted giggles of, well, everything.
It's a freakin Hallmark movie in my head.
I don't think I am done. That is what the little Octomom on my shoulder tells me. "Nooo, you are not" she insists. My husband and she fight often. They surely would not sit next to each other at the Thanksgiving table.
Because he remembers.
Everything.
He does not don the rose colored glasses Octomom and I stylishly wear.
He pays the bills, the bills we can barely pay now.
"But couldn't we"....she nudges back as she passes the gravy to him.
"No we can't" he says.
"No we won't" he says as he struggles not to throw the gravy boat at her.
Husband is right. We don't have it in us. We have this wonderful, crazy, joyful family, this total full plate and as much as I want to put one more piece of pie on it I know my stomach would be churning within minutes.
Isn't that how it is though? We always think we should have more of what is good. My inner Octomom struggles with the boundaries nature has placed upon my body, spirit, emotional capacity and finances.
And let us not forget at the end of the day what looms; gasp-- the next phase I am slowly with each passing year inching towards. One where dinner does not need to be made, laundry does not need to be folded, permission slips do not need to be signed. Even though I may as well be decades away from that moment it is still there, beckoning me, telling me that now is not forever, all roads are not endlessly open or mine.
Appreciation and gratitude are what brings me down the river. Like that beautiful flower you place in a vase, you know it's wonder will not be there but for a moment. All of which makes the intoxicating smell, uniqueness and awe of it demand to be enjoyed for the time that it graces your table.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
The ride is everything
Adolescence waits for me as I open my eyes. She snickers as I place my optimistic feet on the ground. Oh no, you will not have her today she cackles in my ear. My daughter already up, is straightening her hair; her beautiful, long curly hair, she straightens. She grunts an acknowledgement and continues on her task. I conjure up my cheeriest greeting. It is met with an octopus-like disdain. I cringe as it's tentacles wrap around both our throats and our steps, stopping our voices and blocking our path to a peaceful morning.
There is much I want to tell her this morning.
I want to tell her to: wear sunscreen/pack a good lunch/maybe the skirt is a wee bit short?/don't forget to empty the dishwasher/boys respect girls who say no/is this your math folder?/cherish your friends/too much mascara is a dangerous thing/and please let the dog out.
I want to tell her to: wear sunscreen/pack a good lunch/maybe the skirt is a wee bit short?/don't forget to empty the dishwasher/boys respect girls who say no/is this your math folder?/cherish your friends/too much mascara is a dangerous thing/and please let the dog out.
We don't get much past the sunscreen.
I internally do my morning routine of tug of war -do I let go/do I hold tight- as I pour my tea. She starts to tell me something about her day and I concentrate like a gambler betting it all with my poker face. I hardly hear her story as the internal dialogue is the bomb squad talking me through...do not smile, no sudden moves, only look in her eyes at key phrases...too much raise of the eyebrows and the bomb will explode and chaos will ensue.
Like a ransom call I will do whatever I can to keep her talking.
I find there is comfort in numbers. If I could not vent to my friends who walk this shrouded way with me I'd surely start the day with rum in my tea. How else to cope with losing your child? She will come back yes, but when? And who will she be? I loved her when she was at my breast, when she screamed in the cereal aisle, when she dug for worms until the sun went down. I love her still. But there is a tinge of red in this water break. It is a rebirth where nothing warm will be placed next to your heart.
My heart aches for her. I see the clutches Adolescence has her in. Adolescence doesn't care. To her it's nothing personal. She gets around that Adolescence. I hear her in dressing rooms, restaurants, school concerts. She is everywhere. And wherever she is is a teenager with her head spinning around her shoulders and a Mother looking like she was just punched in the stomach.
When those moments arrive I try hold unto something.
A picture. A memento. The counter.
Like an awful roller coaster ride I know I will be back down to the bottom eventually but the ride is still going to make me puke. I see myself at the top, frozen in fear, unable to do anything but scream primal as loud as my lungs permit. There is always someone on that same ride with you after yelling and clutching seems to accept that there is nothing to be done. You both chose to be on this ride, you both knew the drop was coming. But these people, they actually smile, as if to say what goes up must come down, hang on but also enjoy the ride. I am not one of these people. I am still mastering my clutch. But each day I try that much harder to laugh at my lurching stomach and think how lucky I am to even be on this ride.
A picture. A memento. The counter.
Like an awful roller coaster ride I know I will be back down to the bottom eventually but the ride is still going to make me puke. I see myself at the top, frozen in fear, unable to do anything but scream primal as loud as my lungs permit. There is always someone on that same ride with you after yelling and clutching seems to accept that there is nothing to be done. You both chose to be on this ride, you both knew the drop was coming. But these people, they actually smile, as if to say what goes up must come down, hang on but also enjoy the ride. I am not one of these people. I am still mastering my clutch. But each day I try that much harder to laugh at my lurching stomach and think how lucky I am to even be on this ride.
It's the only thing that gets me back down to the bottom.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Things they never tell you in birthing class
Like most expectant Mothers of the time I found myself at Barnes and Noble perusing the parenting aisle looking for the bible of all pregnant Mom's to be: What To Expect When You Are Expecting. Right there with Brazelton and Leach was the hefty book with a friendly, peaceful looking lady all cozy in a rocking chair. She looked so happy. So confident. So reassured. All would be well she said to me. What was I so worried about??! I was sucked in like a sailor to the siren on the rocks. Duped into buying that expensive book which I would find in short order was going to rule my pregnancy like a wet blanket soaked in terror. I was certainly not that calm, collected lady on the front. And that book was the reason why. I am sure that it has it's place somewhere. I'm sure there will be those who come forward and tell me how wrong I am, that the book is informative and wonderful.
Here is the place where I will insert a little nugget of wisdom to those who may consider it:
DO. NOT. EVER. BUY. THIS. BOOK. FOR. A. PREGNANT. WOMAN.
Unless you hate her, or like frantic phone calls 5x a day asking if all the horrible things that the book says can happen actually will.
Much of what I endlessly poured over, bookmarked and never read past my weekly chapter on (saving it like a great dessert, one spoonful at a time) was in a word, rubbish.
I certainly didn't need to know all the information they were peddling, all the inaccuracies, all the stuff that can go horribly, devastatingly wrong, reducing me to a pile of rubble, contemplating which blood test I should get next and whether genetic testing was really for me.
As a wise experienced Mother of three now I can truly say that I needed a much different, looser power point presentation as to what was on the horizon for me. I think it only right and proper to write down what I wish would have been told to me during that special time.
For your kind consideration:
Things someone (doctor, parent, mailman) should have told me as soon as the plus sign appeared
1) Your ass is gonna get fat. Forget Posh Spice. Your butt will never look like that. It will grow at an alarming rate to match your stomach. Anything less than that and you will topple over. I have seen Posh fall. It ain't pretty. Really.
2) While there are a few amazing, incredible women out there that run marathons at 37 weeks and rule the world while pregnant, you do not want to be one of them. They cry in airport bathrooms while shoving chocolate in their mouths. Move yes, but sit your behind on the couch and rest. You're gonna need it.
3) Keep negative people away from you. Especially that woman (everyone has one) that loves to spout how awful her labor was and how terrible you are going to feel any moment now. Just give her a shove. Growl a little too so she thinks your crazy. The police will understand. They don't want to arrest a pregnant woman. Do it, you will feel better. But most importantly DON'T LISTEN. She's icky and that was her experience. This is yours.
4) Remember that women have this down. You are not the first nor will be the last to go through this process. Trust. Worry does nothing but make you lose the little voice inside you that guides. You are going to need that little voice. Especially when people say stupid crap to you in the grocery store. Voice: do not shove anymore people today. You do not look like you are carrying triplets. Ignore and walk away before you get arrested again.
5) Labor will hurt like hell. But you can do it and you will feel like a bad ass after. Good job Mom. That's what you say to yourself as you hold your baby. Good Job.
And because What To Expect When You Are Expecting gives a little postpartum yummy advice, I submit the following:
6) Your body will resemble Austin Power's Fat Bastard after. That's O.K. It will bounce back. Except your boobs. Sorry.
7) Milk will squirt sideways out of your breasts making your husband vomit in his mouth a little and look at you like Sigourney Weaver in Aliens. Oh, and you will kind of feel like her too.
8) Do not expect to get right back in the saddle. Like #2 there are women who do but they are also the ones who look all pinched in the face. You just stretched a human being out of your hoo hoo. Or you were cut open. Or you just had a newborn placed in your arms. You are gonna feel nuts, exhausted and like you cannot do this. You can. You just are going to feel like you can't for awhile. And anyone who does should be shoved. Be careful though; the police are still watching you and you are not pregnant anymore.
9) Accept that this time will not be an episode of Little House On The Prairie. There will be moments you will HATE your husband. Much like dispelling the facade of the rocking chair peaceful pregnant lady, do the same with this. I thought we were supposed to be so ridiculously happy. And we were. But we were also sleep deprived and grouchy, overwhelmed and doing everything we could to take care of this new little being. Be gentle with yourself. And him.
10) Enjoy. Like the little old ladies in the grocery store who tell you it goes by so fast, they are honestly not talking smack. It's true. One minute you are cuddling your newborn and the next she is rolling her eyes at you asking for 20 bucks and informing you, you have "like, no style whatsoever."
Parenthood is fun. Cathartic. Engrossing. Messy and joyful. One freakin' wild ride.
And with it the rule: no rocking chairs allowed.
Here is the place where I will insert a little nugget of wisdom to those who may consider it:
DO. NOT. EVER. BUY. THIS. BOOK. FOR. A. PREGNANT. WOMAN.
Unless you hate her, or like frantic phone calls 5x a day asking if all the horrible things that the book says can happen actually will.
Much of what I endlessly poured over, bookmarked and never read past my weekly chapter on (saving it like a great dessert, one spoonful at a time) was in a word, rubbish.
I certainly didn't need to know all the information they were peddling, all the inaccuracies, all the stuff that can go horribly, devastatingly wrong, reducing me to a pile of rubble, contemplating which blood test I should get next and whether genetic testing was really for me.
As a wise experienced Mother of three now I can truly say that I needed a much different, looser power point presentation as to what was on the horizon for me. I think it only right and proper to write down what I wish would have been told to me during that special time.
For your kind consideration:
Things someone (doctor, parent, mailman) should have told me as soon as the plus sign appeared
1) Your ass is gonna get fat. Forget Posh Spice. Your butt will never look like that. It will grow at an alarming rate to match your stomach. Anything less than that and you will topple over. I have seen Posh fall. It ain't pretty. Really.
2) While there are a few amazing, incredible women out there that run marathons at 37 weeks and rule the world while pregnant, you do not want to be one of them. They cry in airport bathrooms while shoving chocolate in their mouths. Move yes, but sit your behind on the couch and rest. You're gonna need it.
3) Keep negative people away from you. Especially that woman (everyone has one) that loves to spout how awful her labor was and how terrible you are going to feel any moment now. Just give her a shove. Growl a little too so she thinks your crazy. The police will understand. They don't want to arrest a pregnant woman. Do it, you will feel better. But most importantly DON'T LISTEN. She's icky and that was her experience. This is yours.
4) Remember that women have this down. You are not the first nor will be the last to go through this process. Trust. Worry does nothing but make you lose the little voice inside you that guides. You are going to need that little voice. Especially when people say stupid crap to you in the grocery store. Voice: do not shove anymore people today. You do not look like you are carrying triplets. Ignore and walk away before you get arrested again.
5) Labor will hurt like hell. But you can do it and you will feel like a bad ass after. Good job Mom. That's what you say to yourself as you hold your baby. Good Job.
And because What To Expect When You Are Expecting gives a little postpartum yummy advice, I submit the following:
6) Your body will resemble Austin Power's Fat Bastard after. That's O.K. It will bounce back. Except your boobs. Sorry.
7) Milk will squirt sideways out of your breasts making your husband vomit in his mouth a little and look at you like Sigourney Weaver in Aliens. Oh, and you will kind of feel like her too.
8) Do not expect to get right back in the saddle. Like #2 there are women who do but they are also the ones who look all pinched in the face. You just stretched a human being out of your hoo hoo. Or you were cut open. Or you just had a newborn placed in your arms. You are gonna feel nuts, exhausted and like you cannot do this. You can. You just are going to feel like you can't for awhile. And anyone who does should be shoved. Be careful though; the police are still watching you and you are not pregnant anymore.
9) Accept that this time will not be an episode of Little House On The Prairie. There will be moments you will HATE your husband. Much like dispelling the facade of the rocking chair peaceful pregnant lady, do the same with this. I thought we were supposed to be so ridiculously happy. And we were. But we were also sleep deprived and grouchy, overwhelmed and doing everything we could to take care of this new little being. Be gentle with yourself. And him.
10) Enjoy. Like the little old ladies in the grocery store who tell you it goes by so fast, they are honestly not talking smack. It's true. One minute you are cuddling your newborn and the next she is rolling her eyes at you asking for 20 bucks and informing you, you have "like, no style whatsoever."
Parenthood is fun. Cathartic. Engrossing. Messy and joyful. One freakin' wild ride.
And with it the rule: no rocking chairs allowed.
Monday, May 23, 2011
A good bra can fix anything
I don't care what it is, any problem, no matter how monstrous or trivial, life altering or mundane, can be solved with just one thing; a good bra. Think about it- world peace, in-law troubles; you name it- all can be taken care of by the simple action of finding that splendid unmentionable and connecting it's maddening hook clasp between our shoulder blades. A good bra makes us stand a little taller, smile a little brighter, shine that little speck more. We all know what happens to our morale when we put on a saggy, misshapen, dingy-drab from so many washings it looks like it was grey in the first place- bra. We feel like that. We feel the blah, we feel the misshape. We greet each new set of eyes with an Emily Dickinson-like stare, please don't really see me, I'll be the wallflower in the corner, thank you.
We can't blame ourselves for this, it truly is not our faults. When we are teenagers and our boobies appear we think they, like the mole on our arm will forever be with us just as they are in that moment. We take them for granted. We walk around letting them fly free. We do not care! We are 13, 18, 26, 30! We should be getting the forklift ready for their descent but we don't. No, we just ignore and look away, we pretend not to see them melting like the polar ice caps. We get pregnant. We get forty. We breastfeed. We run that 5k with that terrible shot elastic in our sports bra. And then BAM! One day, they don't greet the sun quite like they used to. Or they deflate like a balloon popped by a horrific child. We look around, we want to yell "WHO IS THAT KID ANYWAY??!!" We want to blame somebody. What do you do though when there is no one really to blame?
You stop blaming. Like the stages of grief you finish your bargaining, anger, and pleading and you hit your own version of acceptance. You stop buying your bra's at Wallmart and your march yourself into Victoria's Secret. You ignore the 16 year olds who are asking you "Ma 'am, can I help you?" and you keep walking because homicide is not on the calender for the day. You tell the most mature salesperson you can find (21 year old girl) that you need something that will help you with the breasts that have betrayed you. You tell her you want to take the fat from your ass and inject it into your breasts but that you will not do that because 1) you can't afford it and 2) how would you justify it to your daughters that you convince yourself are looking up to you?? Once you have explained all of this to the 21 year old who is texting security you take a deep breath, lift your shirt and say- "can you, for the love of God, help with this please??" "
I have been told that there is a panic button for this kind of moment at Victoria's Secret. A hush falls over the store, walkie talkies are involved. You find yourself escorted into a special back room with not a florescent light in sight. You are placed in a vault-like dressing room where bra's are slipped to you through a secret compartment in the door; gingerly handed to you like little sticks of dynamite. Tentatively, with jaundice and malice you try the bra on. Like a golden arch of sunlight piercing the dressing room door, a miracle occurs- you look in the mirror and Voila! What has forsaken you has been restored, the prodigal son has returned.
You wear it out-you have no concern for the way clothes are made with formaldehyde these days- no need to wash it first, you can't be bothered with such trivial details! The world has changed! Hell--oo! You go to the counter. You don't check the price- you don't care- you would mortgage your home for this bra! You walk out of the store with it on under your shirt and close to your heart; your heartbeat and bra are one. You let people pull out in front of you in traffic! You laugh off your Mother in-law's comments about how she had it harder than you! You saunter into your children's school at pick up time and wipe off any trace of Emily Dickinson! You and your new bra look them all in the eye with the fearlessness of an outlaw at high noon; you don't look away! You start that letter to the United Nations and it begins with "listen up 'cause this is how it's gonna get done!" Yes, things are going to be different now folks. Look out, nothing is ever going to be the same again. A good bra can fix anything.
We can't blame ourselves for this, it truly is not our faults. When we are teenagers and our boobies appear we think they, like the mole on our arm will forever be with us just as they are in that moment. We take them for granted. We walk around letting them fly free. We do not care! We are 13, 18, 26, 30! We should be getting the forklift ready for their descent but we don't. No, we just ignore and look away, we pretend not to see them melting like the polar ice caps. We get pregnant. We get forty. We breastfeed. We run that 5k with that terrible shot elastic in our sports bra. And then BAM! One day, they don't greet the sun quite like they used to. Or they deflate like a balloon popped by a horrific child. We look around, we want to yell "WHO IS THAT KID ANYWAY??!!" We want to blame somebody. What do you do though when there is no one really to blame?
You stop blaming. Like the stages of grief you finish your bargaining, anger, and pleading and you hit your own version of acceptance. You stop buying your bra's at Wallmart and your march yourself into Victoria's Secret. You ignore the 16 year olds who are asking you "Ma 'am, can I help you?" and you keep walking because homicide is not on the calender for the day. You tell the most mature salesperson you can find (21 year old girl) that you need something that will help you with the breasts that have betrayed you. You tell her you want to take the fat from your ass and inject it into your breasts but that you will not do that because 1) you can't afford it and 2) how would you justify it to your daughters that you convince yourself are looking up to you?? Once you have explained all of this to the 21 year old who is texting security you take a deep breath, lift your shirt and say- "can you, for the love of God, help with this please??" "
I have been told that there is a panic button for this kind of moment at Victoria's Secret. A hush falls over the store, walkie talkies are involved. You find yourself escorted into a special back room with not a florescent light in sight. You are placed in a vault-like dressing room where bra's are slipped to you through a secret compartment in the door; gingerly handed to you like little sticks of dynamite. Tentatively, with jaundice and malice you try the bra on. Like a golden arch of sunlight piercing the dressing room door, a miracle occurs- you look in the mirror and Voila! What has forsaken you has been restored, the prodigal son has returned.
You wear it out-you have no concern for the way clothes are made with formaldehyde these days- no need to wash it first, you can't be bothered with such trivial details! The world has changed! Hell--oo! You go to the counter. You don't check the price- you don't care- you would mortgage your home for this bra! You walk out of the store with it on under your shirt and close to your heart; your heartbeat and bra are one. You let people pull out in front of you in traffic! You laugh off your Mother in-law's comments about how she had it harder than you! You saunter into your children's school at pick up time and wipe off any trace of Emily Dickinson! You and your new bra look them all in the eye with the fearlessness of an outlaw at high noon; you don't look away! You start that letter to the United Nations and it begins with "listen up 'cause this is how it's gonna get done!" Yes, things are going to be different now folks. Look out, nothing is ever going to be the same again. A good bra can fix anything.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
You know it's love when it's 10:00 pm and he's at Target buying you tampons
I want to take a poll. I want to make up a really scientific poll that asks women one important question: "How do you know your man loves you?" I bet I would get all sorts of profound, heart soaring answers that would make me cry, sigh and shoot my husband dirty why don't you do that?! looks.
Love is a very complex thing. Some may argue that you can't even effectively articulate what it is. Even the Gods struggled to quantify it.
But I think I have them all beat. Yes, I dare come forward and say I know what love is.
Love is being in your PJ's on a rainy Monday night watching the game, getting ready for bed and hearing your wife shriek from the other room-- "Oh crap!!! I am out of my super expanding lifeboat overnight pads!!" and with only a defeated sigh, get up off the couch, get your coat and go to the store to buy her some. That's right ladies; I'm going to say it-- it all comes down to absorbency. The reason I am so sure of his love is not because of our shared life together, our connected hearts, our family- it is because of my feminine hygiene products.
I am fairly confident the dread of buying tampons, pantiliners and pads is something that men are born with, right there with more muscle mass and in most cases, hairier upper lips. The absolute deer in the headlights fear, middle school-octane embarrassment, alarm, the Oh my God will anyone see me at the check out line panic that our guys have when buying "the stuff."
There are varying degrees and category's of this. For example:
Pantiliners are on the lower scale of the terror alert for guys. They can hide the pack under and amongst their Maxim and Men's Health magazines. And make no mistake; their purchase of both Maxim and thong pantiliners together make them feel about as cool as Shawn Cassidy in 1977.
Tampons are presenting less of a shock and awe reaction these days. He may never like getting them, but it's relatively O.K. because the guy next to him has them in his basket too.
But the knock down, cut you off at the knee's, biggest Mother of all mortifying purchases is the heavy, heavy, super elephantine extra wings to land a 747 ultra sponge, soak up a lake OVERNIGHT PADS.
Diapers in a box.
Fill up a landfill with just one pad.
Oh yes, the big ones.
There is no way out of the tornado with this one. Nope, nothing cool, no thong time here. Just a nice chap trying to hide your Grandma king size package with his poor little Maxim. And please know he is going to bump into:
His boss.
The principal of your kids school.
The mechanic.
His running buddies.
His new client that is just getting to know him. Oh, but he knows him now. Yes, he knows more than he wants to about him now.
Hopefully he sees what I see, a man who puts others before himself. A man of great capacity. A man who does not care if he goes over a bridge on the way home because he has a flotation device in his grocery bag.
When I was younger I used to think love and romance were sweeping unspoken hot passionate looks and embraces, sunsets and you and me against the world moments- ala' Say Anything (cue John Cusack image with boom box over head, under window--sigh) As I march towards forty I see what it really is, in all it's blazing glory; true love. Wrapped up neatly in a enormous bag of Niagara cushions for your hoo-hoo.
Love is a very complex thing. Some may argue that you can't even effectively articulate what it is. Even the Gods struggled to quantify it.
But I think I have them all beat. Yes, I dare come forward and say I know what love is.
Love is being in your PJ's on a rainy Monday night watching the game, getting ready for bed and hearing your wife shriek from the other room-- "Oh crap!!! I am out of my super expanding lifeboat overnight pads!!" and with only a defeated sigh, get up off the couch, get your coat and go to the store to buy her some. That's right ladies; I'm going to say it-- it all comes down to absorbency. The reason I am so sure of his love is not because of our shared life together, our connected hearts, our family- it is because of my feminine hygiene products.
I am fairly confident the dread of buying tampons, pantiliners and pads is something that men are born with, right there with more muscle mass and in most cases, hairier upper lips. The absolute deer in the headlights fear, middle school-octane embarrassment, alarm, the Oh my God will anyone see me at the check out line panic that our guys have when buying "the stuff."
There are varying degrees and category's of this. For example:
Pantiliners are on the lower scale of the terror alert for guys. They can hide the pack under and amongst their Maxim and Men's Health magazines. And make no mistake; their purchase of both Maxim and thong pantiliners together make them feel about as cool as Shawn Cassidy in 1977.
Tampons are presenting less of a shock and awe reaction these days. He may never like getting them, but it's relatively O.K. because the guy next to him has them in his basket too.
But the knock down, cut you off at the knee's, biggest Mother of all mortifying purchases is the heavy, heavy, super elephantine extra wings to land a 747 ultra sponge, soak up a lake OVERNIGHT PADS.
Diapers in a box.
Fill up a landfill with just one pad.
Oh yes, the big ones.
There is no way out of the tornado with this one. Nope, nothing cool, no thong time here. Just a nice chap trying to hide your Grandma king size package with his poor little Maxim. And please know he is going to bump into:
His boss.
The principal of your kids school.
The mechanic.
His running buddies.
His new client that is just getting to know him. Oh, but he knows him now. Yes, he knows more than he wants to about him now.
Hopefully he sees what I see, a man who puts others before himself. A man of great capacity. A man who does not care if he goes over a bridge on the way home because he has a flotation device in his grocery bag.
When I was younger I used to think love and romance were sweeping unspoken hot passionate looks and embraces, sunsets and you and me against the world moments- ala' Say Anything (cue John Cusack image with boom box over head, under window--sigh) As I march towards forty I see what it really is, in all it's blazing glory; true love. Wrapped up neatly in a enormous bag of Niagara cushions for your hoo-hoo.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Throw off the covers Part 2: An emerging woman's guide to life
I realized when I was writing Throw off the Covers that I also had another writing assignment ahead of me~ a personal letter to my oldest, who at thirteen is making an important rite of passage. I wanted to have what I wrote be about the blind leap marching towards adulthood. I then realized that the letter, which called me to start from the bones of Throw off the covers, was a letter not just for those who are making the bridge between girlhood to womanhood; but to all girls. I found it amusing that some of the things I wrote applied equally to both women and girls, that is why some key points remain unaltered. It was a surprisingly daunting task. Would I be able to adequately express the good/bad/ugly/hold onto the railing/ stuff of life? Present an open road?
And finally; why did I feel it necessary to cross myself before typing the first word?
Here is what inched forward:
Throw off the covers: An emerging woman's guide to life:
Banish the tip toeing, the diplomacy, the hierarchy of how things should be.
Lets have them how they can be.
Right now.
Here is my how to guide for being a woman of substance. Pay attention, it gets tricky as you go.
1) No matter what you are wearing, be it sweatpants or taffeta take time to put on intention and dignity.
And when you do, don't be dainty about it. Put it on like a girl who knows what's ahead of her.
Even when you don't.
2) Do not apologize for who you are. Contrary to what the magazines and some time friends may say, you are enough. No need to be more of anything. Be you.
3) Get some sun. Be bold, go outside, soak it all in. Bring nature to you like family. Expand your sights to things bigger than yourself. Feel humble by the mountains, small by the sea.
4) Drink water, unplug and breathe. There is nothing that is so important that cannot wait until you do those things. Believe me, life will be waiting for you once you return.
5) Make good friends. Have them be the people you can call on when that boy breaks your heart and who will cheer for you when you cross the finish line. There will be moments in your life when they will be the ones keeping your head above water. Cherish them. Be a good friend back.
6) Laugh.
So hard and so loud it makes people uncomfortable. Makes you feel full.
7) You don't have to answer anybody's questions. Especially when they are rude and asked with a smile. It's not your business what others think of you, be mysterious; give them something to talk about at the grocery store.
8) Make it personal. Forget what you have been told.
If you don't like /it/him/her/ scrap em' in the bin.
9) Listen. To everything. Every motion and twinge, every single pull of your heart. It's a road map.
Follow it.
10) Give till you break. But only for the things/people that are worth it. Let me repeat. Only the ones that are worth it.
11) Be in the world but not of it. This world places great importance on things that are frivolous. Do not get wrapped up in it. Repeat # 3 and # 4.
12) Be of service. There is no greater thing you can do in this world. It can be within your family or for an entire Country. What direction that takes is up to you.
13) Be honest. Nothing in this world is more precious than being able to put your head on your pillow at night knowing you have done your best and right action has flowed through you.
14) Remember love does not hurt. It does not make you scared, confused or trapped. It does not require you to mend damage; broken wings or cups with breaks. Love will lift you up, enabling you to settle in your bones. It compliments, connects and makes our lives rich and pure, trusting and joyful.
Do not settle for anything less. Ever.
15) Piggybacking on # 14. Make sure you know who you are before you become part of an us.
Choose wisely. Choose wisely. Choose wisely.
And finally; know that we are forever in your corner, forever by your side.
Love to you~ Mom
And finally; why did I feel it necessary to cross myself before typing the first word?
Here is what inched forward:
Throw off the covers: An emerging woman's guide to life:
Banish the tip toeing, the diplomacy, the hierarchy of how things should be.
Lets have them how they can be.
Right now.
Here is my how to guide for being a woman of substance. Pay attention, it gets tricky as you go.
1) No matter what you are wearing, be it sweatpants or taffeta take time to put on intention and dignity.
And when you do, don't be dainty about it. Put it on like a girl who knows what's ahead of her.
Even when you don't.
2) Do not apologize for who you are. Contrary to what the magazines and some time friends may say, you are enough. No need to be more of anything. Be you.
3) Get some sun. Be bold, go outside, soak it all in. Bring nature to you like family. Expand your sights to things bigger than yourself. Feel humble by the mountains, small by the sea.
4) Drink water, unplug and breathe. There is nothing that is so important that cannot wait until you do those things. Believe me, life will be waiting for you once you return.
5) Make good friends. Have them be the people you can call on when that boy breaks your heart and who will cheer for you when you cross the finish line. There will be moments in your life when they will be the ones keeping your head above water. Cherish them. Be a good friend back.
6) Laugh.
So hard and so loud it makes people uncomfortable. Makes you feel full.
7) You don't have to answer anybody's questions. Especially when they are rude and asked with a smile. It's not your business what others think of you, be mysterious; give them something to talk about at the grocery store.
8) Make it personal. Forget what you have been told.
If you don't like /it/him/her/ scrap em' in the bin.
9) Listen. To everything. Every motion and twinge, every single pull of your heart. It's a road map.
Follow it.
10) Give till you break. But only for the things/people that are worth it. Let me repeat. Only the ones that are worth it.
11) Be in the world but not of it. This world places great importance on things that are frivolous. Do not get wrapped up in it. Repeat # 3 and # 4.
12) Be of service. There is no greater thing you can do in this world. It can be within your family or for an entire Country. What direction that takes is up to you.
13) Be honest. Nothing in this world is more precious than being able to put your head on your pillow at night knowing you have done your best and right action has flowed through you.
14) Remember love does not hurt. It does not make you scared, confused or trapped. It does not require you to mend damage; broken wings or cups with breaks. Love will lift you up, enabling you to settle in your bones. It compliments, connects and makes our lives rich and pure, trusting and joyful.
Do not settle for anything less. Ever.
15) Piggybacking on # 14. Make sure you know who you are before you become part of an us.
Choose wisely. Choose wisely. Choose wisely.
And finally; know that we are forever in your corner, forever by your side.
Love to you~ Mom
Monday, May 9, 2011
Throw off the covers
OK, so is it acceptable that I want to drink copious amounts of red wine each night instead of going to yoga, instead of cooking dinner, instead of eating dinner, instead of laundry, baths, bedtime and any other item that falls under my current job description?? I want to channel Liz Taylor in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. I want to slam down pots and pans, have a snarl when I talk and walk around like a bad ass. And why not all those things? I am not interested in boxing myself in the saint or slut container men so often put us in. I want to go further. I want to be a little unhinged. I think the generation before us wanted that too. If you look hard at the black and white photos you can see the perspiration rings on the pillbox hats, ardor itching to be free. Don't you think Jackie O. wanted to untie her Valentino, say what she meant and declare what she wanted right then and there with a loud booming anti-Jackie voice? Throw down the covers, open the curtains and make everyone around her really, really nervous.
Hell yeah. That's the way to roll.
Banish the tip toeing, the diplomacy, the hierarchy of how things should be.
Lets have them how they can be.
Right now.
Here is my how to guide for being a bad ass. Pay attention, it gets tricky as you go.
1) No matter what you are wearing, be it sweatpants or taffeta put on red lipstick.
And when you do, don't be dainty about it. Put it on like a woman who knows what's ahead of her.
Even when you don't.
2) Do not apologize. Contrary to your family's belief it is not all your fault.
Wear that bit of information like a badge.
3) Get some sun. Be bold, throw the sunscreen in the trash and let your cheeks get uncomfortably rosy.
4) Drink. As in luxurious Mimosas at least once a weekend. Stay in bed, read the paper and say piss off to your "have to" list.
5) Go out with your friends. Hit the road, hit the time limit square in the eyes and share, gripe and let it all loose. These women love you. Let them see your ugly cry. Chances are they will join you.
6) Laugh.
So hard and so loud it makes people uncomfortable. Makes you feel full.
7) Wear what you think you can't anymore. Who made the rules? Work that nose ring and tell those who look at you funny you also have one where it's not polite to mention.
8) Make it personal. Forget what you have been told.
If you don't like /it/him/her/ scrap em' in the bin.
9) Listen. To everything. Every motion and twinge, every single pull of your heart. It's a road map. Follow it.
10) Give till you break. But only for the things/people that are worth it. Let me repeat. Only the ones that are worth it.
Live it up girls. Nobody is gonna do it for us. I'm off to find Liz.
Hell yeah. That's the way to roll.
Banish the tip toeing, the diplomacy, the hierarchy of how things should be.
Lets have them how they can be.
Right now.
Here is my how to guide for being a bad ass. Pay attention, it gets tricky as you go.
1) No matter what you are wearing, be it sweatpants or taffeta put on red lipstick.
And when you do, don't be dainty about it. Put it on like a woman who knows what's ahead of her.
Even when you don't.
2) Do not apologize. Contrary to your family's belief it is not all your fault.
Wear that bit of information like a badge.
3) Get some sun. Be bold, throw the sunscreen in the trash and let your cheeks get uncomfortably rosy.
4) Drink. As in luxurious Mimosas at least once a weekend. Stay in bed, read the paper and say piss off to your "have to" list.
5) Go out with your friends. Hit the road, hit the time limit square in the eyes and share, gripe and let it all loose. These women love you. Let them see your ugly cry. Chances are they will join you.
6) Laugh.
So hard and so loud it makes people uncomfortable. Makes you feel full.
7) Wear what you think you can't anymore. Who made the rules? Work that nose ring and tell those who look at you funny you also have one where it's not polite to mention.
8) Make it personal. Forget what you have been told.
If you don't like /it/him/her/ scrap em' in the bin.
9) Listen. To everything. Every motion and twinge, every single pull of your heart. It's a road map. Follow it.
10) Give till you break. But only for the things/people that are worth it. Let me repeat. Only the ones that are worth it.
Live it up girls. Nobody is gonna do it for us. I'm off to find Liz.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Motherless child
May is a hard time for me. Mother's Day rolls around and I'm a bit twitchy, there is a definite edge in the air. Even though the torch has been passed to me in celebrating the day, it always goes back to my own Mother. How could it not? Like the nightlight we forget to turn off in the morning, she's always there in the background.
I lost my Mother 13 years ago to cancer. Lost is such a funny word in describing death don't you think? Like she went into the grocery store with me and just wandered off. With so many years passed and so much having happened in those years it feels like my life is truncated into two parts: my childhood with her and the beginning of my adult life. That's a really strange compartment. Comparable to playing in the sand one minute to having a house on it the next.
She missed so much. She will never know my husband, the man who transformed the way I love. She will never look into my children's eyes. She will never see them come into the world, never hold them, never comb their hair. Never be part of any Christmas or Birthday, never again ring in the new year. She will not see the radiant smiles walking down the aisle, not laugh at the antics of my Dad. All this I know. I wear the finality of it like a coat. There is nothing to be done with it but sit with it and invite it to the table; less painful than having it linger by the door.
I feel less alone now than when my kids were babies. So many nights wondering: is this normal? /did I ever have a rash like that?/was she as exhausted-elated-exhausted as I am? I'd watch my friends Mum's with that look in their eyes- bottomless love, enchantment, that buffer; how they would relish their time; the tender lessons only a Grandmother can teach.
I could do many things but I could not trace her footprint in their lives.
I'll say it. I'll say it out loud. I felt cheated.
Gradually though and with much inner destruction, I realized not all paths were meant to be ours.
The ouch of it all did ease with my husband's Mother. She was not my Mom but she loves her Grandkids. My heart melts every time she plays Crazy eights with them. Isn't that funny? Crazy eights. Who knew that would be what dulls the ache. My kids are surrounded by people who love them. My Dad's wife dotes on them like they were her very own. It's enough. We all pretend it fills the cup that is cracked. We put napkins on the floor to cover the drip. It's enough.
So now May comes around and I garden. I dig and plant and arrange and concentrate. I clean my house. I fold my laundry. I write. I smile during the Spring tea's at school and love my homemade cards. And every year I silently say the only prayer I can muster; Happy Mother's day Mom.
I lost my Mother 13 years ago to cancer. Lost is such a funny word in describing death don't you think? Like she went into the grocery store with me and just wandered off. With so many years passed and so much having happened in those years it feels like my life is truncated into two parts: my childhood with her and the beginning of my adult life. That's a really strange compartment. Comparable to playing in the sand one minute to having a house on it the next.
She missed so much. She will never know my husband, the man who transformed the way I love. She will never look into my children's eyes. She will never see them come into the world, never hold them, never comb their hair. Never be part of any Christmas or Birthday, never again ring in the new year. She will not see the radiant smiles walking down the aisle, not laugh at the antics of my Dad. All this I know. I wear the finality of it like a coat. There is nothing to be done with it but sit with it and invite it to the table; less painful than having it linger by the door.
I feel less alone now than when my kids were babies. So many nights wondering: is this normal? /did I ever have a rash like that?/was she as exhausted-elated-exhausted as I am? I'd watch my friends Mum's with that look in their eyes- bottomless love, enchantment, that buffer; how they would relish their time; the tender lessons only a Grandmother can teach.
I could do many things but I could not trace her footprint in their lives.
I'll say it. I'll say it out loud. I felt cheated.
Gradually though and with much inner destruction, I realized not all paths were meant to be ours.
The ouch of it all did ease with my husband's Mother. She was not my Mom but she loves her Grandkids. My heart melts every time she plays Crazy eights with them. Isn't that funny? Crazy eights. Who knew that would be what dulls the ache. My kids are surrounded by people who love them. My Dad's wife dotes on them like they were her very own. It's enough. We all pretend it fills the cup that is cracked. We put napkins on the floor to cover the drip. It's enough.
So now May comes around and I garden. I dig and plant and arrange and concentrate. I clean my house. I fold my laundry. I write. I smile during the Spring tea's at school and love my homemade cards. And every year I silently say the only prayer I can muster; Happy Mother's day Mom.
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