…and it’s totally ridiculous. Okay – maybe just 60% ridiculous. For me. For someone else it would only be 30% ridiculous. BUT for others it could be like 99% ridiculous (I can’t damn someone to 100% ridiculous – I mean I’m not DEAD inside). So I’m not too far gone for this semi-ridiculous idea.
I want to reinvent myself.
Of course, I’ve been talking about this long enough that it’s not exactly news. Or maybe I’ve just been talking to the voices in my head (who incidentally, are super negative sometimes and totally gave me a 90% ridiculous…they better start paying rent soon, or I may have to evict them for good!)
Either way – I know I’ve at least mentioned that I feel like I took several wrong turns when it comes to career and finding my true calling. And that’s okay. I can’t have any serious regrets since I am a VERY lucky girl right now. I have a wonderful family (including a new dog who is only 30% annoying and 25% gross – but she IS a dog for goodness sake) and exceptional friends. And I live in a nice house in a nice neighborhood and have found fantastic services and teachers for my special needs son (who is 100% miraculous). So if I’m a little late to the party career-wise, I think I’ll survive.
But the fact remains that I’m no longer young and cute. No one is going to discover me. Any redefining that happens in my life will require hard work. 100% of which will be for me alone. Bottom line, I’m not exactly ingenue material here.
Seriously. I’m 40.
Newly-so in fact. My birthday was April 27th.
Don’t bother scrolling down. There was no “it’s my birthday!” post. I was one week out from Listen to Your Mother DC and so busy updating that website every day, that I never made it over here to put on my birthday girl hat. The confetti packages remain unopened. The party horns silent. I had a lovely day with friends and family, but I didn’t get around to even a quick mention HERE on my personal website (which may actually be blog sacrilege or something…)
So yeah. I’m 40.
Now, I’m not going to make a big deal about how old 40 is. I know it’s not. But it’s different.
Definitely different from turning 30. At 30, I was working and didn’t have kids yet. My life was still all about me. And let’s face it – as much as the twenty-somethings cower in the face of their own fast-approaching decade change, 30 isn’t quite the same as FORTY.
Like I said, the birthday itself was great – as all birthdays should be. Your own little VIP holiday. Pick up some wine at the grocery store and you’re an instant celebrity! “May I see your ID? Well – hey now – HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Loved ones check in to wish you well. Your FaceBook wall posts runneth over. You may even get a present or two. I don’t care about getting older on my birthday. Birthdays are fab.
But then it’s the day after your birthday…
You know that old joke that newly married women make: “Yesterday I was a bride! Now I’m just a wife…” Oh – that shift from YOURBIGSPECIALDAY to every day life. A month ago, it was my fortieth birthday! Now I’m just 40.
And it’s fine. No different from any other age really. Except for the cougar jokes, maybe… They make my head explode. I mean, a “cougar” is an older woman actively seeking the attentions of much younger men. NOT a woman who is 40+ years old. Think about it. Is your mom a cougar? I didn’t think so (and if she is…I’m sorry OR Good for her! or whatever the appropriate response would be).
But cougars aside, my only true aversion to this birthday is that I’m officially in the age group that I always assumed had its shit together. When I think of 40 year old women, I picture established careers whether they are outside of the home or family focused. Forty year old women are supposed to be honing skills and expanding knowledge that they already have.
I’m just starting to wonder what I’m going to be when I grow up.
I have some ideas of what I’d like to be. But how do you start at 40?
I guess I’ll figure it out. I’m feeling pretty confident at the moment. The odds aren’t THAT bad (and will definitely improve when all three of my children are in full time elementary school this fall).
But it will be hard. And I have always preferred easy… Oh well.
I’m not really going anywhere with this. Just felt like putting it out there in black and white. Almost like a dare to myself. Okay old lady. Time to get serious. DO something already – or do MORE.
I really think I can. Reinvent myself, I mean.
And after this self pep talk, I’m feeling like it’s a little less ridiculous. Maybe just 40%.
Hi! My name is Alice and I’m (supposedly) five months old. I’m a rescue dog but I’m (mostly) house broken and only puke once a day. I can’t tell you why I puke every day, but man is it fun to see my owner, Kate freak out over it. Apparently this puke thing is gross. But I have no barometer for gross since I chew on pig ears (yes ACTUAL dried pig ears that are sold at Target in the pet section – isn’t that AWESOME?) I don’t chew shoes, but I strongly suggest that you hide your Hungry Hungry Hippos marbles when I’m around. When I’m not attacking my leash, I enjoy long walks in the woods, stalking the neighbors’ cat and whining at the door for no apparent reason.
So yeah – we have a dog. And up until a few months ago, I would never have expected that this would happen. Our house is not very big, we have three small children, my oldest son has numerous therapy appointments each week and I feel like I spend half my life in the car… But here we are. And it’s okay. Alice is actually a VERY good dog.
I took the twins to a wedding in NYC over the weekend and came home to this new family member. I received the following pictures on my drive home along with the announcement that we are now dog owners.
Chris and Oliver had plans to “look” at dogs, but immediate adoption was not something we discussed. In fact, we were talking about doing this in July when everyone was out of school and the noisiest day of the year (July 4th) was over. But Chris said that he knew Alice was the perfect dog for us. And I guess we couldn’t just put her on a two month hold.
Like everything else in my life, things didn’t happen exactly as I had planned. And as usual, it’s fine – maybe even better this way.
I haven’t owned a dog since the ’80s; and even then, we were terrible pet owners with inconsistent rules and training (hey – sounds a lot like my parenting!) So I’ve been relying heavily on Chris to tell me what I’m supposed to be doing with this animal. And I’m not that bad at it. I can make her sit and stay (most of the time), and when Chris isn’t around, she definitely knows I’m the boss in our house.
With Chris at work and Oliver at school most of the week, the twins and I have been with Alice the most. And they are just as clueless as I am. This is all new to them and I’ve discovered that they think ANYTHING is possible with dogs.
The other day in the car, I said “Alice is the PERFECT dog for our family.” And George agreed, “yes! We should buy her AGAIN!” I’m still not sure how he thinks that would work…
Then later in the day, when I was talking about the various treats that Chris has been putting in her food bowl, I told them “Alice ate an egg last night.” And Eleanor gasped, “Alice LAID AN EGG last night?!”
So they’re pretty much ready for anything.
I am too. And I’m taking it day by day. But mainly I’m happy. I love seeing Oliver playing with Alice. He’s the only one of kids brave enough to let her tackle him and gnaw on him with her giant puppy teeth. And Chris has never seemed so relaxed and content. Whether he’s wrestling with Alice or lying on the floor next to her – I swear, she just drains the stress and intensity right out of him.
Also, my house looks great since my mild OCD tendencies make it impossible for me to abide BOTH a dog and a dirty floor. And of course, I’m constantly scrubbing tables and counters to discourage Alice from jumping up to lick them. So that alone helps with my own stress and anxiety.
While the kids already more or less destroyed any sense of perfectionism that I may have harbored in the past, Alice is systematically locating all remaining shreds and grinding them into dust. Even those long walks on the wooded trails behind our house that should be fun for EVERYONE have included numerous bouts of complaining, crying and whining (OH the whining) – with Eleanor in the lead for most annoying participant (which is saying a lot since Alice starts tug of war battles for leash dominance every time I stop for more than two seconds).
Things truly peaked on Wednesday when Eleanor cried and refused to walk any further because her legs hurt. After several minutes of good parenting discussions about behavior and consequences, I gave in and told her to climb on my back. The minute her muddy shoes started staining my khaki pants, Alice lost her mind and lunged at us in an attempt to climb on top of me as well. As we turned the corner in a staggering whirlwind of wailing, yelling, barking, lunging and muddy shoes and paws, we narrowly missed tripping over a turtle that was almost as big as Alice. Perhaps you heard my scream? It was loud. It also stopped the madness and everyone WALKED home without further incident.
And what about Alice? How does she feel about her new home and family?
She seems happy. But I do wonder what she thinks about us – particularly from her own pack animal perspective. Here is my best guess:
Chris: Alpha who likes to play.
Kate: Alpha alternate who likes to take away all smells with spray bottles.
Oliver: Beta #1 who likes to play.
Eleanor: Beta #2 who DOES NOT like to play [Eleanor prefers Alice when she’s calm and not so “bitey”].
George: Beta #3 who likes to think he is Alpha.
So that’s our pack now. A family of five plus one. A pack of six. And as I sit here writing in my blog for the first time in weeks, with Oliver at school, Chris as work, the twins playing quietly and Alice snoozing next to my feet, I think that’s pretty perfect.
But feel free to get my opinion on this later when I’m picking up her poop in a plastic bag.
It’s been a while since I’ve written anything here. And I have a good excuse: I’ve been writing DAILY at the Listen to Your Mother DC blog. Sometimes twice a day. And to be honest, I’m exhausted.
But the show is now over. I know – my Facebook friends never thought this day would come. Yes Virginia, there IS an end to the shameless self promotion.
But seriously, I can’t thank you all enough for your support. If you didn’t get to come to the show, the readings were videotaped and will be added to a YouTube channel in a month or so. And I’ll have a recap post up on our LTYM DC site tomorrow.
In the meantime though, I thought I’d tell you about another BIG SHOW that took place at my house recently. A FASHION show.
A relative who drove down for Listen to Your Mother, brought some presents for my children, and Eleanor really got the best one. It’s a paper doll fashion show set – complete with a runway and chairs. She was thrilled and spent hours carefully coloring all of the outfits and giving the dolls matching blond bobs.
Once the dolls were finished, she did two things. First, she assigned homes to each of them. One lives on the dining room table…one lives on the kitchen counter…etc. Then she started heavily marketing the fashion show. This was strictly word of mouth from doll to doll, but within minutes, they were all abuzz about the big fashion show taking place in HERNDON!
Now, you don’t have to be from the DC area to guess that suburban Herndon is not exactly a fashion capital. So this had me laughing for hours.
At one point I overheard a conversation in which one of the dolls said, “Oh, it’s in Herndon? That’s really far for me. I’ll have to drive.” Intrigued, I interrupted to ask Eleanor, “really? Herndon is far for her?” My daughter just gave me a quizzical look and said, “Well, yes. I mean, she lives all the way at the refrigerator.
I know it’s far… But I highly suggest a drive over to our house for the Herndon fashion show. They happen every 20 minutes or so.
Every child deserves a shot at… Fill in the blank. Or hundreds of blanks. Because every child deserves a shot at living long enough to do so many things. Things that I personally, take for granted. I never questioned that my children would have the opportunity to take their first steps, say their first word, find their first friend, tell their first joke…and yes, discover their first talent. There are too many milestones to list.
But in some parts of the world children don’t live long enough to do any of those things simply because their families do not have access to vaccines.
Where I come from, mothers have heated debates about whether we should have to vaccinate our children or not. We read read media coverage on the subject and discuss our views at the neighborhood playground or cocktail parties. In other countries, mothers who are desperate to have their children vaccinated watch babies die from vaccine-preventable diseases. As a woman who has been given the gift of choice, I would like to help extend that luxury to others.
So I’m joining the chorus of voices supporting the Shot@Life campaign.
On Friday, I attended an event hosted by Wired Momma and Dolci Gelati on behalf of the UN Foundation and the Shot@Life Campaign. We were treated to some of the best gelato I’ve ever had (and I’ve been to Italy twice) and then participated in a a discussion about the need for accessible vaccines in developing countries.
We heard about a woman in Mozambique who walked 15 miles with her baby on her back to reach life saving vaccines. She had already lost two babies to measles. TWO. That is completely unimaginable in my world.
We make jokes about our “first world problems” but this is the not so funny flip side. The harsh reality is that while I complain about my three healthy children taking five hours to put on their shoes so I can drive them to the grocery store, another mother walks 15 miles to try to save the life of her her own surviving third child.
Here are some facts that you can find on the Shot@Life site:
“This year, 1.7 million children will die from diseases that have all but disappeared in the U.S. simply because one in five children around the world do not have access to the life-saving immunizations needed to survive.
Millions of children are disabled or killed every decade by preventable diseases like pneumonia, diarrhea, measles and polio. Pneumonia and diarrhea are the two biggest killers of children under five, and account for more than one-third of childhood deaths worldwide.
Seventy-five percent of unvaccinated children live in just 10 countries. For children in India, Nigeria, Pakistan, Indonesia, Democratic Republic of Congo, Ethiopia, China, Uganda, Chad and Kenya, access to vaccines mean the difference between life and death, a healthy life or a lifetime of struggle.
With so many children around the world unvaccinated, outbreaks of diseases such as measles can occur. Expanding access to vaccines strengthens our ability to fight disease globally and keep our families healthy here at home.”
Today kicks off WHO’s World Immunization Week. In celebration, the Shot@Life campaign is on a mission to vaccinate 1,000 children by Mother’s Day 2012. For just $20, a child can be protected for life from the four deadly diseases listed above.
Everyone who attended this event was asked to think about milestones that all children should have the opportunity to reach. The video above shows my response. What is yours?
Visit Shot@Life’s DONATE page to find out more about how you can help them save 1,000 children by Mothers Day 2012.
Thank you to event host, Monica Sakala (Wired Momma) for inviting me to this inspiring event!
And thank you to Dolci Gelati owners, Anastasia Dellaccio and her talented husband, Chef Gianluigi for co-hosting the event and treating us to their world class gelato!
I’ve been pretty busy with Listen to Your Mother for the past couple of weeks, but I’ve been meaning to post another installment of that personal history I’m writing for our family “ancestor book.” If you’re interested, you can find the ealier posts under “About Me.” Since this would be “Part Three” and I’m barely four years old…I think we’ll skip the numbers – “Part 48” will sound ridiculous. Here’s were we last left off…
In anticipation of my brother’s birth, my parents moved our little family from a tiny Tudor house in Scarsdale to a larger one in Pelham, NY.
I loved that house with its wisteria covered, wrap-around patio. Set on an incline, the basement was full of light from large arched windows overlooking the backyard. And our hill was excellent for sledding.
We had a swing set, but the main attraction for the kids who visited was rope swing so long and so high, it’s miraculous that no one was ever brained on the tree trunk. You couldn’t pay me enough money to get on that thing now, but at the time it felt like flying.
On the other side of our yard was a house where one of my then four-year-old brother’s first friends lived. He was also named Matthew and had an older teenage brother who taught them to light firecrackers and took them for rides on his motorcycle. I’m not sure how my mother found out about that, but I do remember the waves of frantic anxiety I could feel in her presence whenever the other Matthew and his family were involved.
My best friend was my cousin, Amy. Dad’s older brother, Uncle Dick moved his family to Pelham first. And he and my Aunt Linda had three girls. Kelly was three years older than me, which at that stage of childhood, may as well have been decades. But Kristin and Amy were respectively one year older and younger.
Kristin was a tomboy, often spotted standing on the banana seat of her bike as she raced down the hill. I could never keep up with that. Amy, on the other hand was a more exuberant version of me. We were both giggly and full of imagination, but where I was reserved Amy was a love. Such an affectionate little girl – no one could resist her charms.
She was also a character. Much to my cousin’s dismay, my Aunt Linda insisted on keeping Amy’s wispy blond hair short (something I completely understand now that I have my own daughter with wispy blond hair…) But Amy desperately wanted long hair. So she would pretend to have waist-long tresses by wearing tights on her head. She’d swing the limp, two-legged pony tail from side to side, asking me what I thought of her beautiful new hairstyle. And as clearly as I can remember that part of the story, I have no recollection of what I said in response.
Thanks to The Bully Project for sponsoring my writing. Visit their website to join the movement and learn more.
When was in fifth and sixth grade, there was a girl in my class named Lauren. She was small and slim, with black hair. Pretty. And for the life of me, I can’t imagine what it was that made her a target for bullies.
There were definitely “mean kids” in my small Catholic school class of 30. And Chip was the worst. He would push Lauren down on the playground. He was also fond of teasing Peggy, the overweight girl in our class. He called her “Piggy.” He was not quite as original as he was cruel.
I was just unimportant enough to escape Chip’s attention, but I hated what he did to the other kids. How he made them feel.
Lauren and Peggy couldn’t look more different. But they had one thing in common. Neither of them had close friends. Girls like me would be friendly enough – but we already had best friends. And we didn’t go out of our way to include them in any significant way.
We also didn’t take a stand on their behalf. We didn’t tell bullies like Chip to leave them alone. We thought our own kindness was enough.
It wasn’t.
I can’t speak for anyone else, but I know exactly why I didn’t try to help. Why I didn’t tell the mean kids to stop. It was because I felt powerless. And it wasn’t just being afraid that their terrible attention would be directed at me. It was because I knew how futile my efforts would be.
At that time, I was a nobody. While I had friends, I was not particularly pretty or popular. I had a bad hair cut. I was a little too tall. I wasn’t slim. The best things I had going for me were kindness and a good imagination. Neither of these qualities rate very highly in fifth grade.
Seriously – I have no idea what is going on with that hair…
If I had the nerve to stand up to a bully, they would just laugh at me. If I was lucky, that’s all they would do.
So I just watched, hating every second of the unprovoked attacks. And when the dust cleared I would make an extra effort to nice to the victims. And hoped my subtle disapproving looks would be enough.
They weren’t.
And bullying didn’t just take the form of playground taunts from the mean kids. Practical jokes were employed as well. Once a popular boy in our class walked Lauren home and asked her to be his girlfriend. He laughed about it later with another girl. I can’t remember how he told Lauren the truth – that it was all a joke… Maybe it was over the phone. But either way, I know it humiliated her. And I didn’t understand WHY. Why would anyone think that was funny? Why would Lauren believe it? Just WHY?
Neither the girl nor the boy mentioned above were mean people. She actually became a very close friend of mine in later years – and I KNOW that she is a good person. I seriously doubt that either of them considered their joke to be an act of bullying.
But it was.
And I wish that I had done more than not laugh. I wish that it never happened at all.
I have a lot of regrets about that time. But at the same time, I don’t know that I could have made a difference. Not like I could later.
Lauren left our school after sixth grade – moved away. But Peggy stayed. Chip also left the school and the overt bullying subsided. Maybe seventh graders – in such a small class – automatically matured a bit. Maybe the boys started to think it was wrong to be physically aggressive with girls. I don’t know…
It seemed to me that things got better. But if you asked Peggy, I doubt she’d agree.
I mentioned that I was able to make a difference later. This is something that makes me feel proud. And not just a little impressed by how observant I was at such a young age. By seventh and eighth grade, I became less awkward – prettier. I was one of the popular girls in my class and people cared more about what I had to say. Around this time, it became clear to me that the kids my age would believe pretty much anything presented to them in full confidence. Especially if it was true.
I noticed that Peggy spent a lot of time drawing in a notebook. Mostly fashion pictures – and they were pretty good. So I started making a fuss over her. Pointing out to people what a “good artist” Peggy was. After a while, others picked up on this and Peggy became known as one of the bests artists in the class. For once people had something nice to say about that quiet, unassuming girl.
Did this make a big difference – did it change her life – did she live happily ever after? Probably not – no – and if so, it had nothing to do with anything I ever did.
This was a nice gesture. But in all honesty, it wasn’t enough. And it was ultimately more for me than it was for her. It was so satisfying to trick people into being nice.
That same year, our class got a cassette tape in the mail from Lauren. Our teacher played it for us and later said that he thought a therapist probably suggested she do it. On the tape she told us how awful we were to her – how cruel. She asked us if we thought good people treated others like that. She said many things. It was long. It rambled. It broke my heart.
I was never anything but pleasant to Lauren, but I felt ashamed. If anything, I was horrified on behalf of our class – that we as a whole, could make one person so miserable.
I looked around expecting to see other contrite expressions. But I didn’t.
I saw smirks. They laughed. And I was furious. But of course I said nothing. Because even now that I was pretty and popular and people listened to me – it still wouldn’t have made a difference. They would rather laugh at “how weird” this girl was than face the truth of her words. To feel ashamed.
And of course I understand at age forty, that their reaction was probably a defense mechanism. The maturity level of an eighth grade classroom is not particularly high.
I didn’t miss my elementary school when I left for high school the next year. I had good memories and am still close to a number of my friends from that time. But I will always look back on those years as being harsh.
I chose well when I decided to go to an all girls high school. It wasn’t by any means a big love fest where everyone was nice to each other all the time. But it was a bit more forgiving. People found their niches. Teenage girls have different ways of torturing each other…gossip, drama, boyfriend stealing… So no one ever got pushed around between classes. No one pretended to be your friend as a joke.
The trite but true statement that “kids can be so cruel,” is exactly what makes me relieved to be done with that time of my life. And it also makes my heart clench to imagine my own children living through it in a few years.
Right now they are young, their classrooms are warm and welcoming places where they are learning to share and be considerate. Teachers intervene when there is pushing. Everyone has to say sorry. Classmates are called “friends.”
I was very lucky growing up. First, for not being in the direct line of fire when it came to school bullies, and then for going to a high school where kids didn’t get pushed into lockers. I even managed to benefit from some great learning experiences along the way.
But at the end of the day, I just wish none of it had ever happened. I wish that Lauren and Peggy didn’t have to be put through all of that. Because being told that you aren’t worthy of respect at such a young age…well, it has to take its toll. But it did happen. So instead of wasting time wishing for the impossible – to change the past – I just hope that it eventually worked out for those girls. That being bullied didn’t take away their futures.
For so many – it does.
I don’t like to think about it. None of us do – and maybe that’s why it’s so easy to turn a blind eye. We can allow the cycle of cruelty to continue because it’s easier to pretend that we don’t see it.
I can tell you right now that I DO NOT want to watch a movie about kids being bullied. About kids committing suicide because they were bullied.
But I will, because no matter how hard it will be for me to watch (no matter how hard it was for me to watch…) it must be a million times harder to experience it. And if they can live through it, then it is only right and fair that I muster up the courage to bear witness.
So when The Bully Project comes to my area, I will see it. And I will send links about it to the teachers I know. Especially my special needs son’s teacher. Children with disabilities are obvious targets for teasing…for bullying. It’s an unfortunate reality that will be part of my future. And if I felt powerless to stand up for the kids in my own class – what can I do for my son when I’m not even there?
Everything starts with awareness. And everything we teach our children is more effective while they are young. So I will watch something painful and I will think about it. I will talk to other parents about it and I will talk to my children about it. I will try to model the way I want them to treat others – and the ways they should expect to be treated. I will acknowledge the issue, not pretend it doesn’t exist.
This is huge – it’s not a problem that is easily solved…or ever solved, really. But people really can make a difference. I know that now. And this year, I will start by seeing a movie.
I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective. Find showings in your area for The Bully Project and buy tickets here.
He’s seven. Be still my heart… And yes – that is a half-melted Carvel cake that you can buy from Target. HEY! It’s what he wanted. Martha Stewart was not required for that birthday party.
Then – I FINALLY wrote a post about our Listen to Your Mother show read through.
Remember those bumper stickers we had made? So handy for so many things…
You can read about it HERE. Have you bought your ticket for the DC show yet? For the show in the city where you live? Well what are you waiting for?! DC locals can do so HERE. And remember that everyone who buys their ticket before April 5 will be entered to win one of two signed copies of Scary Mommy’s new book!
While I wasn’t working on Listen to Your Mother, I was finishing up a four volume “compendium” of the graphic novels for The Walking Dead. That’s right – I said graphic novels and The Walking Dead. These are letter formations that should in no way be featured in my lexicon – unless we are living in a parallel universe… If you are a reader here, you know that I watched the first season of The Walking Dead on Netflix because Chris suggested it and Tom & Lorenzo seemed to be into it. But really – it’s an aberration.
I generally abhor everything about the horror genre and if I had to pick two things that scare me the most, they would be demonic possession and the undead. And The Walking Dead pretty much corners the market on the latter.
Where would I acquire such an item as a graphic novel – and one about zombies no less? I saw it at a friend’s house and after a lively discussion about how the show (or in this case, the graphic novel) offers a fascinating view into the breakdown of both society and humanity, I found myself carrying the tome out to my car.
I finished it and am now mentally and emotionally prepared for the zombie apocalypse. Seriously – I am only slowly coming out of the totally-bought-into-the-possibility-of-this haze. I’m hoping to be able to walk outside after dark without sprinting soon. That is some f*cked up sh*t, my friend…. I’m now scarred for life and anxiously anticipating Volume 5.
Moving on… It’s not all about dead bodies in my life! I also think about fashion. And speaking of… I am now a full day late in announcing the winner of my Shabby Apple Giveaway! I know people who don’t read this blog but entered the giveaway are like, “who is this crazy lady who writes two sentences about her son’s birthday and a freaking thesis on The Walking Dead!? Get to the Shabby Apple winner already!”
Alright, alright already! The winner is…
Miriam!! (Miriam – I sent you an e-mail with directions on how to collect your prize.)
I expect that this will buy me some karma to win someone else’s Shabby Apple giveaway now… Fingers crossed for that.
Wow – that was quite a weekend. And I didn’t even talk about the brunch I hosted or the Mt. Everest of laundry I folded. It’s a very exciting life I lead…
Happy almost-Wednesday! (Is that a thing? I think it should be…)
**And the winner is…MIRIAM! I’ve sent an e-mail with directions on how to collect – if it was not received, please e-mail me at bigpieceofcake@gmail.com.
In the four years that I’ve been blogging, I think I’ve entered about 500 Shabby Apple giveaways. You would think that I could win ONE of them, right?
Not so much. And in truth, it probably wasn’t 500… But still – a lot.
Someday, I’ll win a giveaway, but in the meantime I’m doing the next best thing. I’m hosting a Shabby Apple giveaway for a $50 store credit!
You could put that toward one of their fabulous dresses…
…or buy one or more of their many under $50 items…
My conversation with my five yaer old twins in the car earlier today:
Eleanor: Mommy, is there a Huckleberry Street?
Me:We know a Huckelberry. Our friend Stephanie’s baby is named Huckleberry.
Eleanor:Yes – but do you know any STREETS named Huckleberry?
Me:Well it certainly sounds like a street name. I’m sure there are some streets named Huckleberry – but I don’t actually KNOW a street named Huckleberry.
George:I know a street named Survival.
Me: [incredulous guffaw] WHAT?!
George:SURVIVAL. The street named Survival.
Me:Sounds like the title of a song. George – do you really think there is a street named SURVIVAL?
George:Yes. It’s real. But it’s very hard to find.
Honestly? Half the time, I have no idea what he’s talking about. But I don’t even care. And if I had any song writing talent at all, I would definitely work on one about this “street named Survival.” And George.
You may already know this – but I’m going to be posting installments of a personal history I’m writing for our family “ancestor book.” This is a continuation of that. And to simplify things, I’m putting the whole thing under “About Me.” So if you want to read from the beginning – you can head over there! Here’s were we last left off…
I was the oldest child in my family, born on April 27, 1972. According to my mother, it was a typical first delivery with very little drama. That is, if you don’t count the fact that my father and the doctor were so caught up in a televised basketball game, they almost missed the actual birth. But Mom had a feeling it was time, so she put her lovely manners aside for a few minutes and demanded a little attention.
From what I understand, I was a baby who refused to sleep unless held by someone who was walking. So I take full credit for my mother losing all of her baby weight (and then some) within three weeks of my birth. I think you could call that exercise plan “constant cardio.” It’s amazing how many calories you burn when you never get to lie down.
But I made up for my difficult infancy when I became a little girl who liked to sit quietly and read. Finally – Mom could sit!
I think I inherited my love of reading from my mother. From my earliest memories, she was never without a book in hand or within reach. She has always been a calm and peaceful presence in our family – and this created an environment most conducive to quiet time for reading and reflection.
Not so much my father. Where Mom made space for others to be themselves, Dad’s larger than life presence filled the room. He wrote songs and played them on the piano for us. The Toe Song was our favorite and I can still remember the words, “holding hands is fun…holding feet is dumb.” He also played with us in a way that doesn’t come easily to anyone over the age of 13. He would throw himself heart and soul into games that really just boiled down to chasing us around the house.
And he can STILL play with wild abandon all these years later. I watch Oliver, George and Eleanor beside themselves with giggling as Grandpa pretends to be a monster, and gives them piggy back rides up and down the stairs. It’s like he never stopped being a kid, himself. And I relive my own childhood watching them – seeing my brother and me in the smiling faces of my children.
My brother and I are two years apart, so we played together a lot when we were little. I hear I wasn’t his biggest fan at first, but luckily there are no stories about us that involved harmful intent. I think the worst thing I did was stand in front of my mother while she was nursing Matthew and proceed to pee on the floor. I must say, for someone who has never been fond of the spotlight, I certainly did have a flair for making my disgruntled presence known.
