I had been lamenting my passing over two pieces at the Saver’s thrift store the other day, and I could not shake that horrible buyer’s remorse feeling - the one that got away. I did not purchase the orange plaid print short sleeved Marc by Marc Jacobs shirt. I rationalized putting it away. I told myself it was ugly, that if it was by Forever 21, I would put it away in a moment, but only because it was a Marc Jacobs was I seduced to buy. I thought that I was being a label whore about this one, jolted by the thrift store thrill of finding a high end label. I did the same with an Isaac Mizrahi beige suede skirt. It fit perfectly and could be a fantastic end of winter/early spring transition piece. And it held two simple and important second hand criteria - it was in great condition and the price was right ($5.98). I rationalized that I should spend the money on clothes for the girls or groceries or something more important – more practical. So I put them away and walked out the door.
I obsessed about them all night long. However, once I was able to quiet my mind and the delirious circling that it was doing, I listened to what was really going on. I was feeling more than misgivings about leaving behind thrift store treasures. I regretted that I just didn’t take that chance – that I did not take a risk. I can’t help but view my thrift store excursion as a metaphor for how I fear I have been living in my creative life. I have been scared – of taking creative chances and putting myself out there. Stuck. Comfortable with the status quo, but feeling an undercurrent of creative dissatisfaction. I have talked myself out of starting this blog too many times, telling myself that there are enough out there, the world doesn’t need another blog. I talked myself out of starting a blog, just as easily as I talked myself out of those amazing clothes.
I fear some days I am becoming a living cliché of modern, middle age. I have two children, a mortgage, and a marriage. I need comfortable shoes and I prefer white wine to red. I am involved in the PTA and I care about local politics. Those are all true parts of me. But, I struggle with the person who I still remember before children and other people’s needs and adult obligations came before my own youthful impulses. Some days I feel as though my mission is to bring these dualities to harmony in my life.
The great thing is I am back at that place where I have nothing to lose. More specifically, I have more to lose if I don’t just do it. I can be responsible and make sure there is food in the house and write and create and have some frickin’ fun with it.
And you know what was just the fantastic, metaphorical icing on the cake. I went back to Savers the next day, expecting nothing but hoping that maybe the shirt and skirt were still there – and they were! It was like they were waiting for me to just seize them and claim them – just like all the words and stories that swirl around inside of me every day.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Frickin' February
I am feeling a little weighed down the constant flow of have-to –dos that make a house and life and family run semi- smoothly. I had a break from the grind this past weekend, where my bestest, longest, closest friend came to visit. But as the short, tease of a weekend comes to an end, I just get greedy and grabby and I want more time with her. Because right when the groove gets going, and my girlfriend and I figure out what our theme song is for the weekend, and we have a few dance moves to go with it, we have to get back to work or whatever reality we have that needs attending. Although if I didn’t have just that little taste, right now I’d be drowning in the grind of life. Sophie has been sick this week. Feverish, barfy, moaning, glassy-eyed, oh, we are not leaving the house, sick.
Frickin’ February.
I am perhaps going on about the dreary month of February., but it cannot help it. This month is a long, dark, frozen marathon. It drags on with no mercy and I have nearly developed a phobia about the bad that this month traditionally slams onto me and my family. It usually involves any combination of sickness, objects breaking down, trees falling, and power going out.
For example, one February my husband started to read The Stand, by Stephen King. If you are not familiar with the plot of it, it involves a super flu that kills off most of the world, and then those who survive are drawn out to west, plagued by visions and dreams, culminating in the timeless fight of good versus evil. It runs a dainty 1,000 pages. Three days into reading the book, he came down with a raging fever and flu, the likes of which I had never seen him racked with. Then the girls got sick – and that was it. I was convinced that it was life imitating art and we were all going down. I would yell at Cliff to “ finish that goddamn book because it was jinxed and causing us all this misery!” He would read it with fever hallucinations and I would ride him everyday, making sure he was getting closer to the end.
You see, in addition to my hatred of February I am quite prone and susceptible into believing in the apocalypse and the possibility of any sort of giant meteor crashing into the earth or microbe killing most of humankind, and then those of us who survive having to duke it out with the zombies and cannibals . I will watch or read anything post-apocalyptic. I was paralyzed while I read Cormac McCarthy’s, The Road. I believed in every grim possibility. I would have to stop reading and look up at the outside, just to make sure that reality and life was continuing on. As I remember it, he finished The Stand on February 28th and they all got better the next day. March first.
So right now, for the next eleven days I have to strap in tight, fix my eyes on the prize of the promise of spring and hold on until the month is over. Wish us luck.
Frickin’ February.
I am perhaps going on about the dreary month of February., but it cannot help it. This month is a long, dark, frozen marathon. It drags on with no mercy and I have nearly developed a phobia about the bad that this month traditionally slams onto me and my family. It usually involves any combination of sickness, objects breaking down, trees falling, and power going out.
For example, one February my husband started to read The Stand, by Stephen King. If you are not familiar with the plot of it, it involves a super flu that kills off most of the world, and then those who survive are drawn out to west, plagued by visions and dreams, culminating in the timeless fight of good versus evil. It runs a dainty 1,000 pages. Three days into reading the book, he came down with a raging fever and flu, the likes of which I had never seen him racked with. Then the girls got sick – and that was it. I was convinced that it was life imitating art and we were all going down. I would yell at Cliff to “ finish that goddamn book because it was jinxed and causing us all this misery!” He would read it with fever hallucinations and I would ride him everyday, making sure he was getting closer to the end.
You see, in addition to my hatred of February I am quite prone and susceptible into believing in the apocalypse and the possibility of any sort of giant meteor crashing into the earth or microbe killing most of humankind, and then those of us who survive having to duke it out with the zombies and cannibals . I will watch or read anything post-apocalyptic. I was paralyzed while I read Cormac McCarthy’s, The Road. I believed in every grim possibility. I would have to stop reading and look up at the outside, just to make sure that reality and life was continuing on. As I remember it, he finished The Stand on February 28th and they all got better the next day. March first.
So right now, for the next eleven days I have to strap in tight, fix my eyes on the prize of the promise of spring and hold on until the month is over. Wish us luck.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
New England in February
The dank, winter month of February kicks my ass every time. This is the tipping point in the winter where I feel as if my family and I are living at the bitter cold, remote and demented Overlook Hotel in The Shining. It doesn’t matter how many hopeful sun salutations I perform and miles I pound away on the treadmill. It doesn’t matter how much citrus I eat, trying somehow divine its golden promise. It doesn’t matter if I exfoliate and moustruize twice daily. By this time of year I feel flabby and grey and scaly and my mood is morose at best.
We all have snot and are housebound, roaming the hallways, looking for trouble and needing some relief.
You will never, ever hear me complain about the sweet, sticky, summer heat.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Balance Shmalance
It seems to me that the achievement of life/work/family balance is the holy grail of modern motherhood. Balance is this seemingly attainable goal. If I just get up early enough and multi-task through-put my day, making lists while waiting at school pickup and doing my keigel exercises at the same time that I am packing my daughters nutritious school lunches, I can live this fulfilled, balanced life. I too can have a toned body, well planed meals and a happier marriage, one on one time with my children and time to myself. For years I have read countless articles and heard this statement of living a balanced life presented to me as a lifestyle – an achievable goal – and it all can happen in ten steps.
Since I have been one of these women who this steaming platter of promise is being peddled to, I have recently come to one conclusion. The achievement of balance is a crock of shit. It is snake oil sold by charlatans to a bunch of suckers. It is a mirage, a carrot that is dangled in front of millions of women, me included, that I don’t think I will ever reach. In my constant pursuit of this goal that I never really quite achieve, I feel like a failure.
I think this idea of balance was invented by the marketing geniuses who invented "tweens, which is linked to the same sadistic group that came up with Justin Bieber, the Atkins diet and spanx.
I’m done trying to Balance. I’m not buying into this anymore.
Why? Because the way that Balance is peddled in magazines, seems not like balance, but perfection. And there is no such thing. You know how endless and hard this entire crazy endeavor of children and being a grown-up can be. There will always be another pile of laundry to do, errand to run and lesson to reinforce to my children. But you know what? My house doesn’t look like it will featured on Hoarders, my children are smart and social and my husband and I have great booty, so I must be doing something right. Also, there is no way that I am getting up to exercise at 5:00 in the morning.
Since I have been one of these women who this steaming platter of promise is being peddled to, I have recently come to one conclusion. The achievement of balance is a crock of shit. It is snake oil sold by charlatans to a bunch of suckers. It is a mirage, a carrot that is dangled in front of millions of women, me included, that I don’t think I will ever reach. In my constant pursuit of this goal that I never really quite achieve, I feel like a failure.
I think this idea of balance was invented by the marketing geniuses who invented "tweens, which is linked to the same sadistic group that came up with Justin Bieber, the Atkins diet and spanx.
I’m done trying to Balance. I’m not buying into this anymore.
Why? Because the way that Balance is peddled in magazines, seems not like balance, but perfection. And there is no such thing. You know how endless and hard this entire crazy endeavor of children and being a grown-up can be. There will always be another pile of laundry to do, errand to run and lesson to reinforce to my children. But you know what? My house doesn’t look like it will featured on Hoarders, my children are smart and social and my husband and I have great booty, so I must be doing something right. Also, there is no way that I am getting up to exercise at 5:00 in the morning.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
I call do-over
I knew it was going to be a tough day when I received the 5:30 am robo-call from our school superintendant, letting all parents know to batten down the hatches. Yes, it is a snow day and school has been cancelled. I have been trying my hardest today, to turn that frown upside-down, make lemons into lemonade, and just basically try to sideswipe this sinking feeling. Now, I don’t want to sound like a negative Nelly about snow days. We just had a snow day last week and I loved every hot chocolate-y, basement playing, snow ball filled moment of it. Our house was filled with kids and yummy things cooking and it was all things cozy around here. However, we just had off for MLK day. And a snow day just a few days ago. It was time to send the kiddos back. But this is Mother Nature, New England style. And that bitch doesn’t check in to ask we want, so here we are.
There are some days that I love this mothering thing. Where everything falls into place, and like an Olympic athlete, I can feel my groove and hit the stride and I am one with parenting universe. I have a full night’s sleep and my children listen to me. They crack jokes, and Sophie’s missing front tooth to so cute I can’t even stand it I have to squeeze her like a crazy lady. My girls can do no wrong. And then there is a day like today. Where I feel as though I can do no right, I am a droning machine of mothering boredom - “Eat over your plate.” “Stop tattling on your sister.” “Hands to yourself girls.” All the cliché’s are true, it goes in one ear and out the other and somebody ends up in tears.
I think what I am finding hard today is that sometimes as a mom, I just can’t win. I feel as if I can’t get ahead of the endless, sprawling list of what needs to be done just to keep everyone a float every, single day – let alone all of the thousand other items on the list of life that warrants tending and nurturing. I have never worked harder at anything else in my life, so when it sucks and goes wrong, I take it personally.
But the beauty is that I can tuck the girls in at the end of a long, confusing, frustrating day, kiss them a fair goodnight and know that tomorrow is a new day. We all have a fresh start.
There are some days that I love this mothering thing. Where everything falls into place, and like an Olympic athlete, I can feel my groove and hit the stride and I am one with parenting universe. I have a full night’s sleep and my children listen to me. They crack jokes, and Sophie’s missing front tooth to so cute I can’t even stand it I have to squeeze her like a crazy lady. My girls can do no wrong. And then there is a day like today. Where I feel as though I can do no right, I am a droning machine of mothering boredom - “Eat over your plate.” “Stop tattling on your sister.” “Hands to yourself girls.” All the cliché’s are true, it goes in one ear and out the other and somebody ends up in tears.
I think what I am finding hard today is that sometimes as a mom, I just can’t win. I feel as if I can’t get ahead of the endless, sprawling list of what needs to be done just to keep everyone a float every, single day – let alone all of the thousand other items on the list of life that warrants tending and nurturing. I have never worked harder at anything else in my life, so when it sucks and goes wrong, I take it personally.
But the beauty is that I can tuck the girls in at the end of a long, confusing, frustrating day, kiss them a fair goodnight and know that tomorrow is a new day. We all have a fresh start.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Outing Santa - but I still believe in make-believe
This was originally supposed to appear in the paper I write for. It didn't make it. Apparently, they are a family publication and can "never, ever out Santa". I am not a family publication, so this seems like a perfect place to begin.
When I was in the first grade my teacher, Mrs. Plastino, arranged for us a special visit from Santa. Leading up to the visit we were vibrating with amazement, and endless questions of, “How do you know him?” or ”How is he visiting our class when he is so busy getting ready for Christmas?” Since we were going to be granted a private meeting with Santa we wanted to make sure our lists were spot on, so we spent most recesses hashing out our lists. That year my particular list included a Baby Alive doll and Little House on the Prairie books.
I would spend hours in the afternoons leading up to Christmas pouring over Sears and Toys-R-Us catalogues, circling my fantasy gifts, endlessly discussing my choices -- “Mommy, I also want Santa to bring me a Snoopy Sno Cone machine and an Easy Bake oven!” However at this tender age, I was already having my doubts about how this Santa guy worked. I believed he lived in the North Pole with the Elves, cobbling wooden trains and blocks on ye olde benches. I believed in Rudolph and all of the reindeer. But I started to have some questions because I didn’t have a chimney for him to come down. My parents explained that millions of children didn’t have chimneys, but had fire escapes – like we had - and that was how Santa magically delivered presents.
I still had two points that stuck in my brain, nagging at my six-year old belief system. First, were those dime-a-dozen Santa’s that we saw in the mall. To me, Santa and all that accompanied him represented magic, like the fairies that I so feverishly believed in. The fact that I couldn’t see the fairies only fueled my total belief that fairies existed. By seeing Santa at the mall, it eroded the fantasy for me. The other point that I could not reconcile was the fact that the Baby Alive doll that I so desperately desired, was easily purchased in any toy store. I didn’t believe that Santa made them, so what was he making with his elves up there? Nothing but simple wooden toys? I certainly didn’t believe that he went to the mall. And I did not believe that he made any of the toys that were mass-produced. I was in a crisis.
Mrs. Plastino told us that because Santa was so busy, it was going to be a surprise when Santa would visit our classroom. One day, as we settled into our morning routine we heard sleigh bells jingling away down the hall. Glee erupted in our classroom, and a palpable wave of nervous excitement spread throughout. We were all a little scared -- I mean, Santa, here in our first grade class? The sound of sleigh bells grew, and then we heard the classic bellowing of “Ho, Ho, Ho!” To say that thirty kids freaked out is an understatement.
Santa burst into the class, shaking his belly, being merry and bright, talking to us about being good girls and boys. He even had a list with our names on it, confirming that we were all indeed on the good side. Mrs. Plastino passed out cookies and juice and Santa settled in to listen to each of us on his lap. As I settled in with my snack, and watched the scene I began to watch Santa and Mrs. Plastino, with growing suspicion. They smiled at each other; she put her hand on Santa’s shoulder, intimacies that I couldn’t quite piece together.
It came to my turn on Santa’s lap. I was excited to discuss my well rehearsed list but I was warily skeptical at the same time. I was pulled into Santa’s gregarious embrace and as he asked me what I wanted for Christmas, it struck me whose lap I was on. Nothing could hide Mr. Plastino’s thick New York accent or the equally thick black stubble that peaked out from under his snowy white beard. Mr. Plastino was also my after-school theatre teacher, who I loved, so I was very familiar with his voice. I played along with the game, telling him of the Baby Alive that I wanted, and throwing in a bike for good measure. I would swear we made knowing eye contact with each other confirming what we both knew.
After Santa left, many stunned students kept asking, “Mrs. Plastino, was that really Santa?” “Oh yes” she replied, “That was Santa!” Even though the visit chipped away at my belief in Santa, I was at peace knowing it was Mr.Plastino. I was still a child filled with fantasy and make-believe - I had my fairies, whose existence I was absolutely sure of. The experience solidified my connections with these teachers - each of them encouraged my love for reading and theatre, which I have to this day. And as a grown-up I admire them for going through with an elaborate plan to be Santa Claus to surprise and delight a class of first graders.
When I was in the first grade my teacher, Mrs. Plastino, arranged for us a special visit from Santa. Leading up to the visit we were vibrating with amazement, and endless questions of, “How do you know him?” or ”How is he visiting our class when he is so busy getting ready for Christmas?” Since we were going to be granted a private meeting with Santa we wanted to make sure our lists were spot on, so we spent most recesses hashing out our lists. That year my particular list included a Baby Alive doll and Little House on the Prairie books.
I would spend hours in the afternoons leading up to Christmas pouring over Sears and Toys-R-Us catalogues, circling my fantasy gifts, endlessly discussing my choices -- “Mommy, I also want Santa to bring me a Snoopy Sno Cone machine and an Easy Bake oven!” However at this tender age, I was already having my doubts about how this Santa guy worked. I believed he lived in the North Pole with the Elves, cobbling wooden trains and blocks on ye olde benches. I believed in Rudolph and all of the reindeer. But I started to have some questions because I didn’t have a chimney for him to come down. My parents explained that millions of children didn’t have chimneys, but had fire escapes – like we had - and that was how Santa magically delivered presents.
I still had two points that stuck in my brain, nagging at my six-year old belief system. First, were those dime-a-dozen Santa’s that we saw in the mall. To me, Santa and all that accompanied him represented magic, like the fairies that I so feverishly believed in. The fact that I couldn’t see the fairies only fueled my total belief that fairies existed. By seeing Santa at the mall, it eroded the fantasy for me. The other point that I could not reconcile was the fact that the Baby Alive doll that I so desperately desired, was easily purchased in any toy store. I didn’t believe that Santa made them, so what was he making with his elves up there? Nothing but simple wooden toys? I certainly didn’t believe that he went to the mall. And I did not believe that he made any of the toys that were mass-produced. I was in a crisis.
Mrs. Plastino told us that because Santa was so busy, it was going to be a surprise when Santa would visit our classroom. One day, as we settled into our morning routine we heard sleigh bells jingling away down the hall. Glee erupted in our classroom, and a palpable wave of nervous excitement spread throughout. We were all a little scared -- I mean, Santa, here in our first grade class? The sound of sleigh bells grew, and then we heard the classic bellowing of “Ho, Ho, Ho!” To say that thirty kids freaked out is an understatement.
Santa burst into the class, shaking his belly, being merry and bright, talking to us about being good girls and boys. He even had a list with our names on it, confirming that we were all indeed on the good side. Mrs. Plastino passed out cookies and juice and Santa settled in to listen to each of us on his lap. As I settled in with my snack, and watched the scene I began to watch Santa and Mrs. Plastino, with growing suspicion. They smiled at each other; she put her hand on Santa’s shoulder, intimacies that I couldn’t quite piece together.
It came to my turn on Santa’s lap. I was excited to discuss my well rehearsed list but I was warily skeptical at the same time. I was pulled into Santa’s gregarious embrace and as he asked me what I wanted for Christmas, it struck me whose lap I was on. Nothing could hide Mr. Plastino’s thick New York accent or the equally thick black stubble that peaked out from under his snowy white beard. Mr. Plastino was also my after-school theatre teacher, who I loved, so I was very familiar with his voice. I played along with the game, telling him of the Baby Alive that I wanted, and throwing in a bike for good measure. I would swear we made knowing eye contact with each other confirming what we both knew.
After Santa left, many stunned students kept asking, “Mrs. Plastino, was that really Santa?” “Oh yes” she replied, “That was Santa!” Even though the visit chipped away at my belief in Santa, I was at peace knowing it was Mr.Plastino. I was still a child filled with fantasy and make-believe - I had my fairies, whose existence I was absolutely sure of. The experience solidified my connections with these teachers - each of them encouraged my love for reading and theatre, which I have to this day. And as a grown-up I admire them for going through with an elaborate plan to be Santa Claus to surprise and delight a class of first graders.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)