A Grain of Sand

Let's just say that so far, this has been a challenging year for me.  I am not usually the type of person that gets stressed out easily or becomes overwhelmed by life, but this past year, I will admit, has been a tough one for me.

On February 4th, my 86 year old grandmother, the matriarch of our family, passed away. This event was, and still is, very emotional for me. I identified with my grandmother's personality so much. Her and I were alot alike. I hate referring to her in the past tense.

My grandmother and I were both the same height, possessed the same turned up nose and deep, blue eyes.  "If you don't want the truth, then don't ask either one of us." That is how I have always thought of our closest similarity. We shared that trait. Let's just call it the ability to be "direct".

Unfortunately, intense family discord and my own medical challenges quickly followed the passing of my grandmother, with the peppering of close personal relationships being tested, the questioning of friendships and their longevity, and ultimately the over extension of myself and my abilities.  Needless to say, by the time the date of July 2nd rolled around, the start of my week long vacation, I was more than ready for it.

I have not had a week long vacation since my honeymoon in 1995. For real. As a family, we go away for a 3 day weekend every Labor Day to Vermont.  Last summer, my kids and I went to Cape Cod for a few days with some friends.  My husband, my kids and I jaunted down there last Memorial Day weekend, as well.  But the four of us have NEVER been on a week long vacation together. EVER.

So, needless to say.  I was due. We were all due.

As a child, I spent all of my vacations, during the first week of August, on Cape Cod.  "The Cape" as we Massachusetts people call it. Below the elbow, if you will.  Argueably, what most life long Cape-goers will insist is the 'real Cape'.  The lower part of the arm of Massachusetts.  Eastham is a quiet, almost sedate, Cape Cod town with minimalized commercialism and not a chain store in sight.  Except for a very snobby looking Dunkin Donuts, with an inconspicuous sign over the door.  A door that has a line flowing out of it at 6:00 am every morning. This particular altered Dunkin Donuts does not make a single breakfast sandwich and only offers 6 varieties of donuts.  Just as long as they have coffee. That's all that really matters.

I was thrilled to be going back again.  I have the fondest memories of my life there.  There are two types of beaches on the Cape.  The 'Bay' side and the 'Ocean' Side.  The Bay side has a very distinct low tide and high tide.  Low tide has many sand bars and tidal pools with all kinds of hidden sea treasures.  The sandbars and tidal pools go on and on, with many opportunities for unearthing razor clams, cohogs, crabs of all varieties, abandoned shells, scattering minnows and many other fantastic salty finds.  The sand is rougher on the Bay side, pebbly, and the water is warmer.  The waves are not impressive. 

The Ocean side offers very little change in its appearance during low tide vs. high tide.  Just a few feet of difference in the shoreline of the 'going out' and 'coming in' of the ocean.  The waves are bigger and the water is colder.  The sand is finer and powdery. Great for toes.

We were Bay side people. I always longed for low tide. The lowest of the low tides. It was my salvation.  At the precise moment that the ocean water would begin to receed, I would follow it out and be gone for hours, with my bucket. By myself.  I was always the truest version of myself out there, and ever since I stopped going to the Cape every summer, I have lost a part of who I am.

My memories of these summers are vivid: Lobsters and steamers.  My mother cemented into a 3 fold lounge chair with a brown belly, a red plastic cup in her hand, and a bright, royal blue cooler by her side. My father always muttering about rip tides and throwing us into the waves like beach balls. My brothers both in diapers and in play pens. Sand bar wiffle ball. Sunburns that crippled you. Great friends. New Cape friends that you met on the beach, sharing a raft.  My great-granparents teaching me how to play cribbage.  We were all there one summer, hovered around the Cape Cod Times, as we learned that Elvis had died.  My father's green Nova with a CB radio. Cape traffic on the Sagamore Bridge.  The salt, the sand dunes, the sand in your bathing suit and often, the sand in your sandwich.

I was elated to hear that a childhood friend of mine and her husband, who I had also known from high school, and their two children were vacationing in Eastham the same week as us. We planned to get our families together while on the Cape. Kristine and I shared a fun friendship and an amazing summer together, when I was 13 and she was 14. We were both a little on the boy crazy side. Her more than me. (just kidding, Kristine).

The first few days on the Cape were spent just as I had planned. We connected with a friend of ours and her son, who were also spending time in Eastham.  We lounged by the ocean, swam, treasure hunted through low tide and played games on the beach with a beautiful sunset as our backdrop. The next few days, we did more of the same.  Filled it in with fried clams, miniature golf, t-shirt shopping and board games. I could tell that my husband and kids had moments of boredom, and part of me became saddened by this as I questioned whether or not this vacation was built for them or just built for me.

Kristine and her husband asked us over for cocktail hour one evening. We joined them, and met their beautiful children and some of their friends. They had a house full.  Our Cape cottage was relatively quiet. Not theirs. I loved it! Part of the magic of the Cape, is the people that you meet while there. 

One of Kristine's friends was also a lifelong Cape goer.  She had always come to Eastham as well.  She told me a story about the first time she vacationed on Eastham on her own many years ago, with her husband and their two small children, who at that point in time, were pretty much both in diapers.  She had me almost in tears, laughing, as she recounted the horror of this vacation that she had once so idealized.  She described her kids as miserable, with sand in every crevace, crying constantly. She had resorted to calling her father at home, playing on the fact that she was 'daddy's little girl', asking him to please come down to the Cape and join them, secretly hoping that he would valiantly scoop up her two unhappy, screaming babies in his arms so that she and her husband could relax and enjoy. He did come down to Eastham, but recommended that she have a gin and tonic and just learn to cope.  He explained that he had been right where she is now. On an unruly vacation with cranky kids, counting the minutes until cocktail hour and even the long ride home. 

Funny, I'm sure my parents had those moments, too.  But somehow, the overall emotion that washes over me is that these vacations were perfection in motion. I am quite sure that I am not the only one who is disillusioned.

Our days in Eastham continued on with kites flown on the sandbars at low tide against orange and hot pink skies, long walks on the beach, fireworks, a visit to Provincetown (or 'P town' as it is called) for shopping, monument climbing, and parasailing. It felt like home to me. I was in my element.

Along the way, we met a little girl, Kendall, on Martha's Vineyard that stole our hearts.  She danced and sang for us on the ferry back to Woods Hole and within 10 minutes of our meeting, she started calling me 'Mommy' and told me that she loved me. She hugged my children as we were all leaving the ferry and told us she wanted to come home with us. I wanted Kendall to come home with us, too. She had to have been one of the most open-hearted human beings I have ever met.

My children and I met a older couple from Chicago, now living in Las Vegas, that were both school teachers.  We had struck up conversation with them when my son and I offered to give up our seats so that they could sit, instead of stand,on an over-crowded shuttle bus. They were lovely.  Just really good, hard working people.  You could just tell. We talked about 8th grade math, raising children, and they told us about their worldly summer travels.

Chance meetings of lives just crossing for a few moments.

Since my grandmother passed away, and maybe even before that, I have slowly felt myself closing off to the people around me.  Distancing myself, feeling incapable of sharing any part of myself with others.  The feeling of not wanting to put forth the effort to connect was starting to infiltrate into my daily life. The events of the late winter made me bitter. Unavailable. Robotic. Non-tolerant.

Since returning back to my home with my family, and reflecting on my time on the Cape and the people that we met and that I reconnected with, I have come to the realization just how off course I have strayed. 

Just like tides that ebb and flow, so similiar are the relationships that we build in our life.  Some get washed out to sea and some weather well as sea green beach glass, smooth around the edges. It is the people in our lives, that always make a difference.  Each like a grain of sand.  A grain of sand can be a nagging nuisance in a crevace or the remnants of sturdy a rock, tumbled over and over again by the changing tides.

Political Correctness

"Why is she the only girl?"

That was the question that my young daughter asked as we were all watching the morning after assessment and news coverage following the Republican Debate that aired on a Monday night, not too long ago. She was talking about Michele Bachmann.  My husband and teenaged son did not respond to her question. They both played it off identically, pretending not hear her. Probably for the same reason that I did not jump on it right away.  The explanation and discussion that follwed would take longer than the 8 minutes that we had left before the school bus picked up at the end of our driveway.

"It takes a very big committment to run for President." I said. "We can talk about it later, when you get home from school." I continued with my usual: "Is your lunch packed, do you have your riding boots, is your homework in your folder?"

As I drove to work, I contemplated how I would successfully answer the question as to why Michele Bachmann is the only officially declared 'girl' running  for President. I am sure I will need to explain, as my daughter is already well aware of, why there has never been a woman President in our country's history.

Answering that question sounds easy.  But not if I want to give her an honest answer.

I like to think of myself as a "liberated woman". Sometimes I don't wear a bra (only when I am sleeping). I can do what any man can do (except maybe beat him in an arm wrestling match). My husband and I equally share the household duties (yeah, right - it would send him over the edge). I make the same amount of money as my husband does even after spending many years as a stay-at-home mother (I wish).

This question was a tough one for me and it begs to be answered. Where are all the woman candidates? Are women too emotional to be able to fulfill the lengthy list of gut wrenching decisions that the President of the United States needs to make?  That's really what it boils down to. Isn't it? That is the nuts and bolts of the issue. Or at least, that's what I have always have thought it was. I remember the rumblings when I was a kid.  Is that still really it?

Part of me resents the hell out of the above statement and part of me wants to cry just thinking about it. After all, do we believe that Presidents don't cry? Should a President leave his emotions out of it when making critical decsions. Are women incapable of doing this? Do the emotions of women always govern their reasoning capabilities?

Hardly.  Women leave their emotions out of it all the time when making critical decisions.  I can run a house, my workplace, the lives of 4 people, the lives of 4 pets, any committee, Christmas, birthday parties, bake sales, my checkbook, and many other important life 'things' without really batting an eyelash. All that I require, are just a couple of daily doses of caffeine and an occasional glass of wine in the evening.  If I actually DID let my emotions get the best of me, I would have been living alone, in the Bahamas by now, in some spa resort. Do we women get TOO emotional? Some of us do, at times. But I can literally watch my kid take a nasty spill off of her scooter, with obvious road rash on both knees, knowing that there has to be bloodshed involved, and still say encouragingly from the front steps: "Get up, hunny...you're fine."

"Why has there not been a woman President in our history?   I, myself, have never looked at a candidate for the President of the United States as a man, a woman, black, white, etc.  For me, staying neutral on party lines and just voting based on instinct as to how honest of a person the candidate seems to be, has been my best voting strategy.  I look at where they stand on issues and their previous track record, but being a great President is ultimately built on character. On one particular election day, I actually flipped a coin in the voting booth, not really caring for any candidate on the ballot. On another, I wrote my own name in.

But why hasn't it happened already? Why hasn't some dynamic woman reached that milestone and busted through the ceiling?

This past Valentine's Day, my husband gave me a second Pandora bracelet that he picked out with silver heart beads, beautifully symbolic crimson beads and a decorative clasp.  Upon further examination, I noticed that the clasp was in the form of an elephant's head.  "Hmmm...", I thought, "What is he trying to say?" Elephants are heavy, smelly, they never forget, etc.  Immediately, I felt a pang in my chest that provided stimulus for a knee jerk reaction, that caused me to want to punch him in the gut.  Seconds later, thankfully without uttering a word about the elephant, I had talked myself down off of my ledge, and began minimalizing the meaning of the elephant on the clasp. 

"It's just a cute little elephant" I reasoned and then I decided to say out loud: "Oh, look, it's a cute little elephant on the clasp. How sweet."

"Yeah, I like the way his trunk curves up an around to close the bracelet." my husband admitted, proud of himself even, for picking this gift out on his own (something that rarely happens). Well, that was innocent enough.

Crisis averted.

Why I would think, that my husband was trying to send me a message in the elephant, I'll never know.  But that was my first instinct. I easily could have ruined the moment and turned Valentine's Day into an argument and a bad memory, if I went with my initial reaction. If I had allowed that irrational emotional sting to dictate my response, I would have most certainly regretted it.

What does any of this have to do with a woman being President?  I am not exactly sure. But, somehow, it kind of sums it up for me.  We have the reputation that as women, we let our emotions get the best of us and we thrive off of them. The generalization is that we think with our hearts first and our brains second. This of course, will simply not do, for anyone who has their finger that close to 'THE BUTTON'. That is the misconception. I believe that certain men have helped emphasize this in women, making more out of it than there actually is. Maybe the emotional deficiancy of some men, has prompted this evaluation. Those men who are uncomfortable with expressing their emotions.  I do not want to bash men. I love men. There are many caring, thoughtful, emotionally healthy men in this world.  Many, many, many of them.  It is largely in part, due to the support of men, that women have been able to get where they are today.

But let's look at the cold, hard truth.  Up until now, politics has largely been a 'boys club'. It's a tough job, not all that it's cracked up to be.  It used to be that being a public servant was a big pain in the neck. A major interruption of one's life. The Presidency has become somewhat glitzy and 'Hollywood'. In a way, it has always been designated for the prestigious, select few, with the 'right stuff'.  Or...lots and lots of money.

The fact that Michele Bachmann raised 5 children and foster parented 23 more, automatically qualifies her for the seat in the Oval office, in my estimation. Anyone who can successfully parent 28 ANYTHING has my vote.  Kidding aside, there is something to be said for multitasking to the hilt, parenting large numbers, possessing superior customer service skills, volunteering for causes, being authentic and charitable, just to name a few.

What some don't seem to understand, is that the natural instinct of a woman is to protect.  It is present in the most molecular of levels.  The need to protect and keep the human race safe exists in every pore of a woman, most significantly in her own family structure, but the ultimate instinct to keep those that are in jeopardy safe, is ever present.  For a woman, when the confrontation arises and the question becomes whether or not to pull the trigger in order to protect, believe me, the trigger is pulled. Believe me.

So, the conversation with my daughter went like this: "The reason that there has never been a woman President, is because change comes slow sometimes.  It used to be the thinking that woman stayed home and raised families.  Men went out and worked. That thinking has changed.  Woman have always been as strong as men, look how challenging it is to raise human beings.  It takes patience, alot of patience.  The same patience is a wonderful lesson in waiting for the time to be right. There will be a woman President, soon.  I can feel it.  Not because she is a woman, but because she has earned the confidence of the people of the United States. The journey will make that woman the strongest she has ever been."

At one point my daughter looked at me and said: "Why would someone think that a woman CAN'T do what a man can do?"  This was such a foreign concept to her.  She just didn't get it and I loved it. My hopes are that the generation that we are now raising will not even understand what sexism is. We are almost all the way there.

I went on to explain: "When we first started out on this earth, it made more sense for the roles of men and women to be defined.  As we have developed and progressed as a society, we now realize, that we are all capable of many of the same things. No matter what we look like on the outside."

My daughter then said, "It would be fun to see a woman be President, I'll bet you, Mom, that one of the first things she does as President, is to paint the White House a different color.  White is so boring."

And with that, my daughter finished lacing her sneakers, picked up her basketball, and ran out of the house to play with the boys.
.

Confessions of a Domestic Hit Woman: A Repayment Plan

Confessions of a Domestic Hit Woman: A Repayment Plan: "I drive quite a bit. I am a glorified chauffeur. Living where we do, in a rural community, nothing is within a 5 minute drive except the..."

A Repayment Plan

I drive quite a bit.  I am a glorified chauffeur.  Living where we do, in a rural community, nothing is within a 5 minute drive except the post office, the farm, the Inn and a local Mom and Pop style store where gas is priced at $4.89 a gallon and a gallon of milk is about the same (God love them).  Because of this, I put close to 30,000 miles on my vehicle’s odometer every year.  Our public school system serves 10 towns. The Middle School and the High School are 9 miles away from my door.  Thankfully, each town has its own elementary school, or the mileage on my vehicle would have been even crazier, in years past. I get a new vehicle every 5 years. A costly venture.

To my children: As a mother, it is in my job description to: drive you places, bake cookies for your bake sale, volunteer my time to your various causes and interests, stroke your head when you are tired, rub your back when you throw up, cheer you on when you do well or do not so well, reprimand your indiscretions, get frustrated with your homework that I don’t remember/understand, limit your video game time, attempt to ward off your punk attitude, not allow you to speak to me in a ‘certain way’ and guard against anything harmful that might cross your path.  Most importantly, it is my job to sculpt you into someone that is thankful.

The other day, as I was organizing and packing for my son's week long school trip toWashington DC, the thought popped into my head that, my son, at the age of 14 years old, should be packing his own suitcase.  I have always raised my children to be independent, why would I do this for him? Because it feels right, that’s why.  I WANT to pack it.  That way, I know that all of its contents are correct, in the most logical spot, and that most importantly, he has enough underwear and socks. As I folded shorts and shirts on the dining room table and neatly placed them in the suitcase (that undoubtedly would not stay that way), my son came up to me, kissed my cheek, wrapped his arms around me, and thanked me for packing for him.

SUCKER…I am a sucker for their admiration. 

Both of my children have learned to appreciate when something is done for them. Not all of the time, but a very high percentage of the time, they truly appreciate it. I, too, have always told them when I have appreciated the things that they and others have done for me. 

In our house, my kids do not get an allowance.  I certainly don’t get paid for doing things around the house, why should they?  Instead they are given money as needed, within reason, and will occasionally earn extra cash for doing hard work around the house and yard that is not on their regular list of daily chores.  It’s about the act of doing because it is expected to be done.  Not because you will get a reward for doing it.  I don’t believe in bribes. I have never promised my kids that I will buy them ‘this or that’ if they do what I ask or if they accomplish something. I believe that, the will to do something without the benefit of reward, needs to be present in all people.  I believe in expectations. I expect them to do, because, quite simply, they can.

I am a big proponent of Random Acts of Kindness.  I will buy, give or create things and scenarios for my children to show my gratitude to them for being great kids in order to surprise them, but they don't 'expect' it. Writing this makes me realize that it has been a while since my last act of random kindness towards my children, I need to fix that.

What they have been taught to expect is that their mother and father will always love them and respect them and that they will be treated like important people. I really think that kids need this.  Not the most recent video game or most current electronic device, but the fact that they are cared for and respected.  The "Tiger Mother" philosophy may raise kids into 'successful' adults, the statistics don't lie, but are they happy? Truly happy to the core? Success does not equal happiness.

Recently, my friend Wendy posted on Facebook an excerpt from her favorite poem “the Lanyard”.

I enjoyed it so much that it inspired me to write about this topic.  The feeling of having gratitude, is easily translated into love, respect and admiration. Not being able to ‘repay it’ and not expecting it to be ‘repaid’ is very valuable.

The Lanyard - Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

I have received many a home made card, pot holder, pottery from art class, handpicked bouquet, sparkly picture frame and Christmas ornament, just to name a few. I often glance at the handmade gifts that adorn the shelves and tables of the house, the window sills and the refridgerator. I will treasure many of these gifts from afar, as they continue to collect in the oversized bottom drawer in my bureau and boxes in the basement. The biggest and best gifts that I have ever received, will only be captured in a glance, a touch, a smile or a hearbeat. 

To my children: You owe me nothing.  I would have never in a million years began the journey of having you, raising you, and loving you with the thought that you would owe me something in return. Where I am concerned, you only owe yourself.

Wait...a phone call, you owe me a phone call every once in a while...and a visit, I will need a visit from time to time...

**To hear Billy Collins read this poem, go to http://www.youtube.com/ and search Billy Collins "The Lanyard".  It's worth the 2 minutes and 58 seconds

Baby, You Were Born This Way

I remember asking a pregnant neighbor, when I was about 6-years old, how her baby was going to get out of her belly.  I recall vividly the uncomfortable nature in which she answered.  Her answer was quick, without thoughtfully pondering the magnitude in which it might affect my delicate little mind: “It pops out of your belly button” she said, changing the subject rapidly by asking me if I would like to play with her daughter’s favorite doll, who hadn’t made it home from school yet.

I remember years upon years of staring at my own belly button in the mirror thinking “Now, that’s GOT to hurt!” not even contemplating the truth and the horrendous pain that would actually ensue during the real thing, many years later. Some part of me still thinks that a baby popping out of a pregnant belly’s navel is still feasible, given the right circumstances.

Talking about reproduction and sex with our children now, has come a long way.  It used to be about discussing the differences between men and women anatomically. That was what was referred to as “the TALK”.  Explaining “The Birds and the Bees”, was pretty much it.  Not anything further.

My son was in fourth grade, when I received the notice home about the impending “movie” that was going to be shown the next day.  A few years earlier, when he was about 6 years old, he asked me how babies were actually born . I explained how babies came out of women’s bodies. Not my old neighbor’s version, of course, the real thing, using all the terms and correct names for body parts, to which he nervously asked if boys ever gave birth to babies.  When I reassured him that only girls gave birth, he dramatically wiped pretend sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand and said “Phewwww!”, with all the relief that his little body could muster. So for the fourth grade version, I got very detailed.  We talked about sex and what took place.  He looked shocked, but educated. I also carefully mentioned how important it was not to share these details with other kids at school or his little sister, as it was the parents’ decision as to when to tell their children this news.

My daughter’s experience went quite differently. She was intensely interested in the human body and surgical procedures from an early age. She loved to watch the Emergency Room documentaries on TV and expressed interest in becoming a surgeon at the age of 8 years old.  She wrote stories about surgery and “fixing people’, so I bought her books on the human anatomy, so that she could study them, refer to them and see detailed pictures.  One night, while I was driving home from a social gathering, with my husband in the passenger seat and my two kids in the back seat, my daughter made an announcement:

“I think I have figured out what sex is.” She said openly.  I felt my husband's body weight shift to the passenger side door, as if he was going to prepare for the appropriate moment to open the car door and jump out while we were still in motion.

“Great, tell us.” I said calmly.  More shifting from the passenger side.  I was sure my husband’s right cheek was now pressed against the window and his hand was on the door handle. My daughter explained, using all of the correct terminology, the act itself, to which my 11 year old son responded with: “Yup, that’s it!” as if he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and had been tortured keeping this information to him self over the last few years.

“Yes” I confirmed, “You, explained it very well” I said smiling.  I could tell that my husband, without him even uttering a word, was the most uncomfortable he has ever been.  I am not sure if I will ever get to witness that type of awkwardness again, where he is concerned.

After a few moments of silence, my daughter said cautiously “Wait…that means that YOU and DADDY…OH GROSS!!!”

“Yes sweetheart, we have, of course.” At this point, I am mentally noting, that my husband has been scarred for life. The damage is irreversible.

I have since had many conversations about sex with my children.  We have discussed homosexuality, trans gender surgery, abstinence, condoms, sexually transmitted diseases, menstruation, teen pregnancy, etc.  I believe that knowledge is power and tolerance is a must. 

Do I expect my kids to abstain from sex until they are married? Do I expect my kids to be sexually active? Do I even expect them to marry? Do I expect that my kids will be heterosexual? The answer to all of these is a resounding “That is THEIR decision, not mine”.

Do I expect my kids to be comfortable with their own bodies? Do I expect my kids to be comfortable with their own sexuality? Do I expect my kids to keep themselves safe?  Do I expect my kids to be responsible for their own reproduction? Do I want them to make self confident decisions? The answer to all of these is a resounding “Yes”.

This may not be the best approach for all parents.  It may not even be the best approach for me and my family. But I feel strongly about this: I will not let someone else be responsible for telling my children about these things.  I do not want their friends to inform them, or a TV show to clue them in, or for the lyrics of some song to shed the light.  I want them to hear it from me. I want to have open, frank discussions and leave no stone unturned. 

I do not expect all people to agree with me or follow me.  I do expect for others to appreciate that I want to educate my children in a way that I see fit to insure that they are comfortable with all of the answers to their questions. The birds and the bees just doesn't fly.

What's the Skinny?

Let’s cut to the chase.  I have never been skinny.  Never. I do not think that ‘achieving skinniness’ has ever been a goal of mine.  I have always wanted to be healthy, fit, but not ‘skinny’. ‘Athletic’ sounds good. That’s what I want, athletic endurance.

I like my curves and believe me, I have them. I want to look like a woman.  I will admit, I do have more jiggly parts than I care to have at the present time, but I generally feel good about myself, even when I am over my ideal weight.

I was raised by a lovely looking woman who, at her most, weighed in at 130 lbs at 5’5”.  All while being 9 months pregnant.  My mother could sit and eat a pound of bacon and she would lose a few pounds, simply from the act of eating it.  I would gain a pound just watching her, as I chewed on my celery sticks.  That’s just how it is. Oh, the cruelty of living with someone who has a speedy metabolism, when you have a slow one.

I have always thought that it was very important to have a positive self image.  Even more so now as I age, especially in front of my children.  I am not a big fan of the word ‘fat’, I have to say.  I do not use the word ‘diet’, either.  I refer to eating habits as either ‘eating healthy’ or ‘eating-not-so-healthy’. I am also a follower of the phrase "Everything in moderation."

A few weeks ago, I invited a new friend of my daughter’s, Emily, to come over to hang out at our house and then join us for a movie at the theater, later in the day. It was our first time having her at our house and my very first time meeting her.  My first impression of Emily was that she is fun loving girl.  She is very outspoken and witty.  We thoroughly enjoyed her company that day and had a ball together.  Something did happen on the ride over to the theater, though, that I am still not comfortable with.

As Emily and my daughter were riding together in the back seat for the 25 minute drive to the movie theater, they decided to tell each other funny, made up stories. There was a lot of giggling between them.  I listened to the stories and chuckled at their storytelling as it alternated back and forth between them. What I quickly realized, was that all of Emily’s stories had a fat person in them, and that person was always at a disadvantage because of their weight. By the 4^th story of Emily’s, I had to interject.

“Emily, why are their always fat people in your stories and why is being fat such a bad thing?” I asked from the front seat, glancing in the rear view mirror, trying to make brief eye contact with her.

The fun immediately came to a halt. What a buzz kill!

Emily was silent for a moment and then said “Because fat people are FAT.” and she stressed the word FAT in a mocking way. “Nobody wants to be fat.” Emily snickered.

“Hmmm…be very careful.” I said in my own head, and then I completely abandoned any notion of keeping my mouth shut and said, “I would really like it if you could choose another way to describe the people in your stories besides fat”.

Again, silence. Emily and my daughter exchanged sideways glances and then my daughter caught my eye in the mirror, looking apologetic. 

“Sure” Emily said, “But my stories won’t be nearly as funny.” 

I was now irritated, but decided to let it go.  The day passed without another mention of the word ‘fat’. My daughter and Emily had a really nice time together. I could tell they were off to a great friendship. I was less than thrilled with Emily’s stories, but I wasn’t going to let it be my only first impression of her.

That evening, as my daughter was getting ready for bed, I approached her about the exchange in the car earlier.  She said that she had felt uncomfortable by both my request and Emily’s use of the word ‘fat’ in such a negative way. We discussed how poking fun at people because they are overweight is not acceptable. We also discussed, yet again, that people come in all shapes, colors and sizes. I encouraged her to speak up in the future in the event that any of her friends were being unfair to others, and she said that she would. Easier said, than done.

The following weekend, my daughter was invited over to Emily’s house with two other friends for the day.  They are truly a great group of girls and have a lot of laughs together.  As I was dropping my daughter off, with the 4 girls present, Emily’s Mother, Emily and I had a brief conversation about their cat that I had been petting on the way up the flagstone path leading to their house:

“What a beautiful cat!” I had said as they were opening the door to welcome us.

“That’s Smokey, she is the best cat ever!” Emily said, smiling.

“We love her.” Emily’s Mother said’ “Even if she is a little too plump.”

 “Mom, just so you know, we can’t use the word ‘fat’ today.” Emily blurted out quickly. I knew immediately that that comment was solely meant for my benefit.

Are you kidding me? Mission NOT accomplished.

 I got the impression that my fight against fat was now futile when it came to Emily and her family.

 I felt a little exacerbation of air escape my daughter’s body as she crouched down to pet Smokey. I thought it would be best to brush by Emily’s comment by focusing on the beautiful red, yellow and white tulips lining the walkway. Surely, they couldn’t be called ‘fat’, I thought.  Then, Emily’s mother and I toured their garden and made small talk before I left.

I so desperately want my daughter to grow up and be healthy without an overload of emphasis being placed on her physical appearance and the size of her body.  It would be so great if our society would stop placing so much pressure on young people to look a certain way and encourage them to just be HEALTHY. It would be more than great if we could stop doing that to one another.

That’s probably not going to happen.

As I reflect back on the Emily moments over the last few weeks, I honestly know that I could not have kept my thoughts to my self in the car.  As a parent, I will not keep my opinion quiet when it comes to this topic, or any topic that I believe influences my children and their own opinion of their body.

We, as parents, can’t always change the world, but we can influence our children by setting the best example possible. I will not allow myself to be negative towards my own body.  Even if, at times, I don’t feel great about it. It is my mission.

Sometimes, I fear that my reactions will do more harm than good by simply placing emphasis.  Will my battle with the word ‘fat’ being used negatively have the opposite effect that I want and make my children more self conscious? Will my vigilance be translated as overcompensation for my own non-skinniness and defeat my whole purpose.  It might.

Everyday, I wake up, and try like hell to do what I think is right for my kids.  I sometimes misfire. The best thing I can do is keep my body image healthy, and encourage the same for my kids. Maybe someday the world we live in will be rid of these types of judgments.

It is a big, fat, question mark…

Old Yeller

I yell. I do. I can be a yeller. I am a loud person, and I know it.  I wrestle almost everyday with my own personal volume control issues, and for the most part, I win.  I keep it under control and I am not nearly the yeller I could be. I am proud of myself.

This past weekend, we began a huge makeover on my daughter’s room.  I decided to start this task at 6pm on a Sunday. I know, I know, I just heard the collective sigh of all Mothers (and some Dads) out there who are bewildered by the fact that I would start any lengthy project on a Sunday at that late hour.  I think I even heard a couple of you mutter “Is she crazy?” under your breath.

My daughter and I started this project together. It would be ‘fun’, I thought.  She was ecstatic to have a say in how the room would be transformed, picking out new bedding, pictures for the walls and the choosing of the paint color, a beautiful calming shade of powder blue.

Calming, my foot.  For some reason, I approached this project with the optimism that I would NOT lose my cool.  Why would I expect that?  All projects that run the risk of becoming potential disasters make me uncomfortable.  So uncomfortable, that I can feel my blood pressure rise at the mere thought of them. This is genetic.

I wish I was different.  I want to be the Mom that scoffs at paint spilled on the carpet.  I want to be the Mom that dances around with a paintbrush in her hand not worrying about the splatter. I want to be the Mom that my daughter will tell stories of to her friends underlining how much fun we had decorating her room.  I am not always that Mom.  I am a potential yeller.  So at the first sign of paint on the carpet, I go from calm to not so calm, and I regret it.

The painting part of the make-over, went relatively well, except for one faux pas.  My daughter decided to drag a drop cloth with the paint tray and roller on it along with her as she moved to start a new wall, instead of laying a new one down as I had told her to do.  So, essentially, she should have seen my ‘not so calm’ reaction coming, when her actions resulted in the drop cloth getting doused with paint, some of it winding up on the rug. A pretty good sized mess was the result.  So, I yelled at her. I was not proud of myself. Then I reminded her, still above the normal tone of voice, how she did not listen to what I had said about the drop cloth.  That was it.  But that was enough, her face crunched up and she started to cry. Probably due more to the fact that her cream colored carpet now had powder blue splotches all over it, than my yelling.

I sat down in the corner of the room with her, we hugged, and I explained that I was not pleased that I had made the choice to yell at her and that I was also not happy that this painting project did not make me happy.  I tried to explain that, although I loved her profusely and thoroughly enjoy any time spent with her, projects like this were, more often than not, not fun for me.  I want them to be.  But they are not. I essentially explained, through this chat to my 11-year-old daughter, what a control freak was and I owned up to being one. A big one.

My daughter and I moved on, I finished the painting alone and then together we set out for bigger and better things in the way of picking out curtains and curtain rods.

In the days since, I have thought about my yelling. I wonder what a child’s life would be like if their parents never yelled at them.  What a wonderful concept. What would happen though, when they were thrust into the real world, where bosses would not only yell at you for spilling paint on the clients’ floor, but would also fire you for your carelessness.  Would my child be at a disadvantage if she was never yelled at or would her life be blissful?  Does yelling toughen them up a bit? Does being yelled at make you better able to cope later on in life or does being hollered at chip away at you emotionally? I do yell, and when I do, I usually follow it with an apology, only for losing my cool, not for being upset with my children and their actions.

With Mother’s Day coming up on Sunday, I will celebrate with my children the wonderful thing that is motherhood. It is truly magical, as I will never love anyone more than I love my children. As Mothers, we can do our kids a great service by forgiving ourselves when we make mistakes and not being so hard on ourselves for the things that we regret.

During my motherhood, I will continue to provide unconditional love and caring to my children. I will chauffeur, volunteer, scrub stains out of clothes (or carpet),  relearn math that I have forgotten, memorize state capitals (again), cry at graduations, proms and triumphant sporting events.  I will pace the floor at night worrying, jump at phone calls, scrutinize boyfriends and girlfriends and make eyes roll. I will always offer my life to save theirs…all with a hearty yell thrown in every once in while, for good measure. 

Happy Mother’s Day.