Category: Women

Yeah, I’m good

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“I’m really proud of myself, mom.”

“Yeah? Why, buddy?”

“Because I’m getting an award tomorrow night at my football ceremony. I worked really hard to get it. I didn’t know how to play football but now I’m good.”

I looked in my rear view mirror and watched Mario stare intently ahead as he spoke to me about his upcoming award. How is it that a five-year old could exude this confidence and pride so easily and I could not at age 41?!

I thought about Ri and how I could never imagine those words coming out of her mouth. Countless studies confirm that boys tend to be more self-confident and aggressive than girls. Every single time I walk in to my boss’s office to negotiate my salary, I think about my dad’s advice long ago: “You can’t feel bad about demanding a higher salary. If you think it’s what your worth, ask for it and don’t look back.” And this coming from a man with scruples and compassion and no desire to beat everyone up the corporate ladder.

I began to respond back to Mario with advice to not get too cocky about his achievement. But then I stepped back and stayed quiet. It’s not as though he was parading around chiding “I’m the best ever.” He was simply being honest in telling us how much he had accomplished and how excited he was about it. Good for him.

Something I should probably do for myself more often than I do – just like buying a new pair of running shoes or treating myself to a massage. A few kudos directly to myself be it as simple as getting Ri to school on time or reading Mario a cool book or as complicated as orchestrating a family Thanksgiving meal or pleasing an irate client.

Maybe the more I pat myself on the back, the more comfortable I will feel touting my accomplishments when necessary, and the closer I’ll get to that darn salary I deserve…!

Wonder Woman Saves the Week

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This week felt like it lasted 30 days. My birthday on Monday created momentum for a perfect week but Tuesday quashed that momentum ten-fold. Work was intense and maddening with a score of phone calls every hour and fire-alarm situations. I didn’t get to vote in the morning so I was stressed all day about getting to the polls. I had this burning sensation that I would not get my vote casted in time and then NBC news would announce “Obama lost Ohio by one vote” and I’d be scarred for life.

Chalk another win up for women’s intuition. When I made it to the polls at 5:30 pm, I was excited to see only two people in line. The guy ahead of me shuffled back and forth and mumbled something to the poll worker. The worker shook his head sadly and stated “if your license is expired, you need a bank statement or utility bill.” I thought “what an idiot. How can you not check on your license before this big election?!”

And then I panicked. Hard. My birthday was November 5 – one day before the election. I was sure it had not expired this year – that would be crazy and unfair. I, not that guy in front of me, was extremely busy raising kids, working, volunteering, helping out Democrats, for goodness sake! If my license had expired, it should magically re-set to an expiration date of 2016 because that was only right.

I pulled out my license and there it was staring at me: Exp:2012. You got to be kidding me. I showed it to the worker just in case he thought it was still November 5 but I lost that one. I darted home to find a bank statement. I rummaged through garbage. I ripped out drawers. Nothing. Damn electronic banking.

Then my sitter saved me. “Fifth Third is open until 6:00 tonight”, he said matter-of-factly. Now that is cooperation and maturity. I believe him to be a Romney supporter yet he still coughed up those words that would allow me to possibly get in my vote. I high-fived him and the kids and sped to the bank. No line and a bank statement in three minutes. Thank the Lord. I got my vote in by 6:15 and all was good. But I crashed and burned when I got home from the furor of the day. Ri broke down a few hours later when we turned on the news to see the election status and I read from the tv “Romney 51% and Obama 49%.”

“My world won’t be safe, mom. Our world will never be the same if Obama loses.” Genuine fear and concern poured out of my bleeding heart liberal girl. I tried to clam her down but she sniffled herself to sleep.

She woke up at 6:15 begging to turn on the tv. She was ecstatic when she learned that Obama won. When Mario realized it was over and Obama prevailed, he switched sides and yelled “Yeah, Obama!” He is a fair-weathered fan making sure he always sides with the victor.

Jon had left for Illinois on Tuesday and caught that nasty flu going around. He got holed up in a hotel for two days and made it home Thursday with barely enough energy to make it up the stairs. Poor thing. I was going nuts by Friday morning and the kids could sense I needed an early morning run. We bundled up and Ri rode her bike while I strolled Mario. It was a glorious break from the car and the indoors where I had found myself all week.

Then, Mario dropped my iPad and it shattered. This week was not gonna give me a break.

I decided I needed to put my mind elsewhere and not go off on Mario; after all, I let him walk with it unprotected so I assumed some risk…. I went in the dining room and leafed through the mail. I had a little package from my sis! I had assumed it was for Jon as most packages are that come to our house. I ripped it open needing some type of sisterly goodness to get me in a better mood. And she did not disappoint.

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Again, women’s intuition. Sar knew just what I needed with that magnet espousing power (then again, it’s a pretty sure-bet that after working, raising two kids, staying active, and volunteering all week such a magnet would be a boost for any mama).

The card’s words from Walt Whitman comforted me. I felt Sarah giving me a big Menkedick sister hug as I read Walt’s words and Sarah’s words in it. And then she topped the gift off with a photocopy of Ms. Magazine’s current issue cover. Yes, it’s Wonder Woman for all my 70’s gals who grew up watching. She got a subscription to Ms. magazine for me. I love it.

I took a step back from the table and looked at the pictures Sarah also sent of the kids and Jon at the farm. Jorge’s eye captured the kids’ joy and Jon’s manliness! I brushed my finger over them and smiled… wide and long.

Intrepid Girl

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I can’t think of a daughter who I could love more than this little girl below holding a hissing cockroach.

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Her teacher informed me that all the kids bypassed the cockroach except my girl who confidently approached the table and said “I’ll hold it!”

She is a rock.
Daring.
Adventurous.
Intrepid.
Amazing.
Just like she describes herself in her artwork hanging at school. I saw it today when I volunteered for her class.

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That’s my Rebe!

Stepping off the scale

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I appreciate the New York Times article on the issue of women’s weight but dang, I wish this issue didn’t need such blatant attention. I wish we were at a point with women’s weight where the size of a woman’s pants did not enter anyone’s head when they met her.

I have to admit that I am guilty of this very thing at times. I don’t like the thought of someone assessing my body shape and judging me on my arms or belly but I find myself meeting another woman and thinking “she looks like she works out a lot; she’s got awesome arms; I’m glad I don’t have her boobs.” I stop myself eventually, thinking about how obnoxious I am being to both the woman and myself (stop judging my body against hers!). And when I look past the physical, I can be completely present in the conversation. Where I want to be.

I struggle with my weight, with what to eat during the day, and I often think about how much more I could get accomplished through the day if I didn’t focus on that crap. I love Lena Dunham’s quote in the article after she is asked about her jiggly belly: “No, I have not tried to lose weight. I decided I was going to have some other concerns in my life.” Amen.

Now that I have a daughter (and son, frankly), I am all that more aware of this type of behavior. I commend these actresses and authors for getting out there and showing society that there is more to them than their weight. Media is definitely a vehicle for changing thinking. I do not want Maria and Mario to spend any of their precious time worrying about their body shape – life is too short to ignore the “other concerns” in it. And those other concerns are so much more interesting.

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Scarves

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Maria came downstairs today and breezed past me. I caught a glimpse of olive and white and looked around to see my mom’s old scarf wrapped around her neck and trailing down her back.

She’s not old enough to remember my mom wearing this scarf but I can still see my mom sitting at the Alpha restaurant waiting for me to arrive to Sunday brunch with that scarf wrapped loosely around her neck.

My little sis played dress-up with my mom’s scarves. The scarves hung in the upstairs hallway – a tapestry of cloth and color when you reached the last stair. Sarah wrapped them around
her and pranced around the house like a nymph. She still loves those scarves and Maria only knows of them because of seeing Sarah wear them on the holidays when we get together. But those brief moments have made an indelible mark on Ri who carries on the style.

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I watched an inspiring TED video after I dropped my scarf-wearing girl off at school. The video left me feeling grateful for all the incredible women in my life and now my daughter’s life. And it also left me wanting to remember back and tell more stories….

Salons and DQ

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I had to get my hair colored last night. I try to put it off as long as possible because I hate going to the salon. I hate having to chat it up with a stylist about plans for the weekend or the latest movies or best restaurants. Maybe if I had a stylist who was a friend it would be ok. But I always go to different people because I make appointments at the last minute in accordance with my last minute schedule. I also hate having to sit around in a salon for two hours when I could be outside enjoying the park or a bike ride. It just seems like such a waste of time for simply … hair!

But as you can witness from the pictures above, my daughter does not share in my dislike of salons. She rather enjoys the idea of putting your feet up and getting pampered. Jon dropped Ri off at the salon while he took Mario to football practice. She made herself right at home chatting it up with the stylist about her tattoos, hair color and the reasons for different types of brushes.

She asked if she could get her hair done while I waited for my color to soak in and I agreed. She got the royal treatment – shampoo, head massage, cut, and blow dryer. She loved sitting under the blow dryer while reading Elle and Vogue. She perused the newest fashion (always opting for the mini skirts or tight pants, of course).

But just as I gave up hope that she was truly my child, she walked over to me as I was getting my hair blown dry and asked “can we go yet?!”

Yes! She is my daughter! She can only handle so much salon life before she’s ready to hit the road. We headed out to the 65 degree weather and walked home together talking about where we should go for dinner and if we should stop at DQ for dessert. Now that’s definitely my daughter taking after her mama!

wild for wild

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I am wild about wild.

A week ago I pulled up my sister’s on-line magazine, Vela, and read a post where each of the writers wrote about their favorite summer reads. One writer talked about wild by Cheryl Strayer. I had heard about the book on NPR a while back and seen it sitting on the shelf each time I walked through Barnes and Noble to get my morning coffee. I figured with the combination of all of those signs from the universe, I should give it a try.

I am not a reader of long books. I typically go straight to the articles in the Atlantic or New Yorker and that suits me fine. But reading the writers’ entries on Vela made me want to give reading novels or memoirs another try since I hadn’t read one in a year (Left Neglected being the last).

I purchased wild a week ago and I completed it last night. I felt conflicted as I sat next to Ri in her bed. She had asked me to lay next to her until she fell asleep. She also asked me to read to her from my book. She hung in for four pages but then curled beside me and passed out. I didn’t want the book to end but I also wanted to find out how it ended. I found myself reading slowly for a paragraph and then speeding up for two. An hour later, the book was finished, and I cried. I cried over a combination of things: the beauty of mothers and daughters; the exhilaration at reading a novel again; the recognition of finding oneself; the confirmation of the release and freedom from just letting it all go.

I am now like a voracious animal in the wild. I want to scour the bookstore for my next memoir or novel and dig into it. I am thinking of Out of Africa since that was one of my sister’s favorite books. I’m just thinking that might be like going from 0 to 120 mph and overwhelm me! Maybe Molly Ringwald’s new book instead….

A letter to my second grade daughter

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Dearest Maria:

I still have to pinch myself to believe that you are already 7 years old and entering second grade. I have such a poor memory when it comes to people’s names or what I did last weekend but I remember every moment of your birth like it was happening now. You have planted your darling self front and center in my mind, and I am so appreciative. It allows me to easily go back to that Monday morning when I rose from bed and pulled up those running shorts and ran to the gym. I was so proud to be pregnant with a baby girl. All my gym rat buddies would stare at me in amazement as I lifted barbells and did squats around the perimeter of the floor.

“You are going to give birth to one big muscle” they would say.

And I did. You came out working those lungs and wiggling around making the nurses struggle to wrap you up. When they placed you in my arms, I looked down at you and there were those big black granite eyes looking right back at me. I felt you speaking to me before you could even say a word.

And now I watch you ride huge horses with complete confidence. I hear you talk to your little brother with such tenderness. I try to keep up with you as you peddle with such ease on your bike. I sit back and enjoy the eggs and bacon you cook for me some mornings. I watch you looking at yourself in the mirror as you brush your hair. And I think to myself “She is absolutely radiant.”

I hope you think the same.

Lately you have been commenting to me that you wish you had prettier hair or looked better in your clothes. I immediately respond to such nonsense by affirming your absolute all-around beauty and then tickling you madly (I think you continue to state such craziness sometimes just to be tickled and roll around on the bed with your mom!). I will make it a priority to keep you real and grounded this school year – to make you see how important it is to let go of such superficial concerns and just enjoy life – be silly and random and adventure-bound with tangled hair or not.

You are a gem to me and so many others (your dad being at the top of the list). Enjoy second grade my little pumpkin seed from heaven. I love you ferociously.

Mom

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Spoiled rotten and more

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I have spoiled the kids way too much. I tend to throw Jon under the bus with me and tell him that he is a culprit, too, but he is not half as bad as me.

This realization has been out there for a while but continues to get pounded in me at times like this afternoon when Maria called me. She sweetly said “hi mommy, how are you?” when I answered the phone. Then she plunged right into her question.

“Mom, can I skip reading today?”

“No, Maria, you have not read all week. You only have to read for 30 minutes and then you are done.”

“But mom, I will do it tonight. I promise.”

“No, Ri. We say that and then something comes up. Just do it now.”

“Mom, please, later.”

“No, Ri. Now. Love you. Bye.”

One minute later – text from David: “Maria is throwing a fit because she doesn’t want to read.”

I call her back. I tell her she cannot act this way. She bawls.

Seriously, over a book? Over 30 minutes where she has to do something we are imposing on her? Give me a break. She engaged in this same behavior over my demand that she clean her room and the basement after her friend and her destroyed them both.

To her credit, she has succeeded in getting her way in the past via this behavior. But it’s a new day for mama. I need to follow through and make her appreciate the sense of accomplishment in following through on a task and having a clean room.

The New Yorker article earlier this month was awakening for me. I was embarrassed as I read it because I fit the mold of a few of the LA parents referenced in it. I do not want spoiled kids. I do not want lazy kids. I do want appreciative kids. I do want driven kids.

I have resolved to wake up every morning to hand-written notes on my mirror that say things like “Let them learn by making them do things – you stay back!” and “Once you say no, stick with it!” and “Set a chore for the day that they have to do.”

I could probably make the notes up real pretty and sell them to a lot of LA moms and dads.

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They don’t look spoiled, do they?!

Running on pie

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As I ran my same jogging course on Monday morning, I received a much-needed out-of-the-ordinary gem from NPR’s Allison Aubrey.  Aubrey hosted a segment on pie-making.  And although I do not have fond memories of my grandmother or my mom making homemade pies, it brought up a rush of good emotions as I continued down my jogging path.  Aubrey’s description of getting the pie crust just right – not kneading it and keeping little balls throughout it – made me yearn to travel to New York and take a class.  I appreciated the way that she intertwined her mother with her story of making a perfect pie. 

Like Aubrey, I don’t have memories of my mom slaving in the kitchen over a magnificent pie (she did make a heck of a peanut butter coconut ball though!).  But I do have memories of my father’s cherry pies.  I don’t remember him slaving away in the kitchen, however; I just have memories of eating delicious homemade cherry pie with him and my mom.  I remember helping pick cherries from our cherry tree out back, and suffering a nasty bee sting when I decided not to wear shoes one day.  But those pies were well worth it – dripping in cherry goo and always having a slight burnt edge around them.  Perfect crispiness.  

Food creates memories, and I associate my dad’s cherry pies with childhood summers full of running around outside and hanging with friends and walking the neighborhood.  Coincidentally, my husband likely associates his grandmother’s homemade pumpkin pies with exciting summers in Marietta.  His grandma made a mean pumpkin pie back in the day that Jon always raves about when we buy pumpkin pie during Fall.  “Nothing beats my grandma’s pumpkin pie” he always tells me.  My mother-in-law also bakes a stupendous homemade pumpkin pie, and it is by far the best I have ever tasted (I didn’t get to meet Jon’s grandma before she passed).  Patty learned how to make her pie from her mother.  Indeed, so many of the recipes that Patty has she received from her mom, and you can feel the love in the room when Patty talks about her mom and her cooking.  

When the segment wrapped up with Aubrey’s daughter and mother in the kitchen tasting Aubrey’s blueberry pie, I resolved that I would begin a baking tradition with Maria and Mario.  I love how those resolutions wash over me so quickly and resolutely while I am out in the open air free from all constraints and time lines and chores.  “Maybe I will even sign up for a class with M&M and Jon or my mom or dad or stepmom or mother-in-law.  The ideas were flowing.

Then I got home and realized I was late for a meeting.  I ran upstairs to shower and get dressed.  Mario had Maria in a head lock and Maria was smacking his head.  When I came downstairs to leave, milk laid all over the table and cereal remnants were across the floor.  A pack of goldfish were torn apart and chocolate sauce stuck to the counter.  I asked them why everything was a mess. 

“We wanted to make breakfast ourselves, mom, so you didn’t need to be bothered.”  And then I looked down and saw a bowl with a bright beaming yellow glob laying in it.  Maria surprised me with microwaved eggs.  She had broken two eggs into a bowl and stuck them in the microwave for a minute and a half. She fed me a bite and asked how they were. 

“Delicious!” I told her.  She looked at Mario and gave him a high-five. 

And so, my cooking ventures may start out slow and different than planned, but we will get there…eventually!