Tag Archives: Me Before Kids

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.

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!

Convenient Fiction

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Last Thursday I had to come up with a guest post for Christy of A Lil’ Welsh Rarebit and was at a complete loss of what to write. So feeling somewhat inspired for a talented aspiring fiction writer, I decided to try some yarn spinning of my own.

I actually really enjoyed it and it’s been on my mind all weekend. So that’s my Monday Muse: fiction writing. I think I might try to do more of it here. Maybe make it a Friday thing. So check back on friday and see if I actually follow through (and feel free to join me!)

In case you missed it last week, here is the piece I wrote (in one sitting – which was a challenge for me):

The Wrong Shoes

a rough depiction of “the shoes”

Ivy hated her shoes.

They were navy blue with a delicate heel. The slightly pointed toes were much like those of the shoes her mother wore to work, and there were two tiny straps on each that fastened with pearly blue buttons. They looked like something from another time. Old fashioned.

The minute she saw the shoes she wanted them. She loved them. And they were navy which was an approved color for her school uniform.

She could tell her mother was pleased with the selection. The approving smile seemed to say, “what taste my nine year old has.”

And that should have been the first warning sign. Because her mother’s idea of good taste didn’t quite fit in with the styles and trends rocketing in and out of her soon to be fourth grade classroom.

But on a hot August day, when memories of the previous semester were faded and limply tucked away between the leaves of old schoolbooks, Ivy forgot herself. Full of anticipation for the new season and its accompanying wools and plaids, she forgot that her love of all things “antique” was not shared by the other girls her age.

They went to soccer practice and sometimes ran faster than the boys. They loved feeling the wind in their hair. They were effortless and unstudied. Their braids were perfunctory while Ivy’s were painstaking.

They wore the sensible brown shoes their mothers purchased. The ones held up to them for approval while they sighed and wilted with boredom. Then they scuffed them on the playground without a second thought. They let the laces fray and the pennies tarnish. Shoes were admired for their wear, their down at the heels proof of a life well lived.

“Do you love them?” her mother had asked as the sales woman rustled tissue paper and searched for a pen. This was the scripted question preceding all transactions related to Ivy’s wardrobe. By the time this juncture of the shopping trip had been reached, only the affirmative was expected.

“Yes,” Ivy said, even as she could feel the boulder of self doubt starting to roll. It’s descent truly picking up speed when it was too late to turn back. That initial shifting of the earth beneath her feet should have sent her back to the shelves and the safety of shiny brown loafers and sturdy boat shoes.

But she told the truth, sealing her fate for yet another year of expressing that so little valued good taste.

And now on the playground watching the blur of effortless grace whirl around her, Ivy felt her folly keenly. She now hated her shoes. The art of ancient foot binding sounded no less painful than this bitter regret (and foot binding technically was old fashioned). She was her own worst enemy and was now thoroughly disgusted with herself.

When Melissa approached, her already scuffed loafers and slouchy hand me down sweater just rubbed salt in the self pitying wound. Oh to have Melissa’s older sisters…to have them make these clothing decisions in advance. The tall girl’s lanky angles and sloping gait were a study in confidence and the knowledge that others had already paved her way.

Right then, Ivy would have given anything for holey Weejuns.

At close range though, Melissa’s grey eyes wistfully hinted at a contradictory green. She looked down at Ivy’s feet and mournfully said, “I like your shoes.”

*Just in case you were wondering, this isn’t entirely fictional. I did once have shoes like that and it did kind of bother me that I could never master that sporty, messy private school kid look that everyone else had as a matter of course. But everything else is made up. Although I do suspect that my mother was pleased with my very girly clothing preferences…

Don’t forget to grab a button and add your Monday’s Muse link over at Cinnamon & Honey every Monday!

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The Wrong Shoes

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I’m not here today. Instead I’m telling stories over at A Lil’ Welsh Rarebit.

I’ve never written fiction before but was inspired by the lovely and talented Ann of Ann’s Rants. Her fantastic piece, “Date Night” was a recent runner up for the WOW-WomenOnWriting Flash Fiction contest. You can read an interview she gave to the WOW blog, The Muffin, HERE.

I love the idea of conjuring a story, but have never actually tried. Let me know what you think!

And Now, for Something Completely Uncontroversial

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I’m not usually one to pick “hot topics” for my posts. So declaring for the MJ is a child molester camp was a bit bold for The Big Piece of Cake. Particularly since I do waver a bit on the subject. But hey – I wrote it, so it’s now out there. (Do you think it’s a coincidence that I seem to have lost some readers? Yikes.)

Anyway – in honor of my cowardly nature and fear of hate mail, I’m going to take a completely different direction today and tell you something very warm and fuzzy. Rainbows and unicorns all the way – I promise.

Very few people who have met me since I graduated college would know this, but I used to be somewhat of an art chick. Not in the multiple piercings, moody, poetry writing kind of way though. More in the prissy little girl creating pretty little pictures kind of way. I was never destined to be a real artist, like my brother. But I did really enjoy whipping up those pretty little pictures.

For some reason, I was never any good with paint – I always ended up with a big wet mess on the canvas. And my hobbyist attitude didn’t engender the dedication required for mastering that medium. Instead I found my comfort zone with pastels. They’re like crayons for adults. And even better because you can smear them around to correct mistakes.

Once I graduated from college I lost interest in art classes and it’s not like my roommates and I ever sat around crafting together (it was the mid ’90s, and for me the word “craft” conjured up images of old ladies with knitting bags or acrylic nailed DIY enthusiasts with Bedazzlers).

So no more art.

Until last week.

Don’t know what inspired me, but I was at Michael’s trying to find supplies for kid craft projects that my children wouldn’t eat or smear on the walls (easier said than done, I may add). Anyway, I saw a package of charcoal pastels and had a flashback of a life drawing class. Then I looked at the color pastels and thought “maybe…”

I bought both oil pastels (because I had never used them before and was curious) and soft (chalk) pastels. And when my kids went to bed that night, I sat down to see if I still had the touch (if touch means the ability to smear colors on paper to somewhat represent the image I was trying to capture).

I started with the oil pastels. Here is the image I used:


And here is my drawing:


Not that great (and my photography is terrible), but I found the oil pastels really hard to work with. I think they require a bit more precision… I won’t give up on them, but I put them aside for a second try with the good old soft pastels I once knew so well.

This is the image I used:


And here is my drawing:


Big improvement. And pretty! I’m not quitting my day job any time soon (oh wait a minute – I actually DID quit my day job – just not to become an artist). But I will definitely have fun with this.

And isn’t that what hobbies are all about?

What about you? Any childhood pastimes that you’ve recently picked up again?

1. Origin unknown – SORRY, let me know if it’s yours
2. Absolutely Beautiful Things (of course)

Your Identity in Two Paragraphs or Less

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[DC Metro Moms closed up shop July 1, 2010 – this is the introduction post I wrote for them.]

Writing my bio for DC Metro Moms was an interesting exercise since I have been struggling with certain aspects of my identity for a while now. And this particular forum hits all of them.

When I first heard about this site, I thought, “that’s me!” I grew up in DC, I’ve lived in the Metro area AND I’m a mom. I thought that I was more than qualified… But when it came time to write that bio, I was a bit stumped.

This wasn’t that much of a surprise, as I’ve never been good at summing things up in a few lines. For me, every fact must be qualified with relevant history, metaphorical comparison and a tangent or two for good measure. Bottom line, I tend to ramble. And the subject of “what makes me a DC Metro Mom” has been an invitation to agonize over those same identity issues that come up again and again.

First, there is the whole DC thing. Having grown up in the city, I really do think of myself as a city person. We first lived in Kalorama, walking distance from Dupont Circle. I would ride my bike past embassies and roller skate across Connecticut Avenue (but don’t tell my mom about that). I even lived in an apartment building and watched the DC Fourth of July fireworks from the roof.

Then we moved to Capitol Hill when I was a teenager. I would walk to the National Gallery when I was feeling particularly moody and angsty, and most weekend mornings we would wander over to Eastern Market, which was also the closest Metro stop. I learned to drive around Lincoln Park and once came outside to find a brick and shattered class on the passenger seat of my car, having been so foolish as to have left my backpack there. I could parallel park in spaces SMALLER than my little Renault Alliance, and was terrified by the idea of crossing a bridge into Virginia and never finding my way back.

I even chose a city college in New York and never once considered that I would live anywhere without the soundtrack of street traffic, passing pedestrian conversation and popping noises that could either be a car backfiring or gunshots.

But at some point my roommates suggested Arlington, and thus began my slow exodus into the suburbs. Arlington was fine. I could walk to Georgetown, and Adams Morgan was just a five minute cab ride away. But then came McLean and then Reston, and then suddenly I realized that I was surrounded by unlimited street parking and big box stores on every corner.

And you know what? I like it.

I don’t even know myself anymore…

So what am I? A city person or a suburbs person? And more importantly – what does this mean for my children? Will they attend a huge public high school and fear public transportation? Will they not know how to tell if a panhandler deserves coins or paper? Will they think that cars are necessary for any outing beyond our immediate neighborhood? I actually worry about this.

While my expectations for my children’s own sense of identity are pretty flexible – no big dreams for team captains, homecoming queens or valedictorians – they have always been somewhat metropolitan, with diversity, indie boutiques and adequate “street smarts.” So what on earth am I doing raising them 20 minutes outside of civilization as I once knew it?

The answer is simple. It’s more affordable. DC is far too expensive for us right now, and possibly ever. So there is no looking back at this point. At least superficially, I will have to be a suburbs person. And while it is different, I’m finding that I fit in just fine.

And as if to seal the deal on my inevitable Freaky Friday, Claire Huxtable meets June Cleaver destiny, I will be leaving work to be a stay at home mom within the month!

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not in the least bit insecure about this decision since it was based on taking a more active roll in early intervention for my special needs son. But it’s just not at all what I had expected for myself.

I didn’t love my job or even my career path, but I took a lot of pride in the theoretical independence of earning a paycheck. I was proud to be the mom who does it all (even if she doesn’t do any of it very well). Or more accurately, I didn’t have a choice about going back to work after my first child was born, so I embraced the situation and made it a strong part of my identity. I became a working mom.

My own mother was a working mom (at least most of the time I was growing up), and I identify with her quite a bit. Though she was a interior decorator while I somehow ended up at a boring desk job. But in spite of my dry surroundings I’ve enjoyed the civilized business lunches and the sophisticated dry clean only clothes. And the occasion to wear really nice shoes didn’t hurt either. Ultimately, I found that when you have infant twins waiting for you at home, there is a lot to be said for a day without spit up.

But now I have a new role to embrace, and I’ll have to put aside my silk for a more practical cotton. And this shift will add yet another layer to my bio’s back story. Yet another paragraph for my already exhausted readers to skim.

So my goal will be to make it as interesting as possible. And maybe even incorporate some culture and style into my new role. Because I could so easily go the other way without the incentive of office dress code and performance reviews.

I will not treat every day like Sunday by staying in my jammies. I will get dressed and make the bed – and I will even put a little thought into my appearance.

I will not let the kids watch TV all day. The whole point of being more involved in my son’s early intervention is to actively work with him and have a schedule for consistency. And I do love a schedule…possibly one on a spreadsheet…

I will not eat everything in the refrigerator out of boredom. If I can’t stand it anymore, I will throw everyone in the car for an outing. Even if it’s just to the grocery store.

I can be a mom at home and still feel like I’m more than just a caretaker. I can be a mom at home in the suburbs and still look like I have an interesting identity. We all have a compelling story to tell, and we can all project that for everyone else to see. And while it may sound a bit superficial, this caring how I appear to others – just remember that being seen is part of the close quarters culture of city living.

We all have multi-faceted identities, and mine is rooted cement. Regardless of the metaphorical mom jeans, I am a city girl at heart. And no matter what my current zip code, I always will be. At least in my case, you can take the girl out of the DC but you can’t take DC out of the girl. And I think we can all say the same thing about being a mom.

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.

Magical Thinking, The Secret and Wishing Really, Really Hard

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*Don’t forget to enter my Blair Waldorf approved giveaway from Andrea’s Beau! Click here for details.

Sorry for the re-post – but I wanted to put this guest post on my own site as well. And if you didn’t read it – well here is your second chance.

I wrote it for my friend Christy’s blog, so she figures prominently – and it’s a little different from my usual style – but my mom said it was the best mothers day present I could give her, so that was nice!

Magical Thinking, The Secret and Wishing Really, Really Hard
May 7, 2009

When I first met Christy – I was almost bowled over by her enthusiasm. The Christy experience is one you never forget. Her excitement for life is truly a force to be reckoned with.

And she’s a good woman to have in your corner. I often call her my own personal cheerleader. If it were up to Christy, I’d have an agent and a book deal tomorrow, all based on the haphazard scribblings in my personal blog. I have no real writing experience, but Christy sees no hindrance there. She doesn’t waste time worrying about obstacles – she sees only infinite possibility. This ability to focus all of her energy on “making things happen” has served her well. She found her dream husband, her dream career and became the mother of a baby who looks to have sprung directly from a Botticelli painting of angels. She knows how to live life to the fullest and does so every day. And it’s all due to the fact that this girl keeps her eye on the prize.

Everyone has heard of “The Secret” by now, and Christy is in fact, a success story for this Oprah-approved method for finding happiness in life. In one of our recent conversations she told me that when she was single and feeling ready to meet Mr. Right, she thought about everything she would want in a husband and always kept that in the periphery of her thoughts. She went on plenty of bad to so-so dates, but never doubted that this perfect man was out there. She could picture him clearly and knew that she would recognize him the minute he appeared.
And apparently she did, because they’ve been married for five years.

And when they were ready to have the as of then unknown Ms. Foo…the same rules applied. As it did for the dream job. While direct routes may not have been available to her, Christy always knew what her final destination would be be. This complete confidence comes from knowing what you want. And now, thanks to a wildly popular self help book endorsed by talk show hosts everywhere, anyone can be a Christy.

I’m not mocking The Secret of course, but it just strikes me as funny that people need a manual for something that boils down to common sense and a positive attitude. It’s all so simple, or at least it can be if you let it.

So it’s no wonder that a seasoned professional in self-doubt like me would find inspiration here. And not just because it sounds so logical and attainable. For me, this approach to life also sounds very familiar…

While she may not engender Christy’s particular brand of zest for life, my mother is another force to be reckoned with. Jo Coveny is a firm believer in taking responsibility for your own happiness. She didn’t “see the light” as early on as Christy did – but hey, better late than never right?

It all started when I was in elementary school and found myself making frequent trips with her to the Georgetown new age bookstore, “YES! Books” (if you read The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, this may sound familiar – Anna Brashares grew up in the DC area and actually featured this blast from my past in her book). Crystal healing and meditation became common topics of discussion in my house and I believe there were “workshops” involved as well…

Since we were children, my brother and I didn’t actually meditate or read up on what crystals would best absorb the negative energy causing a recurring nightmare, but we were “exposed” to my mother’s new interests. A story that mom loves to tell involves my seven year old brother answering the phone while she was meditating and telling the caller that his mother wasn’t available at that time since she was not to be disturbed while she “levitated.”

But long after the crystals became fewer and far between, the self actualization tactics held strong. And my mother was a firm believer in the laws of attraction that The Secret explains. For YEARS I’ve been hearing that if I visualize good things coming my way, they eventually will.

I’ll admit that I’ve always battled a tendency to sit back and let life happen “to” me. Playing it safe and accepting what is offered is just so much easier than asking for more. But with Jo Coveny behind me, I’ve managed to expect more when it really mattered. I have a wonderful husband and beautiful children and my friends inspire me and make me laugh every day. But there is always that one tough spot. The one that doesn’t come clean with just one scrubbing. For me it’s a lack of confidence in my ability to “be something.” And it seems to be a stain made with permanent marker.

Or maybe not.

I recently read Magical Thinking by Augustine Burroughs, and was rather taken with his attitude that he can cause things to happen simply through sheer force of will. And he had this his whole life, even while he was “running with scissors” through his outrageous childhood. I love that he just decided one day that he would write a book that would be on the New York Times best seller list – and then DID.

Magical thinking is pretty much the same concept that the The Secret outlines. That you can make things happen for yourself. And I believe this – because I’ve seen it first hand.

My mother has cancer. She has for years. It began ten years ago as breast cancer, and after a long remission, came back as lung tumors and then brain tumors. So you might wonder how this secret magical thinking BS could be working for her. And I don’t blame you, because I’ve often wondered the same thing.

But that’s just not how life works. You can never dream up a perfect life and then get it. Nothing will ever be perfect – but it can still be wonderful. And the parts that aren’t so wonderful are always subject to change. The Secret proposes that “The Universe” is always listening. If you say “hey, Universe – how about sending me a life without any problems?” – you won’t get much of a response. It seems The Universe is more of a short order cook and not quite equipped to cater to requests on that large a scale. But if you ask for something specific, then you may get better results.

My mother realized many of her dreams. She and my father moved to Key West and opened a home furnishings store. They’ve faced floods and recessions – but they’re still there. In fact their current store is even more beautiful than the first location, and they now have a new business partner and best friend to share this dream. Mom wasn’t handed a perfect situation, but she has never doubted that everything would work out in the end. She knew what she needed, knew it would happen – and then it just did.

She never dreamed of getting cancer – but she did believe that she would find the treatment necessary to get her through it. The year that she developed tumors in her brain – a condition once only treatable through radiation and with a life expectancy of a few months to a few years – the FDA approved a new chemotherapy that specifically targets brain tumors. Almost a year later, my mother’s body is almost entirely cancer free. Was this just luck – or the laws of attraction?

Who knows. Maybe both. But we’ll take it.

There was a show on TV a long time ago (one that didn’t last more than a season or two) with a character named Annie who was kind of a flake. She lost her apartment and ended up secretly living in her sister’s garage where she was storing all of her furniture. A snarky friend discovered this arrangement and responded to her claims to have “tried everything” to find a new place to live by asking, “really Annie? Have you tried wishing really really hard?” Of course her deadpan “yes Brian, I have,” was supposed to be funny. But isn’t that what the laws of attraction and magical thinking are based on? That you start with a picture of what you want? A dream. A hope. A wish.

I don’t know if I believe that wishing is enough – but I do wholeheartedly believe in Jo Coveny. And I believe in Christy. And Augustine Burroughs. And everything that they have achieved started with a wish.

Of course you have to take action to make things happen, but first you have to know what you want.

So that’s where I am now. Figuring out what I want. I already have so much – but I want more. As I should. As we all should. So I’m going to make things happen for myself. I’m going to find a career that I love. Like Christy and like my mother (and of course Augustine) I’m going to picture this and believe in it. I’m going to believe that it’s all possible and that it’s never too late. And I’m going to start by wishing really really hard.

I Love it When Plan Comes Together (Alternately Titled: The Babysitter Who Jumped Out the Window)

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I think I’ve had about 20 ideas for things to write over the past few days, and now that I actually have a minute to do it, I can’t remember a single one…

I usually sit down with at least something in mind. Sometimes it’s fully mapped out and just waiting to be typed, and sometimes it’s just an idea for a title.

But I find that the least amount of effort is involved when I’m relating a personal story or anecdote. Anecdotes with a history of verbal storytelling have already been brought to life. No need to construct an outline or think about what you want to say – it’s already been said. This kind of writing feels like taking dictation. Like I can’t even take credit for the words being typed by my own fingers. They are words that already exist in the world without any thanks to me.

So when I’m at a loss for ideas (or for recall of those ideas), I usually fall back on a well loved personal anecdote.

Now I just need to think of one.

I’ve got my title, which currently means nothing, and the plan to tell an old story…so all that is left to do is pick the story and tell it.

Okay – I’ve got one.

The last post I wrote on vomit (now there’s something I’ve never imagined saying), had a lot to do with growing up – or more accurately, becoming a grownup. Because I all too often feel like the teenage babysitter when I’m at home and in charge of my kids. And I should know how that feels because I did a lot of babysitting in my teens and 20s.

So with my segue firmly in place, I can now (ONLY six paragraphs later) tell you a story about babysitting.

One summer, when I was home from college, I acquired “a new family” in my parents’ Capitol Hill neighborhood. One of my father’s co-workers lived in a townhouse across the street from Eastern Market and just a few minutes away from us. They had been renovating the house for a while and it was really beautiful. In fact, I was always a little amazed at how tidy they kept it. But it probably helped that they only had one very well behaved little boy. His name was Sam.

The first time that I ever babysat for Sam, he was a very young three. He could talk – but he was a quiet little guy. A man of few words, if you will. He had big serious brown eyes and a thick cap of straight chestnut hair. He was adorable and I fell immediately in love with him.

Since it was Summer, it was still light out at 7 p.m. And when Sam’s parents left, we sat in the kitchen bathed in the last traces of sunbeams, eating a snack and staring at each other. I don’t remember much about the conversation other than the fact that it was pretty sparse.

Sam just gazed at me as if he was waiting for something to happen. His attentive anticipation was a bit unnerving to me since I really had nothing planned – no balloon animals, no wildly imaginative games, not even any knock knock jokes. I was always more of a raid the refrigerator and watch TV kind of babysitter. This usually suited my charges very nicely since there are very few children who don’t get a thrill from the suggestion, “hey – let’s make brownies!” I was beloved for my enthusiastic baking if nothing else.

But Sam was so shy and serious and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. In the meantime, I really needed to use the bathroom, so I excused myself and told him I’d be right back.

I found a bathroom right next to the kitchen which was in the back of the house. It was the last room that needed renovations and didn’t even have a doorknob, but it looked like it was in working order.

As soon as I sat down, I looked up to find Sam shyly peering in at me. So I went over to the door and closed it, telling him that I just needed two minutes of privacy and would be right with him.

This apparently, was a big mistake. When I tried to exit the room, I found that the door had actually latched shut, and the lack of a doorknob presented a serious problem.

I peeked through the door knob sized hole at Sam, who as expected, was peeking in at me from the other side.

“Sam?” I asked. “How do Mommy and Daddy open this door?“

“Use a toothbrush,” he replied.

In looking around I didn’t see any toothbrushes, but I did (inexplicably) find a pencil. I inserted this into the metal mechanism in the center of the hole and tried turning it. No dice.

After several more minutes of pencil rotations and searching for other items to try, I could feel the hysterical laughter building. His parents were due to be home “sometime before midnight” and it was now only 7:15.

There was no way that I could expect a three year old, even a stoic little soul like Sam, to remain in my line of sight through the hole for over four hours. I had to get out of there. And fast. Because paranoia was starting to join hysteria, and I didn’t like the look in Sam’s eyes… Maybe he wasn’t quiet at all and once the initial shyness wore off, he would run for the knife drawer.

Frantically pacing the tiny room like a caged tiger, I thought of every means of escape possible. My lack of upper body strength made breaking down the door unlikely. No phones were handy and the only window available was blocked by a crazy looking shower stall that the previous owners must have added. But upon closer inspection, it appeared that there just MAY have been enough room for me to squeeze through if I tried to exit sideways while sucking in my stomach and channeling a gerbil.

But first, I had to make sure that the old window wasn’t painted shut – which in these old townhouses, was a distinct possibility.

I climbed up onto the toilet, reached behind the shower stall and pushed on the window frame with every scrap of strength my puny little arms could muster. Miraculously, I did manage to get it open. Now I just had to get out on the ledge.

Even with that extra college weight I brought home each June, I was able to just fit through the narrow space, and legs first, pulled myself into a precarious perch. Once I was sitting on the ledge, legs dangling, I assessed the distance. Even though I was on the first floor, townhouses are built rather high, so I was looking at a half story drop.

My old Tretorns didn’t promise much in the way of shock absorption, but at this point, I really didn’t have any choice other than to jump.

I called back into the room, “Sam! I’m going out the window! Come meet me at the front door!“

Then I jumped.

And it did hurt, but I didn’t have time to think about it. I literally had to run around the block to get to the front of the house to meet Sam.

The ally led me to the exact opposite side of the block where I turned left and started to sprint. As I hit the last corner, it occurred to me that I hadn’t really given much thought to phase two of this plan.

So when I arrived at the front door (which thankfully included a glass window) and reinstated my staring game with Sam, I was faced with a new challenge: How do I get back in?

We lived in the city, so of course the door was locked. We never left doors unlocked whether we were home or not. Unfortunately, the only occupant currently “home” did not seem to know how to unlock the door.

Then I remembered that during my quick tour of the house, Sam’s mother showed me a high shelf next to the front door where she kept an extra set of keys.

“Sam – do you see that shelf?” I asked.

Nod from Sam.

“Can you pull up a chair and reach it?“

Another nod from silent Sam.

As luck would have it, the shelf was a little too high for a three year old on a chair to reach. So much for my idea of Sam throwing the keys out of the open window on the second floor.

But looking at that open window suddenly reminded me – they were using ceiling fans instead of central air.

That’s right, I thought. She actually mentioned closing the bay windows, and god bless that little Sam who said he preferred the “fresh, clean air.” And turning to my right I saw several window screens.

So I would be breaking in. But at least I wouldn’t have to break glass.

Since the window closest to the front steps was in fact closed (of course) I would have to climb up to one of the others from the front lawn. This was a somewhat risky affair that involved, a spiky wrought iron fence and a drop into the basement stairs – but I managed to scramble up to the window without falling.

And with a rush of adrenaline, I kicked in the screen and flung myself in.

For a few seconds, Sam and I just stood there looking at each other.

Then I realized that I was back in the house and I didn’t have to break a window and Sam wasn’t playing with knives. And I started screaming for joy and jumping up and down like I just found Ed McMahon on my doorstep with a giant check.

Sam cracked a little smile and hopped around a bit. FINALLY, this babysitter was starting to be entertaining.

The entire production, from closing the bathroom door to high fiving Sam in the living room, probably took no more than 15-20 minutes.

Right – so only three to four more hours to kill… I had apparently already used up my best material, so I had to fall back on the fail safes. Cookies and TV sounded pretty good to me at that point. And Sam agreed.

And from then on (even now for all I know), that family referred to me as “The Babysitter Who Jumped Out the Window.”

So my first title did kind of fit. Whether I’m writing or babysitting, I may not always have a plan – but I’m pretty good at pulling it together in the end.