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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…

Monkey in the Middle

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I have three children born in the following order: Oliver, George and Eleanor. And as number two out of three, George won the title of middle child. By default of course, since he’s a twin… But boy, has he lived lived up to it.

When I was pregnant with the twins, I knew that I was having a boy and a girl and that “Baby A” (the one who would be delivered first) was a boy. The order seemed rather inconsequential to me since the c-section that was looking probable would put a single minute’s span between their individual entrances into the world.

So it astounded me when people talked about George being my middle child. How could he be Eleanor’s “older brother” when they shared a birthday and the same 18 months’ age difference with Oliver? It was just silly.

But – laugh as I did, I’ve also found there to be some truth to this. Because George engenders many typical “middle child syndrome” behaviors.

First – he’s very aware of ownership. And once he stakes a claim on something, he will fight to the death to protect what is his. Like all other toddlers, he did his fair share of screaming “MINE!” and redefining “share” to mean “gimmie that.” But it doesn’t seem to be a phase that he’s quickly outgrowing. It’s not that he wants everything…just a few things to lord over his siblings. The red Lightning McQueen sippy cup? His. The scooter with less dirt on the foot board? HIS! Please don’t touch the merchandise. Trespassers will be prosecuted and punished to the full extent of the law.

And this makes sense to me. Oliver is the oldest and has always had his own things. Two thirds of the toys in our house belonged to Oliver first. Of course, he’d rather play with toilet paper or cups of water (or worse – both)…but that’s another post in and of itself. Most of George’s things are hand me downs.

Also, since Eleanor is a girl – and a girly girl at that – she automatically has her own possessions that the boys have no interest in sharing. She has no need to defend her territory. And as a girl, she is treated differently – more gently. Not on purpose, but I can see how it happens. She gets babied more. And has taken over that role. She’s the baby of the family. And George fell into the only position left in the line up.

Like most other “middle” children, George has had to develop a strong personality to enforce his demands (of which there are many). He is tiny for his age – even smaller than his twin sister – but he is most definitely a force to be reckoned with. Woe to the unlucky traveler who crosses his path when he’s in a temper. The volume of his cries for justice can do more damage to your eardrums than close proximity to amps at a rock concert. He’s a screamer. And he’s loud.

Most middle children I know remind me of George in their need to be seen, heard, understood and appreciated. But I’ve also noticed that many of them – like George – aren’t a true “middle.” For example, they may be number two or three in a family of four kids. Once the number exceeds three, it seems that anyone who isn’t first or last gets a shot at middle child status. It could also be gender…physical or emotional challenges…anything to set them apart from the rest as the one who needs just a little more validation and attention. The one who isn’t handed a position title. Their resumes would include terms such as “self starter” and “results driven.”

So I wonder if it’s the age order or simply the way we treat our children that sustains this family phenomenon. Probably both. The oldest will always have more time and more new stuff as a byproduct of being first. And the youngest will be the last baby – a label that seems to stick. Everyone in between will need to find their own way, and this will be easier for some than others. It’s a lot of work for George, but I think he’s up to the job.

And of course – every family is different. Some have more kids than others…different gender combinations…various challenges and special needs situations… That has to play its part as well. Toss in the element of innate personality and you’ve got endless possibilities for middle child status assignment.

As I typed this, George was either sitting in my lap, climbing over my shoulder like a small monkey or yelling to me from another room. He’s just as good at playing quietly by himself – but he’ll never be lost in the shuffle. My inlaws once referred to him as a “howler monkey” during a beach vacation when he spent the entire week clinging to me and screaming. The fact that we later discovered a double ear infection didn’t change the perception. The nickname stuck for a while.

They say the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and I wonder if it’s a coincidence that George literally squeaked like a rusty hinge when he was an infant. I would listen to him creaking away as he slept in his infant car seat and marvel at how bizarre it was. I had never heard anything like it in my life. And I haven’t since. George is a true original. Would he have been like this no matter what, or did we unwittingly encourage it? We can only guess…but I wouldn’t change him. My middle child always keeps things interesting.

Pearls of Wisdom

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One of the things we all do when we become parents is dream about what the future holds for our children. We think about who they are going to be. Or more accurately – who we want them to be.

Every night when I was pregnant with my first baby, I thought about all of the qualities that I wished for him. I wished for kindness and generosity. For self confidence and intelligence. For humor and charisma. For talent and creativity. And happiness.

Then he was born and I just wanted him to sleep.

But in my heart, all of those wishes lived on – and still do. And I tried to do the same for my other children. I had the same hopes for my twins, though a bit less focused.

By the time I was pregnant again, my first child was still a stinky sleeper, and I tended to pass out the minute my head hit the pillow. So there were no thoughtful lists chanted nightly for the twins and their own triumphs of character.

It was then that I gave myself license to tuck those dreams in a pocket where I knew they would be kept warm and alive. Even if I couldn’t recite them by rote. Maybe if I wanted them enough, they would be imprinted in all of my intentions, and it none would go astray. It would be a string of pearls that would never break.

And I think it has been. They’re all still there, permanently knotted on the strongest of fibers – gleaming in the shadows of my pocket. I don’t need to memorize what is in my heart.

It’s been over three years since the last of my babies were born, and I’m now starting to see glimpses of my dreams in their eyes. I smell them in the soft scent that no longer whispers baby. And I feel them in the squeeze of small fingers around my own.

They are becoming people.

And as much as I frequently cup my precious wishes in my palm, I know that it’s out of my hands. I can’t keep my children in a pocket. They have to decide who they are going to be, and it seems that starts as early as…well, now.

It would be so easy to label them. He’s the sweet one. She’s the feisty one. He’s the gentle one. But they change daily – sometimes to my liking and sometimes not.

But you always loved to paint. Where is my little artist?

What do you mean you won’t wear the pretty dress? Dresses are your favorite.

Since when did you stop liking Barney? Nevermind – that’s fine, thanks.

In these small ways, they assert their growing personalities. They try them on like scraps from a dress up box. Cherished one moment – then dismissively discarded. Thoughtless. Artless. Fickle. And free.

But we have our favorites and sometimes we interfere. Put on the pink one – it’s your best color. For all of our good intentions and pride, we so often try to box our children into neatly labeled cubby holes…the nice one…the pretty one…the smart one… And we even do it to each other as adults. Maybe that’s where we learn it – from our own parents. The circle of life. The beat goes on.

And maybe that’s fine. Perhaps it’s necessary to be guided to our strengths. But that’s some power we parents have. And Power is never far from its evil twin, Responsibility.

I honestly do think that as I provide that necessary guidance to my children, I’m just as responsible for following their lead. And protecting their right to choose.

It used to drive me crazy when people would label my twins. She’s the sweet one and he’s the character. Or to assume that my oldest was supposed to suddenly be a mini man at 18 months just for the fact that he’s an older brother.

My daughter has proven everyone wrong. She was the sweet one. She was the quiet one who was often ignored while her twin brother writhed and screamed with reflux pain. I like to imagine that placid little baby getting miffed. The squeaky wheel indeed!

She didn’t stay angelic for long. She is the larger than life child. She sings and dances through the day. She demands her due with a jazz hands finish. But just like that little girl with the little curl, when she is good she is very, very good, but when she is bad… She stomps her feet, hands planted firmly on hips. Her “YES I can!” is less self affirming call to action than blood thirsty battle cry. She is fierce.

But I envy her.

And don’t we all? Don’t we all look at our children and envy their potential. Their bright, shiny newness. Their quicksilver ability to morph into anything they want to be.

I want to foster that. Sure I have to say no sometimes. I have to be firm. But I don’t want to take that ferocity away from her. Especially when I so often wish that I had it myself.

My cousin was apparently much like my daughter at that age, and my mother remembers some good advice that was given to my aunt and uncle. The grandfather who was well known for his “spare the rod, spoil the child” attitude about discipline shocked everyone by warning, “just don’t break her.“

Pretty wise if you ask me. And I would say that same advice transcends its original subject. I don’t want to break any of my children of their ferocity or their quirks. As inconvenient as these traits may be for me – it’s my responsibility to protect their individuality.

I was reminded of my string of wishes recently when my grandmother passed away. She left Eleanor a pearl necklace that had once belonged to her own daughter. It was old and fragile and in need of some refurbishing. And when Eleanor is old enough I will have it restrung for her. Like a mother’s dreams for her children, the necklace will be passed on with love.

Everyday, I wrap my own dreams and wishes around my children. But in the end, it’s their choice how to wear them.

They’re Playing Our Song

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Have you ever heard a song that transported you back to a memory so visceral that you could close your eyes and feel like you were actually there?

Of course you have – we all have. Music has always been a well known sense memory trigger. And we can all call upon those few notes that evoke something very specific from our past.

When I close my eyes and think of Crystal Gayle singing Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue, I’m suddenly six years old and sitting in the back of our family car. Possibly driving to the dentist where I will be forced to endure a nauseating grape flavored fluoride treatment.

If I think of Bob Marley singing Is This Love, I’m 16 and at the beach – a little sore from sunburn, but why worry about wrinkles, as it won’t matter anymore when I’m old…?

If I think of Al Green singing I’m So in Love with You, I’m 27 and marveling at how this once unlikely candidate for a boyfriend will soon be my husband.

But all of these time stopping, breath catching, overwhelming assaults on my fragile sense of the present are eclipsed by another, far more powerful one.

I recently unearthed a CD of lullabies that I played at every bedtime and every nighttime feeding from the time my son Oliver was born through well into his toddler years. Those melancholy strains bring back memories so full of joy and fear and mind blowing wonder that it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. But mostly cry. The nostalgia is almost unbearable.

Truly the most poignant time of my life thus far was the first year of my first child’s life. Because he was then, and on some level will always be, the great love of my life.

When Oliver was born I felt physically beaten. It was a textbook first delivery with very few surprises. But that 9 lb. 2 oz. little body that pushed its way out of mine took a very serious toll. As an inexperienced first time mother I had no idea that it wasn’t normal to take a full five minutes to lever myself out of a hospital bed, 24 hours after giving birth. Nor did I realize that this level of discomfort should have ebbed after the first few days. But I guessed that something might be wrong when I needed a wheelchair to leave the hospital as other new mothers were sprinting down the hall to greet visitors.

I should have asked for drugs.

This pain is part of my sense memory.

When I tried to nurse him I felt like he was ravaging me. It hurt and wasn’t anything like the bonding experience I read about in books. I used to say it was like trying to hold a wild animal. It didn’t seem normal – all of that biting, flailing and groping. It was only weeks later that my milk production was declared low.

My big newborn needed more from me.

This attack on my body and subsequent sense of failure are part of my sense memory.

Oliver didn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time, and half of that was spent rocking him and trying to put him back in the bassinet. By the time I would get him settled, I only had a half hour to sleep.

Then he would wake up hungry and the painful, frustrating process would start all over again.

This exhaustion is part of my sense memory.

I had pretty bad post partum depression for the first few weeks, but didn’t realize what it was until it was over. All I knew was that I felt like I was staring into the abyss. I knew I loved my baby. Fiercely. But the bands of anxiety that would tighten around my chest as the sun fell lower on the horizon were squeezing me out of my own battered body. One particularly bad evening I couldn’t stop crying and told my husband that I felt like I was losing myself. I have a very clear memory of being up and trying to nurse at 2 a.m. My body ached and Boone had just died on Lost and my baby wouldn’t let me sleep and I just didn’t know if I could make it through.

Again – I should have asked for drugs.

This utter hopelessness is part of my sense memory.

While Oliver’s sleeping never really improved as much as it seemed to for other babies I knew (I was still waking up three to four times a night close to his first birthday) I got used to the pattern. It became second nature. I simply adjusted. Because I looked at his precious little face in the dim light filtering through the window and felt nothing but love. And gratitude. And that unnamed emotion that makes mothers fall to pieces when they imagine a time that this tightly bundled glowworm body would be too big to rock standing up.

I rocked him in the middle of his dark bedroom, drinking in the ambrosia of his peaceful slumber long after he became too heavy for it to be comfortable.

This addict-caliber need for my baby, regardless of the time of day or night is part of my sense memory.

I had to go back to work when Oliver was three months old. And leaving him for full days with another caretaker was possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. We had never before been separated for more than a few hours, and I didn’t know how I could bear it. The last day of my maternity leave I held him for his entire afternoon nap.

I listened to that CD twice and cried for the end of our “just you and me” time.

This sorrow and anticipation of the separation to come is part of my sense memory.

I loved giving Oliver his bedtime bottle (the nursing never worked out for us). It was the only time that my never still boy would cuddle and just “be” with me. He would look up at my face and twist his fingers in my hair until his eyes would start to droop. Then the blinks would last for longer beats and his tired fingers would rest on the bottle. He would often stop drinking as sleep took him, and I would have to give him a little shake to make sure he finished all of his formula. A full stomach will help him sleep better right? Not so much… But I figured it didn’t hurt to try.

I would often linger longer than necessary just to feel the warm weight of him in my arms. To memorize the shadow of eyelashes that brushed his cheeks and appreciate the surety that this was all that mattered in the world no matter what work drama or financial worries might color my days.

This peaceful embrace is part of my sense memory.

When Oliver was a little over ten months old, I discovered that I was pregnant again. It wasn’t planned and threw us for a roller coaster sized loop. I had hoped for a three year age difference between our first born and our hypothetical second child (which ended up being twins). But as always, we adjust. So this vision of siblings close in age became part of our future family dreams. But I did feel the pangs of what this second pregnancy meant: the ultimate end of that “just me and you” time.

There would no longer be one answer to every question: whatever is best for him. Life would become more complicated and attention would not be as easily focused.

This fear of change and intensified appreciation for the time that was left for our mommy-baby bliss is part of my sense memory.

Maybe this is all tied to him being such a crappy sleeper…or maybe it’s because I was a working mother with limited time to spend with him – but I craved my baby like nothing I’ve ever wanted or needed in my life. And the memory of those quiet hours spent in his bedroom, set to the soundtrack our our lullaby CD, holds more power over me than any other.

There was such simplicity in that time without the concerns attached to sibling rivalry and divided priorities. Though in the thick of it, it seemed anything but, with the sleep training books and the nursing problems – then the teething and the baby proofing. But that intense first baby love was stronger than any emotion I’ve ever experienced.

The lullabies we once listened to so few years but so long ago bring all of that back. And it literally makes me swoon.

If you were wondering what CD has this hold on my heart, it’s Lullaby, a collection. I do warn mothers with post partum depression that those “melancholy strains” I mentioned above may make you want to slit your wrists a little bit (before you get yourself some good meds, I mean). But the songs really do create a lovely soundtrack for your own sense memories. As far as lifetimes go, that is.

Like Somebody’s Mother

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This year, I realized that I haven’t worn a one piece bathing suit since I was twelve years old. And it’s not because I’ve been living the good life, giving the cast of The Hills a run for their money in the bikini department.

It’s simply because no matter what dress size I’m wearing, I always look a little less bad in a two piece. I’m short waisted and I tend to carry any extra weight in my hips and thighs. And I’ve found that covering my stomach just draws more attention to that.
Even post pregnancies – I’d rather show a little stretched out abdominal skin than wear a bathing suit that doubles for a neon arrow pointing to my cellulite. And even more importantly, I kind of don’t care anymore.

Back when I was a teenager and cellulite was just a twinkle in my genetic code’s eye, I really did care. I wore a bathing suit for no other reason than to get tan, and would only remove my shorts while in a horizontal position where gravity was much kinder. If I wanted a magazine that wasn’t within arm’s reach, I would get dressed before getting up to retrieve it.

Okay – that last one is a bit of an exaggeration. But you get the idea. I was a perfectly normal looking, exasperatingly self conscious and self absorbed young girl. And that’s when I chose the lesser of the two bathing suit evils.

Only once in in the past 20+ years have I even considered a one-piece. It was a summer in my early twenties and I was about to stay with my eight year old cousin for a week while his parents were in Europe. Knowing that I would be taking him to the pool every day and possibly be expected to engage in activities such as diving for quarters and Marco Polo, I felt it was a good time to put practicality before vanity.

One of my roommates had just gotten a super cute, albeit pricey one piece from J. Crew. It was very simple and black, and I thought it would probably be the most flattering option that I would find for myself. So I asked her if I could try it on.

Nothing prepared me for the realization that hit when I did. I stared in horror at how the fabric accentuated the curve of my hips and the roundness of my bottom. How I seemed to grow extra body parts below my waist line – ones that moved as I twisted around to get a better look at my backside. The effect fired childhood memories of my then hip level views of the women surrounding me at the pool and the beach. And I gasped, “oh my god! I look like sombody’s mother!“

Because that is the exact image that came to mind: one of those moms getting wax paper wrapped sandwiches out of coolers and donning big straw hats to protect already lined skin from further damage. One of those frugal home stewards who didn’t waste money on expensive bathing suits, and instead just picked something serviceable up from a bargain bin.

So that was that for the one piece idea. Being practical was one thing, but being mistaken for my eight year old cousin’s mother was another.

Now I am so entrenched in motherhood that the memory of that reaction perplexes me. What was so awful about looking like a mother? I mean, I technically WAS old enough to be a mom… But I felt so young then – and “mother” conjured up images of graying hair and sensible shoes and long afternoons of discount shopping. No matter how little sense it makes to me now, it sounded old to me then.

Being in my late thirties, I’d like to say that I could now care less about how I look in my bathing suit. But that wouldn’t be true. In my heart, I’m still lamenting my not-so-slender legs and kicking myself for an under appreciation of that teenage body when I had it. But…

I do care less. I’m too busy running after my small children, and I’m in pretty decent shape as far as the mommies around the baby pool go. And the truth is, no one else really cares.

And THAT has been the body image epiphany of my life. No one cares. I can look great for me or not so great for me, and all anyone else is really going to notice is that I’m a mom.

I’m either carrying a child on my hip or yelling at them to stop splashing. I’m digging through my bag for Goldfish crackers and wrapping shivering little bodies in towels. I’m taking pictures and pushing strollers and searching for lost Thomas trains.

I look like somebody’s mother. And it has set me free – free from that ridiculous egomaniacal fear of how my body is perceived.

I’m serious. At the beach last summer, I actually ran a good distance through a crowd to reach my four year old son who was wandering off into the surf. This from the girl who once said, “jog in my bathing suit? I don’t even stand in my bathing suit.“

Now I bend over to help build sand castles and ignore the inevitable stomach rolls that ensue. In front of cute life guards no less!

Because guess what? They don’t care! I’m now old enough to be their mother. A thought that makes me almost giddy with relief.

So when I realized that our family membership to the YMCA with access to an indoor pool would probably call for the purchase of a new one piece bathing suit, it didn’t give me a moment’s pause. Sure – I still think I look better in the bikini, but I also think it would be a bit out of place in a lap pool.

The result was a major milestone in my long journey to becoming a mature adult with well placed priorities. Putting aside old swimwear prejudices, I happily acknowledged the fact that I really do look “like somebody’s mother.”

I finally bought a one piece bathing suit.

And I bought it at Costco.

As Good as It Gets (Alternately Titled: The Time I Put a Picture of My Ass on the Internet)

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This is a guest post I wrote for Notes from the Grove several weeks ago. I had originally planned to post it here before having second thoughts. That is, second thoughts about how it might be interpreted.

Intent is so often misconstrued by the the content police (i.e. judgies who like to finger wag and meanies who like to spew venom in comments). But now that it’s “out there” and I survived without any one taking it the wrong way – I thought I’d put it here as well.

I would hate to think that anyone really believed I was posting pictures of myself out of any narcissistic leanings.

Let’s be clear. I am not in the least bit narcissistic about my body. Sparkling personality, sharp wit and killer good looks – of course! But body image? Not so much…

me at the beach, 1989

And I thought I was fat. Shoot me now.

Seriously – look at that. I was a totally normal looking teenage girl. I was not fat. And more importantly, I was unpuckered, unwrinkled and unmarked by that wily crone, Old Age. The now very real threat that only the hubris of youth could so coolly dismiss. Just that imaginary “something” that goes bump in the night for them. An urban legend.

Spider veins had of yet to stake their flag in my thighs and start mapping out their descent toward my ankles. Cellulite was strictly imaginary. And crows feet were something that only old people needed to worry about.

Why did I waste so much time worrying about looking fat?

Well – partly because at that age, I could have passed for a woman in her twenties while so many other girls still retained those boyish figures that the world at large applauds. That ideal that will never go out of fashion no matter how many Kim Kardashians or J Los celebrate the curvier side of physical beauty.

Also because I had entirely too much time on my hands. But that’s getting into a whole other youth wasted on the young diatribe. I just think it’s a shame that I didn’t appreciate everything that was lovely about my youth while I was in it.

And of course, the boys never help. I mean, how many teenage boys daydream about a really nice girl who likes to read and has zero talent for keg-side small talk?

It would be incredibly short sighted to place 100% of the blame for self esteem issues in young girls on men. But they do play their part.

Women have been known to laugh about how predictable men can be with their priorities. Not all men of course – but lets be honest: most men do go for looks first. At least until they mature and start to realize how boring women who never felt the need to have a personality can be.

I once (when I was young and had a little too much time on my hands) came up with a series of questions that perfectly illustrated this point. I would ask guys I knew what “the typical man’s” response would be. Not the really great guy inside them who we all hope will come through in the end – but that gut reaction guy. The one who is at best, programmed by society and at worst, a true pig at heart.

The reaction I was looking for was the one not always verbalized. It was the first thought that came to mind. And I have to say, for the most part, they all gave the exact same answer:

Me: Hey – there’s a girl I want you to meet!

Guy: Really? What’s she like?

Me: She has an amazing personality.

Guy: What does she look like? (but really thinking: “amazing personality…girls always say that when they mean ugly.”)

Me: Okay…DO OVER! There’s a girl I want you to meet! She has an amazing personality AND the most beautiful face.

Guy: That sounds good…what else? (but really thinking: “Beautiful face! The kiss of death – that means she’s fat.”)

Me: Right. I see where this is going… Let’s try it this way. There’s a girl I want you to meet! She has an amazing body.

Guy: Really? What’s her name?

Disclaimer: I KNOW that most men grow out of this (point in fact – the responses became much more cautious as my “subjects” and I got older). And truly, everyone has a different idea of what “an amazing body” means.

But my point is that there is so much focus on whether women’s bodies are meeting mass media standards (something that is impossible for most of us) that we all fall into that same priority trap. And the horny teenage boys are the worst.

At least in my experience growing up on the U.S. Eastern Seaboard, that is. If you come from an area or culture where this is not the case, please consider yourself excluded from my sweeping generalizations.

So yeah – the insecurities of young girls are subject to some tie in with the expectations of the boys whom they wish to impress. That’s not news to anyone. But it’s not something you really acknowledge when you’re a young girl. And I was no exception.

But why even go there? Why the nostalgic melancholy? Why bother to even think about this now that I’m older, wiser and far too busy to care about whether I can still pull off a mini skirt?

Because all of this lamenting for not appreciating what I had when I had it makes me consider what I have now.

Do I currently look like the teenager in the picture above? Not exactly – I mean, a lot has changed. But what about the pictures of me from right now?

In 2029 will I look back and say, “why did I worry about looking wrinkled. I had such lovely thirty-seven year old skin. What a waste of time and energy…” or “why did I think my legs were so bad? With all of that running around after small children, I was in great shape.“

Who knows what I’ll lament in the future. But I’m thinking I may just cut that off at the pass.

I’m going to think more about what looks good than what looks bad. About what makes me more attractive all around, not just physically. And I’m going to make my fifty-seven year old self feel that I made the most of what I had when I had it. Then I’ll do the same thing again when I’m fifty-seven.

So first step. Accept that I do not have a Hollywood-approved ass. BUT be happy that I have a husband-approved ass.

He even took a picture at the beach when I wasn’t looking.

Yup. That’s me and my son Oliver. This is probably the MOST flattering picture of my husband-approved ass, like EVER. But it’s still me.

The lighting is good, my “problem areas” are somewhat hidden and something about the way I’m standing seems to be stretching out those dimples and puckers (I won’t even go into the hereditary knee pudge that’s all but invisible). But it’s still a picture of me. Me after thirty days of shredding and dieting in anticipation of a week at the beach. But still me. Me before two vacations, one Halloween and uncounted “I’ll just eat what I want today and then start the diet tomorrow” weight gain. But still me. Me at thirty-seven.

This is as good as it gets for me at thirty-seven. So I’m going to save that picture and say “damn I look good” now. Not “damn, I looked good” later.

Want some more? It’s even better when surrounded by sparkling waves (and that grainy chiaroscuro effect on my thighs doesn’t hurt!)


Is my self love operating at 100% capacity?

No way. All of that “it’s a flattering picture” talk while true, fronts for a universally pervasive flaw focus.

Give me a break – it’s been thirty-seven years. I can’t turn that around in a day.

But girl’s got to start somewhere. And posting a picture of my ass on the Internet is as good a place as any. So there you have it. My personal best for age thirty-seven. I’m so framing that in twenty years…

Style Stalled in 1996: Part II

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When we last left off from yesterday’s post (you may want to read that first – otherwise this might not make any sense), my early twenty-something friends and I were staring at older thirty-something women and thinking that we must have fallen into a time warp.

In the Fall of 1996 I was two years out of college and fully committed to my short skirts (skorts even!) and Jennifer Aniston shag.

On this particular night, we were helping my roommate with some envelope stuffing for the non-profit she directed. The non-profit was established by Georgetown University students, so there were a number of older alumni on the board of directors.

The four of us were sitting at a table looking like a low budget version of the cast of Friends. How full of ourselves we were – and how confident in our style. Although we had varying poor body image obsessions, we managed to mask them with well thought out wardrobe choices. And as any self respecting insecure young women should be, we were very aware of the appearance of others.

It was obvious when we arrived that we were the youngest ones there, and we joked about how we were banished to the “kids table” in the front room while the older group that had known each other for over a decade gathered around a larger table in the back room. Our position afforded us a perfect view of everyone as they entered the house. And what a parade of 1980-ugly that was! (That last line was from the point of view of an obnoxious 24 year old fashion snob of course.)

When each woman walked by, our “Rachels” would swish in unison as we tracked their progress to the back of the room. Every one of them sported trends that harkened back to Ally Sheedy’s St. Elmo’s Fire wardrobe of boxy blazers and drop waist floral dresses. And horror of horrors, most matched the color of their heels to their outfit! We could barely contain our giggles and finger pointing. Of course I’ve exaggerated a bit for effect…we didn’t ALL have that particular Rachel-inspired hairstyle. My friend Maureen preferred a shorter “Monica.”

I started to list some of the comments I remembered us making, but deleted them since they made us sound far meaner than we actually were. We felt comfortable in our cattiness among friends, but wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to hear us (such is the way with everyday derision…). Let’s just say that our conversation included the following words and labels: “feathered,” “Laura Ashley,” “yoke,” “Forenza,” “pumps,” “electric blue,” “fire engine red.”

After a fair amount of laughing down memory lane, Maureen astutely observed that we would be next. She said, “ten years from now, younger girls will be sitting here laughing at us with our flip hairstyles and clunky shoes.” While this honest image made us laugh louder than any of the snide quips did, it also made me think. It actually made me a little uncomfortable – and this had nothing to do with the body suit I was wearing. I just didn’t like the idea of being outdated.

And I still don’t. But starting with that minor observation from a friend, I had to recognize the fact that I would someday show traces of my own early style influences. And I would likely get stuck in my own fashion time warps. I would get busy with life and not notice that hair didn’t curl up anymore. I would continue to clomp around in my sturdy heeled pilgrim shoes while other women tippity tapped on pointier toes. While I couldn’t predict the future trends that would sweep past the stake I had so firmly driven into my claim for a 1996 identity, I began to feel the noose I had been fashioning for myself.

But knowledge is power right? And that evening, my friend inadvertently gave me some sage advice. You don’t really have to get stuck in a particular style era. And if you do, you can always pull yourself out of it. The first step is to open your eyes and realize that there is a lot of great style out there and not all of it conforms to what celebrities of the hour are wearing on screen. It’s perfectly fine to find a look that works for you – the trick is to make it translate into the current styles. This is where those 80s ladies went wrong. They didn’t update the styles that they liked – they just kept wearing the old version.

I’ve always preferred to learn from the mistakes of others. Seriously – let them do the dirty work. And I am happy to report that I am not in fact stuck in 1996. I’d say that I’m AT LEAST holding strong at a respectable 2006. So I’d like to thank those women who never gave up on their trusty green eyeliner or their tried and true Mia flats. And I’d also like to acknowledge any 80s die hards who stuck it out for another decade. If this is you – give yourself a pat on the back. Congratulations girls – the fickle fashion world is cyclical and you are now back in style!

Style Stalled in 1996: Part I

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Sorry for the lack of writing over the past couple of weeks – but these giveaways are taking up most of my blogging time. So for the next couple of weeks, I’ll be pulling some old posts from the archives.

Starting today with…

Style Stalled in 1996

Recently – my Aunt Jan and I had a conversation about style and how we don’t actually see it changing. Or maybe people like Tim Gunn and Nina Garcia see it changing – but people like me don’t notice that we’ve fallen behind until we look in the mirror and see styles made popular by the original cast of Beverly Hills 90210. Hey – at least those girls were wearing mom jeans and comfortable shoes. There’s no way I could keep up with this new emaciated generation of fictional Beverly Hills high school students.


Seriously though – I’m NOT still wearing baby doll dresses with t-shirts (and never did since I thought this made my hips look big) or roomy overalls (didn’t buy into that one either – just made me look like a giant toddler). My current style is fairly up to date…in a conservative, make-it-last investment suit plus cheaper trendy accessories sort of way. But I do think that you can often lose track of how styles are changing for periods of time, and find yourself stuck in a rut with one that got just a little too comfortable.

This is easy to do since each style era spends a significant amount of time being the basis for a progression of more specific trends. When you are in the middle of one of these eras, the styles you see around you become the standard for “normal.” I was in high school in the late 80s, and if I ever saw ANYONE in bellbottom pants, I would probably have raced right over to peg the legs for them. But then when I entered college in 1990, I discovered boot cut jeans. Within just a couple of years, my standard for normal looking jeans had completely changed. And of course, several years later, those jeans were looking decidedly flared. Did I notice this progression while it was happening? Of course not. But I was young and automatically kept up with the changes.

Aunt Jan remembers being right smack in the middle the polyester and afro haired glory of 1972, and thinking that there wasn’t really a “feel” for the 70s. Not like there was for the 60s and 50s. No – with the emerging 70’s styles, “everyone just looked normal.” A thought that probably flew into her head at the sight of a white man using a pick to fluff up his globe of permed hair. Right…no feel…

But I remember having the same thought in the mid 80s. I was probably reading a Seventeen Magazine article on how neon is the new black and listening to the Footloose soundtrack when I came to the realization that after several colorful decades marked by distinctive styles (the poodle skirts of the 50s, the miniskirts of the 60s, the bellbottoms of the 70s…), my skin tight Guess jeans with the zippers at the bottom were so plain (hmmm…and my hair was feeling a little flat…time to poof up those bangs with some more gel).


Now I’m smarter – I KNOW that in about ten years were going to look at old pictures and see a bunch of…well….I don’t know because of course it all looks so normal right now. But I’m guessing that my Lucky Brand jeans with heeled boots will not be au courant.

Here is my fear (and the point of all of this): As a generally overworked, underpaid suburban mom of three, I don’t have a lot of time or money to invest in fashion. What if I get lazy? What if I get stuck in a rut? What if everyone around me is wearing micro minis with moon boots and I’m still wearing boyfriend jeans with flats? Of course I don’t think that particular scenario is likely as I’m not loving Katie Holmes’ look of pegged boyfriend jeans (famous last words…) – I’m just illustrating my point.

Interestingly enough, I can pinpoint the exact moment that this idea of style stagnancy took root. I was just a couple of years out of college and sitting with friends as we watched women ten years older than us file in to the room looking like a throwback to our older sisters’ high school graduation pictures.

I’ll have to stop now and get back to that tomorrow, as this post already quite long. Come visit me tomorrow to hear the rest.

This was a two part post, so I’ll pick up part two tomorrow (which does eventually get to 1996).

And don’t forget to enter today’s fab giveaway at As Good As Cake!

The Island of Misfit Toys

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(click image if you have never heard of the “the island of misfit toys”)

On Friday, I went to the open house for my son, Oliver’s preschool. He’ll be in the afternoon class with the older kids, but the morning class for the younger ones was there as well, making it twice as chaotic and confused.

Everyone had questions about bus schedules, school forms and cafeteria lunches. Everyone tried to keep one eye on their children while maintaining appropriate eye contact with the teachers providing answers. Everyone forgot half the questions they wanted to ask as well as each other’s names seconds after every awkward handshake.

And since I had to bring my two year old twins along for the ride, I was probably the worst of the overwhelmed, overstimulated bunch. But there was one conversation that didn’t end with the tug of a small hand or the sudden realization that a child was no longer visible.

I met one woman who tugged at my heart with her obvious loneliness and her own perceived invisibility. Her need for connection and understanding was palpable. And I recognized all of this in her pleasant smile and bright small talk because I have felt all of the same things myself.

I too have a special needs child.

All parents of children with special needs have felt alone and confused. And we all need to find others. People just like us, who know what it’s like to watch other children effortlessly join playground games and amaze grownups with their precocious conversation. We’ve all been on the other side of that social fence, blending in like chameleons. Hoping that no one notices our own child’s challenges and questions them. Or worse – makes uninformed excuses for them.

I listened to this woman’s story about how friends she’s had since childhood now avoid her. They have typical children and no tolerance for her son’s “bad” behavior. They either don’t want to put up with it, or possibly they just feel uncomfortable around her. But the outcome is the same. She is alone. She doesn’t fit in with them anymore.

I gave her my phone number and told her to call me any time. Maybe we could have a play date since her son and my twins are very close in age. My twins are what I’ve learned to call “typical,” but I have no fear of exposing them to a child who isn’t. They live with one already. And I know how much that little boy, like his mother will need friends who understand.

Oliver is four years old and has been in Fairfax County’s special preschool program since he was two. Looking back, I realize how incredibly lucky we were to find out about his delays so early on.

He was our first baby, so we had no means of comparison. Sure, we have plenty of friends with children the same age, but when they’re so little, those differences can easily be explained away. You can say that all babies develop at different rates (true) and that their very unique personalities would encourage different areas of strength (also true). But without that personal experience of watching another child grow and learn, you just don’t have that instinct that tells you “something isn’t right this time.”

Some mothers claim that even without older children, they just knew. But I looked at my big (and I mean HUGE), healthy 18 month old and thought he was fine. In fact, I thought he was better than just fine. I thought he was beautiful, wonderful…miraculous. And he was…he is. But he does have significant speech and social delays.

He did then too. But he was so young. And so much could be explained away. AND he had just become a big brother to newborn twins.

What child wouldn’t withdraw, act out and even regress a little? So what if he didn’t quite fit in with the others? His whole world had been turned upside down. Of course it affected him. It all seemed pretty normal to me. But months later I had to admit that he just wasn’t catching up. He wasn’t like my friends’ “normal” toddlers.

With some prompting from concerned relatives, we took him to a private child psychologist who established that he was in fact very delayed and would benefit from early intervention as soon as possible.

Then we got smart and started talking to people. We discovered that there were county funded programs for special needs children (although we weren’t actually using that term yet…not yet…) And we contacted Child Find.

We learned that we never needed to pay for that first round of testing since our tax dollars afforded us free services. But of course this is the lot of special needs parents – to continually learn what we didn’t have to do, what we should have done, what we could have given our child, but just didn’t know…

But we quickly learn to move on from that and not beat ourselves up. Or at least we try.

It’s hard to accept this inability to identify your child’s need. Your baby cries and you feed him, change him or hold him. He gets sick and you take him to the doctor. He grows and you buy him new clothes. Your job is to meet these needs. Any and all needs. It is your new reason for being. The most important job you’ll ever have.

And then, one day you find that you failed.

But these new needs allow no room for self flagellation. There is too much to learn and do. And to waste time on guilt seems pretty selfish.

So does the new source of anxiety for a special needs parent: the fact that you no longer fit in either.

Special needs don’t start and end with the child. They are part of the family as a whole. You become a group of misfits. A band of intrepid explorers, thrust into uncharted territory without a map or a compass. All families are different, as are the journeys they take together – so no one gets a guide. Survival hinges on everyone doing their part. Loyalty to the team is imperative. There are no solo missions.

Unfortunately, the leaders rarely volunteer for the post. It’s the lottery ticket that no one really wanted or expected. And not one of us could claim to be instantly skillful team captains. Basically – it all really sucks, and our initial reaction is to avoid ever leaving the ship.

Suddenly the voice mail from a friend wanting to set up a play date doesn’t make you smile and run to check your calendar. It makes you begin the endless cycle of “what if” worrying: “What if he doesn’t want to be there and cries? What if he plays rough and hurts the other child? What if he refuses to listen to me and I have to go through the motions of yet another ineffectual time out, just to look like I’m TRYING to be a good parent?” And the deepest, darkest of worries – the one we so rarely speak aloud: “What if he embarrasses me?”

It’s so tempting to go for the isolation option. To stick with your own kind.

But all of that changes when you meet other special needs families. It’s so comforting to be with the other misfits. They get it. They don’t look uncomfortable when your son is rolling around on the ground. Or kicking up dust clouds without any regard for the people next to him. Or pushing other children to get their attention. They don’t assume that his age or size would make him more mature. They don’t assume anything. They just smile and nod. There’s no need for words. They just know. We all know.

And that is what special preschool has become for me. A safe haven. An oasis in a desolate landscape. A private island where no one gets voted off. Acceptance is mandatory. In fact, it’s second nature.

The children get the special services they so desperately need, but they also become part of a community. They meet children with the same challenges, with worse delays, with higher functionality and with very limited scope for improvement. They are all misfits. All broken to one degree or another. But all deserving of love and appreciation.

They are safe on their island, and they are loved. Their needs are recognized and prioritized, and their triumphs – no matter how small – are celebrated.

The parents spend no more time in the special preschool classroom than do parents of children in private preschools. But our hearts are there every second of the day. And not just in the expected way that parents claim to leave a piece of themselves behind at drop off. For those of us with special needs kids, those classrooms aren’t just a place for learning – they are a place for hope.

And oh – but isn’t that the most beautiful, terrible, spirit lifting, soul crushing, incandescent word that a parent can say, feel, pray….”hope.”

Because that’s what it boils down to in the end. We sit on that island with our polka dots and square wheels and inability to fly and our…what exactly was wrong with that doll again? I never did understand that one… But we all sit there together. And we hope.

Together.

Which is the opposite of alone.

But it doesn’t end there. It can’t. Because hope isn’t enough. You can’t live on an island.

It’s nice to have a port in a storm, but we all live in the real world where (to really beat a metaphor to death) it isn’t always smooth sailing. People are unkind. They are busy and cranky, and they would rather gossip than research. The real world isn’t perfect and neither are the people in it.

Which brings up an interesting point: no one is perfect.

No child is perfect. No parent is perfect. No family is perfect.

We’re all flawed. We’ve all felt like outsiders at one time time or another. We’ve all felt lonely – even invisible. So in a way, we’re all misfits. Atypical.

And what defines typical anyway? I think it’s simply a majority rule. But a majority based on sweeping generalizations.

Which is fair. Because who has time for case by case living?

But I would ask one thing of the more typical misfits out there. Please try to make time for compassion.

Don’t assume that a child is “bad” based on their behavior. Don’t assume that their parents aren’t trying. Don’t assume anything.

You never know when you might be on that side of that fence. And when you are, you’ll appreciate a little empathy. Not sympathy – never sympathy – but an acknowledgement that things are usually more complicated than they appear. Something that everyone knows from personal experience.

Your polka dots may not match my square wheels. In fact, you probably look like that totally normal doll (I think she may have had a psychological problem?) But we’re all misfits in our own way. And you should make a little time to recognize this.

Because it takes one to know one.

I’ve Got Disco in My Soul

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You wouldn’t know it to look at me of course.

When people look at me they see this:


and this:


and this:


But when we’re little, we absorb so much. All of that influences who we become – at least to some degree. And regardless of what the outside reflects, on the inside I run 98 ° Disco (Fahrenheit or Celsius depends on the day).

On the inside, I look like this:


and this:


and this:


Because when I was little, I went to Auntie’s house.

Auntie (which is phonetically pronounced “Ahntie”) ran a daycare service in her New Rochelle, NY house. My brother, Matthew and I at age two and four, were just two kids in what felt like a nation of children who stayed with Auntie while their parents worked.

As with all childhood memories, the images I conjure up are BIG: a massive dining room table where we’d all eat our Campbell’s Soup for lunch (hiding Lima beans in our pockets), the long flight of stairs up to her front door, the expanse of plastic slip covered sofa where we were not allowed to play…

The other kids at Auntie’s were mainly from the neighborhood, while Matthew and I lived in another town. They were boisterous and fearless where we were quiet and cautious. But we blended in. Soon enough, we laughed just as loud and played just as hard.

As the only white girl at Auntie’s, I was exotic for the first and only time in my plain jane life. My hair fell flat where theirs could be sculpted into shapes. My nose turned pink after time in the sun. And my hazel eyes would sometimes look green while theirs stayed the deepest of browns.

On the outside I couldn’t be more different. But not on the inside. My new friends marveled over my otherness but only for the novelty. Little girls are far too landlocked by their constant quest for common ground to be distracted for long. All little girls giggle in harmony, speak the language of fairy tales and whisper universal secrets that only fade with puberty.

My brother’s bright chestnut head was the only distinguishing feature in the blur of boys tearing through the house, as boys are even less concerned with external appearance. While the girls initially wanted to stroke my head and pinch my cheeks, the boys barely paused to pull Matthew into their hectic orbit. Pushing him to keep up or get out of the way. There wasn’t time for scrutiny.

But what I remember most about Auntie’s house was the music.

Auntie had teenagers who filled the house with more than just their presence. Arriving home after 3:00, they played their music loudly. Music from 1976 that commanded you to hustle, boogie and shake, shake, shake. Floors and walls pulsed with the sound of drums, bass and horn sections. Every movement of the teenagers kept time with these rhythms and they pulled us all in their wake.

During school hours when the teenagers weren’t there, the little kids would still hustle and boogie. We would sing the songs and choreograph dances. The boys would lose interest quickly, but the girls worked diligently to perfect routines.

I would bring these home and was frequently asked to perform Boogie Fever for visiting friends and relatives. I didn’t like or understand their gales of laughter. There was dignity in my disco.

As memorable as our time at Auntie’s was, it wasn’t very long. Just a year or two. Just long enough for a little disco to grab hold and not let go. And I would carry that always. First as a secret shame in the 80s – then as a triumphant comeback years later.

I rarely listen to the radio anymore. Instead I spend my commute reading via recorded books. There is so little time at home, making this the only way that I can feed my cravings for stories. But the kids are getting older now – no longer babies, but small children who like to dance and giggle as they try to sing along with their favorite songs.

I find that I frequently turn off my stories and listen to theirs (or at least Eleanor’s). Their exclamations over the world whizzing past now require a response. They need me to be actively engaged in their wonder.

So instead I turn on the radio. Now that it’s warm, I put the windows down. I yell at the kids to keep their hands inside, but secretly want to push my own palm against the press of air. I sing along with the songs I know – and even the ones I don’t know. And feel wave after wave of sense memories from high school when driving with the windows down and music blasting was a given.

Then the opening notes of something familiar distract me. I feel very young inside, far younger than I did in my previous reverie. If I close my eyes I can hear the sound of girlish giggling and possibly even feel the ghost of a small hand running through my hair (unless of course, that’s Oliver who just escaped from his seat belt).

But I don’t close my eyes (because you know, I’m driving) and I know that the giggles are coming from my own children who apparently like Donna Summer too. I turn up the volume. On the Radio transports me to a time when I had so few worries and responsibilities (other than covert disposal of the hated Lima beans). And I think that maybe I’ll do this more often, not just for me, but for the three little people in the back seat.

They are absorbing the world around them in the same way I did, and they need more music in their day. Particularly in the car when they have nothing to do but look and listen. They need a rythm to tap with their feet, a melody to lift up their hearts, and possibly a strings section for effect. They need more than Twinkle Twinkle Little Star…they need Donna Summer and Stevie Wonder and Barry White. They need music with impossible high notes and finger snapping backup vocalists. They need a soundtrack. One you can dance to.

Because I think they’ve got a little disco in their souls too.