big picture
August 3, 2011 § 4 Comments
Family photographs, an image marking one moment on a seamless timeline in a family’s story. When our children were little my husband and I pledged to document each year with a photograph. I procrastinated using countless recycled reasons; each a variation of when I lose weight or there just isn’t time right now. Last year a friend spent an evening reassuring me with words of encouragement, distracting my silent concerns, from behind her camera. Waiting for the images I fussed frantically to my husband what if I look horrible. I hate my photographs of myself. It hadn’t occurred to me the pictures weren’t of me, they were of my children’s mother. In their company I became the best version of myself; my smile genuine and my flaws secondary.
Tomorrow, we are scheduled to repeat history with our second session. I should be peaceful, last year’s experience lending confidence. Instead, I have begun to panic. I spilled my concerns like a much-needed guilty confession to a friend. I lamented my daughter’s intended outfit. I had pictured her twirling in a white dress on a beach; the dress stored safely for months in anticipation. Ironically, there is no beach and her once rounded form has lengthened turning her sundress into a charming tent. Still, I know she will look beautiful regardless. The boys coordinated easily; khaki shorts and t-shirts. Organizing our outfits is really a flimsy cover for my own insecurities. Expectations of perfection and fears of imperfections distracting me from the bigger picture.
One of my favorite photographs was imperfect. Pregnant with our second child, I was determined to embrace what I predicted would be my last pregnancy and indulged in a few beautiful pieces of maternity clothing. My favorite was a pair of black terry cloth capris accented with a black and white strapless top. I remember feeling beautiful and carefree. Later, I realized I more closely resembled the Hamburglar reminiscent of old advertisements from my childhood. The image captured the weight I had unconsciously gained between pregnancies, my self-perception just out of focus in the lens. Still, there is no editing life and the memory makes me smile. It was a happy day; one unflattering outfit could not hide my joy.
On the eve of our family photographs I am trying to let go of expectations, embrace imperfections as part of our story, and focus on the big picture.
scheduling conflict
August 3, 2011 § 2 Comments
My husband and I could live in different time zones for our inability to coordinate our internal alarm clocks. I am perpetually early, he is unavoidably detained. Sometimes our schedules overlap creating momentary chaos; this is how a misplaced minute created opportunities for appreciation.
Running late returning home from work to watch our children, my husband met me at the salon where our children were stoically braving the dismally uninviting peripheral space of women embracing a moment of pampering. The children, overjoyed to see their father, leapt gratefully towards an eager exit. Another stylist, leaning into my chair, murmured her appreciation for my children’s good behavior while waiting. This is not a compliment I am accustomed to, and I was aware the shuffle of little people between mismatched schedules had created an opportunity to appreciate my children through another’s eyes.
Finishing up at the salon too late to take my daughter to swimming, my husband taxied her to class. The tiny details of well-practiced routines were reassigned. My husband figured out how to fix our daughter’s hair into a pony tail. Small thing, but a new moment between them. Another everyday act experienced from a new perspective.
Returning home to quiet, my family detained at swim lessons, I threw dinner together and finished folding a load of laundry with time to tuck them into drawers. Normally I would have run an errand, indulgent or necessary, my mind focused on extracting an extra minute for myself. Instead I was settled and peaceful when my family returned home. Rather than walking through the door to a household bustling with energy and anxious for dinner, I welcomed them eager for their company.
a sandwich
August 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
When my son was 4 I took him to a Kindergarten screening. I sat in a quiet classroom sprinkled with brightly colored toys, rugs, and materials with a handful of other parents waiting in a place of paused uncertainty. It was another new experience in motherhood. A task expected, but unanticipated for its foreignness.
My son toddled off enthusiastically with the teacher that collected him for his evaluation; unaware of expectations and happy for the company of a new friend. I could hear the sound of his voice trailing down the hallway as he unfolded his thoughts preparing to settle into the day, familiarizing the new with the known.
Soon after, another woman appeared calling my name and directing me to a table; I perched hugely pregnant on a tiny, plastic elementary chair. A folder with my son’s name materialized filled with forms and blank with questions. I studied the questionnaire endeavoring to date my son’s developmental milestones while enumerating on questions of ability. One question seemed misplaced.
Can your child make himself/herself a sandwich?
I didn’t know. More importantly, in my mind, why would he? Stripped of all pretense, I directed my confusion to the teacher/therapist. Why wouldn’t I care for him? That’s my job. Years later, the sandwich became symbolic.
My daughter, on a nondescript day, without expectation or direction made herself a sandwich. My mind raced backwards to the old question and suddenly I understood.
My daughter knew she was hungry. She had observed the process of making a sandwich and could identify what steps she needed to take to complete the simple task.
It was a trick question. The sandwich was never a gesture of love or nurturing. It represented my son’s ability to process information and coordinate his actions. I had been so quick to defend my love for my son, to shelter him from expectations, that it never occurred to me to set the table for success.
I am learning. As my daughter races towards independence, I struggle to step back and provide room for each child to make mistakes, try new things, and care for themselves and others. I am learning that sometimes we nurture with inacation and other times action is something unseen.
birthday presence
July 31, 2011 § 2 Comments
On the dawn of each child’s birthday I wake to memories of the day we met; sentiment draws me into consciousness. Today I am remembering my daughter’s first moments. Tomorrow is her birthday.
She came into the world like a storm, energy emanating from her tiny form; her first cry a declaration of arrival. The nurse settled her, swaddled, into my arms and my heart seemed to sigh with the weight of peace. I had not been able to hold her big brother and the simple act of nestling her to me was a balm mending an old heartache. In the span of a moment, my daughter had given me a gift of experience; time overlapped as she connected two very different deliveries.
Watching her eyes search my face, her tiny rosebud mouth pursed with determination, I was enamored by the strength of her spirit. Headstrong and peaceful, she was a beautiful contradiction from the beginning.
She still clamors noisily when passionate, eager to be heard and desperate to be understood. Each day she wakes full of the sunshine that slips through her window; tossing boisterous good mornings and gifting exuberant hugs and kisses. I stand in gratitude and absorb her presence.
skirting fashion
July 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
I do not understand the evolution of the tennis skirt into day wear for non-tennis playing, errand running mothers. I view the tiny spandex uniforms with the same uncertainty as bell bottoms. Misleadingly endearing in theory, but misplaced in the light of day.
I am admittedly intimidated by fashion forward styles and more comfortably relegated to the casual familiarity of a well-worn pair of jeans, the forgiving elasticity of yoga pants, or alternately the femininity of a timeless pencil skirt or simple day dress. On the few occasions I have stepped outside my comfort zone I was seized by discomfort; my bravado exposed, like a failed Halloween costume, face paint itchy and cracking to reveal the person behind the illusion. I may not be a fair judge of fashion.
So, rather than criticize what I do not understand, I’ll set my judgment aside and ask no one in particular: Does she play tennis?
growing pains
July 29, 2011 § 2 Comments
As my children stretch their independence and their abilities extend toward self-reliance I find myself stuck in a place of transition; caught between the experiences we have outgrown and the unmarked space of our futures. When my daughter’s language skills first formed concise thoughts, she inquired: Mommy, what do you want to be when I grow up? My heart and head stumbled over the answer. In truth, I was so busy being my children’s mother I couldn’t imagine what else to be. Her question, formed in innocence and curiosity has followed me, tucked between my conscious and subconscious thoughts like an item on my to-do list: buy groceries, choose future career, finish the laundry.
I try to recall my childhood fantasies, but I have outgrown tiny tutus and tap shoes. I still hear the echo of teachers’ and my parents’ voices projecting me on various academic paths; titles I wish would resonate if only to know my place. Motherhood was a happy reprieve from committing to a career. With my daughter’s prompting and no clear answer, I find myself window shopping for the future.
Where others create careers, I found only interests. In college, my favorite space was a classroom; unique personalities and opinions challenging old theories and projecting new possibilities. Subject matter was secondary to the experience, but my favorite teachers pushed boundaries in conversations centered in English, Psychology, Sociology, and Philosophy. I wonder now if my liberal arts education could still hold the key to doors of opportunity promised over years of academic guidance.
I am happy here, in this moment as a mother. Still, I sometimes look ahead and feel the familiar panic of my youth as old questions revisit bearing uncertainty and insecurity. Shouldn’t I know what I want to be? I envy the uncluttered wisdom of youth; tiny people dressed in costumes clearly marking their future with dreams. Firefighters, teachers, doctors, scientists, and dancers confident in their childhood career placement. I wish for a simple answer and the ability to demonstrate the passion and conviction of owning a dream. To model for my children the drive and ambition, hard work and stamina of working tirelessly towards a gratifying sense of self outside our home. To know myself more completely, and for my children to see, the woman in the footsteps of their mother.
productivity & procrastination
July 28, 2011 § Leave a comment
When last we met, I had swept through my kitchen gathering recipes in preparation for busy school nights on the horizon. Enthusiasm and inspiration guided my good intentions to the pantry. Overwhelmed and intimidated, uncertain where to start, I sought the comfort of food and the company of procrastination.
I began plucking random ingredients in search of a happy distraction. Collecting everything around my cutting board I sliced scallions and chopped celery, adding them to chunky flakes of tuna fish with a dollop of mayonnaise. Slathering this simple summer sandwich spread between oversized whole grain crackers and vine ripened tomatoes, I crowned them dramatically with cheese broiled to bubbly brown perfection. Perched at my island, I scoured the area for a new distraction.
Noting the fine coating of sawdust from a new remodeling project and the intermittent path of children’s footprints snaking from each door in unchoreographed paths around the furniture and to the stairs I determined this task took precedence over the pantry. I vacuumed and then steamed in my trademark nonsensical pattern of strokes that inevitably makes missed opportunities as obvious as well intended endeavors. At this I sat down for one of those slow, slightly maddening laughs. Near to tears I couldn’t escape the irony of my efforts. For all my false productivity, procrastination seemed determined to mock me.
I am back in the pantry, avoiding the rest of the house.
ingredients & intentions
July 26, 2011 § 2 Comments
I am not a cook, but when ingredients meet inspiration in the lines of a recipe I find the process of preparing a meal therapeutic. Time focused on an act of love that nurtures the body seems to draw out my patience and feed my spirit. My greatest challenges lie in preparation; planning ahead and organizing materials.
Some time ago I purchased a recipe binder to preserve magazine clippings, shared recipes, and printed pages from favorite cooking sites. I tucked it in my kitchen drawer to keep handy and then buried it beneath well-loved recipes and good intentions, my organization lacking rhyme or reason.
Last week when the weather was too hot for outdoor endeavors, I sorted recipes in anticipation of busy school days ahead. Family favorites were given a place of priority, meals that stirred memories were dog-eared to revisit, and nestled between the familiar were new inspired recipes waiting for an opportunity.
Now that my recipes are catalogued I am eager to inventory my pantry for ingredients and intentions.
shelf life
July 25, 2011 § Leave a comment
I love bookstores. Thoughts on paper and stories unfolding in the lives mingling around shelves and over coffee. I love the clean scent of a new book and the crisp crackling of the binding as I nestle into the pages; margins blank for notes and corners as yet unfolded.
Last week I learned Borders was closing their doors. A couple of years back our local Barnes and Noble closed. These two locations just minutes from my home were more than stopping places between errands, they were familiar escapes on cold winter days and alternately hot summer afternoons. My children and I would indulge in a treat and then embark on a treasure hunt for an unknown title. We would return home, proud explorers, each of us eager to tumble into a new story.
These experiences echo the gift of public libraries in my youth. I recall Saturday trips to the library to gather piles of books. Like one having survived the Depression, I would stock pile stories like cans of food, sustenance for a rainy day. I consume words with the same enthusiasm and necessity I breathe air.
As the landscape of retail bookstores change, I am eagerly navigating new spaces. I am exploring small bookstores and revisiting used bookstores; making new friends across counters, building new memories with my children, and sharing a love that lingers on bookshelves.
memory mosaic
July 25, 2011 § Leave a comment
What if we traded predesigned cards for letters, looked past unnecessary collectables and gathered memories in print or photographs to honor birthdays and special occasions? A year or two ago a friend celebrated her husband’s birthday in letters; blank stationery accompanied each invitation for guests to share a memory or story. A mosaic of eclectic moments from a life held together by friendship and love. Enamored by the sentimental gift of memories, I immediately longed for the pages of letters that have littered my past.
As a little girl I would connect pieces of my life from one parent’s house to another in letters. I would write friends from what felt like the other side of the world. Letters seemed to transport friends from school years past into the present tense, filling unfamiliar moments with comfort. I miss the bold careful print in brightly colored crayons and awkward loops of early script punctuated with scribbles.
In love, I created stories in letters. I would focus on the good and let pages of daydreams mark the space of young love. Too young to date, I tied my notes in heartstrings and tucked them into a young boy’s letterman jacket to keep myself in his thoughts. I wonder how close my dreams of love would reflect the life I have created.
Even now, faces from another time come to me in unexpected memories and I send a note sharing the sentiment. Tiny trinkets of gratitude, inspiration, or humor for moments from lives intersecting. I often wonder how these words are received, but mostly I find joy in the act of sharing the timeless gift of remembering.
