Tag Archives: Me Before Kids

Personal History (Part Two)

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.

More to come…

Personal History (Part One)

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My father is putting together an “ancestor book” and has asked everyone in the family to write a little bit about themselves and their life to date. So of course as the only blogger in the family, I am also the LAST to actually write anything.

Isn’t that always the way?

Actually I find this very difficult since “brief overview” has never been my thing. Four pages in, I realized that I hadn’t even made it to Kindergarten!

I have been working on it though, and thought it might be fun (i.e. it might provide me with some much needed blog content) if I posted installments of it here.

So here is an intro of sorts:

My earliest memory is a family picture taken when I was about nine months old. Or at least, I had a memory – then saw a picture and made the connection. In my memory, I was in a good place (my mother’s lap). Then I was moved somewhere else (a grandfather’s lap), and that was no good. I cried. There was a flash.

My mother confirmed the sequence of events when I asked. So I know this must be true. And I like the idea of knowing what it felt like to be a baby. Pre-verbal memories are like dreams – everything comes in sensory flashes…no words or perception of what anyone else could be thinking. Just undiluted personal experience.

I think about this memory sometimes and marvel over the rare opportunity it offers. I actually have some insight into what goes on in the minds of babies! Apparently, babies prefer to be with their mothers. I know this first hand!

Okay – so maybe my pre-verbal memory doesn’t really provide any useful information… But it’s pretty cool, right?

I remember a lot from my childhood (which makes the exercise of writing a personal history less than 3,000 pages long a bit daunting…) But this is most likely because I was always an observer.

You know those fearless kids who hurtle into life, head first? Yeah – that wasn’t me. I was more of a watch-consider-decide that doesn’t look like a good idea kind of girl. One drawback to this attitude is that I often let my cautious nature get in the way of having fun. But on the upside, I grew up with astonishingly few scars.

Since a blow by blow of the last 40 years I’ve been on earth doesn’t seem possible, I’ll just try to cover the interesting stuff.

Cliffhanger right?! Don’t worry – I’ll be back in a couple of days with more!

In the meantime – here is a picture of balloons that were released in honor of Jack Donaldson’s birthday today. It was quite a site – all of those balloons. I brought Oliver and Eleanor with me (George was doing something with Chris), and while Eleanor was happy enough to send her balloon off into the great beyond, Oliver found the whole thing incredibly disturbing. He cried and kept saying “I want them down – I want them back down!” And I can’t say that I blame him. As lovely as the floating balloons were. I didn’t like seeing them disappear either. It was a fitting sentiment: No matter how beautiful the ascent, I wish they could have stayed…

Horse Hell

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You know those girls who are obsessed with horses when they’re young? They pretend jump ropes are reigns and run around the playground neighing and whinnying with their other horse-crazed friends? They inhale books on horses and collect plastic replicas to display on shelves?

I was NEVER one of those girls. I never took a riding lesson. I thought barns were stinky. When I looked at a particularly majestic specimen of equine beauty, I mainly focused on the huge teeth that could take off a finger or two. And possibly the flies buzzing around its rear end.

National Velvet? Never saw it. Black Beauty? Never read it.

I just never understood the the girls and horses thing.

This doesn’t mean that I dislike horses, of course. I just don’t really think about them.

I grew up in the city. I’m not much of an animal person. And this is totally fine with me.

But now – NOW – I have a daughter. And she IS one of those girls who is obsessed with horses.

Woe to the librarian who asks if she can help us… How could she know that a whip cracking pre-reader will have her searching the stacks for the infuriatingly few picture books featuring a horse on the cover. At least she doesn’t have to come home with us and sit with Eleanor as she goes through her check out pile, discussing each page in minute detail.

I’m just about as interested in this now as I was in third grade when my horse crazy best friend would make me learn terminology for horse anatomy and paraphernalia, and THEN quiz me on it. Hey – don’t judge. I was the new girl and thrilled that someone was actually talking to me. Whinnying across the playground with a jump rope around my waist was a small price to pay.

Back to Eleanor though… As much as I don’t share her fervor for equestrian life, I do feel a little sad for her. Because we live in horse farm HEAVEN and it would be easy to find a place for her to take riding lessons. She would LOVE it. And it’s never going to happen.

Yes – I’m aware that it’s not just a fun activity – it’s also wonderful exercise. In fact, it would be fabulous for all of my children. Especially Oliver. I know this because my old friend who force marched me through Horses 101 lessons in third grade is now a pediatric physical therapist in Hippotherapy (a practice of integrated intervention for various disabilities, utilizing “equine movement” in physical, occupational, and speech-language therapies). There are so many reasons for us to get our kids in to riding: easy accessibility, health benefits, fairy godmother-like wish granting for our daughter…

But it’s too expensive. Maybe if we only had one child. We have three, though. And we already spend more money than we have on therapies for Oliver.

I’m not poor mouthing or saying anyone should feel sorry for me. Nothing more than stating facts. Riding lessons just aren’t in the budget.

Luckily – Eleanor is still young enough to think that a pony ride is actual horseback riding. So I don’t think she’ll lament her lot in life with the non-equestrian family too much… And she IS only five. Next year, she could be into theater. Or soccer. Or Wicca. Whatever – as long as we can afford the associated fees, we’ll do the best we can for her.

Unless it’s Wicca. Didn’t I mention that I’m a city girl? I’m not driving her out to the woods to collect lichen and mouse skulls.

It’s one of the less fun aspects of responsible parenting…knowing when you have to draw the line.

The Reluctant Lemming

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About two years ago, I realized that my children and I have a problem with tardiness. While buckling the three-year-old twins into their car seats, I said something fairly innocuous like, “O.K., let’s go!” Then the following exchange took place:

Eleanor: Are we going to be super late?

Me: What? No, we’re not going to be late.

George: Are we going to be CRAZY early?

Me: No. We’re not…where are you getting this?

After thinking about it though, a few things became clear to me. First, that I actually say “super late” and “crazy early”—who knew?! Also, that we’re rarely on time for anything. And finally, that we’re late more often than we are early.

And I have to wonder why. I mean—as a SAHM (stay-at-home mom), I am master of my own destiny. No longer do I find myself stuck in meetings that run late, wondering how I’ll ever make it to daycare on time. I plan our days—decide when we do the shopping and when we go to the playground. I don’t even have to put any effort into my appearance, so the morning wardrobe crisis excuse is a thing of the past…my hairbrush, a definite afterthought.

I never used to think of myself as someone who is always late. But if I wasn’t before, I certainly am now. And I can only come up with one reason: poor time management. More specifically: an inability to get my act together.

You know how people always say that it’s common for a school athlete’s grades to drop off in the off-season? That’s me. I don’t HAVE to leave my house and not come back for 10 hours, every Monday through Friday. Instead, I’m in and out all day, every day, and I can always plan to do something later or tomorrow.

The problem is that I don’t always get to it later or tomorrow…and I’m often scrambling at the last minute.

Why else would it be that I find myself madly trying to finish paying online bills five minutes before a swim lesson at the rec center that is FIVE MINUTES away. Do you know how many times, I’ve pulled into the rec center parking lot at the exact time that a swim lesson is beginning?

If you’re a member, you may have seen me rushing in the door. I’m hard to miss. Picture a wild-eyed, tangle-haired crazy person speed walking ten feet ahead of her three small children, periodically glancing back over her shoulder to bark, “Hurry up, we’re late! Stop running! The sign says no running! Why are you stopping? Get up! Let’s go! We’re GOING to be LATE! Stop running! Hurry up!”

My poor children. Is it possible to develop PTSD after one too many sneak attacks by a drill sergeant brandishing bathing suits and screaming, “Come on! What are you doing? I told you to put these on FIVE MINUTES AGO! Now we’re going to be LATE!” I wonder how many nervous ticks I may be creating…

It seems like this would be a simple habit to correct. I could just plan my day better, not start projects when I know I won’t have much time to complete them. I could even try to do everything early. Now there’s a novel concept!

Though having a schedule for the day or planning to be early for everything may not really be necessary. Because I do actually have some days when I feel less rushed and seem to accomplish more. And a common pattern in all of them is that I do something productive early in the day.

An example of this would be housework. When I have a list of chores that I need to accomplish hanging over my head, I rarely get around to it. But if I’m brushing my teeth, think “that sink is gross,” then just reach for the cleaner, it’s more than likely that I’ll find myself scrubbing all of the bathrooms in the house. I may even drag out the vacuum.

I need momentum.

Maybe that’s what I’m lacking right now: momentum. I’m often so frozen by all of the have to’s and should’s that I have a hard time getting anything done. And when I take a long hard look at my life, I think I’ve always been that way.

Some people feel excited about all the future holds. But for me, it’s oppressive. It looms. I fear that I won’t be able to keep up. So even though I plug away like everyone else, getting things done and celebrating my small triumphs, the anxiety of falling behind is always there.

I’ve never been fast. Even as a child, when we’re all supposed to have fathomless depths of energy and a lightness of spirit that makes running a joyful thing, I was always slow.

We have an old film of a birthday party that serves as proof. I must have been six or seven, and a group of us fill the screen, milling around my backyard in long party dresses. Suddenly there seems to be a communal, unspoken agreement, and we all turn to race down the hill. I was standing at the front and had the clear advantage as a forerunner. But seconds into the sprint, I lost my position as everyone passed me. I finished the race dead last. I was just…slower.

This isn’t a new idea for me; that I operate on a different frequency than others.

Life has always moved too fast for my liking. Even when I was a teenager, when we’re supposed to be at our most daring…fearless. I witnessed my friends’ enthusiasm for college applications and study abroad programs, and just couldn’t relate. They were all so willing to dive headfirst into an unknown future. And I never was. I never jumped. Instead, I was grudgingly dragged over the cliff by the press of the crowd around me. A hesitant lemming.

I’m not ashamed of this, it’s just the way I am. I seem to need a little more time to adjust than other people do. But what is that saying? “Time waits for no one”? And what’s that other saying? “Fake it ’til you make it?” Yeah, I’m painfully familiar with both.

But faking it has become hard now that I’m not surrounded by people who “want to” instead of “have to.”

Now, I start the day with three people who need me to show them an enthusiasm for the future. For seeking out adventures and new experiences. For anticipating, preparing and then DOING. And while I don’t fail miserably at this, it can be pretty half-hearted. Which is why I think I feel so frozen sometimes.

We’re not always late. But we often are, because I have a hard time getting my act together in the morning. And I know that this has a direct correlation to anxiety about falling behind. The weight of it presses down on me.

But I’ve seen that I have far better days when I start accomplishing things before the have to’s begin to loom. On those days, I gather momentum. And that pushes me on, helps me keep up with the fast pace of the world around me.

We all have a different tempo in our approach to life. But majority rules. And when more people beat out a staccato rhythm, it becomes necessary for the rest to figure out how to keep up. March in time.

This is hard for me. But I can do it. I have done it. And I know that it’s my responsibility to keep my place in line and not fall behind. More importantly, it’s up to me to teach all of this to my own children.

I can already see who will follow my lead and require a little more time. That child of my heart will be a bit slower, feel lost sometimes, and maybe even cling to the cliff edge, refusing to jump until the inevitable push from behind is given.

So maybe the slower speed that’s created such difficulty and anxiety for me can serve a purpose. I can provide an example that you don’t have to be like everyone else to accomplish the same things. That you don’t have to reach the finish line first. That as scary as the future may seem, it’s never all that bad once you get there. That you just have to brace yourself and jump.

So that’s what I’m trying to do. Every morning I work on creating some momentum for the day. Even if it’s just making all of the beds, the act of doing something pushes me just tiny bit forward. The first few steps of what will hopefully be a running leap.

I’ll never enjoy jumping. I’ll still lose track of time while dithering. And sometimes I’ll be late. But I won’t let all of that get the best of me, as I so often have in the past. Because I know that regardless of how hard it may be to step off the cliff—how much I dread the drop—once I hit the water, I know how to swim.

Originally posted on Health News: HERE.

Activity Fail, My Gout and Little Sisters

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I’m not sure if I’ve gone into it here…but I’ve probably mentioned in the past that my kids have of yet to be enrolled in any kind of activity like soccer or ballet or even Gymboree when they were babies (though we did attempt “blast ball” with Oliver last year and decided he wasn’t ready).

Initially, the fact that I worked full time made the weekday activities for babies and toddlers impossible. And of course, there has always been the issue of expense.

While my days are now devoted to the care and feeding of my kids, the concern for money flying out the window never goes away. And to be honest – the idea that we should be spending hundreds of dollars each month (or week!) so that our preschoolers could twirl in tutus or practice their off balance somersaults with a professional instructor seemed a bit ridiculous. They can do that here! We have a carpeted basement and a dress up box. AND there are three of them – which is kind of like a class…

But now that they’re getting older and watching their friends arriving home in leotards and white pjs, it’s started to seem a bit cruel.

So as you know we’re trying out Tae Kwon Do for the boys (and Eleanor by default) and dance for Eleanor.

We’ve been lucky with the ballet class – no reasons to skip it. But Tae Kwon Do… The last class they attended was last Monday. We were told that the Friday and Saturday classes would be cancelled due to tournaments (or whatever they’re called in martial arts).

So instead of Saturday, I planned to take them to the following Wednesday class. But then Wednesday was SO HOT. Like high 90s, sweltering, jumping into cold water without wincing hot. And I couldn’t imagine forcing them all into those synthetic white pjs, marching them into an oven-like car and then making them actually exercise. We went to the pool instead.

I thought, okay – well miss a week. Not a big deal. But then the following Monday, Oliver had a fever and I took Eleanor to the doctor today… Now we’re shooting for Friday or Saturday. I think I’m experiencing the frustrating “activity fail” experience that I’ve been hearing about for the past year at our bus stop. Now I get it.

And that may be the most boring 5+ paragraphs I’ve ever written… DON’T say anything – let me have this one…

Moving on, I also got a call today about my gouty knee. It is in fact NOT gout. Blood work was clean and the x-ray didn’t indicate any issues with my bones. But here’s the thing: it still hurts. And it looks a little bit puffier than the other one. I’ve been popping ibuprofen like tic tacs – which I’m pretty sure isn’t good for you long term – so I kind of need another assessment.

So next week, I will have an MRI. My second MRI in the past six months. The first one was for something completely unrelated. Can we say domino effect. Once my hip breaks, it’s all over right?

I’ll keep you posted on my health developments. It’s all so glamorous and exciting – I just have to share.

But I did have something kind of amazing happen this week – yesterday to be exact. I heard from two little girls (now young women) I used to babysit when I was a teenager. And what makes it relevant to this blog is that I once wrote about them! About they were like little sisters to me. [Never Underestimate the Power of a Girl if you’re interested.]

We haven’t been in touch since I was in college, but they both just friended me on FaceBook. All of my FaceBook friends know that I’m kind of a lame FaceBook friend…I’ve never gotten that into it. But this is one of the reasons that I keep my profile. Best thing that happened to me all week (which as you know – isn’t saying much…but still!).

I know I was supposed to post about the big boy/girl bedroom overhaul we did over the weekend. And I will – but I have to download some pictures I took first. Add that to the list of many things I didn’t do today.

So I will fall back on something else that thrills me/bores others to no end. I will charm you with my photography! The new camera is my new boyfriend. When was the last time Chris gave some thought to his auto settings, I ask you? It was inevitable…

No – he’s not ours [pouty face].

Neither is she [ditto].

Tomorrow – pictures of bedrooms. Which have now been talked up far too much. I apologize in advance for the anticlimactic viewing.

P.S. You’re welcome for all the back-links. I’m nothing if I’m not thorough.

The Buzz Around the Baby Pool

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This summer, I’ve been going to the community pool quite a bit during the week. And as I toss, swing and ferry small children who seem determined to pants me with kicking feet, I look around and experience this strange wave of everything in my life coming full circle.

I’m in my late thirties, and sometimes I still can’t believe it. I don’t think that my age is “old,” but it’s definitely older than I feel. And the increasingly laugh-lined face that looks back at me in the mirror each morning jars me with this obvious discrepancy. Only yesterday, I was looking at smooth teenage skin and lamenting imaginary cellulite on my thighs. I valued a tan over a clean bill of health from the dermatologist. Unwanted facial hair was for aging crones – not the likes of pink cheeked me.

I thought people over thirty were grownups…middle aged…parents, uncles, aunts…a far off future where so many things shouldn’t matter anymore. Because, they’re too old for that. Gross.

And now I’m here, in the heartland of not old, but not young anymore. In general, I really like my age and the humor, confidence and better priorities that I’ve picked up along the way. But getting older doesn’t necessarily translate into getting wiser, and anyone my age is susceptible to their fair share of heartbreak, disappointment and selfishness.

Within the past month I have sat by the pool and talked to two different friends about their husbands cheating on them – even leaving them for other women. What once shocked and disgusted me as a young girl has now become a possible reality for my contemporaries. Something people gossip about. What must the young lifeguards think when they overhear bits and pieces of these conversations… Him? Her? Eeew. Too old.

When you’re seventeen, you don’t want to think about older people that way. I very clearly remember being horrified by the idea of affairs – of people leaving their husband or wife for someone else. About the scandal of it all. From my perspective they really were too old for that kind of thing. They should have been more responsible, and their aging bodies just made the behavior seem all the more sordid and repulsive.

I spent the summers of my high school years lounging around pools where my friends were lifeguards. I never actually worked at a pool myself as I’m a mediocre swimmer at best, but I took full advantage of the visitation rights we all assumed. And during that time, I saw a lot of “old” people embarrassing themselves.

When you’re thirty eight, a nice thirty three year old unmarried man with all of his hair and a good job is a catch! When you’re seventeen, he’s just some old guy trying to flirt with you. Again – gross.

My husband has often remarked on his reluctance to hold overly long conversations with the long legged beauties who lifeguard at our pool. Even if it’s about swim lessons for our kids or their own college plans, there is something about this half-dressed contact with them that makes him feel like a dirty old man. Like he has no business even peripherally glancing in their direction, lest he actually notice how attractive they are. He has a daughter now and automatically thinks of her. What if it was a teenage Eleanor on display for the middle aged men at the pool. Someday it will be…

We’ve even had conversations about whether we think the lifeguards are aware of their varying effects on the pool parents or if they’re totally oblivious. Based on my own experience, I would guess that the girls know, and can tell the difference between friendly dads and leering lechers. But we both agree that the boys are probably clueless.

Chris swam competitively through college and did his fair share of lifeguarding. Looking back, he can remember a few incidents of what may have been slightly too friendly attentions from a mom or two, but not much beyond that. Maybe it wasn’t common. Or maybe it just didn’t register.

From what I’ve observed, the mommies around the baby pool are far less likely to notice the lifeguards. We’re too busy changing swim diapers and organizing snacks during breaks. And of course, teenage boys are so obviously “too young.” We may not be able to tell whether they’re seniors in high school or freshmen in college – but it’s all the same. Many (if not all) of us are old enough to have been of legal drinking age when they were born. And the much younger man relationship is far less typical and acceptable in current society than the much younger woman variety. For most of us, any physical attraction associated with these guys is a cringe worthy concept.

Well… With one exception. Because any woman from my neighborhood who read this would be thinking the same thing: um – what about Scott? [A pseudonym of course.] This young man has the community pool moms abuzz. Because yes – he is just that good looking.

It started with a few tentative remarks: “so did you see THAT guy?” But it’s escalated to joking comments about his days off: “Yeah – so disappointing news…Scott’s not here today. I mean really, what’s the point of even coming…”

I know – I know… It sounds silly. But he really is nostalgia inducing. He’s that super cute guy you knew in school who was also really nice. He has that same effortless confidence (and tattoos!). He’s tall with broad shoulders. He has black, shaggy surfer hair and a perfect tan. He’s what your grandma may have once called “a tall drink of water”, and what the cougars refer to as “almost legal.” It’s impossible not to notice him. And maybe even giggle a little at the ridiculously immature (and largely universal) reaction to his impromptu games of water Frisbee.

It really does make me laugh just thinking about it. And the first time I saw him, I couldn’t contain my guffaw of amusement. I was watching an actual cliche dive into our boring, suburban pool. The hot lifeguard indeed.

But just so you know, Scott is also a very nice boy who is great with my kids. From afar, “the hot lifeguard” is a two dimensional reminder of our own often forgotten youth. But up close in conversation, he’s just a good looking high school boy. Just as goofy. Just as ordinary. And yes – I think just as oblivious to the effect he has on the old(ER!) ladies. Or at least oblivious to the extent of it.

My husband, Chris finds the whole thing endlessly entertaining. It also holds a little nostalgia for him since he claims that he was once on the other side of the whistle. Of course that’s what he says. Even the other men in the neighborhood have noticed Scott, and when Chris casually commented, “that was once me,” my neighbor, Rich dryly retorted, “THAT was never you.”

Seriously! Grown people are having these conversations. This summer’s hot lifeguard is quickly gaining legendary status…we may be talking about him for years.

Because we’re all very affected by the young people around us. They remind us of who we were. And who we weren’t. In fact, I think those missed opportunities in life often hold more power over us than the accomplishments do. When you’re young, there is all of this time ahead. All of this possibility. Even if we’re not the best, brightest or prettiest – things could always change. Then we’re not young anymore and that ship has sailed.

At this point, I doubt many of us have serious regrets about not being the most popular person in our class or dating the super good looking, nice guy that Scott seems to be. But we might regret thinking we didn’t deserve it. Looking back, would I say that the most popular people were also the best looking people? Nope. Really, it all comes down to confidence. And I think we all have some regrets for not exhibiting more of it when we really should have.

When the subject of Scott first came up, my friends talked about how he reminded them of old boyfriends. Me? Not so much. I never dated anyone like that. Nor did I try. I “didn’t really care about looks” when I was a teenager. Which probably stemmed more from insecurity than well placed priorities. I’m sure that on some level I just assumed “that guy” was out of my league. Now I realize that this was far from true. When you’re in high school, a little confidence (and a loose moral or two) can go a long way.

So when we see the carefree lifeguards spending their summer in the sun without any plans past that evening’s keg party, we do feel a twinge of nostalgia for a time when anything was possible – even if we didn’t realize it.

Life isn’t so carefree anymore. Every day you hear another rumor circulating through your friends and acquaintances. This one lost his job. That one left her husband. Those two have been secret alcoholics for years… Ironically enough, it’s these stories that have endless possibilities.

It all makes me look back with bittersweet fondness for the girl that I used to be and the simple life I led. I really don’t have many regrets. Ultimately, those unnecessary insecurities allowed me a little more time to be innocent.

And I don’t regret the loss of that time in my life either. I’m ready to be older. To be a mother…a wife…a friend who listens and understands. Youth doesn’t corner the market on everything lovely. There really is beauty in aging gracefully – even if we do stumble now and again.

But it would be nice to send a little wisdom back in time. A message in a bottle to the shiny, new people we were once becoming. Mine would say:

Dear teenage Kate,

You have the rest of your life to not care about looks. Go flirt with the hot lifeguard.

Fondly,
Your older and slightly more jaded self

Youth really is wasted on the young…

My Childhood in Pictures

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There is something about old birthday party pictures that really transport you back. My Dad has been scanning old slides and periodically sends me images – some of which I either don’t remember or have never seen before.

These seem to be from my fifth birthday party:

So “old school birthday party”… Just a bunch of kids sitting around a dining room table eating homemade cake. No theme – no germ encrusted ball pit – just fancy party dresses and dime store presents.

My favorite detail is the floral centerpiece. Only my mother… Though in her defense, it looks like a silk one that was always on the table.

Bonus pictures! Remember the hippity hop?

They’re still around (I believe people call them “hop balls” now?). But not with horse heads!

And check out my brother’s awesome pants. Men’s pants have a serious presence in these old photos… I’m kind of tempted to do a post celebrating my father’s 1970s collection. It was epic.

But I must say, Mom gave him a run for his money now and again…

…and she wins by a hat!

Taking One for the Team

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Have I ever mentioned that I hate sports? And it’s not even just athletic competition – I really don’t like games of any kind. Family board game commercials give me hives. Gambling in Vegas? No thank you. I would rather spend the afternoon at the dentist office than sit through an hour of poker.

This tends to put people off. How can I not like FUN? But you have to realize that from my perspective, fun rarely involves a my team-your team smack down. I can usually get away with my aversion to gambling since many people prefer not to trust Lady Luck with their wallet. And I’m certainly not the first person to have little attention span for rolling dice and moving game pieces. But sports! What could be more wholesome and character building than sports? Running down a field with your opponent hot on your heels pumps your body full of endorphins and makes you feel young again. It’s not normal to dislike sports. It’s unhealthy. It’s UNAmerican.

But I really just don’t. And I’m totally okay with this. I lived through years of school P.E. classes and feel perfectly confident in my preference to sit on the sidelines with a book. Don’t bother inviting me to join your weekend kickball team. I understand that it’s just fun and no one cares how bad you are. At this point, it’s beyond me not being good at sports. They just bore me to tears. I exercise for my health and leave competition out of it.

So you may find it surprising to hear that I actually did join a sports team recently. I just had my first practice on Tuesday and tomorrow will be our first game. I have to admit that I’m a little nervous. There will be people watching and I dread all of that time standing around in the sun, but I just try to focus on the ice cream that Coach Keys promised we’d get after the game.

Oh yeah – did I mention that I’m playing tee ball?

Actually – it’s “Blast Ball,” which is kind of pre tee ball. I wasn’t quite sure we were ready for tee ball yet. And I say “we” because both Oliver and I are Rattlers. That’s our team name – we’re The Rattlers.

Initially, only Oliver was going to play. I thought it might help prepare him for Kindergarten P.E. next year if he got some exposure to team sports. This would be the first year he’d be old enough for tee ball, but I was thrilled to hear that a new team for four year olds was being introduced to the league. Blast Ball is similar to tee ball but even less complicated. The idea of an “easy” game accompanied by the bonus of younger children who might be a bit more on Oliver’s wave length seemed perfect for him.

Unfortunately, Oliver gets nervous about new situations, and I experienced my own fair share of anxiety over this foray into the world of little league. But Chris LOVED team sports and has ALWAYS wanted to be a little league coach for his kids. So he was very enthusiastic about the idea. Like me, he had little concern for Oliver’s performance, but looked forward to sharing this great personal joy with his son. Awesome. I could sit on the sidelines. Maybe not with a book…can’t do that with my kids… But at least I could close my eyes and la la la in my happy place when things got tense.

Then, Chris tried to build a new deck.

More specifically, he and his friend were unloading lumber for the new deck, and tragedy struck. His foot to be exact. As they were opening the truck gate the wood came shooting out and landed on Chris’ left foot. It also took out his right arm and left leg in the process, but the serious injury was the big hole in his foot that would require eleven stitches and two weeks on crutches.

So the first practice day did not find me making dinner and entertaining the twins while wondering how things were going at Blast Ball. Instead it found me calling encouragement to a terrified five year old who has trouble understanding what people say to him and responding in full sentences. Even the simple directions being explained to the six other team members (ranging from age three and a half to four and a half) went completely over his head.

My heart broke with each pleading look threw in my direction. And toward the end of practice, when the sun was in everyone’s eyes and he was dying of thirst because his stupid mother forgot to bring a bottle of water (I remembered to bring the coach’s cell phone number – just in case – but obvious necessities like water and a baseball hat? Not so much…), I saw that he had a few tears running down his cheeks.

He was exhausted. Not from the physical exertion though. He was working so hard to understand what was expected of him and he was so worried that I would suddenly disappear, that he had finally reached a breaking point.

The kind coach, who had no idea what was going on with Oliver did know that something needed to be done. So he suggested that maybe Mommy could play too! Maybe that would be more fun.

Neither Oliver nor I had much hope of achieving “fun” at this juncture, but I would be damned if we didn’t get through that practice. Oliver just needs to know what is going to happen next. After a few practices and games, he would understand the itinerary and feel much more secure. Would he love it? Who knows. Would he at least have a little fun? I certainly hoped so. But the first step was to survive that first time. I knew that going in, and I was ready to do pretty much anything to make it happen.

So with 15 minutes left in the practice, I ran with Oliver to the base and back. I stood with him in the “outfield” and dragged him toward the ball with the other kids. And just as it looked like we might be seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, Coach Keys announced that we were going to finish up with a drill.

I don’t know if he actually said “drill” – he might have called it a game – but I spent enough time in P.E. class to recognize a drill when I saw one. And of course this one involved my two favorite things: running and competition.

We had to line up and then on the word go, run after the ball that the coach threw for us. The distance was long enough to provide time for scrappers to gain the lead from the back, but not so long that anyone would drop off to examine an interesting bug or pick dandelions. Whoever got to the ball first would then sit down while the rest lined up for another run.

Oliver had little understanding of what we were doing at first, and sort of trotted aimlessly behind the rest. But I ran with him and yelled, “come on – let’s get the ball – go go go!” And other horrifying cheerleader-like encouragement of that nature.

Suddenly, I had a flashback of being six years old and running a relay race at one of my cousins’ backyard birthday parties. My Uncle Dick ran alongside me as I tried to keep my egg on a spoon while keeping one eye on the finish line. He yelled, “come on, Kate! You can do it! Just keep your arm straight – hold it steady…you’re almost there!” I doubt a six year old could actually identify feelings like humiliation or despair, but my 38 year old brain conjured up the self loathing that I know continued to rise as I saw the other party dress sashes moving further and further ahead of me and my slow egg balancing progress.

I knew exactly how Oliver felt at that moment. Maybe he was more physically able to win than I ever was, but he couldn’t understand why the boys were running so fast to try to get the ball. Where I couldn’t keep up, he purposely lagged behind. But we both watched others pass us by. And we could both feel the failure in that.

As we lined up for one of three more throws (and at this point, I was actually saying to Oliver, “just three more times, and then we can sit down.“), I heard one of the boys who were watching say, “I wonder who will be last.” It was innocent and artless, without a hint of derision – but still made me want to sag with defeat.

Then something amazing happened. With fewer kids around him, Oliver started to try. Maybe it was fewer people and less confusion. Or maybe it was just having four other practice runs. But he actually tried to get the ball. Not hard…but at least he was looking at the ball and moved in that direction. And he smiled.

So when I got back into line with my son and that one other boy, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. Oliver smiled and he understood. And when the coach yelled “go!” Oliver actually ran. AND he caught the ball. He wasn’t last. And I jumped up and down, clapping my hands like I just won an all expense paid trip to Europe. Because when you’re a mother, that’s exactly how exciting your child’s happiness is to you.

At the end of practice, we huddled up for a quick pep talk and put our hand in for a “go Rattlers!” Then Oliver and I ran for the car. I’m generally one to stay a bit too long at the party, but at that moment I wanted to get while the gettin’ was good. And Oliver was holding me to my many promises of ice cream at Dairy Queen.

We made one other stop first. We had a tee ball set at our house from Summers past, but the bat and ball disappeared a while ago. I suggested that we stop by Target to purchase new ones, and I held my breath as we approached the sports equipment aisle. I was worried that when he saw the bats he’d run screaming out of the store. But instead, he enthusiastically selected a red one.

So we survived our very first sports team experience. And again, I say “we” because this is my first official team too. I’m sure that my apathy for competition has roots in my early performance anxiety and feelings of failure – but don’t diagnose me just yet. I don’t worry about losing anymore. I feel no pressure to be any good at games. I’m an almost 40 year old woman with three children and more every day responsibilities than I can count. Whether I cross the finish line last is the least of my concerns. But I do intend to finish the Blast Ball season with Oliver no matter what level of participation he needs from me. Tedious or not, I’ll be an assistant coach and run next to him during drills and wear shorts outside of the gym. I’ll do everything I hate to make sure he has fun.

As much as I’d rather be sitting on the sidelines of games, I’ll never forfeit my responsibility to Oliver. I’ll wear my Rattlers hat with pride (I’d better get one…) And really – it’s just a couple of months. If I was able to handle those grueling years of working mom commutes and divided priorities, I think can withstand a little humiliation at Blast Ball. And truth be told, I just may be the best one on the team!

Next up: Coach Kate’s exclusive practice sessions. Oh yes – we’ve already had a couple of those. More to come on that…

A (Hopefully) Brief Haitus (and a quick blast from the past)

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Due to some very annoying laptop issues, it looks like I’m going to be computerless for a little while (based on past experience, I’m guessing it will be a week).

I’ll continue to read what you’re up to on my iphone though. And you probably won’t notice the difference since I’ve found that I only have time to read these days, and have let my commenting efforts drop off quite a bit… So I’m basically a relapsed lurker now.

Anyway – I set up daily posts on Wishing True for this week (old stuff from here actually), so you can check that out if you have time. And of course, I have that post about George up on DC Metro Moms if you’re interested.

AND – don’t forget all of my giveaways…I’ll have to draw winners when I get my computer back – so there is even more time to enter! See HERE for a list.

Just to add something of substance today…my Dad has been scanning some old pictures recently and sent me a few:

First a pretty shot of me with my mother – including a lovely (and unintentional since it was 1972) photo effect. All the better to illuminate my bald pate.

Then another super cute one of me with my Dad (sweet mustache!)

This is me with my Mom at my Grandmother’s river house in Oregon.

And here is another river house picture of “the old gang”:

Check out my Mom’s blue Egyptian bird necklace and that awesome (sorry – there is no other word for it) dress! Note to self – save all dated looking outfits for Eleanor as they will one day be total finds…

That’s all I have for the really old pictures (there are hundreds and he’s only just started to forward them). But I do have a copy of this semi-ancient prom picture that I posted on Wishing True last week.

Wish me luck on the computer repairs… Have a great week!

Ballerinas Don’t Wear Pants

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I haven’t been writing that much lately. And it’s largely due to the fact that I’m so fully immersed in life and plans and worries and even kind of enjoying myself right now – that when I do have a free moment at the computer, I feel like I have nothing to say.

And how is this possible? Oliver is starting Kindergarten next year and I’m looking down the barrel of a new IEP. AND I’ve done the unthinkable and taken responsibility for initiating sports activities for him. (This, from the girl who would willingly be the first one out in dodge ball just so she didn’t have to play.) Even if I didn’t think he’d spend the entire time rolling in dirt, it would be a bitter pill to swallow.

The emotional roller coaster involved in everything having to do with that little boy could give me a book’s worth of material – both funny and sad. Yet when I start to write about any of it, my head flops down in exhaustion at the idea of actually hitting keys and making this more real than it already is. I’m a realist by necessity but an escapist at heart.

So I don’t want to write about that. Nor do I have the desire to journal every funny story from my life at home with the kids. There are many – and I do sometimes share, but the truth is, I assume that it’s all been said before.

You know how when you start reading blogs, you die laughing over hilarious potty training stories and you send links to non-blogging friends beseeching them to drink the Kool Aid? Then after some time passes, you start to notice that you’re reading the same stories over and over – just from different people. Not that this makes you any less of a fan – in fact it makes you feel even more connected to people all going though the same things. But… When it comes time to write your own blog post, you start to feel rather unoriginal. Personally, don’t find that very motivating.

And I wonder if this is where people who once had so much passion for their writing start to feel a little lost. It’s a bit of a crossroads – a mid-life crisis. What next? Do I continue with my Little Engine that Could enthusiasm for stats? Or should I just write whenever I feel like it?

It’s a boring, dowdy phase, this blogging plateau. Mom jeans to the new-blogger mini skirt. Which is actually an apt metaphor for me since I went through years of preferring skirts and dresses to pants.

There was even a summer in my twenties when I wore nothing but short sundresses. Everyone in my beach house (Dewey Beach – holla!) seemed to have this preference as well, and a guy we knew began calling us The Sundress Brigade. And it sounds ridiculous really, but I kind of miss that. Being known for my feminine fashion choices. Being seen as someone who wears cute dresses and not practical workout clothes, you know – since I’ll be going to the Y later anyway. Someone who makes some effort with her hair in the morning – even if it’s just a low ponytail – instead of forgetting to brush it before leaving the house.

I miss not being a mom.

And that sounds terrible. Because I wouldn’t change anything about my life right now. Well – maybe some slip covers for threadbare couches that the children are slowly and systematically destroying…but nothing about being their mother.

It’s not an actual “crisis,” this thing paralleling my mid-blog life. Just nostalgia mixed with the ever present question of, “but then what?” The one many of us consider when we realize that in just a few years, they’ll be off doing their own thing, “and then who will I be?” Add one cup of sleep deprivation, a sprinkling of Target runs, and a heaping teaspoon of triple action eye cream…voila! You have a busy mom coming up for air. Breaking the surface to gasp for breath and notice a new beach looming on the horizon. Another one without any kids…but not much of anything else either. Just miles of sand where you can build any castle you want. But I’m not sure what I’d want that to be. And where’s the snack bar? Maybe I should bring a book…

So that may be part of this writing malaise. I’m rethinking who I am, who I want to be and how the hell I’m going to get there. Here is nice. But it’s temporary. And since looking forward always makes me want to climb into bed and pull the covers over my head (and Oliver’s head and Eleanor’s head and George’s head since they like nothing better than messing up my nicely made bed), I find myself looking back.

I’d like to feel that sun again. The sun of my youth that was a benevolent provider of tanned legs and the cure all for acne – not the harbinger of skin cancer and the spotlight for crows feet. I miss thinking I had a million things to worry over but easily forgetting them long enough to meet friends for cocktails.

The recent warm Spring weather inspired me to chop off my hair, which was sorely in need of a cut. I felt the need for less. And possibly for some incentive to pull out a brush every once in a while. The first time I had this style was the second summer of sundresses. I had rocked a shag and gone super long, but this flapper inspired bob was something entirely new. I pull it out now and again when I need a change and it never fails me. Just like a dress, it instantly grabs attention and makes me more aware of myself and of my identity as a girl. Not a young and cute girl now…but still that feminine, girly girl who likes to feel the swish of her skirt in the breeze.

My three year old daughter shows flashes of this to me – her future of dresses and tan legs and infinite time. She spins and laughs and reminds me of how it felt to only worry about myself. And to have minor concerns at that.

It will be at least ten years before she becomes the girl that I remember from my own youth. Right now, her preference for dresses is simply based on a love of twirling. She calls them her “ballerinas” and refuses to wear anything else. “Ballerinas don’t wear pants.“

As much as I’d love to join her in this conscientious objection to practicality, I really can’t wear a dress every day. Or even most days. My legs aren’t that great anymore. And I don’t have quite as much time for twirling.

But I will wear a ruffly top, put on some lip gloss and opt for a flirty haircut. This makes me no less of a mother, but it nods the girl that I will always be no matter what. And when I walk into Oliver’s IEP meeting, walk the aisles of Target and run in circles on the track at the Y, I’ll feel the swish of breeze in my hair and I’ll know that deep down I’m still the same girl.

I may have more responsibility and less freedom to stroll on beaches, but I can always find time to dance with my daughter. And remember.