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Overflowing with thoughts & diversions for the 21st century mama!
Mama's Cup is a parenting blog with an holistic approach. As most Mamas know, motherhood is about much more than deciding which stroller to buy and where to buy it. Mamas today mother in a global community and have wide and varied outlooks, with one important common denominator: Motherhood.
Mama's Cup is a blog for the Mama as Whole Person: Parent, Woman, Mentor, Personal Shopper; Family CFO, EMT, Troubleshooter and Damage Control Specialist.
The several daily posts at Mama's Cup range from recipes to current events, from product reviews to book reviews, appreciating the beautiful and highlighting the practical. Mama's Cup is the Swiss Army Knife in every Mama's tool belt.
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I cannot believe that I am sitting down at my computer about to write what I'm about to write:
My bright, hilarious, inquisitive, soulful, beautiful eight-year-old daughter says she is fat.
And she's not just saying she's fat. Tonight, she tried to stop eating her dinner, for fear of getting "fatter." She was poking at her "fat" belly as she got into the shower. She told me her skin is "wobbly."
She called herself ugly.
And it was then that I felt my heart crack a little.
Right down the middle.
I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to link arms with Gloria Steinem and set fire to every single "women's fashion" magazine that has ever been printed. I want to take a Sharpie to every magazine cover at the check out at the supermarket and redact all the CRAP on display. I want to RAGE against the bullshit standards that we women are held to EVERY FUCKING DAY OF OUR LIVES.
Because you and I both know what those standards are.
Actually, there's just one standard that really matters: PERFECTION.
And you know what the worst part is? The most horrible part of it all?
We do it to ourselves.
She's not getting this from the men or the boys in her life. She's getting it from the WOMEN -- and the girls. And they're getting it from their mothers and their sisters. And from the magazines they read and the insipid television shows they watch.
And do you know where else she is getting it from?
She is also getting it from me. I know she is, because she told me so.
But how the hell...?
I don't talk about "fat people" or "skinny people." She doesn't hear me asking my husband if I "look fat in these jeans." I made a deliberate choice, as soon as I knew that I was going to have a girl, that I would not allow her to hear me speak about myself in ways that degrade me -- for my appearance or otherwise. A conscious fucking choice.
She does not hear me say, "Oh, I couldn't possibly eat that" or, "how many calories are in that?" In fact, she watched me take down an entire, fantastic bacon cheese burger at one of our favorite local burger joints this weekend. Complete with half an order of garlic parmesan fries.
But then, when we were finished eating,as the server cleared our plates, my daughter heard me say, "I won't eat for a week after that meal." She heard that. She also hears the incidental chatter between friends and family: "Did you lose weight? You look great!" Or, "I haven't worked out in a while, and it shows. I need to get back to the gym."
There was also that time at the beach, when my daughter was just five or so, and she told me that my skin was wobbly as we walked back together from the water toward our blanket, and she saw my reaction to that honest observation. I'm sure that made an impression. I know it did, because she told me that, too, tonight.
And that's the problem. The insidious, creeping-vine-like nature of it. Little comments. Little reactions. The implicit understanding of what it is that we value as a culture. Whether it's in my subtle reaction, or when it's on gratuitous display, in all it's glossy, cover-story glory, as we wait patiently in line to purchase some toilet paper and a bag carrots.
It's. Everywhere.
It's in our daily lives, there for all of us to measure ourselves against, and to always come up short.
It's the Perfection Infection.
I was in a meeting recently, with half a dozen or so accomplished, intelligent people. What were we talking about? The potato chips on the table, and how we shouldn't be eating them. A woman whom I respect and admire for her professional accomplishments and strategic mind, brought up that awful quote, attributed to Kate Moss, as she opted not to reach for a handful of chips: "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels."
It's as damning and demoralizing to hear at 40 as it was at 20.
This garbage we seem to be so invested in, compounded over time, in the porous mind of a young girl, aware of the world around her and curious about her place in it, watching, always watching, for clues and cues about how and who to be -- it's suffocating. And it fucking stinks. It stinks to high heaven like the pile of shit that it is.
This perfection thing? It's a prison for girls and for women.
But here's the rub: we are both the prisoners and the prison guards.
We imprison ourselves with this idea of perfection: of mind, of body, of career, of home and hearth, of motherhood, of fucking shoes and kitchen countertops and selfies and yoga practice and on and on and on and on -- and then we drag the baton across the bars and taunt ourselves. Not enough, we whisper about ourselves and to each other. Not good enough. Not skinny enough. Not fabulous enough. Never, ever enough.
And I'm struggling -- honestly struggling -- with how to address it. How to manage it. How to stop it.
She's a good girl, my Not-So-Little One. I pretty much feel like she's smarter than anyone else in my house.
But this Perfection Infection has taken hold. Tonight, she told me as much. She told me that she is: fat, ugly, big, and stupid.
My child.
The one whom I refer to regularly as "beauty" and "smarty pants" and "angel" has now, somehow, at age eight, begun to devalue herself.
It is our imperative as mothers to change the conversation.
But before we can change it for our daughters, we must change it for ourselves.
We have the keys.
It's time to set ourselves -- and our daughters -- free.
(SPOILER ALERT: If you are one of the grandparents of the Not So Little One, please stop reading now, lest you spoil your Christmas surprise.)
While creating this year’s holiday photo books for the Not So Little One’s grandparents (Mom, Dad, I told you to stop reading!), I realized something; as I was carefully sorting images from the past 11 or so months – photos of her hiking, climbing, exploring, and breaking a board in her TaeKwonDo class like a BOSS, I noticed it.
So many of the snapshots of my gorgeous and growing girl are taken from behind. Sure, there are plenty of posed smiles, and spontaneous laughter captured in the moment, digital records for the ensuing decades.
But the real record of my girl in action is one that I am now seeing from the backseat.
I have the pictures to prove it.
That’s the realization.
That as she grows and strives and becomes more and more herself everyday, her momentum is forward, moving at what sometimes seems like the speed of light, into her life, and – in many ways– away from me.
Surely this is the way of nature. And yet, seeing the high-resolution manifestation of this truth laid out before me, well, it got me a little choked up.
It’s striking, really, all of those photos of her forward movement, gathered together. She gazes ahead, finding new trees to climb, new oceans to cross, new challenges to meet. And I find myself – as all mothers do, surely – gazing after her. Guiding yes, but more and more often now from behind.
Today, though, I had a front row seat opportunity to see her in all her 8-year-old glory, forging ahead. Thanks to her wonderful aunt, who also happens to be a children’s librarian, my girl had the chance to participate in a Writers’ Workshop, complete with real, published authors and an appearance by the latest American Girl Doll in the flesh, Samantha.
My Not So Little One was asked to write a book recommendation to share with the audience. And I had the chance to watch her do it, with a full view of her brave and beautiful face. Back straight and eyes shining, she told the group about the book she chose. She was poised and articulate, and it was so precious to see it all happen from that vantage point-- one where I could watch her smile and succeed as she moved forward.
December 14, 2012, I saw the words "shooting at Newtown elementary school" creep into my Twitter feed. I was at my desk in my office in Darien, CT, 25 or so miles away from Newtown. My husband grew up in Newtown. His father spent most of his teaching career there. Thoughts racing, my brain dove into the mental gymnastics that result from close proximity to tragedy.
As information trickled out, I saw, like so many others, the Newtown Bee's photo of crying children walking in a line, hand to shoulder, filing out of school.
"At least no one was hurt," a well-meaning co-worker uttered to no one in particular. It was still the early moments, when the depth and breadth of the atrocity were still known only to a relative few.
But I couldn't breathe.
"Shooter."
"Elementary school."
The juxtaposition of the words alone was too much for me. But that photo was literally more than I could bear.
Details trickled through, 140 characters at a time. One -- possibly two -- people injured. A teacher wounded.
I walked, on shaking legs, to a meeting, hanging onto every new bit of information, fiercely hoping that the feeling in my gut was nothing more than my overdeveloped anxiety response. But then, I walked into the boardroom and saw the faces of my colleagues -- all of whom have young children -- and I just knew.
I think we all did.
A flood of incomprehensible details followed. 26 people dead. Mostly first graders. Almost immediately, people began using the word "angels" to describe the 20 little children and their teachers who were executed in their school that day.
My own kids -- angels -- both first graders at the time, were 10 miles away from me, in their own school. A flurry of frantic texts flew between me and my husband. He would pick up the kids early from school. I would meet them at home.
And then...what would we say?
We said a lot of things. We tried to be vague. We tried to mitigate the horror. We tried to obfuscate. Mostly, we wanted to be the filters for their information, rather than leaving them to hear about it from some older kids on the bus or at school. I don't remember everything we said. But I do remember making them some promises. We promised them that their school was safe. We promised them that this was an anomaly -- an isolated incident.
We promised them.
But on the eve of this horrible anniversary, I feel like a liar.
This is an outrage. It is the mark of an uncivilized, uneducated and unengaged society.
Where are the masses marching on Washington, demanding change? I know there are pockets of concerned parents and individuals. There are organizations that have sprung up in the wake of loss that follows a tragedy like Newtown.
But there's been no large-scale, collective, galvanized response to this outrageous violence that has become ubiquitous in our schools.
Every two weeks. What the hell are we waiting for?
I'm at a loss as to how to make the math work to support that argument.
Every two weeks. Our children are NOT safe at school.
...........................
We had our first real snow a couple of days ago. My kids were vibrating with excitement. But they had indoor recess that day. Apparently, the school was concerned about the danger of ice on the black top... By the time the kids came home, they were nearly impossible to contain. So, we released them into the yard, and the expanse of untouched snow.
Almost immediately, they lay down, spread their arms, and made snow angels, their laughter echoing.
Those angels are still out there tonight, silent sentinels.
I like to think of myself as an informed consumer, at least when it comes to food. Being a food writer and regular farmers’ market shopper, I’ve been pretty comfortable in that assertion for years. In my family, we buy a lot of organic foods, especially meats, produce and dairy. Our kids have been eating a variety of foods from the beginning: salmon, spinach, hummus, feta cheese and balsamic vinegar are all things they will ask for by name. Deep fried chicken parts never entered into our family’s food equation.
Imagine my surprise when I found out how woefully late I am to the real food party.
The now defunct Connecticut food labeling bill—HB 5117—has been the subject of several of my recent columns. And with each piece I wrote, each interview I conducted, I have had to peel away layers of half-truths and outright lies like the skins of so many genetically modified onions.
I’ve had to get up to speed in a hurry on the topic of genetically modified organisms (GMOs), and have done so with the help of Right to Know CT co-founders Analiese Paik and Tara Cook-Littman, along with Institute for Responsible Technologyfounder and best-selling author, Jeffrey Smith. Their insight, coupled with my independent research, has shown me just how deeply ingrained GMOs have become in our food supply, and just how far up the proverbial food chain the responsibility for this goes.
I had no choice but to throw my “knowledge” and “expertise” onto the compost pile once I realized that many, many of the foods in my family’s pantry actually contained GMOs. The same GMOs, in fact, that produced frightening results in animal studies, according to a 2009 paper by the American Academy of Environmental Medicine: “Several animal studies indicate serious health risks associated with GM food consumption including infertility, immune dysregulation, accelerated aging, dysregulation of genes associated with cholesterol synthesis, insulin regulation, cell signaling, and protein formation, and changes in the liver, kidney, spleen and gastrointestinal system.”
What?
The ingredients that cause these defects—symptoms that sound more like cheap horror film fodder than FDA sanctioned side-effects—are the same as can be found in the Goldfish snack crackers and frozen edamame I was feeding my children. Realizing this was one of my lowest points to-date as a mom.
My fiancé and I acted swiftl
1 Comments on The Real ABCs of GMOs, last added: 5/11/2012
Well and passionately stated without hyperbole. The simplicity of children is sorely needed in this debate. It was a great insight to include the dialog with your children.
I woke up on the morning of September 12, 2001 in my fiancé’s apartment on the 23rd floor of his building on 39th Street in Manhattan. Neither of us had slept much at all, of course. And after that first foggy moment between sleep and waking when nothing is quite clear, the memory of the madness we were living descended.
We stumbled around his apartment in silence; the chaos in our heads and hearts too noisy to talk over. Reporters on the television we hadn’t turned off the night before were frantically trying to make sense of the nightmare still unfolding all around us.
From his building, we could see—and smell—the black, burning cloud at the tip of the island.
“Nothing is ever going to be the same,” I said to him. “Everything is different now.”
This morning, like millions of others, I woke to the news that Osama bin Laden is dead. Since first hearing the news, I’ve been stumbling through my morning trying to wrap my head around what that actually means, the chatter of reporters once again in the background.
There is undeniable symbolic importance to his death, a final sentence delivered to the Al Qaeda figurehead by a brave group of U.S. special operatives.
An awful lot of people have waited an awfully long time to hear this.
And yet, I can’t help but ruminate on my own words on 9/12. “Nothing is ever going to be the same.”
For so many people, this remains an unalterable truth. And the news of OBL’s death—though admittedly very welcome—doesn’t do much to change our present.
It’s remarkable and terrifying to think about the millions of lives OBL’s atrocities have altered. Because of one man’s evil, the course of human history has been changed.
It isn’t the first time that’s happened. And if history teaches us anything, it will likely not be the last.
I understand the jubilation across the country, even if I don’t share it. Like millions of others, I am glad Osama bin Laden is dead. And I’ve been experiencing my own quiet catharsis this morning.
But there’s still an empty space at bottom of New York City and in the hearts of millions of New Yorkers. Empty chairs at dinner tables won't be filled because of this. Our country is still fighting multiple wars. And OBL’s murderous ideology still lives even as his body sinks to the bottom of the sea.
Today, like the morning of September 12, I have a deeply unsettling feeling.
But this morning, my disquiet comes from the opposite realization:
As much as we wish it had, nothing has changed.
2 Comments on The Bin Laden Effect, last added: 5/5/2011
My headspace has been occupied with Single Mamahood quite a lot recently.
Duh, you say.
Sure, I've been at this Single Mamahood thing for a while now, and I've written about it here. But it's been on my brain more than usual because I've been working on a new book about, duh, Single Mamahood.
But that's not what I want to tell you about right now.
In my Googling escapades masquerading as research for my latest project, I came across something else.
Something...something.
And I apparently came upon this new something on the same day it was officially named a New York Times best seller.
Matthew and Liz met at age 18. They fell in love fast and hard, the way 18-year-olds are prone to do. But, unlike most adolescent love stories, their young relationship actually weathered four years of long-distance negotiations, with Matthew having stayed put in their native Minnesota and Liz having wisely chosen to leave the cold winters behind to pursue her education in a state with a more practical climate: California.
Against ridiculous odds, their love lasted.
No, it blossomed.
No, it fucking transcended.
Fast forward several years, and they were married. Fast forward a few more, and they were pregnant.
Liz's pregnancy, apparently, was difficult, and their baby tried--more than once--to meet the parents too soon.
Finally, on March 24, 2008, it was time for their baby--a girl--to arrive.
When she did, she was tiny, not quite four pounds. But she was a fighter from the first, and she persevered, just like the love her parents had for each other. And now her.
Liz, however, wasn't afforded the same opportunity.
27 hours after baby Madeline was born, without ever having held her daughter, Liz died in the hospital of a pulmonary embolism.
In the space of little more than a day, Matthew became a father and a widower.
And a Single Papa.
I haven't read the book yet, as it just came out. I did, however, spend a good deal of time on Matthew's blog.
What I read there has me thinking.
And feeling.
And yeah, crying a little.
The first line of his book reads, "I am not a writer."
This is a lie.
He is a writer. And he was before he ever published a book. This much is evident on his blog. The fact that he was able to articulate his loss; chronicle his heartache; and translate his raw, confused, and aching emotion into words is only something a writer, however reluctant, could do.
Just open a vein and bleed, indeed.
Of course I'll read the book now. How could I not? I'd say you should, too, except I haven't read it yet. And recommending a book you haven't read seems a little silly.
So, in absence of a book recommendation, let me make a blog recommendation. Spend some time there, get to know Matt, Maddy, and Liz. Chances are, you'll probably end up wanting to read the book.
I definitely do.
Oh, and P.S.
Matt, on the off chance you actually read this, I want to thank you for reminding me--and many hundreds of thousands of others--that Single Parenthood is tough, tragic and tremendously rewarding, no matter your gender, or your circumstances.
Last week, the Little One and I headed out for a playdate with friends. I told her to pack up the toys she wanted to bring, usually an assortment of microscopic animal figures and their molecule-sized accessories, most of which have a nasty habit of finding their way into my vacuum cleaner. Diligently and using very good 'listening ears,' she collected her pea-sized possessions. "I'm ready!" she announced proudly, hand on the doorknob. "Mama," she said, her smart little ponytail swinging behind her, "I packed some snacks in my purse." "Really." Skeptical about her snack selection, I was about to explain that some snacks--like broccoli or hummus or jello--aren't meant to be packed in purses. "Don't worry," she said, opening the front door. "I put an ice pack in there too, to keep them cold. It's pretty full, but I got it zipped." My resourceful, thoughtful Little One, packing snacks for our friends--complete with an ice pack--in her black leather Nine West hand-me-down purse from grandma. After I had my "aww, isn't that sweet" moment, I could have asked for further clarification. And through the crystal clear lens of retrospect, it's plain that I should have. But, we were already running late. And anyway, it's not like she'd pack the leftover ravioli from last night's dinner in her purse, right? A few cheese sticks maybe, and some goldfish, sure. I'd just take a peek inside her purse on arrival. "Alright, kiddo. Let's move it out." It's a short ride to our friends' house and Michele Norris was keeping us company on the way, explaining the intricacies of a potential federal government shutdown. A veteran NPR listener since her infancy, I assumed the Little One was as riveted as I. Until a wail erupted from the back seat. "What's wrong, baby?" In the rear view mirror, I could see the enormous tears rolling down her already flushed cheeks. "What happened?" "They broke! Ahhhhhhhh!" Another wail, followed by some hiccups. "What broke, sweetest?" "The eggs!" Wail. Hiccup. Snort. Wail. "Eggs?" I turned around to see her tiny hands holding open a too-big-for-her purse. Inside, several freshly broken eggs were mashed up against an ice pack and smeared all over an assortment of tiny animal critters, at least three dozen hair ties, one of my credit cards and a broken tiara. "Oh, baby." Don't laugh. She's upset. "I wanted to bring them a snack and it's broken and everything is egg-y!" Wail, snort, hiccup, etc. Pushing her little hand into the yolky mess, she scooped out some shell-flecked slime. "Here! I don't want it." She flung the goo toward the front seat. With egg literally on my face, I tried very, very hard not to let her see me laughing. Upon arrival at our friends' home, the recent egg-tastrophe was almost immediately forgotten. And fortunately, I was able to clean the purse and many of the things it contained. Though one small prairie dog-like creature--may she rest in peace--couldn't be saved. The next morning, the egg debacle no more than a slimy memory, I looked in the refrigerator. Guess what I didn't have. Right. She'd put every single egg we had into that purse of hers. No wonder it was so full. That little prairie dog didn't have a chance. So, eggs have been added
0 Comments on Snack Time Snafu as of 4/11/2011 9:42:00 AM
Single Mamahood requires a lot of creativity. Single Mamahood as a freelance writer demands suspension of disbelief. It's a little like medieval warfare.
You get a gig, you lose a gig. You hustle. You work your ass rump off for just about everyone, but buy yourself precious little security in the process. You're understaffed and underfunded. Austerity measures in place, it is life without a safety net.
When I embarked on this particular adventure, the ranks of reliable supporting characters were thin and ill-equipped, like King Harry's 'happy few.' Since then, they've grown. So have I. And so has the Little One.
'All things be ready if our minds are so.' The Bard, for all his dramatic eloquence, could easily have written a self-help book for the Single Mama. Doing the whole single motherhood thing requires trust. Trust in yourself, trust in your kiddo's ability to negotiate change, and trust in those you rely on to help you, because none of us can do it alone. Even the legendary Henry V needed an army--however patch-worked and improvised--to defeat the French at Agincourt.
The takeaway from this scene for the Single Mama--for anyone, really--is simple. No matter what the odds, no matter how the deck is stacked against you--lost gigs, lost sitters, broken hearts, and tired minds--you can't afford to lose faith. If you lose faith in yourself, in your ranks, in your future, then you cede the day without ever having fought to win it.
'We are but warriors for the working day.' And so we work. We strive. We comfort, console and contend.
It's what we do, we few, we happy few, we band of mothers.
The Little One has been at it again, and I'm just too proud not to share. She wrote her own letter to Santa this year, for the first time ever. (That's a rendering of her and the Big Man there at the bottom.)
As expected, there's plenty of girlie stuff on her list. Ponies and princesses figure prominently. And she's been awfully nice, so chances are Santa will fulfill her wishes.
Me? My wish list is pretty much checked off already. I have a happy, healthy kiddo who's having a blast playing with words. As a Mama writer, that last part is pretty cool. I have some jobs I'm digging big time, including local fashion and food beats for an online paper. I even interviewed Rachael Ray recently. I'm also plugging away on my book. (I know, I said I'd finish it in 2010. I didn't. But 2011 is my year. I can totally feel it.) And, I am blessed with the love of some truly spectacular people. Supportive, hilarious, incredible, brilliant people who dig me as much as I dig them. All this, despite some major across-the-board downsizing over the last twelve or so months.
This isn't the worst way to end a year, especially one we embarked on without much more than the determination on our backs.
So, Santa, your work with me is done this year. Save the cashmere gift set for the next gal. I'm cozy enough as I am. But, if you could throw in an extra tiara or set of crayons for the Little One, she'd be so happy, she'd probably write you a thank you note. All by herself.
0 Comments on All I Want For Christmas Is... as of 1/1/1900
Ladies, I've reached the six-month mark of single-mamahood.
The sky hasn't fallen. We're not living on a park bench. We even have a little garden growing on the balcony of our new apartment, a feat I never managed to accomplish as a stay-at-home-mama in a house with a lovely and generous yard.
We have tomatoes, rosemary, cucumbers, lavender, basil and other lovelies growing right outside our sliding door.
But, in addition to vegetables and herbs and flowers, what we are cultivating is a sense of joy, independence and possibility. What we have built together, mama and daughter--what we're growing--is a result of us and our intrepid nature. What we're doing, we're doing on our own, and well.
To be sure, we owe much to friends and family and the support they've so generously provided. A word or two of encouragement, an hour or two of free babysitting--it's all integral to this step in our journey.
The last six months have been a logistical and emotional roller coaster. We have entertained both comfort and hardship. We have stumbled, and we have collected ourselves. Our bootstraps are worn out from tugging. Our gardening tools are well-used. And we have moved forward.
Now, six months out, despite being in the midst of a mad heat wave, the forecast is favorable. We can do this.We're doing this. To persevere, it doesn't take a house, or a man. It doesn't take built-in bookshelves or a gourmet kitchen. A padded 401k--does anyone have one these days?--is not required. All it takes is the determination to do so.
Little One, you are my garden. Your future is what I am cultivating. I promise to promptly pull any weeds that threaten to inhibit your growth--our growth.
Our growing season is now. Together, we will reap the fruits of our experiences.
It's a funny thing, Father's Day, when you're a single Mama. Especially the first one on your own. What to do? Wine with lunch? Dress all in black? Pedicure? Yoga? Fly to Vegas?
For my first post-kiddo, unattached Father's Day, I did not fly to Vegas. (There's always next year.) It was actually kind of low key. A mixture of chores, errands, some down time and--gasp--writing!
Right, I know, I make my living tossing words around for others, sure. Lots of words, for lots of others. But today, in honor of my single mother-and-fatherhood, I relished in the gift of a few kidless hours and used them to write for myself. It's incredible, the power of a few thousand words, added to a few thousand more. If I keep this up, I might actually finish my book! Too bad I won't make Oprah's show before she hangs up her mic.
Having the time and space, though, reminded me just how hard we single Mamas work. Not that I needed reminding. Ha. No, rather, I had a moment or two to reflect on just how flipping hard single parenthood is. Hard! (I thought this over while I took an indulgent 20 minutes to blow out my hair. It was kind of fabulous.)
Please don't misunderstand: I love my kiddo. Pick an appendage, I'd saw it off myself to save her discomfort. But having a few hours to myself, to be a grown-up and throw myself into what I love, well, that didn't suck.
So, to all the Single Mamas out there, I hope you were able to celebrate yourselves today. It isn't easy, what we do: blood, sweat, tears, tantrums, the lot of it. (I don't even want to get into what high school will look like.) If you didn't have the opportunity to celebrate yourselves, let me honor you here: it takes guts to do what we do. It takes strength and creativity. Our days are never over and there is rarely a moment when we are off duty. But our perseverance, our determination and our blind and reckless love for our kiddos see us through. We are Superwomen.
Single Mamas, I salute you.
1 Comments on All the Single Mamas, last added: 6/21/2010
Love it Meaghan! I needed that bit of inspiration! It's not fathers day here in Australia, but still loved this blog. Keep on keeping on, superwoman. xxxxx
When you hear the term "daily affirmation," it can conjure up some pretty silly images. (Remember Stuart Smalley?)
But just watch this little girl put some serious affirmations to work in front of her bathroom mirror.
Sure, it's cute--"I like my elephants!"--but it's also pretty powerful, especially when you consider the state of the self esteem of young girls (and grown women) in this country. It kind of makes me realize the level of responsibility I have to make sure I build the Little One up, every day, in every way.
My new goal is to get my kiddo this jazzed about herself and her life. While I'm at it, I could probably take a cue from little Jessica myself.
I do like my life. And I can do anything "good." So can my Little One. I think we'll spend some time after school today reminding ourselves just how much we rock.
Just don't look for us on YouTube in our pajamas.
1 Comments on The Power of Positive Thinking: We Rock, last added: 5/22/2010
We were up early today. When I heard the first "Mama?" I think the clock read 5:58 am. There's much about the arrival of summertime that I await with gleeful anticipation. The earlier wake-ups brought on by the earlier sunrise, though? Not so much. Come high summer, it can feel a little bit like I'm living in the Land of the Midnight Sun with the hours the Little One keeps.
Anyway, as I stumbled my way through coffee making with both eyes closed, and while the rest of Fairfield County Connecticut was resting comfortably in bed on this Sunday morning, the Little One was bouncing in our kitchen.
"I wanna wear my dress!"
"Baby, I can't see anything because I haven't had any coffee," I told her.
"I wanna wear my dress!"
"Kiddo, it's the middle of the night. We haven't had breakfast. Or coffee. Anyway, your nightgown is like a dress," I offer. The coffee maker comes alive. Thank God.
"I. Want. To. Wear. My. Dreeeeesssssssss!!!"
Confession: I had no idea what she was talking about. Or rather, I made an assumption. I assumed she was asking to wear a pink crinoline number she wore on Easter. It's her go-to "look, I'm a princess," outfit. I'm happy to let her throw it on, but usually after we're finished with oatmeal or jam or other sticky, breakfasty things.
"Maybe after breakfast," I tell her.
"Noooooooo!" She collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor, writhing and screaming. Certainly the neighbors heard and now assume I'm running some kind of satellite secret prison for the CIA.
"Kiddo," I stepped over her to pour myself a cup of coffee. "Really."
"But (sniff) you (gulp) promised (wail)."
I promised? The caffeine hits my bloodstream; my command of the English language is returning. Despite the rush from my morning fix, I don't remember specifically promising she could wear that dress today.
"Which dress do you mean, baby?"
"The beautiful one," she said, her bottom lip trembling. Well, that clears things up.
"Why don't you show me," I suggested, now that both my eyelids had come unglued. I followed her into her room, where she pointed to a new sundress, hanging on her closet door. A dress that I had, in fact, promised she could wear today to a friend's barbecue.
"Sure, honey, you can wear that," I said, taking the dress off the hanger.
"I don't want to be late for the barbecue," she said, pulling the dress over her head. One the most amazing tricks an almost-four-year-old girl can pull off is the immediate materialization and evaporation of tears. On her face there is no evidence of my CIA secret prison tactics. Incredible. "That's why I woke up early." She spun around twice, checking the twirl factor of her new dress. Apparently satisfied, she said, "I'm ready. Let's go to the barbecue."
Clarity washes over me like so much Colombian dark roast. She's so excited about this barbecue tonight with 2 of her best friends that she literally cannot wait to go, even if that means showing up 11 hours early.
"Oh, kiddo," I said, hugging her. One of the very best things about kids this age is the unbridled enthusiasm with which they approach everything--tantrums, barbecues, princess dresses, a dandelion-covered lawn--everything. Their capacity for joy, or any other emotion, is so much deeper and wider than anything we allow ourselves to feel as adults. They experience the world in ways that are so immediate and so intense. Sure, sometimes this approach isn't the most effective. Writhing and screaming on the floor of one of my client's offices, for instance, probably wouldn't get my contract renewed.
However, there is much to recommend this authenticity. Can you imagine--do any of us remember--what it feels like to see dandelions growing in a field and feel excitement? When was the last time you were so jazzed about an event that you woke up early and hopped ou
2 Comments on Hey, Ho, Let's Go!, last added: 5/3/2010
Well, this week is my birthday week. But hold onto your Botox vials, ladies; this year, I'm trying to look at things a little differently. (At least when I'm not standing in direct sunlight.)
Recently, I attended the birthday dinner of a dear, beautiful, and loving friend. Her spectacular (and highly literate) husband gave a toast, which included the following poem, written by my most favorite of favorites, e.e. cummings:
silently if,out of not knowable night's utmost nothing,wanders a little guess (only which is this world)more my life does not leap than with the mystery your smile
sings or if(spiralling as luminous they climb oblivion)voices who are dreams, less into heaven certainly earth swims than each my deeper death becomes your kiss
losing through you what seemed myself,i find selves unimaginably mine;beyond sorrrow's own joys and hoping's very fears
yours is the light by which my spirit's born: yours is the darkness of my soul's return --you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars
Right?
But beyond the (obvious and enviable) romance, there was a deeper message my friend's doting other half wanted to impart: the idea of a birthday being not only the day one is born, but the other "births" that person's life inspires, be they of the flesh, the mind, or the spirit.
So, I'm thinking that this April 4th, I might try to spend a little less time with the magnifying mirror, examining my skin's evaporating elasticity. Instead, I'd like to turn it into an occasion for inspiring other births in the people whose lives I'm blessed enough to encounter, and for thanking them for the births they've inspired in mine. Births of curiosity, love, kindness, compassion, and generosity, for instance.
See, I'm pretty blessed. I have many people in my life whom I cherish deeply. Some are new in my world, some I've known (almost) since I was born--or at least since I was young enough to feel invincible. So this year, I think I'd like to actually use "my" day to tell each of them how much they mean to me, and to thank them for the love they've helped me give birth to, each in their own, very particular way.
That's kind of my plan this year. Gratitude and love in abundance.
Anyway, it's cheaper than another glycolic peel from my dermatologist.
0 Comments on It's My Birthday, Too, Yeah as of 1/1/1900
Well, Mamas, it seems I've taken an unexpected--and unannounced--sabbatical.
Had I more foresight, I might have warned you that I'd be checking out for awhile.
But who knew that single motherhood was thisoverwhelming? (Probably at least a few of you did.)
Well, I'm happy to be back and to issue a report from the front lines.
Yes, the dark circles under my eyes seem to have taken up permanent residence. (Thanks, Stila, for having this Mama's back.) And yes, my Little One has had to make some adjustments to her schedule. We both have. The transition hasn't been seamless and we're both learning quite a bit about resilience, patience, and Nick Jr. On Demand.
The good news?
We're doing just fine. She still eats her vegetables. She's reading and writing her name, along with a few other words. (She's still three, so this is big news!) She still loves Mama, Papa and everything she loved prior to our "big adjustment."
The transition hasn't been without its bumps, to be sure, and we're not without bruises. But together, we're making it happen, and happily.
So, Mamas, I'm back. Musings, updates, anecdotes and silliness to follow.
Just don't ask me why I look so tired.
4 Comments on Hello? Is This Thing On?, last added: 3/26/2010
Welcome back! It's amazing to me how many blogs I've read (and mine is included in this) where the opening line is, "sorry I've been gone so long..." etc. It seems it was meant to be for so many of us to take a break. Not always for rest, but just to step away from the blog for a bit. Hope your situation continues to get easier!
I kind of totally forgot about Valentine's Day this year.
It's not really a holiday I generally count down to anyway. But this year? Oblivious.
This lead to something of a scramble yesterday, when I read an email from the Little One's teacher, reminding all of us parents about the Valentine's Day party for her class this week.
Having made the complete transition to Single Working Mama, I have less time to sit around with doilies and glue sticks than I did six months ago. Plus, I'm still a Room Mom for the Little One's class, which means I have to kick it in for the party. I needed to come up with 20 Valentines, plus three for the teachers, and some heart-shaped party stuff.
So, when I read the email, I panicked a little.
See, the party is this Thursday. My work schedule is nuts until then. When the hell would I have time to glue doilies together with construction paper hearts for every kid in the Little One's class?
Clearly, I wouldn't. I won't. I don't.
So, I did the only thing I could do: I headed to the Supermarket and tried to find the least offensive, least nauseating, mass-marketed Box 'o Valentines I could.
Yeah.
We ended up with the Disney Princess Valentines. The Little One Loves them. Me? They kind of make me throw up in my mouth a little.
There is a silver lining to this story, however. When we got home from the Supermarket, my kiddo couldn't wait to tear into those Disney Princess cards. She set herself up at the little table in our new kitchen, got out her markers and started writing her name. She was signing her name on each card!We've been working on that, and she works on it at school, too, but I had no idea she'd become so good at it! She's like a professional Name Writer or something.
I hugged her and told her how proud of her I was. Then I told her that she's my Valentine, that she's the best Valentine I've ever had. And I meant it.
"You're my best Valentine, too, Mama," she said, hugging me back. And while that won't always be true, this year it is. What's better than that?
Gluing doilies to construction paper hearts sounds like fun, until you realize how much work that is for one stupid day. Which is probably why Disney can make a killing with their silly cheap valentines. But, whatever. How awesome that The Little One went to town signing her own name! Maybe it's the beginning of you not having to do everything in the whole world. With a little help from Disney and your daughter, you've conquered V Day!
Good morning, Mamas! You may have been wondering where the heck I've been lately.
Well, I'll tell you. I've been hard at work on several projects, the most exciting of which I want to share with you. Many of you know about my love for and support of Mariska Hargitay's Joyful Heart Foundation, whose mission it is to heal, educate and empower survivors of sexual assault, domestic violence and child abuse.
Some of you may also know about the magazine I work on for Joyful Heart, entitled Reunion.
Well, we've entered Reunioninto the Pepsi Refresh online grant contest. We've put our blood, sweat and tears--and our joy!--into winning this grant, so that we can bring our magazine, and the sense of healing and community it provides, to hundreds of thousands of survivors nationwide.
Why the heck am I telling you about this? Because the way Pepsi Refresh works is kind of like American Idol--except it matters. See, you need to vote online for Joyful Heart to get this grant. You can vote today and every day this month. It only takes a second. But in that second, you bring Joyful Heart closer to winning the grant. And you bring survivors a step closer to a sense of healing and possibility that Joyful Heart wants to bring.
Heart wrenching reports of despair and miracles continue to flow out of Haiti, in the wake of last week's devastating earthquake. The expected comparisons to Katrina or the Asian tsunami continue to attempt to frame the discussion and international understanding of the disaster. And the usual suspects are making the anticipated inflammatory remarks. (Honestly Pat Robertson, if that's how God operated, he would have dropped an anvil on your head a long time ago.)
But beneath the rubble of media coverage lies the real suffering of millions.
So what the heck can we do about it?
Kick in some cash to a trusted organization, for a start.
Save the Children is bringing relief--food, clean water, medical aid--to this devastated region. But they need our help to keep doing it. And it couldn't be easier. To donate $10--that's two venti lattes--to Save the Children's efforts, just text "SAVE" to 20222. That's it. You're done.
To read first hand accounts of Save the Children's relief work in Haiti and to see what your dollars can do, check out their blog, Voices from the Field.
0 Comments on Save the Children: Haiti as of 1/1/1900
So, you think mid-January is the wrong time to turn your thoughts toward gardening? Yep, me too. Until my talented and horticulturally advanced friend Amy taught me a thing or two, that is.
Did you know that late February is an ideal time to purchase seeds for your spring planting? (Plan early, avoid the rush on cherry tomato seeds.)
Were you aware that good gardening requires planning and that there are online tools to help you map out your growing space?
Had you any inkling that you can organize your garden around the phases of the moon? (This process doesn't even require any eye of newt of or toe of frog!)
Luckily for all of us, Amy has finally decided to spread her knowledge around like so much compost; she's writing her own blog now, called Amy's Harvest. It's worth a peek if gardening is your thing--or if you're trying to make it your thing.
And look for Amy to be guest blogging here soon with tips on gardening with Little Ones.
1 Comments on Amy's Harvest, last added: 1/11/2010
A week at Grandma's house has done much to thwart all my good child-rearing habits. As usual.
A script from this morning:
Little One: Good morning, Mama. Let's watch something on TV.
Mama: Why don't we have breakfast?
Little One: Yes! Cookies and TV!
Mama: How about eggs and then maybe we could paint something together?
Little One: (Face collapsing into a tremendous pout, with tears on the verge of overflowing) But Mama, Grandma always lets me watch TV. You're a naughty Mama. I want to go back to Grandma's house. You're so mean! (Threatened tears now materialize and overwhelm. A brief stint face down on the kitchen floor ensues.)
This is vacation week for me and the Little One. By vacation, I mean a week in the frozen expanse of Northwestern Ohio at my mother's house. Ice underfoot, steel grey skies overhead and relatives for days.
No fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them. No coconut-scented suntan lotion to be rubbed onto my back. No deep tissue massages. No surf sounds to soothe me to sleep under the Caribbean sun.
On the upside, I haven't had to empty the dishwasher yet this week.
As I sit here, still in my pajamas (I'm on vacation!), tapping away on my laptop, my kiddo is watching her 37th "Andy Pandy" of the morning. (She's on vacation!). I felt guilty for about a minute. Then I remembered the warm, white sand I don't have between my toes.
I know I just told you that I don't make resolutions. And I don't. But this year, I'm flying in the face of this self-imposed restriction. This year, I resolve that next year I will take a warm, kidless, relation-free, totally indulgent vacation. A vacation involving lots of sand, sleep and sarongs. And sleep.
I'm so excited about this decision, I'm going to start researching destinations right away. After all, next year is almost here. And anyway, I have a little time to spare this morning; another episode of "Andy Pandy" just started.
2 Comments on Vacation, All I Ever Wanted, last added: 1/3/2010
As 2009 is packing the last of its bags for departure, I find myself being brought back to that autumn afternoon again, when she reminded me how important imagination is. When combined with a little effort, we can do pretty much anything we decide to do. All we have to do is try.
What better invitation to test our potential than the New Year? Admittedly, New Year's celebrations have never really been my thing. (Alright, in college they were.) And I don't usually make resolutions. There is something, however, that I can and do appreciate about the holiday: The act of beginning again. It's only a symbolic new beginning, sure, but symbolism has its place.
For us, 2010 is shaping up to be a year full of changes big and small. Thanks to my kiddo, my arms are now outstretched, ready to welcome it all. See, the other thing she taught me that autumn day was about the power of joy. When we greet life, in all its enigmatic uncertainty, with audacious joy, how can we help but soar?
We can't. We just can't.
So, Mamas, here's to 2010: new, uncertain and bursting with limitless opportunity.
The countdown to Christmas has reached a critical point: T minus four days, and counting.
In the last minute scramble for things Merry and Bright, the essence of Christmas can sometimes be lost, buried under so much tinsel.
Kate DiCamillo's story of homelessness, charity and great joy is a gorgeous and poignant reminder for parents and a wonderful introduction to children. Glowing illustrations by Bagram Ibatoulline will warm you and yours on the coldest of nights.
"Great Joy" reminds us what joy really is, and how capable we all are of giving the gift of joy to one another.
Almost exactly a year ago, I told you Mamas about a terrific organization dedicated to a more charitable holiday season. Redefine Christmas is still around and stronger than ever. What are they about? Well, they're not out to reinvent the holiday. They just want us--all of us--to take another look at how we define gift giving and receiving. They want us to consider giving more charitable gifts--gifts that give multiple times, "to the giver, the receiver and to people truly in need."
This is gift giving for the 21st century: sustainable and sustaining.
Not convinced yet? Consider this: The amount of money we spend in this country on candy alone in the last three months of the year exceeds the annual budgets of the American Cancer Society, the American Heart Association and Habitat for Humanity combined. I don't think anyone would argue that we could do with less candy and more caring in America, especially at this time of year.
So consider giving a gift that goes a little bit farther than usual this year. Don't know where to get started? I have a few ideas. And so do the charitable elves at Redefine Christmas. Happy giving!
Well and passionately stated without hyperbole. The simplicity of children is sorely needed in this debate. It was a great insight to include the dialog with your children.
Hebron Acres
Always GMO free!
@hebronacres