tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37415539672435096012024-03-05T19:16:03.929-05:00these marmalade skiesilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.comBlogger359125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-44318305524228999942021-10-09T07:53:00.003-04:002021-10-09T07:53:32.505-04:00She's Eight<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLUcaynbmWMiJWBy1mBpVm-kmwSAFtwrl3rnuGeTvVCi2u2sPLdocd4ye0sQZdGCb3zuKOYcl6r1ORLeoVbRt5ypWet4A2uzzCf_6EVg94o3mPvtq_9eF9obfAMAa9ZzQfT6PnD3-usXU/s2048/Lucy_EIGHT+%2528117%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLUcaynbmWMiJWBy1mBpVm-kmwSAFtwrl3rnuGeTvVCi2u2sPLdocd4ye0sQZdGCb3zuKOYcl6r1ORLeoVbRt5ypWet4A2uzzCf_6EVg94o3mPvtq_9eF9obfAMAa9ZzQfT6PnD3-usXU/s320/Lucy_EIGHT+%2528117%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Dear Lucy,<p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">In keeping with looking up the meaning behind the number
you’re turning, I should not be surprised at the uncanny alignment; how appropriate that the number eight encompasses virtues like inner
wisdom, inner strength, and self-confidence. These are all traits of which you
have in abundance.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">It has been <i>quite</i> the year. We are still living in /
through / a pandemic. There was a brief downturn in cases, a vaccine was
approved; both Daddy and I got our doses, thankfully. Just around the time
of our vaccinations, the Delta variant appeared in March of 2021.
Currently, Pfizer, is on the docket for approval of the vaccine for kids as
young as five. </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Beyond the trappings and what has become an odd normalcy
of living in a pandemic, for you, most notably, included the successful completion
of the entirety of first grade via virtual learning. You were fortunate in that
your Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. R., was able to loop with your class from Kindergarten. Having a
teacher with which you were already comfortable, helped significantly. The
other big factor was Daddy. He quit his job to stay home to get you through the
whole school year. You both had your good and bad days, but in the end, I saw
how this time together changed your relationship for the better. You and Daddy
are much closer now, and it’s a beautiful bond to see. It’s clear how much you
love each other. When second grade started, there were some jitters, as it had
been since March of 2020 when you last step foot both on a school bus or in a
brick-and-mortar classroom. Thankfully, once again, you were fortunate enough
to land an incredible teacher – Mrs. C. She has been nothing short of
wonderful, and you delight being in her classroom; she has said as much that
she feels similarly having you as a student. Just a few years in this building,
and so many adults know who you are, and smile brightly at your presence – we
saw it firsthand when we attended your Back-to-School night.<p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">After the stilted summer of 2020, this past summer was
heaps of fun. We were able to go on a few adventures and get out of town, as
well as host some visitors. We spent two weeks, you and I, in California. While
there, we were fortunate enough to attend Aunt Shannon and Uncle Mike’s
long-awaited baby shower. You were Aunt Shannon’s helper, passing out party
favors to the guests who drove up, as it was a drive-by shower, given the
precautions required in a pandemic (which continues, unfortunately). While in
California, we also took a mini vacation with the family to Palm Springs. It
was HOT, but you never complained, just happy to spend the hours away in the
pool. The final highlight of our trip to California was the movie you began
filming with Uncle Mike. A horror one to boot! It was both an eye-opening and unforgettable experience.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">We also took an amazing family vacation in Michigan. None of us were
prepared for how beautiful it is there; lakes Michigan and Huron were stunning
with clear waters that looked as if they were straight out of the Caribbean. We
hiked, we canoed, we kayaked, and we paddle boated. It was an awesome time, to
say the least.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Singing and dancing remain a staple of yours, and we
outfitted you with your own Spotify account, and you have made tremendous use
of it, discovering new music, and surprising us with how many songs you know.
One of the musical highlights for you this year was your first concert. Grandma
took you to see the KISS tribute band, Mr. Speed. According to Grandma, you
sang along with every song played, and when you got to meet the band during the
“Meet & Greet” after the show, they both complimented your look (pleather
pants and jacket and a bedazzled KISS mask) and gave you a fist-bump.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">You are physically growing, growing, growing. All
legs! Currently you stand at 4' 5", which is a whole three inches since your seventh
birthday. Currently, your aspirations include being a singer, a model, a
YouTuber, possibly a writer/director, or maybe hair and makeup. This past year your reading skills have
exploded and to date, you have read two <i>Dog Man</i> books. Our roles have flipped, and you now read to me in
the evenings, which is lovely for the both of us. "The Amazing World of Gumball" is still your go-to show. You are slowly becoming more
adventurous with food, showing a willingness to try things that previously,
you’d quickly dismiss. This summer you conquered your fear of jumping into the
deep end of the pool, and I now feel confident in your ability to be safe
around deep waters. You have a lovely circle of friends, and it never fails
that wherever we go, you quickly find someone to play with.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Lucy, you make an impression on everyone you meet. I say
this all the time and stand by it: you are so deeply self-aware with an uncanny
ability to articulate your thoughts. You are in tune with the world around you,
observing the nuance in both people and situations. Your heart is one of the
biggest spaces you occupy, and the kindness you exude is limitless. You have
mentioned to me, on more than one occasion, that you’d like to foster and adopt
older children because you know that babies are more desirable, and you want
older kids to feel love and acceptance. Your personality often shines through
your fashion choices, of which you are fiercely unapologetic. For this year’s
birthday photos, you decided to style yourself in a suit. In support of this
decision, I sourced a suit and had Nana’s help in altering the pants, because suits tailored for girls are impossible to find. When we were out
and about that morning, several folks passed by us, and all of them
complimented you on your look which was stunning, fierce, and beautifully
sweet. The camera never lies, and you posed yourself, owning and rocking that
suit like a pro with the confidence of someone who has lived beyond just eight
years. Conventionality has no hold over you, and I reminded of a passage in a beloved story. In the sequel to <i>The Wizard of
Oz</i>, known as <i>The Marvelous Land of Oz</i>, L. Frank Baum writes: “That
proves you are unusual,” returned the Scarecrow; “and I am convinced that the
only people
worthy of consideration in this world are the unusual ones. For the common
folks are
like leaves of a tree, and live and die unnoticed.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKJXgU6Nuasgu_kV3soZX53KiTTByDhuQHFViNVQWfru8eusfzElM3ODl7W9OxgZzyofhOtKyC1HBOpq8c0KV_VN4VG_HTW6b7A_S1ryd0f595KMbsvi7t2yVxTvuq5oaYREbYwOG84k/s2048/Lucy_EIGHT+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKJXgU6Nuasgu_kV3soZX53KiTTByDhuQHFViNVQWfru8eusfzElM3ODl7W9OxgZzyofhOtKyC1HBOpq8c0KV_VN4VG_HTW6b7A_S1ryd0f595KMbsvi7t2yVxTvuq5oaYREbYwOG84k/s320/Lucy_EIGHT+%25284%2529.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>In response to me saying something about how lucky I was
to be your Mama, when you were just three, or perhaps it was when you were
four, you responded with complete conviction: <i>But I chose you. I picked you. </i>Aside
from the eerie sincerity of this celestial kind of declaration, to this day,
I’m not sure what I have done in this lifetime of mine to deserve such a
magical human to mother. But every day – even the difficult ones – I am
grateful for your existence.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">You are, unequivocally, noticed and loved by all you
meet. What you’re destined for, I have no idea; and let me be clear – I am not
holding my breath for something out of this world. You are to be exactly
whomever you want. If that’s keeping a low-key life, then so be it. Whatever it
is you will do, no matter what form it takes, no matter who you evolve into – you
will no doubt leave an impact on the lives you encounter. I have seen it already.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">The world is your red
carpet, kid.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Happy eighth birthday, my sweet Lucille,</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Love, Mama<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-72884118637882887412021-06-08T09:14:00.010-04:002021-06-08T14:26:14.416-04:00I Did It<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxST7r2zABu1ox40s6G-tDs8qfh0YrVKIgdbbs6LhDv4HUPSdUcDolC-r2Txd-JHY5amlWgUq81_3ff6LIER0WiR82zwFxNvf9kd8zZgKi9RtGiEqlBI1wKp-297t-UbISxuP8mwB7Ss0/s655/IMG_20210605_114416_754.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="655" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxST7r2zABu1ox40s6G-tDs8qfh0YrVKIgdbbs6LhDv4HUPSdUcDolC-r2Txd-JHY5amlWgUq81_3ff6LIER0WiR82zwFxNvf9kd8zZgKi9RtGiEqlBI1wKp-297t-UbISxuP8mwB7Ss0/s320/IMG_20210605_114416_754.jpg" /></a></div>I did it.<p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">I <i>did the damn thing</i>: got on a stage and competed as a
bikini bodybuilder. To say this was no small feat is a monumental
understatement, never mind the additional challenges presented in a global
pandemic.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Those who know me are aware that I enjoy a good
challenge, namely of the physical order. Athletics have always been a
significant part of my life; being an athlete is single-handedly the reason I
ended up in Pittsburgh. I was a gymnast, a swimmer for a brief stint, and a
soccer player. I’ve run a marathon, been part of several marathon relay teams,
run a half marathon, and completed a few sprint triathlons. There was a Tough
Mudder a few years back that ended in a broken ankle, so technically I didn’t
finish the full course, but I got through half before the horrific snap – but I
digress. My point is, I’m always chasing <i>something</i>.
Truth be told, I feel a little lost if I’m not preparing for some kind of a
competition. It appears as though I’ve been hard-wired to be driven by physical
goals. And because I’d run the gamut of all kinds of races by May of 2019, it
came to no one’s surprise, least of all mine, that I’d go after the
bodybuilding stage. </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Let me make a distinction here: my goal was always to
step on stage to compete, but not necessarily as competitor. What I mean is,
I’d never planned to make this my lifestyle – a <i>highly unpopular </i>reason to get on stage. My plan was to approach
with a Rocky mindset: go the distance. Weight loss was not the goal, nor my
greatest achievement – not even close. While I’m in awe of the physique I have
built, the achievement I sought was the endurance. I didn’t need to beat
Apollo, I just wanted to last until the final bell. There’s an entire sect of
folks who say competing in a bodybuilding competition as a “bucket list” item
is a horrible idea. They will cite the enormous leverage on the body required
to reach this goal, and they’re not wrong – this is HARD AF. To get to, what is
referred to as stage lean, requires significant sacrifice, not to mention
potential severe tolls on the body – the physiological tax is considerable. At
some point, you will be fighting against biological cues, as the body was not
designed to function optimally below a certain body fat threshold. Towards the
end, I felt hollowed out like a carved pumpkin for Halloween, and I was damn
near tears on the daily. That being said, while it’s a gross generalization:
there are risks to everything in life. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take on
certain endeavors, I just see it as a need for proper education, guidance, and
mitigation when possible. It is precisely why most hire coaches, and I was
fortunate enough to have two on my road to the stage. And this is probably another
faux pas, but honestly, IDGAF – both of my coaches were integral.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5j-pjljaW6VT2kWYN5qLtpie44CQEHjBAj6VPPzlrMzC58kafaHdvE5IeKPA6x9aDghrxOFF1dUMoACeJkTYMSVxLB1Sd6KIwusVoYtJDev_XKM5QMxjC4vPeAu8Q8dWfMLk1PFvmHs/s2048/Summer_2017.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5j-pjljaW6VT2kWYN5qLtpie44CQEHjBAj6VPPzlrMzC58kafaHdvE5IeKPA6x9aDghrxOFF1dUMoACeJkTYMSVxLB1Sd6KIwusVoYtJDev_XKM5QMxjC4vPeAu8Q8dWfMLk1PFvmHs/s320/Summer_2017.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summer of 2017</td></tr></tbody></table>Let’s take it back to the summer of 2017. Lucy and I’d
spent a lovely day with some friends doing the touristy Ducky Boat and ridden
the Monongahela Incline. At the top of Mt. Washington, a photograph was taken
of me and my girl. When I looked at that picture, I was taken aback by what I
saw in myself: a woman who’d been consumed with Motherhood for four and a half
years, and who’d allowed her own health to fall to the bottom of the priorities
list. I was 39 and the heaviest I’d ever been. It was then and there that I
decided I would become “Fit by 40,” and find my mojo again. I was a former
Division I athlete, dammit. I could and would build back the body of a healthy
and strong woman that I knew existed inside of me. So that’s exactly what I
did. I began running with friends at work in the mornings before school. I did
Weight Watchers. My combined efforts helped me drop about 20 lbs., but then I
stalled. In October of 2018, as I was recovering from the broken ankle, I hired,
on the suggestion of my dear friend J, Adam. Adam took me on as a lifestyle
client and helped me drop another 20 lbs. Seven months later, I’d bitten the
apple. In May of 2019, I went from a lifestyle client to a competition client.
Adam helped me build for a few months, and then we began prep in August of
2019. I chugged and persisted until March of 2020, dropping another almost 25
lbs, when the rug got pulled out from under me and the world succumbed to a
pandemic. I was roughly two weeks out from the stage. And it all just vanished.
Initially, we decided to hold steady and watch to see what shows would go on,
but the constant cancellations and moving target end-date proved to be too
difficult, so I made the decision to begin reversing (slowly raising calories,
and lowering cardio), and shelve the stage for a year.<p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Perhaps it was the isolation of the pandemic, maybe it
was burn out – there were so many variables, but in May of 2020, I made the
decision to end my coaching with Adam, and move on to Mark. There were no hard
feelings; I was sensing a complacency in myself, and needed a more militant kick in
the ass, and a change in protocol scenery. Mark provided what I needed at that
point in my journey and the road to the stage continued with a nine and a half
month building phase. In January of 2020, once again, I began to prep.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">The current narrative lends itself well to the platitude:
<i>things happen for a reason</i>. This prep
was different in so many ways. I wasn’t a newbie and knew what to expect. My
adherence was damn near perfect, and even though I could choose the foods that
fulfilled the macros prescribed to me, unlike my last prep, I made nutrient
dense selections. Fitting in that gourmet cookie, or the pint of Enlightened
ice cream, never factored into my train of thought. And honestly, I felt better,
even into the gritty final weeks when cardio was high and food was low. I do
believe there’s truth to quality, and that not all calories are equal in terms
of biological benefits. That’s not to say that folks who fit in the treats
aren’t successful, because there are plenty who do, and are just fine. For me,
anecdotally, the whole foods route worked really well, and I was less
susceptible to cravings of those highly palatable treats.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">In the end, Adam brought me to the dance, and Mark helped
me cross the finish line. For that, each deserves due recognition.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">For all my history as an athlete, even at the highest
levels of pressure and competition, nothing – <i>and I mean nothing</i>, compared to the intensity of preparing for the
stage. The sheer mental and physical endurance required was astronomical. This was
a relentless daily choice and dedication that I’d never executed and went far
beyond the simple “no thank you” to an offered cupcake. Motivation waxed and
waned; it was through absolute discipline, grit, and <i>ganas</i> that I hit the target. Planning, prepping, weighing out every
morsel that I consumed, blocking out time for lifting and cardio, making sure I
got my steps in each day – it was all-consuming.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">But it was worth it, and I kept my head (mostly) along
the way. There’s a dark side to this sport, one that comes with side effects
not limited to, but including disordered eating and body dismorphia. Dieting
down can also really mess up your relationship with food. Because I came to
this sport a little later in life, I believe I was granted the advantage of
having had many years to figure out who I was and recognize the depth of my
personal capital. Here I was, willingly working towards getting on a stage in
an itty-bitty, albeit beautifully bedazzled, bikini, and asking to be judged on
my body. I knew before the show that no matter what happened, my worth did not
rest in the critique of those subjective judges. Whether I placed or not, I firmly
believed (cause believing is the important part), that I was a woman intact,
whole and beautiful, strong and successful. The outcome of the show would not
determine my mark on the world; I already had a life and existence that
far-outweighed whatever medal or trophy (or apparantly swords, because as it turns out, I won 3 swords) with which I could ever walk away. The
external validation, while nice (not going to say it isn’t), wasn’t necessary,
because I’d already validated myself. There’s a shit-ton of self-work and
self-love in those previous few sentences, a place to which I did not arrive
easily. It took me years to get here, but I had help along the way, and one of
my very first mentors was Laura Moses.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">In high school, I played club soccer, and Laura was my
coach. She was uncompromising in every sense, and she worked us doggedly. We
had two-a-day practices in the summer under the hot sun, we ran miles upon
miles on the strand at the beach, did sprints in the sand – and you know what?
We were fit. We were a good little team, but even when our skills didn’t match
up against another powerhouse club, we’d win simply because we could outrun
them for the entire ninety minutes. I was always at the back of the pack when
it came to fitness, the last one to cross the line, the goalkeeper bringing up
the rear on miles long runs. I specifically remember one afternoon run at the
beach. I was determined to keep up with the pack at any cost. I wanted so
desperately to win some kind of accolade from Laura. So I did it. I kept up.
And puked in the sand at the end of the run because I’d taxed my system so
greatly. After discharging my lunch, I went up to Laura as the others were
getting sips of water and asked her if she’d noticed that I’d kept up. She
said, <i>I did. </i>Then turned away from me
to call everyone into the sand for sprints. That gutted me – not even a simple
“at a girl.” And it was then and there that I realized I could not rely on
others to validate or praise my efforts. Laura helped me realized, I would have to do it myself.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_CE03jiaySrqT9WXYXS6kBWIcaWWqsIIbGMAGhzh-gMgdaOYDQFYxMaK5BQMzLQxxwf4hTFRCTxpzGvG_pQ6zHzQ5EizI73OZv_zF6mZVDMMNET4hY5ddeT3HC59r6nEH-gUgA2Q82P0/s2048/received_124561259699717.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1533" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_CE03jiaySrqT9WXYXS6kBWIcaWWqsIIbGMAGhzh-gMgdaOYDQFYxMaK5BQMzLQxxwf4hTFRCTxpzGvG_pQ6zHzQ5EizI73OZv_zF6mZVDMMNET4hY5ddeT3HC59r6nEH-gUgA2Q82P0/w165-h219/received_124561259699717.jpeg" width="165" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3X9sxBXDidVkgE1MsYdkrjKXcb_1yjBf8SEuSITv6AV-UfvNSBtZurbGFOzikWQ9gKtwTv57troK-Apx16HQ9Kgwb7yl35HUmFjAv-YNEhRTSvWyzKuyiRFiBzy1R3VXGtRc9NeAggY/s1024/imagejpeg_0%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3X9sxBXDidVkgE1MsYdkrjKXcb_1yjBf8SEuSITv6AV-UfvNSBtZurbGFOzikWQ9gKtwTv57troK-Apx16HQ9Kgwb7yl35HUmFjAv-YNEhRTSvWyzKuyiRFiBzy1R3VXGtRc9NeAggY/w166-h221/imagejpeg_0%25282%2529.jpg" width="166" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFs7LHrXhPg5cYUrpwonFBhMeKcWlxfuMi96fH1RIwifnnHJ3RS2gmM9EIgCss2z-xvE-_pWBcj2fUOcvJ9SJonlzJ8yD0Rj_sV5Cy-IZ3HXJnyvOTS-OgBtU6vJaOA_kByiU9xWH03-c/s2048/received_175630897739309.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1533" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFs7LHrXhPg5cYUrpwonFBhMeKcWlxfuMi96fH1RIwifnnHJ3RS2gmM9EIgCss2z-xvE-_pWBcj2fUOcvJ9SJonlzJ8yD0Rj_sV5Cy-IZ3HXJnyvOTS-OgBtU6vJaOA_kByiU9xWH03-c/w163-h219/received_175630897739309.jpeg" width="163" /></a><br /><br />Working towards a goal like this can be intensely
isolating as the sport, by nature, is solitary. There were definitely days when
I felt the loneliness, but mostly I felt support by an entire squadron of
friends and family. I cannot say enough about my friends, especially the ones I
work with. I have raved about my colleagues, ad nauseum, and I will continue to
do so. They buoyed me, daily. Checked in with me, asked thoughtful questions,
responded to my posts with infinite encouragement, left flowers on my desk with
thoughtful notes – honestly, I could go on and on. Friends outside of work sent
texts and applause, regularly. J, my back-pocket-therapist talked me down off
of several ledges, listened to my fears and frustrations, and always set me
straight with just the right amount of care and tough love. J opened this door
for me two years ago, helped me see what was possible, and for that I’m ever
grateful. My parents were cheering me on from the get-go, and really, since Day
1. For anything I’ve ever attempted, even if they secretly harbored concern, they
have always been ferociously supportive.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUseb3rtcefUOP2LcSSgHGUnFLPgamqxAp07d74iXGPPhRXuo-HPvemI1WoTABXfaZRKsHxCKjFtC6JEa-7ePcl7uzoGG5w9BTucb9r3684XkYKweIdPhwnU5_U8jVv94KTsIEY7V5-AQ/s2048/received_2921779601395651.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUseb3rtcefUOP2LcSSgHGUnFLPgamqxAp07d74iXGPPhRXuo-HPvemI1WoTABXfaZRKsHxCKjFtC6JEa-7ePcl7uzoGG5w9BTucb9r3684XkYKweIdPhwnU5_U8jVv94KTsIEY7V5-AQ/w320-h242/received_2921779601395651.jpeg" width="320" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWEVihvaOtJ5W6TpX_jAnDUkt5WVNWOCGoHKmVeRHBoGaXagjOrGPNyilRz4fdrAX8_258IS0IIesaY4PrGbyESzipUgrpkjPDYF9A8kTPuHHC3VhfuHpHBjDBmUfdO1ffbxK6N_9V0yQ/s2048/received_1151173088684197.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWEVihvaOtJ5W6TpX_jAnDUkt5WVNWOCGoHKmVeRHBoGaXagjOrGPNyilRz4fdrAX8_258IS0IIesaY4PrGbyESzipUgrpkjPDYF9A8kTPuHHC3VhfuHpHBjDBmUfdO1ffbxK6N_9V0yQ/w264-h198/received_1151173088684197.jpeg" width="264" /></a><br /><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4qkzPIXVORQMNaxXofjhzsGAXdjdNWO2LAI98D9zpDry8el_X8QXuYCt4A9VrVopMf94dj6_CX2If-5hvikykmtL9MSz4FOpsnqWEGwXkkC_Ge7BN9sIYgwbctx46E33E1vQYjajBY0/s616/20210607_130317.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="462" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4qkzPIXVORQMNaxXofjhzsGAXdjdNWO2LAI98D9zpDry8el_X8QXuYCt4A9VrVopMf94dj6_CX2If-5hvikykmtL9MSz4FOpsnqWEGwXkkC_Ge7BN9sIYgwbctx46E33E1vQYjajBY0/s320/20210607_130317.jpg" /></a></div>And then there’s Jesse and Lucy. My ride or die crew. The
ones who endured along with me, who never complained when I was too exhausted
to figure out dinner beyond “briner” or a frozen pizza or takeout. Who never
made me feel bad when it got to the point that I was eating my extra lean
ground turkey and <br /> they were enjoying heaping servings of spaghetti, or giant
bowls of ice cream. My husband who understood I needed to retire to bed between
8 and 8:30 in order to be up at “four ass early.” My daughter who had to go for
walks with me more times than I can count because I couldn’t leave her home
alone, and I needed to hit my 10k steps. While I was doing the work in
isolation at the gym, they were absolutely affected by the time I spent away
from them – and they were just as much a part of this whole endeavor. I know my
daughter watched it all, took it all in. I can only <i>hope</i> she saw a mama
determined, and a woman who prioritized her own goals, not allowing the
responsibilities and obligations of life to overrule her ambitions.<p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">So what’s next?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Truth is, I'm not sure. Initially I had intended to do one more show at the end of July, but in the last couple of days, it has become clear to me that I got what I needed. I met my goal, I feel incredibly satisfied, and there is zero compulsion driving any need to do this all over again. And the best part? I am completely at peace with this decision. Zero regrets. For the immediate future, my focus will be lifestyle related: I’d like to figure out a
balance of being physically active, but without an extreme carrot. Maybe hike
more. Throw the bikes on the hitch and rack, and ride more. I want to sleep in
and sip coffee on Saturday and Sunday mornings. I do have a photo shoot scheduled for later this month, as I'd like to immortalize this physique I worked so hard to build, but other than that I’m going to take my time to
properly reverse, bringing my body back to a healthy and sustainable weight,
and enjoy an indefinite respite from the all-encompassing mind absorption that
is prep.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">I have learned so much through this process, but the two biggest takeaways are that I am stronger than I thought, both mentally and physically. This was supposed to have been accomplished a year ago, but because of the pandemic, it stretched another year. There were so many days I just did not want to do it - but I refused to throw in the towel. I couldn't have come all this way to not see it through. Two years I labored at this, and for two years I proved to no one but myself that I could do really hard shit. The second takeaway, and probably the most profound, is that I am loved. The outpouring of support, the gifts, the recognition and acknowledgement from family and friends has been beyond anything I ever expected. That will stay with me long after the lines of my physique have faded.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Not too bad for this almost 43 year-old, if I do say so myself. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-44946032579412167242020-10-09T07:45:00.004-04:002020-10-09T07:45:57.520-04:00She's Seven<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF7Iw-8vVnI70S_4BGxgzNKl7cdAKEoft6CJ-NH9mfvMry5Vor8LJPmDIRb2M3JphoMJs_rIeWb-ugPJban9Nga4xZ9kZQ9s-FZ3j17gQZe3sURNEp6RSKJGV_XVcEDRaKyGRR0T0zMt0/s2048/Lucy_7+%252885%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF7Iw-8vVnI70S_4BGxgzNKl7cdAKEoft6CJ-NH9mfvMry5Vor8LJPmDIRb2M3JphoMJs_rIeWb-ugPJban9Nga4xZ9kZQ9s-FZ3j17gQZe3sURNEp6RSKJGV_XVcEDRaKyGRR0T0zMt0/w400-h266/Lucy_7+%252885%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Dear Lucy,<p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Seven is the number of luck and magic and folklore.<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Every birthday, I write to you in an attempt to capture
how much you’ve grown and the ways in which your existence is a recurrent
metamorphosis. This year feels a little different – this year our little bubble has been
permeated by the world and the hammer that’s been dropped. Our country has
experienced incalculable losses, incredible divisions in politics, and the
systemic racism that has been the underbelly of our nation, has finally reached
a boiling point. If there was ever a moment in history that we needed some luck
and magic, it is right now.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Your ability to see the world has become more focused.
The commercials on television, the signs in peoples’ yards – all of it is
noted. When you ask questions such as <i>what does Black Lives Matter mean</i>, I
answer. There is no point in hiding truth, however I privately struggle between
wanting to keep you wholly innocent and wanting to help you understand. Therein
lies my inherent privilege – our privilege: the choice (for better or for worse)
to keep certain truths from breaking the surface. And because literally all of
parenting is making a billion choices a day, some of those require a leap of
faith. A trust in my fundamental beliefs; as such, I choose to answer your pointed questions in language you can understand. In
doing so, I am aware that my responses are always underscored by my own bias – I
would be foolish to believe otherwise. So while I want you to think for
yourself, I know that what I say carries an enormous amount of weight in these early formative years. This is not something to be taken
lightly, so my words are selected as carefully as possible and delivered in a
manner that hopefully allows you space to question and consider. There is no
topic off limits, nor do I wish there ever to be – I want you always to be able
to seek me out, and if I don’t know the answer I will humbly admit it so, and
perhaps together we’ll dive into the unknown. I’m doing my best, kid, but yeah
let’s acknowledge that your Mama is most certainly a liberal who believes that
women, not laws, should manage their own bodies, science is legitimate, love is
love, and the right to be viewed and treated as an equal, no matter where you
are from or the color of your skin – are
human rights. If those inherent biases make you a "bad" person, I will still sleep well. Sometimes, my love, <i>good trouble</i>, is good.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Aside from the gravity of the world’s turmoil, you are
experiencing some on a personal and developmental level. Dad and I have noted
that the sass factor is off the charts. Holy smokes, kid – you are pushing the
limits, and often. Just when I think I’ve gotten a good foothold on my
patience, an eye-roll, or undesirable tone of voice response, sends me reeling.
You ALWAYS have to have the last word. You are challenging us in ways that have
tested our follow-through, and I’m going to be honest – we’ve definitely
faltered. We are humans and often exhausted, and follow-through requires
attention to detail and discipline.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">But more and more, you are also recognizing the impact of
your actions. Just the other day after some unfavorable response, through
tears, you asked if you were a "bad" kid – this to which I quickly corrected
explaining that sometimes you make bad choices, but are most definitely not a
bad person. You were forthcoming in expressing that you don’t always know why
you do or say things in a way that’s upsetting, and we talked that through.
Lucy – you are so aware. So incredibly aware and introspective for
your age. Mistakes happen, it’s inevitable. And yes, there will be
consequences, but no matter what, we love you always. We are your safe space,
where mistakes are met with forgiveness and nurture.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHNn040mEM_kmwzCynXWx58mI-S6lE9lJMmoYP1lkid2O17FZL69ECmIs6F3vq4iXQ9GJ2eFwlpsJE5PkzhWvHTCm7XhqKhznwHB87dA-lA3x56_MDSqExKfoMM0JI-jrGPc91l6ANCAU/s2048/Lucy_7+%25286%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1322" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHNn040mEM_kmwzCynXWx58mI-S6lE9lJMmoYP1lkid2O17FZL69ECmIs6F3vq4iXQ9GJ2eFwlpsJE5PkzhWvHTCm7XhqKhznwHB87dA-lA3x56_MDSqExKfoMM0JI-jrGPc91l6ANCAU/s320/Lucy_7+%25286%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It is during these windows that I am most cognizant of
what feels like the colossal responsibility of being your Mama. When you find
yourself questioning your own integrity, and especially when you question your
own beauty. Out of nowhere, you have decided that the freckles on your face are undesirable. Where you received or conjured this message is beyond me. This is the
slippery slope – the one I would much rather avoid all-together, the one I know
has the ability to unravel even the most tightly woven net of confidence. At
just seven years old, you have begun to question what you see in the mirror. This,
out of fear, pokes the ferocious bear inside me. As your Mama, as a Feminist,
and as the fierce champion of your confidence, I want to smash this doubt dead
on the spot. How do I convey to you how beautiful you truly are in such
a way that you believe me? And as well, that you understand worth is not determined by beauty. It's so much, and maybe too much for you to understand right now. Perhaps you are testing me? To see what my response is? Regardless, I will tell you endlessly, when you come to me with questions of your beauty, that you are in fact, beautiful. That I look at you and see exquisite art in your
face, the way your eyes smile – and yes, those endearing and delightful
freckles. You are a magical vision, my love, and so much
more. <p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Your sense of rhythm is quite impressive and you can
often be found twirling and dancing downstairs to your own Spotify playlist.
Lucky for you, our neighbor, two houses down, was a dancer. She has offered
private lessons in tap and ballet. Should the dancing lessons not work out,
then let it be one step closer to finding what makes you most happy. You
continue to love watching <i>Portlandia </i>with Dad, and <i>Schitt’s Creek</i> with me.
Barbie has entered your world, and you are all about the dolls and accessories.
You learned to ride your bike during the quarantine, and enjoy taking walks
with me when the weather allows for it. Your love for Olive has grown
exponentially, and I love how you love her. Virtual learning has had its perks,
like staying home with Dad, but you are bored and have even remarked that you
wish you were back in the school building – I think mostly to see your beloved
teacher, Mrs. Ritson, and your friends. School still really isn't your jam, though, and that's okay. You are getting better and better at
reading, and still cite this skill as something you hope to master soon.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYphHvq52vAgadxS5aKgX6MFDM2mGji_E979Vzx_G32-h48Q1lRf_4Hc8Lcljl_GEi_BOSRm2zMNdeQWZYuyJvXyojfUaJsdwe0FFT9sis9SnxMj27mYM8OhtZKzNSrGhKb5OxJ43ZME/s2048/Lucy_7+%252851%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYphHvq52vAgadxS5aKgX6MFDM2mGji_E979Vzx_G32-h48Q1lRf_4Hc8Lcljl_GEi_BOSRm2zMNdeQWZYuyJvXyojfUaJsdwe0FFT9sis9SnxMj27mYM8OhtZKzNSrGhKb5OxJ43ZME/w400-h266/Lucy_7+%252851%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Seven years ago today you rewrote the blueprint of my
daily existence. Seven years you have afforded<br /> me the privilege of being your
Mama. You emote with fervor, you question with command, and you love so
affectionately and openly. You are a prime number divisible only by yourself,
and you govern what autonomy you have with a healthy dose of moxie and a
confidence I never knew so young.<p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Happy birthday, my sweet Lucille.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Love, Mama</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-84144905208210477632019-10-09T08:16:00.000-04:002019-10-09T13:59:00.176-04:00She's Six<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikTRik2S5nqDCgtlsLSvTOKSax7XKWHaoFxNrMi1b8H3mquZ6A96mjCbSPKU1fMoPZ2sVYwoHIxXLwnbi5RqOBsogHS6kgWMo5sfnMPHTJZju7drtBJwy2DnTHSYH7Ow6I7tqc1743wnU/s1600/IMG_2106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1600" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikTRik2S5nqDCgtlsLSvTOKSax7XKWHaoFxNrMi1b8H3mquZ6A96mjCbSPKU1fMoPZ2sVYwoHIxXLwnbi5RqOBsogHS6kgWMo5sfnMPHTJZju7drtBJwy2DnTHSYH7Ow6I7tqc1743wnU/s320/IMG_2106.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Dear Lucy,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In doing some research on your name, the etymology –
Lucille is a diminutive of the Latin, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucia</i>.
Keep digging and Lucia is the feminine of Lucius, which is derived from
Latin <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucianus</i>, an offshoot of
the Roman <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucius </i>— also
known as "light."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
From the beginning, I’ve known this: you are light.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwge_s2jLjkoiTDU_6Lt2L8x7fISaGScEsEQNWH-n9DnZJOg3QmUBTf78Iak3fgUwTP9IJ3xuf0JSCO6X073jNiOqcOIhjqfQNkKLrN0Rn40y8-_sPzK1BOBC5G4Qfyfg1-8Sb6iZGXJY/s1600/IMG_2102-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1294" data-original-width="961" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwge_s2jLjkoiTDU_6Lt2L8x7fISaGScEsEQNWH-n9DnZJOg3QmUBTf78Iak3fgUwTP9IJ3xuf0JSCO6X073jNiOqcOIhjqfQNkKLrN0Rn40y8-_sPzK1BOBC5G4Qfyfg1-8Sb6iZGXJY/s200/IMG_2102-2.jpg" width="148" /></a>What a perfect reflection of the six year-old you have
become. Radiance that turns into prisms, the soft Autumnal shine that filters
through trees bleeding their colors into winter – the kind of light that
flickers and shimmers, light so bright it stings the eyes. Lucy, you are all of
this and more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This past year has been a series of remarkable events and
moments, many that that have shaken our understanding of the footing we held.
We were so cavalier. Kindergarten, bowled you over, and took me down too. And
we are not out of the woods yet. This new place that holds so much promise has
intimidated and frightened. It is not the familiar space where you reigned so
comfortably for the past five years – where everyone literally knows your name,
and you know every smile that has cared for you. Kindergarten is too big right
now, and we are slowly chipping away at the scary. Sometimes this looks like
happiness stepping off the school bus, and sometimes it's nights in tears
begging me not to leave your side because you, “will miss [me] so much tomorrow
at school.” So we’ve taken a step back, and I lay next to you, my hand on your
back, whispering encouragements, and sometimes nothing at all – just being present
with you, and existing in the fear, in tandem. By your side I remain, as much as
I can be, until the sun orchestrates a new day, and you are left to square up,
once again.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPEKOuLK6iLy0NBJfUzRhjmFPCh-TETbkwq42D-X6zo_o_LhjH4GL2e4Z3pYXl4AAjxWeBUyRIy7_RliIp9J8sXBmOX0geYckbxe3MpET9aEhRwrvEc07Zw2NRZqVC9b4HFtyWfXXQCa4/s1600/IMG_2112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPEKOuLK6iLy0NBJfUzRhjmFPCh-TETbkwq42D-X6zo_o_LhjH4GL2e4Z3pYXl4AAjxWeBUyRIy7_RliIp9J8sXBmOX0geYckbxe3MpET9aEhRwrvEc07Zw2NRZqVC9b4HFtyWfXXQCa4/s320/IMG_2112.jpg" width="320" /></a>The weight of this new challenge comes on the heels of
an incredible summer. Dare I say a storybook couple of months. You’ve nearly
nailed down the skills to swim, moving longer and longer stretches across the
skin of the pool and beneath. You love the water, Lucy. We went more times to
the pool this year than in any summers past. We traveled, hiked, climbing mountains in
Colorado, touched waterfalls. You became my assistant on photography shoots,
for which you charge $5. And to be quite honest, you’re immensely helpful,
holding the reflector when need be, and getting the attention of easily
distracted little ones. There are moments when you even pipe up and suggest a
shot! It’s fabulous to see you thinking in terms of light and composing a
frame. And the camera – it loves you. You remain my favorite muse.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Gymnastics has fallen by the wayside, and currently
you’re not involved in anything. I panicked for half a second, worried the
absence of organized sports or activities would lead to your eventual downfall,
but then quickly righted my thinking: You. Are. A. Child. You need not do anything
but explore, and play, and exist. I suspect you’ll eventually find something,
but for now, we’re all okay just living the day to day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwOggYZGpEc09qa1EJdbtU0j7NxyNwaU50VBJvuh3GO0PGhLSWfKRWpSNauD6LSAmo9scTSM1IR1_8A9aLsVw73PzM9NAxhAcQO0RzAE9XQoJzNuAOokCVUPnfbonYC8-EQIlrcK_xzw/s1600/IMG_2137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwOggYZGpEc09qa1EJdbtU0j7NxyNwaU50VBJvuh3GO0PGhLSWfKRWpSNauD6LSAmo9scTSM1IR1_8A9aLsVw73PzM9NAxhAcQO0RzAE9XQoJzNuAOokCVUPnfbonYC8-EQIlrcK_xzw/s320/IMG_2137.jpg" width="320" /></a>Current favorites include The Amazing World of Gumball,
Nailed It, Sugar Rush, and Portlandia. Yes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Portlandia</i>.
Taylor Swift is often requested, purple and turquoise are colors of choice,
you’re all about expression through makeup and hair (dyed pink just before
school started), and you chose to have your ears pierced. Crafting and drawing
drive your creativity, and there’s not an empty paper towel cardboard roll that
stands a chance against your scissors. Empty toilet paper rolls become
bejeweled bracelets worn as high fashion. You love spending time with Daddy
outside tossing the ball, and you’ve become friends with neighbors Nick and
Charlotte, both three years your senior. Occasionally you lament being younger,
only because you wish you were in their same grade at school, otherwise the age
difference is irrelevant. Your reading skills continue to progress and you can
now sound out short simple words, on your own.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The thing about light is, it will always find the seam
through which to shine. In your ability to make it through this phase, I have
no doubt. These tough moments are what build backbone, and while painful to
experience (and to watch as your Mama), are necessary. Today you are six and
tangled among all the changes that have recently occurred. You are slowly
navigating your way through, and I watch, as always, in awe at your resilience
and simultaneous fragility. My little Libra, searching so hard for balance,
wanting to do what’s right, and yet taking risks. Clouded under confusion, with
moments of brilliant clarity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6L5PNf4qXJCcmBqcWf1s0gMM5S5w4qZM52Vy2dqVo_5AclU4g8-IqkFiqASL_he9irZj14PKC-ksFLucB0yO25AYtgkJs4Zg7ggbXP0gBPMnwsYS-71HWgGEIm887a5Qk53OFZunxkTA/s1600/IMG_2124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6L5PNf4qXJCcmBqcWf1s0gMM5S5w4qZM52Vy2dqVo_5AclU4g8-IqkFiqASL_he9irZj14PKC-ksFLucB0yO25AYtgkJs4Zg7ggbXP0gBPMnwsYS-71HWgGEIm887a5Qk53OFZunxkTA/s320/IMG_2124.jpg" width="320" /></a>Nothing good is built with hollow stones. Each milestone
is a brick placed on the foundation to which you’re constructing – the eventual
woman you will become. No matter the burdens you’re tasked to shoulder,
remember always, in me, Lucy, you’ll forever have a space in which to rest and
renew your spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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You are light. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And because of this, I know you will be okay.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I know you wish /
You had a brother who had blue eyes just like you / I know you wish<br />
You had a sister you could tell your secrets to / Maybe we'll miss <br />
Having four sets of china on the table / But I guarantee you this <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You mean more to me
than branches to a maple<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pink painted walls
/ Your face in my locket / Your daddy and me<br />
Your tiny back pocket / Mama's first love / Last of my kind<br />
You'll always be my only child<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-86867931261231154862019-08-17T15:14:00.000-04:002019-08-17T19:23:25.030-04:00Sunrise, Sunset<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3FUBnvht_d0_wVLCfyvtBkQCgOcakjUb8vysXrokAkLypdkSsJ57q7Ow0ZOCkxP1ZitQiB22gqEtQUErVf4dh6EemR2Oxz91ShtBbj3hyGmExnqRZWNKMdACC-kFzXd90OMqOex1oVg/s1600/Backyard-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1226" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3FUBnvht_d0_wVLCfyvtBkQCgOcakjUb8vysXrokAkLypdkSsJ57q7Ow0ZOCkxP1ZitQiB22gqEtQUErVf4dh6EemR2Oxz91ShtBbj3hyGmExnqRZWNKMdACC-kFzXd90OMqOex1oVg/s200/Backyard-3.jpg" width="153" /></a></div>
Dear Lucy,<br />
<br />
I wrote the following while on vacation this summer:<br />
<br />
<i>There is comfort in resting my ear against the fingered tines of your ribs, my body next to yours, sleeping - so small in this moment - curled into the blankets, like a seashell found buried in the sand at the shoreline. This is me, listening to the air moving in and out of your lungs - it's what we do sometimes, us Mothers. We listen to the breath of our children, the rhythmic pull and rush, like waves rolling in on themselves, steady and even. There is solace here. </i><i>And what I hear, the rush-rush of your breath, is juxtaposed to what I'm seeking against the rainbow pajamas you chose because they're cooler, and summer nights spent sleeping in Nana's sewing room are warm. It's this rush I want to moderate, measure out in half beats so that I may inhale all of who you are and were, who you are becoming amidst the thief that is Time. If there was a way to rewind your body into the velvety soft bundle smelling sweetly of some illusive combination of talc and milk and spit up, rewind you into the cradle of my elbow, when we spent long snowy days together, your body tucked neatly into the curve of my arm - I would. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But this is not how it goes, my love - this rush is not to be damned, impossible. This is all you, rushing, rushing away, and into your own person.</i><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">We have spent a magical summer together, so many adventures, each one better than the last. Everything from airplanes, hiking to incredible heights, baking cakes, swimming, and sleepovers. </span><br />
<br />
In a few short days you will begin Kindergarten. The uniforms hang neatly, a new lunchbox and backpack await, a small desk area has been prepared, you chose to pierce your ears, and dye your hair a wildly fabulous hot pink.You have memorized mine and Daddy's phone numbers, our address. You are ever so close to reading, and you love "plus" and "minus" numbers. Your vocabulary will blow them away.<br />
<br />
You <i>are</i> ready.<br />
<br />
<i>But I am not.</i><br />
<br />
I was not prepared for the overwhelming wave of emotion that has grabbed hold of me. I wrote to my superiors letting them know that I'd be into work a little late on your first day, as I would <i>not</i> miss sending you off on the big yellow school bus. And when those doors close behind you, swallowing you whole, I know you will do well. In your education, I have full confidence - you will be fine.<br />
<br />
It's all the <i>other </i>parts of school that are terrifying to think of. Ad nauseam, I have repeated that it's your soul I want to protect. That self-worth and confidence we have worked so hard to nurture - will it remain intact as the world of school and friends do their thing, sometimes so painfully cruel?<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3YAljZEQ1PIaWiG93YZaORZzdJov5u-xDpGtmeTu-YFh-VFmpROEmCVsNI2vz8JnHLRNCAvAT42V31oXautClbrdFxNkWVMwGrJXy6xzW-tnp24QrzvBkhcM7RaErm3aVHlKaP3qIFM/s1600/20190805_091925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3YAljZEQ1PIaWiG93YZaORZzdJov5u-xDpGtmeTu-YFh-VFmpROEmCVsNI2vz8JnHLRNCAvAT42V31oXautClbrdFxNkWVMwGrJXy6xzW-tnp24QrzvBkhcM7RaErm3aVHlKaP3qIFM/s320/20190805_091925.jpg" width="240" /></a><i>Did I do enough? </i><br />
<br />
I have learned to let others love you. It started with the morning I dropped you off at daycare, entrusting your care with those wonderful women as I returned to other people's children. It began then, I know. But this feels vastly different.<br />
<br />
My <a href="https://apoemaday.tumblr.com/post/79993583542/blueberry-girl" target="_blank">Blueberry Girl</a>, I hope you know, deep in your bones, that you are loved fiercely, that you remember all the times we told you, you were brave, and strong, and kind, and generous, that it is okay to fail, that you will fail, that struggle is necessary, to stand up for yourself, speak out against the bad, and compassion for others goes a long way - that you believe all these for yourself.<br />
<br />
This is my wish for you.<br />
<br />
I hope I have done enough.<br />
<br />
Love, Mama.<br />
<br />
<br />
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ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-81376064579076018572019-03-11T15:13:00.000-04:002019-03-11T15:13:17.993-04:00Sleep<br />
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Every year, when I teach AP Literature & Composition,
I begin with Shakespeare’s tragedy, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Macbeth</i>.
In order to gain a deeper level of understanding of the story, students are
instructed to follow various motifs throughout the play, one of which is sleep.
For the most part, sleep symbolizes innocence, purity, and peace of mind.
Sleep, as it pertains to Parenthood, is remarkably similar. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When our babies are wee little newborns, daily life
revolves around the clock and sleep, or lack thereof. It comes to no one’s
surprise, after having gone through the trenches of this early stage, how
potent sleep deprivation is as a form of interrogative torture. Sleep is a
keystone in any discussion involving newborns, either by way of ruminations from an
exhausted parent, or a well-meaning inquiring mind – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How is she sleeping?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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News flash – the sleep issues don’t necessarily end with
the newborn stage. They evolve into considerations of bed-sharing, then maybe getting
littles into their own cribs, then out of baby jail and into their own beds,
keeping them in those beds, and so on and so forth. We won’t even get into the
challenges of time changes. And just as frustrating and mind numbing as the
world of sleep can be during this period in life, so too, can it be the most
incredible. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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One of the most cherished images I have of me and my
daughter is a picture I snapped on my terrible faux blackberry, when she was
just a week and a half old. She is nuzzled on my shoulder facing me, peacefully
sleeping. If I close my eyes, I can almost conjure up the way the weight of her
tiny body felt in my arms, the sweet smell of her head, and the tiny baby
breath sounds she made. I am literally awash with contentedness just thinking
about it. Her skin against mine conducted a symphony of oxytocin through my
veins, a glorious orchestral sonata from which I hoped never to hear the end.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It's quite easy to forget the poetic rhythm of these
moments, especially when all I’ve wanted to do was sleep peacefully myself.
Fear, too, is an immense force: fear that she’ll not figure out how to
self-soothe, fear that she won’t ever sleep in her own bed, and the fear that
she won’t learn to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stay in that bed</i>,
because my goodness, all the stories circulating, the ones you hear about and
selectively fixate upon when you’re knee deep into sleep-training, serve only
to highlight what you can’t get your own kid to perform successfully. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But one day, the knot untangles, and she figures it out. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Hard to say if it’s because of the fairy you invented and
convinced her lives in her room to protect her, or whether it was the rewards
chart, or if it was the militant week you spent returning her to her bed a la
Super Nanny, hour after hour, night after night. She got it. She understands now
that in our home, her bed is for her, and ours is for us. That her five
year-old body doesn’t quite fit as comfortably as it once used to, and her
sprawling ways generally end up smacking someone in the face. In fact, she’s
often more comfortable in own bed because of this. She realizes now we all
sleep better this way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’d be a fool to tout some cavalier belief that all our
sleep challenges are long behind us. That would be laughable, because
occasionally, she has a rough day or evening, and requests to sleep in our bed.
We oblige when we see fit, but these happen less and less. Nestled there, though, lies the
quandary, the double-edged sword I now find myself learning to handle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I miss her body. Her smell. Her breath. This is not a constant,
but rather an interloper hiding in the shadows of our days. When the feeling
crests, it is visceral. I can’t always name it, I just know, impulsively, that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I miss her</i>. Sometimes the decision is
easy – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no, you need to sleep in your own
bed tonight</i>. Other moments, there is a physical beckoning, something beyond
and greater than my own control that wants to say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes, you can sleep in our bed tonight because I need you near me</i>.
These are fleeting, I know – not my need to be near her, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her wanting to be near me</i>. I expect that
as we broach and dive headlong into the teenage years, she won’t be asking much
at all. Because of this it is my personal goal to try to pay attention to these
moments, to remember that now is now. There will come a day, I presume, when we've circled back around the sun of teenagedom, and she will be all grown up and out of the house. Her body will not be near mine - at all. </div>
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The other day I’d spent entirely away from her, in a
studio photographing mothers and their children. I was struck, once again, by a
fierce compulsion to be with my daughter and wrote the following:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Once upon a time,
so many sleeps ago, I did everything I could to get you into your own bed and
out of mine. And here we are, on this night, when all I want to hear is the rhythm
of your breath, singing me to sleep.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOuFjEdsetPEpdtweKXUcCoEO56j-T4F6-2Pec8ikGpY1t9FHe_wwU4aTyJDl_DkFhNS7NtJ-uMWxmhSjrG2ySDUA9PTjDQNDMRUr7Q8pvWyzk8ZojOJ0DaxMhbgbX-mS8rV-REqARk0/s1600/IMG_20190310_210759_035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOuFjEdsetPEpdtweKXUcCoEO56j-T4F6-2Pec8ikGpY1t9FHe_wwU4aTyJDl_DkFhNS7NtJ-uMWxmhSjrG2ySDUA9PTjDQNDMRUr7Q8pvWyzk8ZojOJ0DaxMhbgbX-mS8rV-REqARk0/s320/IMG_20190310_210759_035.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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She’d had a long day and was particularly whiny and
overly emotional. As we were lying in the dark, drifting off, my hand around
hers, I said, “I love being your Mama.” She didn’t say anything back - just
squeezed my hand for several seconds. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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There she was, lying next to me, purely innocent, and I was peaceful. The recurring motif in our little world. I inhaled all I could of her. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She’d not asked to sleep in our room - I volunteered the
offer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Because<i> I </i>wanted it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Selfishly,<i> I wanted</i> my daughter next to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I needed her there.<o:p></o:p></div>
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With me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-17604937292936343672019-01-28T10:17:00.002-05:002019-01-28T11:13:06.988-05:00Reading<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Last summer you read your very first words: hero and
jumbo. You were excited, I was electrified – we were both proud. In that moment
we both pulled back the curtain ever so slightly, peering out onto a stage illuminated
with infinite possibilities. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Reading has underscored my whole life. I devoured books,
often at such a breakneck pace, that they couldn’t be purchased or checked out
quickly enough to keep up with my insatiability. As quickly as I could get my
hands on one, I was turning the last page and searching for the next. When I
became pregnant with you, many daydreams involved reading to you as an infant,
and then cuddled next to you at night taking you on adventures of magic where
owls deliver messages, into the Big Woods of Wisconsin with Laura Ingalls, and
through wardrobes where White Queens reign. I filled your shelves with stories
I loved, and hoped you would love, too. And you do. We read nightly, always two stories (one long, one short). <o:p></o:p></div>
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Letters make more sense now, and the concept of stringing
them together to make sounds is becoming more and more familiar. It’s there,
Lucy – you’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so close</i>. Words are
also something with which you’ve been fascinated; fragments of a kaleidoscope you
constantly want to make sense of. So many times you’ll look up from your iPad
and the benign garbage you’re watching on Kids YouTube and ask about a
new-to-you word – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mom, what’s mercury? What’s
similar? What’s quizzical? What’s tender mean?</i> I never tire of these kinds
of questions, and I’m always in awe of your ability to remember what the words
mean, and how well you put them into use soon thereafter – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mom, Lady Gaga and Gwen Stefani look very similar when they both have the
blonde hair.</i> Sometimes, at night, after we’ve read our stories and sang our
two songs (currently “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “Blackbird”), you ask me
to tell you a story, and I am challenged to come up with something in the
moment. It’s fun because you’ll pepper my narrative with plot twists your feel
are necessary, or names of characters that seem to fit best according to your five-year-old
fancy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Last night I was upstairs reading, and you were
downstairs watching “CHiPs” with Big Red, and I overheard you ask him, a few
times, what the words on the TV said. In that moment, as my eyes slowed on the
words in front of them, I set down my book and tried to imagine what it’s like
to be you in this moment – to see letters and understand them as individual
markers, to recognize a handful of words, but not be able to truly read. That
the letters strung together are just fancy patterns, something to be admired,
but a talisman not yet discovered. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXr3A-htkT9ue7oQ8BzP3sVMgclTscjF7Vg7hlpTr_CfJc190OdZ8O30azId8VeWvcoYN468RcFrfV30dG239N-_UIRWHgHZfM5oyyHGELPnpNhv3-svd0ZZl-t_vy1WZfupxMwd2gxQ/s1600/886A3338-Edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXr3A-htkT9ue7oQ8BzP3sVMgclTscjF7Vg7hlpTr_CfJc190OdZ8O30azId8VeWvcoYN468RcFrfV30dG239N-_UIRWHgHZfM5oyyHGELPnpNhv3-svd0ZZl-t_vy1WZfupxMwd2gxQ/s320/886A3338-Edit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Pamela Salai Photography</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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You are Dorothy, Lucy, inside the ramshackle farmhouse,
your hand on the doorknob. What awaits you on the other side is a world of
Technicolor and enchantment. A seamless road that begins with words,
and in which the in-between is colored by your imagination. There is no end, Lucy - only more.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You are so very close, darling. It’s all right there in
front of you – the curtain begging to be drawn back, the stage revealed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-13461773418862998042018-10-09T06:27:00.000-04:002018-10-09T10:38:39.167-04:00She's Five<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzl7ejUsYzvb7fCY9VefIR2jWgkzANImElpQzO1ttraTK_azltWqQvOn-uZZLg22SJek74fn7T6eAlhRl_joguBwTzdA58C7CvNnbYXfFlFgSn1ZdJcAQcqawRzwNHFoPT1opg0IM5x0/s1600/886A2803-Edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzl7ejUsYzvb7fCY9VefIR2jWgkzANImElpQzO1ttraTK_azltWqQvOn-uZZLg22SJek74fn7T6eAlhRl_joguBwTzdA58C7CvNnbYXfFlFgSn1ZdJcAQcqawRzwNHFoPT1opg0IM5x0/s400/886A2803-Edit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pamela Salai Photography</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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Dear Lucy,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Today you are five years old. Half a decade. A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">whole</i> hand. If you look up numerology,
five is described as being the most dynamic and energetic of the single digit
numbers. </div>
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<br /></div>
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My gal, you are just that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This past year you have grown in ample strides. Intellectually,
your need to understand the world around you is insatiable, your ability to
hear, remember, and put into use new vocabulary, is remarkable, and your
independence has touched every part of our lives. You are growing up right
before my eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Like a rolling stone, milestones this year evolved at an
alarming pace as your neared your birthday:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->You can now draw stick figures that actually
resemble people, and have created several family portraits of our trio.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->You conquered your fear of being submerged in
water, and now freely jump into pools, and swim below the surface.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->You can take care of your basic hygienic needs,
including successfully showering yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->You read your very first words: “hero” and
“jumbo.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->You can get your own snacks and glass of water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->You know how to work the TV and access your
favorite shows on Netflix.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What is most memorable for me was the summer – you and
me. It was, by far, the most enjoyable summer as your Mama. In the past, I
often struggled to come up with activities that we could both enjoy, that you
would be able in which to participate, and that were appropriate for your age.
This summer blew the lid off of all those previous parameters. You are old
enough now that the activities we can do together are fun for the both of us,
and the places we can go are with minimal preparation, and your willingness to
experience new adventures is awesome. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We did so much!! Most notably, we took our first “girl’s
trip,” where we drove down to Pigeon Forge, TN, to meet up with my long-time
friend and her daughter. It was a lengthy drive down, but you managed like a
seasoned pro, exceeding all my expectations. My girl, you were in fact, good
company. We listened to stories on a CD and discussed what happened. We laughed
a whole lot. Our visit to Tennessee was incredibly fun, and you made
fast-friends with R, who is several years your senior. From Tennessee, we
headed to Asheville, NC, for a couple days and you continued to enjoy the
adventure just as much as I did. When all was said and done and we were home,
we both decided that an annual girl’s trip was going to have to become our
tradition.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
At five years old, your love of music continues, and you
thoroughly enjoy artists such as Imagine Dragons, Lady Gaga, Camila Cabello,
and Taylor Swift. I see a concert in your near future, darlin’. With music
comes dancing, and you are often twirling and creating routines. Crafting is
your go-to pastime, and the table you occupy in the living room is often
happily covered in markers and remnants of whatever picture you created or
construction paper you’ve cut and glued. A slight obsession with makeup has
developed, and this one has been a challenge for me. It’s not that I believe
makeup is bad; I have grown to love it as I’ve gotten older. I just don’t want
you to ever feel the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> to wear it,
to hold yourself to some unrealistic and unhealthy standard. For now, we allow
you to play with some makeup, but when you exit the house, for the most part,
we don’t allow any. For special occasions, a select almost translucent
eye-shadow, with some sparkle, is allowed, and perhaps a touch of lip gloss. I
won’t pretend to know that I know the best way to approach makeup in terms of
developmental appropriateness; I’m trying very hard to tread the line with what
I think is acceptable, and not squelch the fun you have with it. When asked the
other day what you wanted to be when you grow up, you said, “A hair and makeup
lady.” Frankly, I think that’s fabulous, and I will champion this path should
you someday actually walk it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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You tried out soccer for the very first time, and decided
it wasn’t for you. Totally fine. I’m not seeking a legacy in you, nor do I care
if you ever love soccer. My girl, I just want you to find something to love, to be passionate about - something to make your own. Gymnastics continues to reign as the desired activity.
We took a break for several months, partly because I did not want you to be
over-scheduled, but mostly because I wanted to give you an opportunity to try a
new sport (soccer), and I wanted to be sure that your participation in
gymnastics was because <i>you</i> wanted to
be there, and not just because Mama had enrolled you. It’s clear you enjoy
bouncing and flipping around. Our living room has become your personal
gymnasium, and I chuckle when I see you flip onto the couch, almost knocking
the picture frames off the wall. Lucy – it’s as if I’m looking at my past self
– I did the very same thing. You have learned how to do a cartwheel, and are
working towards a solid handstand.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ83rdCR97CHE08vZGXfBL370cKxdIjyQSHZ8r30fDMdK2t_MqDsfV8Ikg0EX4C1X7AlpEHljoOMEMGAkYUw99yq9dc4rkL4G42eXVos1xiIcQVt_nLwLCRwPJCt-G6-MpHUWVzww2A1w/s1600/886A3383-Edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ83rdCR97CHE08vZGXfBL370cKxdIjyQSHZ8r30fDMdK2t_MqDsfV8Ikg0EX4C1X7AlpEHljoOMEMGAkYUw99yq9dc4rkL4G42eXVos1xiIcQVt_nLwLCRwPJCt-G6-MpHUWVzww2A1w/s400/886A3383-Edit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pamela Salai Photography</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You are so well-immersed in your current pre-school setting; you’re top dog - but the concept of kindergarten has found its way into our
world. It’s right around the corner.<br />
<br />
This is your final year as a pre-schooler,
and while I know you’ll be more than ready to enter the halls of traditional
schooling, I understand it’s a little terrifying. You have asked on more than one
occasion, “What if I don’t know what to do in Kindergarten?” I try my best to
explain that a teacher will be there to help, and that you are a wise girl, and
will figure things out as they come, but also that asking for help is all part
of the journey. Next fall will bring big changes, and I will ride them out with
you as much as I can, but for the most part, it will be on you, big girl. You
will have to navigate new spaces, new friends, and new rules. It won’t all be
easy, and some of it may be quite trying. My Mama heart aches knowing this fear
floats around inside of you, and I wish with everything to absolve you of this
pressure, but I also know it is necessary, and will be good for you. My sweet
girl, we only grow when we are pushed outside of our comfort zones.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A month ago I broke my ankle participating in the Tough
Mudder. You asked why I had to, “do the race.” My answer was that I do these
races because I enjoy challenging myself – this to which you replied, “But you
don’t need to challenge your body anymore, because you get boo-boos.” It was
sweet and I understand it’s uncomfortable for you to see me hurt, but I needed
you to know that this is a fundamental part of who I am. I explained this to
you, explained that the fear of getting hurt should never stop you, as it has
never stopped me. If I stopped “races” then a part of who I am would cease to exist.
I know in your young mind this doesn’t make total sense, but at the very least,
I hope you see a Mama who put herself out there, fell hard, and came back to be
even stronger. It’s not the fall, Lucy, that defines who we are, but rather the
way in which we rise afterwards. We are strong women, cut from the same cloth. We
are here to blaze through this world, both warrior and woman. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In June, just a few weeks before I turned forty, we did a
photo shoot together. We had such a blast, and I’m so grateful to <a href="https://www.pamelasalaiphoto.com/" target="_blank">Pamela Salai Photography</a> for creating and capturing such stunning images. I hope in these
you see how good this life really is, how fierce and exquisite you are, and just how
much your Mama loves you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEhgXIHXNhbei8o8aYsa35BpxMUasm6tW7MmotDzgWzKy1iCOVOco6jhSkpcW1YvCthCUbcH6JmpoNOKsKoNsfukOOQ90H9G__XMc-b3mJnCqX3swiXBdcPVecqUpZBgzh9U9iJJTDPE/s1600/886A2928-Edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEhgXIHXNhbei8o8aYsa35BpxMUasm6tW7MmotDzgWzKy1iCOVOco6jhSkpcW1YvCthCUbcH6JmpoNOKsKoNsfukOOQ90H9G__XMc-b3mJnCqX3swiXBdcPVecqUpZBgzh9U9iJJTDPE/s320/886A2928-Edit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pamela Salai Photography</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You’ve recently taken to falling upon me, hugging and
kissing me, and saying, “I just love you so much, and I never want to let you go.”
As if my heart could not swell any bigger, I find it doing just that. Growing
exponentially, five years and counting. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There is an image that Pam captured
which perfectly encapsulates parenthood. You, twirling in all your tulle and
moto jacket glory, and me, your Mama, just slightly behind, looking on in
admiration at the remarkable girl you have become. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Someday you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i>
let go, and move on to your own life, but I will always be there. Giving you
space to create your world, but always within reach, championing your radiant
spirit, always ready for hugs and kisses. And baby, I will <b>always</b> believe you. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Always</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille - love, Mama<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-74628674537888281182018-07-26T17:44:00.001-04:002018-07-26T17:44:32.421-04:00Just Because.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSWEmCVSktKz1Pw-AgoOXxZH86csWOiNLwinDt-CnjPu8vG8X2UoTaiSV8jCEWaLoknv028vVHB44qjJLupgVR9EDusm7BeGpKbmdDDHu7lU_TKF7MTt9nTSgVrEswoU0qZrT5mN-QBdg/s1600/haircut-6a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="1600" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSWEmCVSktKz1Pw-AgoOXxZH86csWOiNLwinDt-CnjPu8vG8X2UoTaiSV8jCEWaLoknv028vVHB44qjJLupgVR9EDusm7BeGpKbmdDDHu7lU_TKF7MTt9nTSgVrEswoU0qZrT5mN-QBdg/s400/haircut-6a.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Have you ever wanted to do something, just simply, to do
it? No significance, no story behind the act, no meaningful symbolism. Have
you?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have always wanted to shave my head for no other reason
than to experience what it feels like and see what it looks like. That’s all.
Honest to goodness. Girl Scout’s honor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Hesitation and doubt have been my nemesis for years; the
social repercussions to doing something so dramatically drastic, too, have
echoed in the back of my mind. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is she
sick? Why would she do something like this? It looks awful. Is she having a
midlife crisis? Biggest </i>mistake<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> of
her life. </i>Whatever sense of beauty I have of myself, I have had to ask – is
it locked in my locks? While I mostly don’t care what others think of what I do,
worrying about whether or not I could pull this off – held me back. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And then it occurred to me, as many things have this year
– WHO THE FUCK CARES? If it looks horrible, the good news about hair, and my
ability to grow it at a reasonably rapid rate is just that – it will grow back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh80ZKaunwekG4-bNsfGGaP5WjrTFVI8Hz54cM6gGR0U1ul7kAxOKk766PQsNuEwTa2J8KanTZ5Yzr07TW-Z8GQTz0Bgwr8ig-15L3sXDa75skgg6HaMaItHRYqGotUFqs55CZv05P78Io/s1600/haircut-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="884" data-original-width="1600" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh80ZKaunwekG4-bNsfGGaP5WjrTFVI8Hz54cM6gGR0U1ul7kAxOKk766PQsNuEwTa2J8KanTZ5Yzr07TW-Z8GQTz0Bgwr8ig-15L3sXDa75skgg6HaMaItHRYqGotUFqs55CZv05P78Io/s320/haircut-5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And that’s where this started; it’s not where I ended,
because I changed my mind. Free will, people. Instead of channeling Natalie Portman via <i>V for Vendetta</i>, I kept <i>some</i> length. It gives me something to
play with and color. But don’t get it mixed up, though, I was still crazy
nervous. Going from so much hair to almost nothing is a dramatic change.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This year has been a year about acceptance and giving
myself permission to become the most comfortable in my skin I’ve ever been. I
have been privately criticizing and scrutinizing myself for the better part of
my life. It ends now; I owe myself the love I so willingly and generously give
to others.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I recently read Bren<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span> Brown’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Braving the Wilderness</i>, and she writes that, “We must sometimes
stand alone in our decisions and beliefs despite our fears of criticism and
rejection.” Unnerving to say the least, even for the most confident of souls.
But if we look a little closer, isn’t it mostly about control? Brown writes
that, “…because we can’t control…what other people think about our choice…it
turns out to be the place of true belonging, and it’s the bravest and most
sacred place you will ever stand.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimVE3XrScg53uKoJ5HWqooCoMhLcZvEedqnDPBWp8tgwlGRs_LloiaSgRzFDNJn1LFtLXzGgWId4LHIz7RA1EYWHEZmsKhlfmTTiy8P5dX_Ci7jwxEEl9AW6lWBjK4R4PiLVhk6bY-Dwo/s1600/haircut-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1025" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimVE3XrScg53uKoJ5HWqooCoMhLcZvEedqnDPBWp8tgwlGRs_LloiaSgRzFDNJn1LFtLXzGgWId4LHIz7RA1EYWHEZmsKhlfmTTiy8P5dX_Ci7jwxEEl9AW6lWBjK4R4PiLVhk6bY-Dwo/s400/haircut-2.jpg" width="400" /></a>So, I’m going to stand in the sacred, in backing out of
my original plan, in embracing my final choice, and relinquish the rest. And believe me, I get the triviality of all this - a haircut. On the continuum of life, what matters and what doesn't, this is but a tiny privileged first world blip in the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s not a shaved head, but damn – it’s short! Lucy says I look like a punk-rocker. Thanks darlin'. <span style="text-align: center;">And, as it
turns out, I am not Samson. I feel no less powerful, in fact, I feel MORE
powerful. Seems like most of us live two lives; the one in which we participate
on a daily basis, and the one that resides quietly within us. What stands
between the two is fear. In squaring up against my own doubt, the experience of
cutting off all my hair has been exquisitely empowering.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">However I am
perceived and deceived,</i></div>
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<i>however my
ignorance and conceits,</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lay aside your
fears that I will be undone,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for I shall not be
moved.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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This was simply an act <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for me</i>, read no further. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I shall not be moved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-31494008591503312542018-07-09T06:41:00.000-04:002019-08-04T10:57:52.720-04:00Forty.<br />
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Today I am forty years old. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Forty.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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One of my favorite authors, Joan Didion, explained her
personal purpose for penning words: “I write entirely to find out what I’m
thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and
what I fear.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Most of my friends know me as a gregarious, bawdy,
ridiculously unfiltered figure. Rules, in my world, exist on a sliding scale. I
prefer to ask for forgiveness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am the thrill-seeker,
the comedian, the one who says <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all the
things</i>. Recently a colleague joked that no one would ever be able to “one
up Marshall” because I don’t subscribe to a definable line in the sand. I own,
entirely, my enjoyment of pushing boundaries and buttons, walking the
tight-rope between what is acceptable and what is inappropriate. For better or
worse, I’m that friend and colleague and I’d like to think everyone needs
someone like this in their lives, if not for simply to add some color – but
that may just be me rationalizing my, sometimes, less-than choice antics. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Friendships are very important to me; I rely on them
heavily. For those whom I count as the inner circle, I am ferociously loyal and
protective. If ever a moment has occurred where I feel I’ve made a misstep, I
am wrecked. Not just sad or apologetic but riddled with anxiety until the air
has been cleared of any transgressions. Beyond this, the friendships that I hold close are immensely fundamental to my life. I just got back from having spent three nights in New York with my local tribe and it was nothing short of fabulous. These women and their friendships are infinitely validating and what sustain me. They are the constant when other parts of my life have gone, or go, haywire. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At my core, I am hard-wired to be an athlete. Over the
years, athletics have manifest in various iterations. At six, I began gymnastics. I was<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i>certain</i> I was
going to be the very next Mary Lou Retton, and cartwheels I turned,
relentlessly on our front lawn. There was a brief stint on a swim team – breast
stroke and freestyle were my jam. At thirteen I donned my first pair of soccer
cleats, and I was hooked, riding the sport all the way into college on a
partial scholarship to a Division I team.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I started on the field as a defender, made my way up to
an offensive half-back, and just as my skills were becoming laser sharp, I tore
my ACL. After recovering from surgery, I was put into the goal as a way to
preserve my knee and as it turned out, the position came naturally to me. The
acrobatic skills I’d acquired as a gymnast, served me well. And I was a bit of
a kamikaze. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My senior year of high school, I blew out my knee, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">again</i>, busted my ass to come back from
that, and then months before graduating, I tore my shoulder on a dive. Because
of the shoulder injury that required surgical intervention, I had to red-shirt
my freshman year of college. By the time I made it back onto the field, my sophomore year, I was running on steam. In one of the hardest decisions of
my life, at the end of my sophomore year of college, I chose to relinquish the scholarship,
and turned in my jersey. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Never have I ever won an MVP award. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never</i>. But – I’ve won, more times than I can count, “Most
Inspirational.” In high school I became comfortable in my role as the underdog,
always climbing my way back from some injury, some surgery – in fact, I got <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really good</i> at it. No bigger was there a
challenge than rehabbing reconstructed knees and shoulders. I love physical
challenges, and it’s precisely why in the years that followed soccer retirement
that I ran a marathon and competed in sprint triathlons. It’s why, today, I’m
running consistently again, and lifting weights. I completed a half marathon in
May, with, as it turned out, undiagnosed pneumonia. I thought I had a bad cold.
My bad. It’s tempting to do another half, but I haven’t committed to it just
yet; to keep things interesting, in September, I will be participating in a
Tough Mudder. You know – for fun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is clear to me now, more than ever, that I have enjoyed
the struggle – the climb. Making progress, and showing measurable advancements
is incredibly motivating. I’ve never been a first-place finisher, and frankly, I’m not interested in winning races, but
instead completion and working towards personal bests. I have nothing to prove to anyone but myself. If a mile takes me
twelve minutes one day, and nine the next, so be it. At this point in my life,
sustainability is the brass ring. Setting an example for my daughter as a woman
who takes care of her body, who runs and lifts because it makes her feel good –
that’s where I win.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When I began college, I thought I wanted to be a
pediatrician. Several bombed math and science classes later, I realized that
while I loved the idea of working with kids, I did not love the science behind
medicine. There was a brief period where I reasoned that teaching elementary
school would fit me best. Laughable, I know. Late in my sophomore year, I heard
author John Edgar Wideman, speak. During the Q&A at the end, he said
something that would change my life forever – he said, “If you want to do
something easy, eat bananas. If you want to be a hero, teach high school.”
Done. I declared myself a writing major with the intent to teach high school
English. And that’s what I’ve been doing for the past fourteen years. Beyond
teaching English though, I do plenty of the less academic: I’m in charge of our
social committee, so when babies are born, vows are made, or someone must bury
a loved one, it’s me who makes sure that gets recognized. I’m also in charge of
putting on prom. It’s not a role for which I win Staff Member of the Month, but
every single year, I put together a beautiful party for my seniors and juniors.
It’s a gorgeous evening, and it happens because of me. But the best and most
rewarding facet to my career is getting to know my students – their lives, and who
they are beyond the essays they write for me. There’s payoff in these efforts,
because long after they’ve graduated, a handful stay in touch. Some have even
thanked me. I keep those letters they’ve written close at hand; they are treasures.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Motherhood: I have waxed poetic, pondered, scrutinized,
and emoted all over the page with regards to being Lucy’s mama. As she grows, I
grow too. It has become clear there is no finish line, and the ravines are
oftentimes steep and dark. The mama I aim to be to this stardust little girl, is a mama who recognizes her missteps, can reflect on them, and do
better next time. I want to be the mama to give her space to climb the tallest trees
and allow her to fall – to not catch her (even when my hands compulsively want
to reach out), so that she learns the value in overcoming the break. But make
no mistake, I want to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">arm</i> her. My
history is inscribed with #metoo. The stories, yes plural— I don’t tell often,
not out of shame, but more so because they don’t arise in typical pedestrian
conversation. The gritty details are unnecessary, but these experiences most
certainly inform how I parent my daughter and the conversations we have about
consent. Much as I want to shield her from the ugliness lurking beyond the
walls of our home, I know I cannot. What I can do is make sure she knows that
no one, man or woman, will trespass the geography of her body without her explicit
consent. She will also know what it means to be groomed, and when she’s more
emotionally capably of understanding, I will tell her of the red flags I missed,
and I will watch for those with her, always an ally. The horrifying reality is
even in doing so, I know I still won’t be able to stop all the monsters. I can
only hope that if the ugliness should reveal itself to her, she has the
wherewithal to recognize the situation and save herself. It’s a lot to ask, I
know. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She has been the mirror into which I see myself, every
flaw and virtue. The brilliant in her, is a piece of the best in me. The dark
in her, are the shadows in me. Love is too precise a word when it comes to my
daughter. We are messy, a calamity, unbridled laughter and tears. We are both
I’m sorry and I’m scared. We are try harder and I love you most. Together we
are Wonder Women. I repeat to myself, constantly, that she does not belong to
me. She belongs only to herself. She will have her own ideas, opinions and
desires. I cannot get in her way. What I wish to foster within her, for as long
as I have any kind of influence, is a stockpile of grit, empathy, and
confidence. The rest is up to her. And if she talks about smashing the patriarchy
in first grade, well then, we’ve added a cherry on top – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nolite te bastardes carborundorum, my darling</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Big Red. I don’t speak of him often in this space because
he largely likes to remain anonymous, and while our story together belongs to
me, so too does it belong to him. What I can say about the past eighteen years
with this man is that it’s been about learning, evolving, and adventure. Like
every other couple on the face of the planet, we experience a range in delights
and misfortunes. He pisses me off. I piss him off. He rolls his eyes at my
political statement t-shirts in which I express my love and support for those
on the fringes and he braces himself when I propose crazy ideas. He thinks I’m
bananas for waking up at “four ass early” to go running and can’t for the life
of him understand why I’d lay down $100 to run a muddy obstacle course with my
friends. He doesn’t stop me from talking to our daughter of the importance
of busting through the glass ceiling or ranting about the social constructs of
bras. It’s cool. We’re two wildly different people. Listen, he may not bring me
random gifts, or may falter with words of affirmation (my love language), but
for eighteen years, even in our darkest hours, he’s never gotten in the way of
me being me. He’s never once tried to change who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am</i>. Never. He loves me in his own way, no flash, no pretense - and
that’s not for nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have never jumped out of an airplane.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have four tattoos (and an upcoming appointment for
another, maybe two).<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have never been asked out on a date. Yes, really.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I love photography.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I want to be loved.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I want to be wanted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have a terrible temper, but a long fuse.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I love sushi and ice cream. Not together.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I do not embarrass easily.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My emotional side overrules my logical side, often.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have no regrets, just lessons learned.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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That <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">has</i> to be
enough. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I <i>am</i> enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I am a walking dichotomy, more resolved than ever to be a
strong and confident woman, feminist, mother, partner, and friend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forty years has amounted to a series of
moments that, collectively, create my wondrous life. Magic, really. I don’t
know what it all means, so I’m just going to keep on, keep’n on. One foot in
front of the other, face to the sun, learning, and living my best life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I listened to the
old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-41715533918548380212018-02-20T08:56:00.000-05:002018-02-20T10:44:05.028-05:00Let's Do SomethingI. Am. Angry.<br />
<br />
You should be, too.<br />
<br />
Americans should be <i>incensed</i>.<br />
<br />
The entirety of media has been inundated with responses to the unforgivably horrid tragedy that befell Marjory Stoneman Douglas High in Florida. The liberals are crying out for gun control, the conservatives have their crosshairs on the FBI for having missed signs of impending irrational doom from the murderer. Forty-five offered thoughts and prayers. Again.<br />
<br />
<i>Again</i>.<br />
<br />
Again - a school was targeted.<br />
Again - students and teachers were murdered.<br />
Again - an AR-15 semi-automatic style weapon was used.<br />
Again - parents are burying their babies.<br />
Again - a white male perpetrated the murders.<br />
Again - vigils will be held.<br />
<br />
As a teacher, I think, often of what I would do if a shooter entered our building. I could jump out of the window - two floors above the grass below. My students and I may break our ankles, or legs, but we'd still be <i>alive</i>. We have been through ALICE training as a staff. For those of you who don't know what ALICE is, the acronym stands for: <b>A</b>lert, <b>L</b>ockdown, <b>I</b>nform, <b>C</b>onfront, <b>E</b>vacuate. How often do you have to consider these scenarios as part of your daily life? It's my reality. For fuck's sake, I went to school to be a teacher. To read books with students, to raise the level of articulation in their writing, to talk about how author's make commentary on humanity - and now some of you want me to be armed? I am a teacher. I TEACH.<br />
<br />
I've seen the arguments. I've read the articles, the comments, the memes, the cartoons.<br />
<br />
It's a gun issue.<br />
It's not a gun issue, it's a mental health issue.<br />
The second amendment; <i>the only way to stop a bad guy with guns, is a good guy with guns</i>.<br />
Rules aren't going to stop bad guys; if they want to do harm they'll find a way.<br />
<br />
It always comes back to the gun argument, doesn't it?<br />
<br />
A charged and frenetic discussion, at that. Why is it that a pole has shown that *most* Americans are in favor of increased gun legislation, but <i>nothing</i> has been done? I know, I know - <i>it's not a gun issue, it's a people issue</i>. Gun owners are afraid that the government is coming for their firearms, and that "..the right of the people to keep and bear Arms.." will be infringed upon. And it's not like the US has an inordinate number of folks who live with mental illness. Girls also deal with mental illness just as much as boys, but it seems as though white males are the ones doing the harm.<br />
<br />
So why do we have such an issue with mass shootings?<br />
<br />
First let me say: keep your guns, folks. No one is trying to take them <i>all</i> away.<br />
<br />
I'm all for responsible gun ownership. While I'm not a fan of guns myself, I don't think everyone should be stripped of their firearms - really. Go ahead, protect yourselves and your families with your handguns, shotguns, and rifles. Keep them locked appropriately. Practice gun safety.<br />
<br />
What I'm for is common sense gun reform.<br />
<br />
I get that most guns sold and collected in the United States are semi-automatic, firing a single shot with every pull, automatically reloading between shots. But gun owners - I ask this of you: Why do you <i>need</i> to own an "assault weapons" such as TEC9s and AR15s? Those aren't necessary to protect yourselves and your families. Why do these need to be available to civilians? And my goodness, a zero waiting period at that in some states to make such a purchase.<br />
<br />
There is a steep mountain of gun reform to climb in this country, and it's going to take a whole lotta folks, knocking down some serious money-backed walls, and maybe even those who have remained silent. The ones who own guns, but perhaps don't agree with the NRA. Frankly, it's daunting to consider the idea of controlling firearms traffic in a country with hundreds of millions of citizens and almost as many guns. The students of Florida that are speaking out and pointing fingers at the adults in this country who govern our laws, are making waves. They are angry, and they are <i>doing something</i>. Let's not forget, as well, the tireless crusade of the parents turned activists, left devastated by the horror in Newtown. Who else is going to march, protest, write letters, call representatives, and join this conversation, willing and ready to DO SOMETHING?<br />
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Take a look at this graph: the X axis refers to guns per 100 people, and the Y shows gun related deaths per 100k people. Just consider it for a moment. Miraculous coincidence, or not? Point blank, we have an epidemic of violence in this country.<br />
<br />
Gun control laws won't eradicate all problems - we'd be naive to believe so. But why not make things a little harder? Often I hear the argument that cars are lethal objects, and if we're going to strip folks of their guns, shouldn't we take cars away then, too? Where would it stop? Take a moment, though and look at history. As we have learned better, we do more. Regulations WERE put into place with cars. Laws were made about seat belt usage, speed limits, and now, even cell phone usage while driving. Does it stop everyone from breaking those laws? Of course not, but many people DO in fact follow those rules, and lives HAVE been saved. We as a country and society put limits on several facets of life, including how many animals one can own, what blood alcohol level is acceptable while driving, how many hours you can work as a minor, etc. We don't stop instituting laws and following rules simply because we know that not everyone will follow them. We don't throw our hands up in the air and yell, <i>why bother! </i>Good grief, by many accounts we are a civilized society, and we follow rules. Just read <i>Lord of the Flies</i> if you'd like an alternative version of life without parameters.<br />
<br />
We ask folks to apply for permits, take tests, and seek licenses to own and operate cars - can't, at minimum, we ask that? How about:<br />
<ul>
<li>Permits to own and operate all firearms.</li>
<li>Required registration of all firearms, that requires yearly renewals.</li>
<li>A ban on assault style firearms like TEC9s and AR15s.</li>
<li>Ban the use of bump stocks (or any other device that could be used to modify guns so that they become automatic).</li>
<li>Ban the sale of large magazines and armor-piercing bullets.</li>
<li>Extended waiting periods, and background checks on ALL purchases (close the gun show and private sale loopholes).</li>
<li>Require certification and tests that have to be renewed.</li>
<li>Do not allow those deemed mentally ill, or with a history of violent crimes, to own guns.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Listen, I don't believe in perpetuating the false dichotomy of, "If you own a gun, you obviously don't care about our children." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That's wrong, it's unfair, and it doesn't enact change. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Let's open dialogue, respectfully, and move to make this country safer, to make classrooms and schools, like mine safer. No one should have to kiss their child goodbye and send them off to school thinking, "I hope they don't die today." I should NOT have consider throwing my body in front of a bullet to save my students. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We have a problem. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Let's fix it - together.</div>
ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-19249499305140147632018-01-19T13:54:00.002-05:002018-07-27T08:49:01.625-04:00Girlfriends<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Last weekend, I spent four glorious days with some of my
closest girlfriends from college, and it was nothing short of fantastic. Three
of us flew down to meet the fourth in Miami, and then we drove west to Marco
Island where we checked into a modest little condo that sat a block back from
the beach. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When I returned to work on Tuesday, several colleagues mentioned I had a “glow” and they wanted to know
about the trip. My response was sincere and void of any hyperbole when I
offered that the trip was <i>soul-rejuvenating</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We met our freshman year in college; the fall of 1996. I
knew not a single human when I stepped off the plane in Pittsburgh, having flown
across the country to attend the University of Pittsburgh. These were the girls
who had dorms on my hall, and somehow, we naturally just gravitated towards
each other. Our collective friendship has run the gauntlet after two decades,
experiencing lots of highs but as well, bouts of silence and distance. But – as
I wrote in a post on social media:<i> I met these girls 21 years ago; we were
babies, unsure of the women we would become. We have grown up together,
sometimes separated by distance, some spans of silence, but always tied
together by those formative early years. These are the women who know my story,
and who champion the person I have become. These past few days were belly
laughs, and tears, and filling in the blanks of the past two decades. I love
them dearly, and hope my daughter one day finds a tribe as special as this one.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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And that’s just it – the idea of a tribe. The people upon
whom you rely, whether it be in big ways or small, but the ones who know all chapters of your
life, the women who have read your story, and continue to stand by you. Those
are the ones you hold onto. The language of a female friendship is unlike any
other. In fact, sometimes there is no <i>language</i>
in the literal sense. So many times last weekend, not a single word was uttered
before we all fell into a pile of tear-induced, side-aching laughter. That deep
kind of belly laugh that washes over you. There were stories of marriage and
divorce, miscarriage and children, despair, and success. At one point we all
disclosed how much we earned in our respective careers, and you know what was
beautiful about that conversation? When my pals, who all make more than me,
said their numbers aloud, I was genuinely <i>proud</i> of them. Here were these
women with whom I shared dorm rooms with, women I remember studying their asses
off, and dammit – they deserve these amazing careers! The crawl in my mind was
not one of jealousy but one of total happiness. I mean lets be real, my friends
are total badasses. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As someone who wears many hats, it was lovely that no one
was requesting anything of me – no papers needed to be graded, no lunch needed
to be packed, no appointments needed to be made, no bills needed to be paid, no
photos needed to be edited. I was unfettered for a weekend, and it was, in
fact, soul-rejuvenating. It came as no surprise that we all emphatically agreed
to not let another two decades go by before hanging out again, and there may or
may not be an impromptu meet up this fall, and perhaps another bigger trip in
the works for 2020.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally, I realize that I am quite lucky to have been
able to take a vacation, to spend the time and money on myself in this manner,
and it has not gone unnoticed. Yes, I am owning my privileged. The time spent
with these amazing, brilliant, and wildly successful women, while the kick off
to my self-proclaimed Year of 40, was, in retrospect, sorely needed. I came
back rested, happy, resolute in my belief of the importance of friendships, and
ready to make the most of 2018. These women, this friendship, is necessary to
my ability to live my very best life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sara, Pam, Erin (and Jenny): here’s to another two
decades.<o:p></o:p></div>
ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-74136871380725601412017-10-09T08:18:00.000-04:002017-10-09T08:46:38.120-04:00She's Four<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Dear Lucy,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQGgkPGn7ncMf_fudLXf8RIAqtJwgnzdwWVezsVxzgx8IoxFzAcfx7CimaIkvPL1__b_-9tPVF8lPNNIu2z2QXr3mq1eJhXqx_wBJS1CG-eDYjqdglo8pNriltU0X2SbYCquWYiYo0j4/s1600/20171001_184806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQGgkPGn7ncMf_fudLXf8RIAqtJwgnzdwWVezsVxzgx8IoxFzAcfx7CimaIkvPL1__b_-9tPVF8lPNNIu2z2QXr3mq1eJhXqx_wBJS1CG-eDYjqdglo8pNriltU0X2SbYCquWYiYo0j4/s200/20171001_184806.jpg" width="150" /></a>Today you are four. Four whole years old. At the risk of
waking you this morning, I went into your <o:p></o:p></div>
room and kissed your cheek, wishing
you a happy birthday. Four. When I say it aloud it seems like such a big number.
Four years of watching you, petal by petal, reveal the little girl you’ve
become.<br />
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<br /></div>
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Last week, there was a day you and I went to the park.
When it was time to go, we agreed to race home and you took off sprinting
towards our house down the street. Your arms pumping, hair swishing back and
forth across your back. Flying, you never looked back – until the one time you
did and a tree obstructed your view of me. When I finally reached the porch, I
discovered you’d been crying. Crying because you couldn’t see me and thought
you’d lost me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is four. So desperately eager to be independent, yet
still needing to know I’m there. This is where we find ourselves, daily. The
pendulum swinging wildly back and forth between demanding to open the string
cheese on your own, and dropping to the floor in tears because you don’t want
to go out on the deck by yourself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You have also really started thinking about some bigger
concepts: life and death. You want to know <o:p></o:p></div>
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where babies come from and how they
get into the bellies of mamas. You want to know if we get old and die. In all
honestly, I’m much more prepared to talk to you about reproduction than I am of
death. You caught me off guard the other day when asked if I would get old and
die. My response was simple and direct – yes, I will get old, and someday I
will die. We’ve made it our policy to be as honest with you as we can, at least
meeting you in your level of understanding when possible. Your reaction to my
honest answer what a dramatic downfall into crying and a true expression of
fear. Through your tears you pleaded with me not to die, asking over and over
if I would just please not die. <br />
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I did my best to reassure you of what I know: that I am
here, now. That I do not <i>want</i> to die
and leave you, and neither does anyone who loves you. This appeared to assuage
some of those fears, but the idea has popped up every now and again. We do our
best to explain death in simple terms, but I know your mind is whirling. <o:p></o:p></div>
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While you wrestle with some ideas about life, you are
also growing a big heart of empathy. We were reading the story of Rosa Parks
the other night just before bed, and your sweet little face furrowed at the
idea that black kids could not be at the same school as white kids. I explained
how this was how it used to be and you quickly pointed out that it wasn’t fair,
and that there are black kids at your school, and everyone should be friends
with everyone no matter what color they are.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It has been heartwarming to watch your developing
relationship with Daddy. There was a time when you two had cursory interactions,
but that’s the case no longer. You’re excited when he comes home and you love
playing with him. You’ve even requested, on occasion, that he read you books at
night –unheard of or tolerated previous to now. We have also recently begun to hear about the downside of finicky schoolyard friendships, how sometimes kids can say mean words, and how friends can become exclusive. This is uncharted territory, and we are doing our best to help you through it. We explain that sometimes friends need play breaks, that everyone has bad days, and that you should always stick up for yourself. These newest developments in the landscape of social navigation are somewhat daunting, and surely just the tip of what's to come. It appears that you are handling these new challenges well, because your response to one group of friends not wanting to play (according to what you tell me), is simply to go find other friends who do. And when you're feeling sad because ________ would not be your friend, we hug and talk it through, but mostly I just try to listen. </div>
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Wonder Woman reigns queen of your world, Moana has
captured your heart, you love watching movies, you thoroughly enjoy music and
singing along, recently getting into the work of Queen (We Will Rock You, We
Are the Champions, Bohemian Rhapsody), and dancing. Gymnastics remains a weekly
activity, and I’m seeing you become more coordinated and skilled. I know
there’s a cartwheel about to emerge.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Kid – daily life is a tangle of overblown meltdowns and deep
belly laughs. Your need to assert dominance and control, and my need to teach you
boundaries and respect, while still making sure you understand that mama’s love
will always be there, are definite friction points. I am your greatest champion,
my darling daughter. And even when you are behaving in a manner that bespeaks the
most challenging facets of your personality, I still love you. <i>I still love you</i> — we say this often,
per your request after having been reprimanded. <i>Mama, do you still love me? Yes, Lucy, I love you so much. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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You are the little girl who, spirited by confidence and
what I believe to be a touch of wildfire, sprints away from me as we leave the
park, running as fast as your strong legs will pump, eyes ahead. You are
pushing boundaries and growing and falling. And each time you get up, I rise
with you. Because you push me and you knock me down – relentlessly. We are
growing <i>together</i>. This is my pride
and pain, my sweet burden as your mama. Ever so slowly, with each candle we add
to your cake, you move a little closer to the edge of the nest, eyeing up the
world and all that’s out there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille.<o:p></o:p></div>
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ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-44123948504580149622017-07-23T14:57:00.002-04:002017-07-23T21:10:40.445-04:00On the Other Side of the DoorDear Lucy,<br />
<br />
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In March of last year, Big Red took down your crib and I transformed your nursery into a <a href="http://thesemarmaladeskies.blogspot.com/2016/03/big-girl-room.html" target="_blank">big girl room</a>, the hallmark of which was a twin bed. You loved it. There were little, if any, bumps in trying to convince you to sleep in the new bed. In fact, I don't recall anything at all.<br />
<br />
And then three and a half months later we went to California for two weeks in which the three of us, me, you, and Nana, slept together in one bed. Upon return to your room, you decided sleeping alone wasn't cool anymore, so into our bed you migrated. You stayed there until your third birthday, in October, when I created this elaborate scheme to get you back into your own bed. Luna your personal fairy arrived, replete with a fairy door, and a picture of the two of you together while you were sleeping (<i>thanks, Photoshop</i>). Luna also left you a letter in which she explained that she would watch over you as you slept, and that three year-olds are brave and sleep in their own beds. She also left you a new night light that projected stars on your ceiling.<br />
<br />
It was a hit, and back into your bed you went.<br />
<br />
Until the novelty wore off, and somehow I found you right back at my side again a few months later. Shadows you said. You needed me, you said.<br />
<br />
<i>You needed me</i>.<br />
<br />
To feel needed is sublime. To know that my presence has the power to cure all your fears is, frankly, intoxicating. You and I both love Wonder Woman, and it's in these moments that I actually feel as powerful. I was never ashamed of the co-sleeping, and I enjoyed sleeping next your warm body. It was equal parts survival and IDGAF. It was, for the time being, working.<br />
<br />
Then it wasn't. For a while we dealt with the tossing and turning, kneeing Big Red, and landing elbows on my nose. We were losing sleep. And then it got dramatically worse: you decided the act of going to sleep, at all, was purgatory, and by doing so, took us with you into the pit of hell.<br />
<br />
Every single night was an ongoing battle to go to bed. Gone were the calm evenings of stories and songs. In their place were tears and screaming. We bargained, we pleaded. In our worst moments we stomped away frustrated, we yelled. I became angry that I was losing my nights to your hysterics. My darling, I love you in ways words cannot even touch, and yet in those moments, I wanted to mute your cries, to teleport myself out of our sweet home and into someplace, <i>anyplace</i> <i>else</i>. Some nights I was able to call up the patience that you required, and I saw you for exactly what you were: a little girl who felt safe at her mama's side. I would repeat to myself, a mantra: <i>this is what she needs right now, lay with her, it's just a phase, you'll miss this</i> <i>when it's gone</i>. That would get me through a few evenings, but surely as still waters run deep, that ball of anger and frustration would gurgle and rise like a geyser. Again I'd be all rage and fury.<br />
<br />
Earlier this month, Big Red and I spoke after a particularly difficult evening and agreed it was time to help you back into your bed. We would draw a line in the sand upon our return from our annual trip to California. I would be as transparent as possible, and we would hold our ground. And by golly it worked. The day you went back into your bed, I told you what would be happening, and true to form, you responded with angry tears and arms crossed over your chest. Proclamations of I WILL NOT! filled our house. I explained there'd be a prize for which to work, which seemed to help.<br />
<br />
As the day progressed, I remind you of what would happen. That night we read books, sang songs, and chatted. You asked if I would be in my bed. I explained that I'd be downstairs with Daddy, but eventually I'd go to bed, just like you were doing, and I'd be on the other side of your door.<br />
<br />
You have successfully been in your bed since.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3w2FCA0azLo3y5DwSdn2UJUQq0CGcHuFBQbNC8Tlvk3aIOJswB0DxtCcJqARF2wdjiLeFxIkRMqqCpkVhTc_IReIjrVJqMx56T-urxKhpaHBhge_tqnco0Lcgzkn_BDzB6ksoKjV-fk/s1600/20170603_145832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3w2FCA0azLo3y5DwSdn2UJUQq0CGcHuFBQbNC8Tlvk3aIOJswB0DxtCcJqARF2wdjiLeFxIkRMqqCpkVhTc_IReIjrVJqMx56T-urxKhpaHBhge_tqnco0Lcgzkn_BDzB6ksoKjV-fk/s320/20170603_145832.jpg" width="240" /></a>The last night you slept in our bed, I watched you and was drawn to the pulse in your neck. The way the rush of blood, sweeping back and forth, made the skin leap up and down. I tried to remain as present as possible, not projecting what would happen the next night, if it would work or not, but rather just being your mama, next to you. You are a fiery, independent, strong-willed little girl, Lucy. In those moments as my eyes traversed the beautiful contours of your perfect face, I thought about how I could best support you. Not just in that hour, but as you continue to grow into yourself, whatever self evolves. I asked myself how to always remain a reflective mama so as not to stand in your way, to never unintentionally clip those dazzling wings. My girl, light always finds you, and I never want to be the one who casts a shadow.<br />
<br />
As I wrote earlier, it's absolutely marvelous to feel needed. There will come a day though, when your need for me will change. But darling - you take the lead. I will follow as you are not mine to hold onto; you are your own. Know though, that<i> </i>I am always here, your soft place to fall, just on the other side of the door.<br />
<br />
Love, Mama<br />
<br />
<br />ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-84069679988834742372017-05-09T11:02:00.000-04:002017-05-10T06:48:08.765-04:00Mother's Day #4<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Seems as of lately there have been plenty of back-handed
jokes along the lines of, “You’re in for it with that one!” The reference to <i>that one</i> is, obviously, my daughter. She
is willful, and contrarian, sass-mouthed, and rebellious. We are, without a doubt,
neck-deep in the quagmire of preschooler defiance.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And yet, the peanut gallery commentary cautioning us to
prepare ourselves for her teenage years really irks me. In fact, while I laugh
it off publicly, deep down, I get kind of ragey. This quip of an observation
serves no purpose – not a single one. It’s tossed into the universe with a
laugh, but falls like rocks on the shoulders of a mama who doesn’t see, like
you, a future riotess. Why do the behaviorally appropriate actions of a 3.5
year-old immediately qualify her as someone who will cause so much trouble? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
She’s testing the limits. Her identity is stronger now
than when she was a baby, and therefor she’s learning to pull away from us in
an effort to be independent. It has, for me, been the most difficult stage of
her childhood to date (yes, even including the newborn phase). There are
opinions to manage, and fears to acknowledge, likes to incorporates, and hard
boundaries that rest on our weary backs after long days at work, and house
care, and groceries, and cooking, and taking out the garbage, and existing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It would be INFINITELY easier to concede defeat when she
digs in her heals over what X-factor is important right this minute. So much
easier. And while there are plenty of times that I weigh the worthiness of the
fight (sometimes, many times – it’s not worth it), Mothering isn’t in the dealings
of being easy. That became excruciatingly clear on day one. I take my role as
her Mother, quite seriously. And like a lot of other mothers out there of
strong-willed young ladies, we’ve realized we’re not just raising kids – we’re
raising leaders and innovators, scientists and illustrators, chefs and moguls.
We’re raising bookworms and senators, teachers and makeup artists, anchors and
musicians. We’re raising writers and presidents, Elizabeth Warrens and Angela
Davises, Frida Kahlos and Virginia Apgars. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But to get there, we’ve got to get through the <strike>riot</strike> right now.
The arms-crossed, peanut butter sandwich demanding, foot-stomping, screaming
tantrum time-outs of the day-to-day. We are traversing the landscape of Joseph
Campbell’s well noted Hero’s Journey. The ordinary world is long gone (possibly
forever) and we are into the realm of the special world where there are allies
and enemies, ordeals and rebirth. Sometimes it’s hard to tell for whom the test
is – she or me? My best guess is it’s for us both. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My position in Lucy’s life is not to quell that which fuels
her, but rather help her harness that fiery spunk. Encourage her to discover
what her legacy will be. Mark Twain is the author of one of my all-time
favorite sayings: "The two most important days in your life are the day
you were born, and the day you find out why." I can’t tell her
what she is meant to do – that’s not my job. It’s her life to live, hers to
figure out. I’m her mama, the proverbial wall against which she will bash herself,
as well as hopefully, lean against when she’s tired. My singular premium for
being her mother, for investing in her well-being, for championing her spirit,
is, in simple terms – to have the privilege
of watching her live the life she wants. To see her smile the kind of
brightness that radiates from a life fulfilled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjekvFMF1yCfHJt92L1RpzSZyLfaNKlVNpgqkGlIG7HvPG9GlaTpUWmfPACL98s1QNka5XhtYH8xgnM5n_2YJNaba3nk1sUrI9Kl1JchSBERQ2NhIzflZ6uEtskETO5dz9WpJyj-D6VRpI/s1600/Capture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjekvFMF1yCfHJt92L1RpzSZyLfaNKlVNpgqkGlIG7HvPG9GlaTpUWmfPACL98s1QNka5XhtYH8xgnM5n_2YJNaba3nk1sUrI9Kl1JchSBERQ2NhIzflZ6uEtskETO5dz9WpJyj-D6VRpI/s320/Capture.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p>On Sunday I will wake up next to her sweet face (<i>I need to sleep in your bed, mama</i>) as she points to the window and announces that <i>it's morning time, mama</i>, and she will give me a card she made (it's a surprise so she's already told me so). Perhaps there will be a few other acknowledgements, and a sunny day spent together while Big Red grills some steaks. Me and my girl. The girl who made me a mother. </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m not <i>in for it</i>
with this one.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m <i>in it</i>,
proudly, with her.<o:p></o:p></div>
ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-52166002389609687082016-11-15T08:55:00.000-05:002016-11-15T08:55:20.624-05:00Someday.Below is the letter I wrote to my daughter, the one I'd so hoped would be truth. And despite the outcome, there remains some truth. There is so much to say, but I can't wrangle the words. Instead, this is what I wrote the other day:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><i>My sweet Lucille, this was not the morning to which I'd hoped you'd wake up. Our country is very clearly still living within the confines of a patriarchy. But - make no mistake - our knuckles have grazed the glass, and while we were unable to completely shatter that ceiling, there are fractures. Someday, my love, someday. Maybe it will be you. </i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7lRHo1SxLRA3edsubf67IbtVEyTtGEYXF4aHCq2zUEPi6sFxXxsgZ-7IH_aL84s8tTtlxgVkfXMvDyoLaUh08p6w85kmnYdTW3p_A9bBcULjsTB4vbrtyXS14RSKCi-gFe1WrdnfnWM/s1600/Future+President.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7lRHo1SxLRA3edsubf67IbtVEyTtGEYXF4aHCq2zUEPi6sFxXxsgZ-7IH_aL84s8tTtlxgVkfXMvDyoLaUh08p6w85kmnYdTW3p_A9bBcULjsTB4vbrtyXS14RSKCi-gFe1WrdnfnWM/s400/Future+President.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I sincerely hope I can pull this letter out in four years, and it will mean something in a way it didn't this year.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">Dear Lucille,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="color: #20124d;">Last night, Hillary Rodham Clinton, won the election and
has become the President elect. At the turn of the year, Barack Obama, our
first black president will end his tenure, and Clinton will become President of
the United States of America. This is not a letter about whether I like her or
disliked the man who ran against her. This, Lucille, is entirely about the fact
that a WOMAN will now hold the highest office in this land. And that, no matter
where you stand on party lines, deserves respect. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="color: #20124d;">It<i> is</i>
monumental.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="color: #20124d;">Clinton’s road to the White House began long before you ever
existed, and women before her have been quietly, and some quite loudly, paving
the way for this very moment. We read a book called <i>Rad American Woman A-Z</i>, and some of these warriors are named. If
you turn back the clocks you will find a remarkable reel of women that illuminate
a bold future for you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="color: #20124d;">When you were born a female, a gender you currently
express, you were born with an inherent set of challenges. Our culture places a
heavy emphasis on the material, especially looks. According to magazines, and
TV shows, and movies, and the pervasive noise that is our world, you will be
judged, at least initially, on how you look. In your lifetime you will fight
misogyny, sexism, expectations to be married and have children, rape culture,
imposed body image assumptions, and a menagerie of double-standards. Lucille, I
am working to arm you. To save you from the language of the crawl that has
formed in my own head, the one I lived with, to something braver, something
much more confident; we watch Wonder Woman and talk about how she is strong and
saves herself. We read books about girls like Molly Lou Mellon who walk proudly
while dismissing the judgements of others. We talk about the different shapes
and sizes and colors of our friends, and how some families have two Mamas, and
some have to Daddies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="color: #20124d;">The work of women is not done, my love, and we’re nowhere
near eradicating gender expectations, but we are moving in the right direction.
You and I are part of a gender history fraught with blood and toil, misandry,
rape and murder – but we are also part
of a history bedazzled with the likes of Abigail Adams, Elizabeth Blackwell,
Harriet Tubman, Clara Barton, Nellie Bly, Bessie Coleman, Jane Addams, Amelia
Earhart, Shirley Chisholm, Gloria Steinem, and now, Hillary Rodham Clinton.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="color: #20124d;">Today, another giant crack in that ceiling has formed,
and if you tilt your face up to that fracture, my dear, you will feel the rain
serpentine its way through and fall upon your cheeks like a kiss. As your mama,
I can say that <i>you, Lucille, can one day
be president</i>. That’s what this is about. Today is a day in history that
will forever be marked by progress for the women in this country. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="color: #20124d;">Whether you add your name to that very public list will
be your prerogative. Regardless, I will love you for all your failures and
triumphs, whether you are known or unknown to the masses. You won’t remember
today, not by a long shot, and Clinton’s tenure as president, however far it
reaches, will be a blip in your history. But we women will be watching, fully
aware of the public misogyny and sexist rubbish Madam President will face. I,
as a woman and your mama, will be watching closely, hoping that despite the
politics and policy, she continues to forge a road for us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="color: #20124d;">Today, Lucille, I just need you to know that <i>anything is possible. </i>And I will
reiterate that sentiment for the rest of my life, calling upon the names of
these women who have come before you, as you encounter whatever challenges may
be ahead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="color: #20124d;">Lucille, a woman is President. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="color: #20124d;">A <i>woman</i>.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-77785337692286625292016-10-09T07:55:00.002-04:002016-10-09T08:38:23.620-04:00She's Three.<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Dear Lucille,<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhjzBP4PENsIo0gdFVqdst5PGgGJbVVkOKY1Vjr8oqa8hK6PAz20pEMBX8D2HoSIelI9sGqqzzFcx4ZDVLK4sib8ejRZMWubS1fnhoPuMm7VWUQcBmFmvlw4N_mB2sPg7Cr59mne_STM/s1600/HHP_7713a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhjzBP4PENsIo0gdFVqdst5PGgGJbVVkOKY1Vjr8oqa8hK6PAz20pEMBX8D2HoSIelI9sGqqzzFcx4ZDVLK4sib8ejRZMWubS1fnhoPuMm7VWUQcBmFmvlw4N_mB2sPg7Cr59mne_STM/s400/HHP_7713a.jpg" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Horseshoe Hill Photography</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Today you turn the magical number <i>three</i>. Three. I’m going to let that rest on my tongue a minute, and
slowly digest this fallen snowflake of amazement because I can hardly believe
how far we’ve come since your birth. Three is a lucky number according to the
Chinese, partly because it sounds like the word that means life – and life, my
sweet Lucille, is what you radiate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You are a full-blown little girl who still loves to swing
on the swings at the park and has developed a passion for riding the
“carouself.” The purple dragon, on our favorite carouself, is your steed of
choice. I’m pretty certain that if we allowed it, you’d eat “broccomole” and
chips every day for dinner, and guzzle down chocolate milk (cut with regular
milk: “…first we add the chocolate, then we add the milk, and that’s how you
get chocolate milk!”) by the gallon. We still, every night, read two books, and
I sing you two songs. The books are on rotation, but the songs remain constant.
It’s always out of your favorite, four: Somewhere Over the Rainbow, You Are My
Sunshine, Go to Sleep You Little Baby, and Hush Little Baby.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Over the past year your imagination has exploded, and I
mean, <i>really</i> taken off. It’s fascinating to see you create scenarios with
your toys, talking about where you and your “children” are going. You have
named all your stuffed animals, and while some include obvious monikers of
Piggie for a stuffed pig, there’s also Roberto (a dog), Dorothy (a unicorn),
Becky (a monkey), and Margaret (a tiger). To date, Tiger, the original, remains
your absolute favorite. You named your three baby dolls, Sara, Ella, and
Audrey. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Of note, you’ve also added to your extensive vocabulary,
the most notable word being <i>fucking</i>.
Yes, that’s correct – fucking. Your Dad and I are clearly the ones to blame,
that’s no secret. I suppose we have to try a little harder in the potty-mouth
department, but <strike>fuck</strike> damn, it’s hard. The good news is, if there is any concerning
such language, that you use it in correct context, and only at home around us.
That’s a plus, right? Frankly, I’m a fan of words (shocker), and I do believe
words, all of them, have a place in our vernacular. When used in a well-timed
manner, they can give power and punctuation to ideas and meaning. We’ve never
admonished you for the use of the F word, because we don’t want to make it any
more seductive than it already is. That’s as far as we’ve gotten on that front. Hold your applause.The end.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Music remains a constant development in your life and
your current top three favorite tunes are, All Through the Night, Run the World
(Girls), and Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds. Television shows include Daniel
Tiger, Doc McStuffins, and Sofia the First. The most notable addition has been
the 1970s Wonder Woman series. To say that you’re obsessed with Wonder Woman
would be an understatement of gross proportions. The Wonder Woman outfit that
Nana sent you is worn SEVERAL times a week. Just the other day, we were
watching an episode we’ve all now seen twenty-two thousand times, and you looked
at me and said, “Mama, Wonder Woman is going to save herself because she’s
strong.” #momwin #wwscreentimeallday<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My sweet Lucille, for all the good and growing you’re
doing, we’ve stomped right into the treacherous land of Three. Your
independence and need to do things your way is in full bloom. We are growing
alongside you and are working hard to meet you head-on as these challenges appear.
Sometimes following directions requires multiple redirections and the threat of
taking something away, but in the end, more often than not, you make the right
choice. Your energy is boundless, and we’ve recently enrolled you in
gymnastics. You LOVE it. And I love that you love it. It matches your need to
be physical and active, and provides such a wonderful healthy outlet. I don’t
know if you’ll be doing this for a few months or a few years; I have zero
expectations. My only expectation is that you enjoy what you’re doing, and when
it becomes un-enjoyable, should it ever, we’ll reassess and move on if need be.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You are an undeniable and unavoidable mirror. It’s
because of you I have had to learn, and continue to learn, to manage and
reshape my innate temper and call upon the grace of patience and understanding.
You are a chimera; a little girl with so many facets and faces, that sometimes, I’m
certain breathes fire. Even when you are at your worst, my dear, I still love
you with an explosion that is unrivaled. It is because of you I am becoming a
better person. That I think about what I’m doing, and saying, more than I have
<i>ever</i> considered in my life. And I’m learning to take better care of myself,
an important part of being your mama, something I take very seriously. This
world can be unkind to women, and I want to arm you with a tower of confidence,
strength, and an awareness. I can say all the things, but if I do none of the
things, then it’s all for nothing. You are watching me closely, and I know
this. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Friday was your final day in the toddler room; you were
Queen of the hill. On Tuesday, you will move to the preschool room, whiplashed
back to the bottom. As with all starts, I expect there will be a transition,
but I think you’ll find this new room to be fun and exciting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Your birthday falls shortly after the autumnal equinox; a
time of transition and reflection, a phase of duality where both light and dark
exist, and the ushering in of the long shadows of winter. Some fear this
darkness, this silence, but this is where we learn and reflect upon the harvest
reaped. Right now, this is you, my love, and my most favorite time of the year.
While I am challenged by your shifting moods, it has also forced me to look
inward, and I’m pacing myself to keep up with you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
On this birthday I wish for you more discovery of the world. You are everything I never knew I ever
wanted, and <i>needed</i>, in a daughter: a
fierce, furniture-climbing, armchair-jumping, somersault rolling, happy, determined,
strong, twirling, imaginative, bright-eyed three year-old. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille.<br />
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ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-33717102361999970232016-08-13T11:20:00.000-04:002016-08-13T11:53:07.599-04:00Light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is where you are right now; caught somewhere between the shadows of who and what you're becoming, and the light of what you already know.<br />
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And I'm beside you.<br />
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In the thick of it all, bobbing and weaving between the pendulum of your emotions.<br />
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I'm beside you, and kid, let me tell you, this is punishing. Because in the most demanding way it's not physical, a sore muscle that needs rest; it's unrelenting and arduous, because it's <i>emotional</i>.<br />
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Whomever coined the term "terrible twos," clearly had not yet encountered a three year-old. I've become quite familiar with the phrase "threenager," and it seems to fit Lucy perfectly. We've also used, on occasion, Lussolini, as when she gets into a mood, there's no room for democracy, only a vehement dictatorship. I have made many jokes this summer about how I may not survive this year, and while I chuckle, inside, I'm desperate to help us both through this necessary, yet aggravating challenge.<br />
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I've reached out to the wiser, more experienced, and they've all returned the same trifecta of sentiments: this is normal, we will survive, and it's only a phase. All three remain close to my heart and nerves, and I repeat them like mantras when the little turd refuses to sit still long enough for me to comb out the rat's nest that has formed in her hair because she refused to let me braid it and keep it out of her face for the day.<br />
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Exasperation doesn't even come close.<br />
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When researching the psychology and developmental stage of an (almost) three year-old - the stark contrast of emotions, stubbornness, need to feel independent whilst still screaming for mama because the shadows in her room made it scary - I'm not surprised. Watching her deal is one thing, and then experiencing my own reaction is another: one moment rage seethes just beneath my flesh, and the next, I want to wrap her up in my arms and never let her go.<br />
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Parenting this little girl strikes me as a parallel to what she's actually undergoing. Maybe that's Nature's way of helping us through this seventh circle of hell? Some twisted sort of empathy?<br />
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I reached out to her pediatrician, whom I adore, never judges, and always reassures. I needed some validation from a professional. When I described what was going on, she responded with:<br />
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"I wish I could make this all go away, as it is very stressful. Her behavior is normal. 3 year-olds think they can do it all on their own, especially bright articulate children. Remain calm, loving, but firm...often what they need is recognition of their feelings. It's just a phase. The hard part is not knowing the duration. Surely it will go up and down."<br />
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It's a carousel, Lucy. We're on your beloved "carouself," going up and down, round and round. Sometimes the view is spectacular, and sometimes it isn't.<br />
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While she's navigating the choppy waters of her emotions, the sharp corners of what she's feeling, overwhelmed and unable to cope, I'm sourcing stores of patience at the bottom of what feels like a nearly dry well. Most days I can manage, but there are plenty when I look at her - screaming in my face about <i>needing</i> to watch Wonder Woman <i>right now</i> and wanting to drink chocolate milk from the <i>blue cup</i> - that I turn from her and walk away. Like actually walk away to another room, telling her not to follow me, and give me a minute.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdG9LlNIYcHNYMqiUilah8hEK5dgafb9iBoyhJj2Zsk8vq0VXjDuz2y0JowsKjlt1Qt7frdTUfA178DitpCOkd_60DeXuC1hN19YsHvG3IYEhjM2ohrEhnloF5vYG_Xe1k_7PoXdzmE8U/s1600/light+%252816+of+17%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdG9LlNIYcHNYMqiUilah8hEK5dgafb9iBoyhJj2Zsk8vq0VXjDuz2y0JowsKjlt1Qt7frdTUfA178DitpCOkd_60DeXuC1hN19YsHvG3IYEhjM2ohrEhnloF5vYG_Xe1k_7PoXdzmE8U/s400/light+%252816+of+17%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a>Then she panics. And follows me, screaming louder, <i>no mama, don't be sad, don't go.</i> She knows. She knows and somehow that's reassuring, that in the midst of all this<i> </i>bullshit, she's beginning to understand that actions come with reactions. The other day, after a series of infuriating behaviors, what they were I couldn't even tell you because they were so inconsequential (but there were about thirty billion that happened in rapid fire succession), I started to cry. Full on ugly cry, right there on the couch. Lucy became distraught, and began to cry herself. She hovered over me, wiping my tears, repeating, <i>no mama, please don't cry, don't be sad, I love you so much</i>. And that made me cry harder.<br />
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Because I'm her mama and I want to help her understand these big feelings that are inundating her. Because she's growing up, and I'm desperate to sleep well again and not have to go into her room when she cries out for me. Because I'm terrified she won't cry out for me. Because it's all so big and amazing and demanding.<br />
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And then I look at these photos taken this morning, dark images of this little person in between worlds, the light catching her profile, and in that moment, I forget all the yuck.<br />
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Because I love <i>her</i> so much.<br />
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<br />ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-59142188289538244202016-03-20T12:14:00.001-04:002016-03-20T12:41:02.627-04:00Big Girl RoomMy Sweet Lucille,<br />
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Today is officially the first day of spring, and tonight, for the first time, you will sleep in your "big white bed." Friday afternoon, we shipped you off to Grandma's so that I could have time to refresh what was once your nursery and transform it into a room befitting of the toddler you have become. Despite the months of scouring Etsy, shopping sales, and snagging pieces for this project, I was, once again, wholly unprepared for the emotional force with which I would be hit.<br />
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My mama heart ached Thursday night, the last time I would lay you down in the crib that you've slept in since we brought you home from the hospital. I choked up on the phone with your Dad when I spoke to him Friday evening, letting him know it would only be appropriately ceremonious that he be the one to take down the crib he'd assembled. My friend, <a href="http://inpursuitofhappiness.net/" target="_blank">Britt</a>, remarked of this milestone that, "one of the greatest gifts of motherhood is the ability to notice the significance of these moments." Rest assured that <i>every single one of these</i> leaves an indelible mark.<br />
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The experience of dismantling <a href="http://projectnursery.com/projects/colorful-cozy-baby-girls-nursery/" target="_blank">the nursery I'd spent hours putting together</a>, was cathartic. Necessary, even. Each piece I removed from the walls was purgative. Every hole patched and sanded was a reminder that, "<a href="https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/nothing-gold-can-stay" target="_blank">Nothing gold can stay</a>." I teared up. I was present. I allowed myself to feel all the feels. For as much as I want to freeze every stage of your life, to keep you gold for a little while longer, this life of yours, is growing. And with each milestone achieved, my mama heart aches with the realization that you were never really mine. You belong to yourself, and it is simply my incredibly fortunate privilege to be your mother.<br />
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This big girl room is a reflection of the marvelous little girl you've become. While you still wear pull-ups at night, for all intents and purposes, you are potty trained. This past fall you visited the dentist for the first time and got an excellent oral bill of health. You continue to love to dance and "twirl." Winter, this time around, was much kinder to you, and it appears as though what everyone told us - that business about immune systems being built in the fires of those first two winters - was right. There were a few ear infections, and a mild case of walking pneumonia, but as a whole, you were generally a healthy kid during these historically trying months. You still LOVE to swing on the swings, play with chalk on the sidewalk, and read. Read, read, read, all day long. Your imagination, Lucille, is incredible. I could listen to the tales you spin, endlessly.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97WYC2_yp6BTLAtG6OSIX6imis57SjkcDqszQmaVou9jcvmf69OSgNspWp86OP3ryh2tKLmbHT8RZdne3mjv5WUpHN1DVY2OEJE2O0y_xLmgYrQJSxn_mMZpmcC46xCGzxTZo0pXOjZc/s1600/crib.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97WYC2_yp6BTLAtG6OSIX6imis57SjkcDqszQmaVou9jcvmf69OSgNspWp86OP3ryh2tKLmbHT8RZdne3mjv5WUpHN1DVY2OEJE2O0y_xLmgYrQJSxn_mMZpmcC46xCGzxTZo0pXOjZc/s200/crib.jpg" width="197" /></a>Then there's Wonder Woman. Perhaps this was some of my doing; even so, you've taken on your adoration for the warrior princes of the Amazons. And I'm okay with that - <i>winky smiley face</i>.<br />
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Redecorating your room involved using some of the pieces that already existed such as your Wonder Woman tin and clock; I just enhanced what was there. You see, Lucille, you're still the same spirit you were the day you were born, and this refreshed room, reflects that sentiment. Those long feet we all marveled at, are the very same, and now the ones that take you sprinting down hills and leaping off rocks.<br />
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When you come home today and see your new room for the first time, I hope you love it. I hope it provides for you the space to play, to explore, to flourish. I hope we stockpile another cache of memories within these walls.<br />
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Taking down that crib was a forever goodbye to the final vestige of your babyhood. Because you are my <i>one</i> and <i>only</i>, every first is the last first, and every last is <i>the last</i>. And just when it feels as though my mama heart can't bear the hurt of one more landmark crossed, I'm bolstered by the little voice that is yours, when now, nightly, you must say, <i>I love you, Mommy. Sweet dreams, Mommy</i>.<br />
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In a few weeks you will be 2.5 years old.<br />
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You are "my best girl," my sugar cookie, my captivating chaos, my queen of all wild things, my beautiful mess. Loving you is a dazzling adventure. Welcome to your big girl room, Lucille.<br />
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ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-86384193542406570352015-12-21T12:17:00.000-05:002015-12-21T12:37:39.427-05:00Santa<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVsGA3dc5Uprumo_s8c-ppu0610jQNKw8ATcQJ5BYpBBTNp0nXxynDxPMMly2qR6F1HiJPBiuV9ZHWNyh7bTygITxcIRg6Swe0KBH8GhjLvrrwLaMXM3rbZR7__iTtc3TRPG23r6GXQi4/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVsGA3dc5Uprumo_s8c-ppu0610jQNKw8ATcQJ5BYpBBTNp0nXxynDxPMMly2qR6F1HiJPBiuV9ZHWNyh7bTygITxcIRg6Swe0KBH8GhjLvrrwLaMXM3rbZR7__iTtc3TRPG23r6GXQi4/s320/tree.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My friend, Jen, over at <a href="http://reallifeparentingblog.com/why-i-buy-so-much-for-my-kids-for-christmas/" target="_blank">Real Life Parenting</a>, recently
wrote about how she buys All The Things for her kids at Christmas. I loved
everything she said, and especially her insightful reflection as to how, while
this was about her kids and giving them what she felt would be an amazing
Christmas morning, it was also about her – about redeeming the early December
25<sup>th</sup> mornings that she'd always wished she had.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Lucy is just two this year, but all be damned if she doesn’t
already know about “Santa Cwause” and that he brings presents. We were standing
outside on our porch the other day when a neighbor walked by with their dog.
The neighbor woman asked Lucy if Santa would be coming soon, and my precocious
daughter’s reply was simply, “He bring me presents.” The girl has figured it
out.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Lately I’ve been hearing chatter surrounding how some
folks are choosing not to lie to their children about Santa. And while I firmly
believe that everyone has to do what they feel is best for their own family,
I’m going to be clear about something: we WILL most definitely be lying to Lucy
about Santa.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have incredibly fond memories of Christmas as a child,
the anticipation coursing through my kid body, and the absolute over-the-top
excitement on Christmas morning that catapulted me out of bed and shot me like
a rocket down the hallway and into the living room, was THE BEST. I loved
Christmas so much that around Halloween, I would create one of those chains
made out of construction paper and hang it around my room. For hours I’d sit on
my bedroom floor, cutting out the strips of colorful paper and stapling the
links together. It was always impossibly too long, but I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needed</i> a visual, something I could see that would tell me I was
getting closer to that hallowed morning. Eventually, when the chain was
manageable, sometime in early December, I’d transfer it to the living room
where the rest of the family could join me in my jubilation of ripping a link
off each night.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m fully aware that kids get absorbed by the
self-centered craze of presents. More is more, and it’s all me, me, me. I get
that. I WAS that. But, I was also excited to find and give presents. I worked
hard to make sure I got my parents and brother gifts I thought they would like.
I loved picking things out for friends and other family members. So while yes,
I could not wait to tear through my own gifts on Christmas morning, I was also
excited to give Mom and Dad their gifts, and see their faces as they opened
what I’d picked out for them.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There’s also the sentiment that lying to kids about Santa
is taking advantage of their naiveté, and possibly even hindering their
intellectual development. It’s true, I read it in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Psychology Today</i> article. For reals. I have no evidence other than
myself, my husband, family and friends. We were all lied to, and we are all
perfectly functioning adults. I promise. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Before I’d had Lucy, I’d come across the idea of the four
gift rule: something you want, something you need, something to wear, and
something to read. A completely sensible approach to gift giving. A way to keep
the expectations in check. For her first and second Christmas, we sort of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> follow that guideline, mainly
because she was too young to understand. But now, she’s getting it, and folks
it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exciting</i> to be on this end of
things. To be the adult creating the magic for your kid. It must have been what
my parents felt. Lucy is not getting a billion things this year, but she’s
definitely getting more than just something to wear or read. And I CANNOT WAIT.
I cannot wait to see her little face when she walks into the living room and
she sees what Santa has left her. I cannot wait to see her tear through her
presents. The giddiness I feel rivals that of my childhood self. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I get to do this all over again, but through her. Sure,
I’ll admit this is self-serving, but dammit, it’s fun.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9eZ-Hafe6FwcRZ57OeajgWJ9gLEzTlURSduQUoX1WAS_lpUMW5Nyz7_uaxzSvRhiPgS6VDNAbam_5eO5Qt9sEoc5orZ30ble5dDdWQaY0NaSwvUVG_uzvh_oXRqFljqv2dpVEafjGb0/s1600/L1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9eZ-Hafe6FwcRZ57OeajgWJ9gLEzTlURSduQUoX1WAS_lpUMW5Nyz7_uaxzSvRhiPgS6VDNAbam_5eO5Qt9sEoc5orZ30ble5dDdWQaY0NaSwvUVG_uzvh_oXRqFljqv2dpVEafjGb0/s320/L1.jpg" width="240" /></a>And because I want her to understand that Christmas is
also about the spirit of family and giving, we are going to be starting some
new traditions in our household. This year, Lucy and I signed up for <a href="https://stbarnabashealthsystem.com/charities/presents-for-patients/visit-a-patient/" target="_blank">Presents for Patients</a>, through which we were matched with an elderly person at a nursing
home near where we live, becoming their Secret Santa and surprising them with a couple of gifts. This past weekend, Lucy and I visited
Josephine (<a href="http://thesemarmaladeskies.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-helpers.html" target="_blank">the Moon’s namesake</a>). It was an incredible experience. This lovely
woman, 98 years young, was so happy to have us visit her. She even questioned
what she’d done to deserve such gifts. My response to "Miss Josie" was simply
that we were in the business of spreading good cheer and perpetuating the
holiday spirit. By the end of our stay, Lucy even gave Miss Josie a high-five.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I will teach my daughter the spirit of Christmas and
giving.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
AND I will lie to her, unabashedly and without guilt or
regret.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
AND I will hold onto that Santa lie for as long as
possible. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Merry Christmas.</div>
ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-72310817503140033822015-12-15T12:13:00.000-05:002016-01-19T08:53:02.596-05:00The Helpers.<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmM00wj8s-o2xeHtt2pEQUaeepisrpzs6EOKmwzzZ5QN5r73RNi_3De_VPvA4i-_jito7boLUVf9-0PQA-n5diVijkXmmSGnfcutSafK8f_itIYevSzjrmTEZwwloyxPFPFgmJHQy414c/s1600/12118871_10205235908354079_6725493777510359977_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmM00wj8s-o2xeHtt2pEQUaeepisrpzs6EOKmwzzZ5QN5r73RNi_3De_VPvA4i-_jito7boLUVf9-0PQA-n5diVijkXmmSGnfcutSafK8f_itIYevSzjrmTEZwwloyxPFPFgmJHQy414c/s200/12118871_10205235908354079_6725493777510359977_n.jpg" width="200" /></a>It is midnight when I stumble into your room, your
pitiful cries of “mommy, I need a rock you,” call to me from the crib you still
sleep in at two years old. Within seconds of reaching for you, it becomes
glaringly clear that all thirty pounds of you is aflame. I confirm the fever,
give you a dose of Motrin, then sit, at your request in “da chair,” and rock
you. It is two in the morning. My alarm will go off in just three paltry hours,
but rocking your almost-too-big-sick-toddler-self is exactly where I want to
be.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My sweet girl, the world has turned so ugly lately. The
kind of awfulness that makes me question why anyone would want to bring life
into this one. And yet you’re here because I wanted you, and because despite
the madness occurring, I still believe there’s good. Your lily-white existence
knows nothing about the atrocities happening everywhere, the mothers and
fathers, the daughters and sons being gunned down with reckless abandon in the
name of something I will never understand. There are children clinging to their
mothers’ breasts as they cross wide deep chasms of black-watered oceans in
hopes of a better life. Some make it. Many don’t. You are too young to
understand the finality in death, so much so that when we’re watching <i>The NeverEnding Story</i> and you ask about
the horse that disappears in the Swamps of Sadness, my milquetoast response is
simply that Atreyu is sad because Artax, his horse, swam away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But he didn’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He drowned, quite literally, because of his own sadness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Your only concept of injustice is not getting the fruit
snacks you demand, or being told it’s time for a bath. I love that you have no
idea what hatred lies in the hearts of some. If I could shield you from it all,
forever, I would. Knowing that someday you may become disheartened after
hearing something terrible on the news, or reading some feed on whatever page
of social media you’re trolling – makes me want to shake the collective world
and scream, what’s wrong? You believe the Sun is a being with a soul who “goes
to fweep” at night, and we’ve named the moon, “Josephine.” You have no idea
that you exist in a world alongside murderers and thieves, liars and rapists –
people whose only mission it is to ruin the lives of others. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When I read about the Aylan Kurdi’s of the world, and the
mass shootings that headline far too many a news report, when my eyes fill
uncontrollably with the tears that I will cry because I am a mother and I am
changed forever, because I know these arms that hold you now will only reach so
far, I will think of something I heard once quoted from Fred Rogers: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
When I was a
boy and I would see scary things in </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
the news, my
mother would say to me, “Look for </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
the helpers. You will always
find people who are helping.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I hope it is a long day from this one, but when you’re
old enough to know that innocent people die when they shouldn’t, that lives are
overturned in the chaos of nameless wars – I will tell you, my love, to find
the good and those helpers, and if you’re up for it, to <i>be</i> that good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-58828145525272695552015-10-09T06:33:00.001-04:002015-10-09T06:33:31.622-04:00She's Two.<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvF-YEdc2HSzj1SUGjSGP_pr8QnF_GTnRxeY_xj71z2nTpSv3yqUcB16CAGUM8nDezo7ZpvZABje_wBzZNqdtSkD2_Rtutc2giqRJ_P1cUTwRmQQZjfX46pjAbxvWD8xTHiyCpOv7020Q/s1600/Summer2015+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvF-YEdc2HSzj1SUGjSGP_pr8QnF_GTnRxeY_xj71z2nTpSv3yqUcB16CAGUM8nDezo7ZpvZABje_wBzZNqdtSkD2_Rtutc2giqRJ_P1cUTwRmQQZjfX46pjAbxvWD8xTHiyCpOv7020Q/s320/Summer2015+%25284%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a>Dear Lucille,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Today you are two years old. <i>My</i> <i>daughter is two</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I believe Jerry Seinfeld once said that having a two
year-old is like owning a blender with no top. The man was definitely on to
something...You, my <i>fiammetta</i>, are strong of body and character. That ever present
twinkle in your eye, the one that has been there since birth, has remained and
shimmers with a sense of humor and mischief. We are lucky that on *most* days,
you choose your powers for good. Unfortunately, we are not spared the moments
where you decide to exert your will and test us – but this is not wrong or bad.
This is how you learn and grow. This is how <i>we
all</i> learn and grow.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You, Lucille, are a glittering rocket, hurling yourself
towards independence, determined to put your socks on by yourself, to put on
your shoes, to hold the cup and drink, to pour large quantities of liquid into
your cup, to clean up the spilled mess, to brush your teeth, to wash your
hands, to jump from the last stair onto the floor. And the stardust trail you
leave behind sometimes involves tears, but often reverberates with the sound of
laughter, an infectious melody and second only to the radiance of your smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zMkSQW__iF0GTTyRjum8vVcGQePSbFUsQLCLSX-RdLNYt0hoD7U_XZlsr7MvEXA5zqbev0b8VewzvgS79b0_WO6uVTtb9Q6jAyB3KmRvMXt53dyq0SrJRIPRaWD_FK5waHKth9fFe6I/s1600/Jan+%25284+of+27%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zMkSQW__iF0GTTyRjum8vVcGQePSbFUsQLCLSX-RdLNYt0hoD7U_XZlsr7MvEXA5zqbev0b8VewzvgS79b0_WO6uVTtb9Q6jAyB3KmRvMXt53dyq0SrJRIPRaWD_FK5waHKth9fFe6I/s200/Jan+%25284+of+27%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a>Reading still remains a love of yours, and there are
several books you have memorized – Goodnight Moon, Where the Wild Things Are, Rad
American Women A-Z, and Knuffle Bunny – to name a few. There is a tender side
of you that is emerging, and the baby doll you named Audrey, is often cradled
in your arms. You talk about how she’s a “cutie pie,” and how she “needs her
mommy.” You deposit kisses to her plastic forehead and gently pat her back so
she can “sleep.” Nature or nurture? I’m not certain. It has been rewarding to
see this facet of you emerge. You are concerned when you see another child
crying, asking why, then suggesting that he/she needs to be comforted by “a
mommy” who can give “huggies and snuggles.” I hope this empathy continues to
grow. You love dinosaurs, and animals in general, and are currently obsessed
with watching E.T., and “da piggy movie,” Charlotte’s Web II. You also like
Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Sofia the First, and
Curious George. I still have to sing to you at night before bed, and our most
recent rotation include Baby Mine, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Ants Marching,
the Star Spangled Banner (I know, weird…), Go To Sleep You Little Baby, and of course, You Are My Sunshine.
Always with the “more sunshine, mama.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhvjsgvDlNF7igQaPSXu4b28iywGJhCprE3IA0gqqnk2E_yIgSf9vxNXHmiYQ0zfF9OfGdId1QiItFVaQHFqpAir6TUt-FSFB-wsMbdTHVnZCMYPVUzflir_y9EswryIaPRanQYGgh4Y/s1600/Summer2015+%2528129%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhvjsgvDlNF7igQaPSXu4b28iywGJhCprE3IA0gqqnk2E_yIgSf9vxNXHmiYQ0zfF9OfGdId1QiItFVaQHFqpAir6TUt-FSFB-wsMbdTHVnZCMYPVUzflir_y9EswryIaPRanQYGgh4Y/s320/Summer2015+%2528129%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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There is no boundary when it comes to vocabulary; you say
<i>everything</i> you hear and you <i>remember</i> it, too. Mornings are often
your chattiest, and you wake with stories about things you’ve done in past days,
or perhaps even dreamed. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, but
nevertheless, you love to talk.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And as you take these giant roaring leaps of learning
that are catapulting you towards independence, you still have a very strong tether
to your base of comfort. Most days, it’s me you want. To bathe you, to get your
food together, to hold you, to play with you, to rock and sing to you. I would
lie if I didn’t admit that this is both endearing and exhausting. We’ve been
told that one day the tide will turn and Daddy will be the one you call for.
I’m keenly aware that there will come a time when you won’t need so much from
me, so lately, I’ve been working on staying in the present, savoring these
fleeting moments. This, I’m understanding, is the dichotomy of Toddlerhood: the
need to feel independent while still clinging to the only assured safety you’ve
ever known. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But you are slowly letting go, and forcing me to do the
same. You spent, for the first time ever an entire day away from us. You left
our house in your grandmother’s car, in a car, that for the first time, wasn’t
one of ours. I know it isn’t right to keep you caged, but it was <i>so hard</i>, so hard to relinquish control,
to see you go. You had a wonderful day, and I was incredibly happy for you. And
in that happiness, I allowed myself to be excited for your future adventures,
renewing my vow to let you fly, never to stand in your way. I missed you, and
the house was eerily quiet, but once in a while, it will be good for all of us;
a change of scenery for you, a break for me and your daddy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have to remind myself, often, that you growing up is
not immediate or instant, it’s a constant state of change – a long winding road
of transition. And as you walk among the timber and through the prairies, your
velvety little hand still reaches up for mine, or you ask, “mama, I need a hold
you,” we cross the chasms, together. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8IIj-WAW1SvGCSdNfoEYHKm5WMs1JkSVzlVxwwHHAB5v1FzLff_2LyZtzDzVRqEAO9WaF5ghFMCd2nDxIWV64tvggfFJvwpX91tZ-homxS5xaPYmh8nNFA2x-XKW8J_ACH87O4jLFAVk/s1600/2Years+%252818+of+66%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8IIj-WAW1SvGCSdNfoEYHKm5WMs1JkSVzlVxwwHHAB5v1FzLff_2LyZtzDzVRqEAO9WaF5ghFMCd2nDxIWV64tvggfFJvwpX91tZ-homxS5xaPYmh8nNFA2x-XKW8J_ACH87O4jLFAVk/s400/2Years+%252818+of+66%2529.jpg" width="266" /></a>On your second birthday, this is my promise to you: I won’t leave you behind. I will work to meet you on your level when the world is
too big, and your emotions don’t have names yet, and the only thing you can do
is scream and cry. I will try to meet you in that place, to be your repose.
Because my darling, you are an incredible little girl – smart, loving, brave,
aware, strong, determined, funny, and fierce. All those qualities – both the
ones that make us laugh and even the ones that force us to plumb the deepest
recesses of patience we never knew we had — I promise to foster. You are so
much like the two birthstones designated for October – opal and tourmaline. An
array of colors, beautiful and unique.</div>
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Your grandfather, who you refer to as “Papa,” has
nicknamed you Unstoppable. And you are exactly that; not because you’re perfect
or that your life is extraordinary, but because you charge forward, a fire at
your heels and in that mighty beating heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My little wonder woman, my wild thing with eyes that
shine, my unstoppable, exquisite, beautiful daughter, I am still – even more
now, in love with who you are becoming. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille.<o:p></o:p></div>
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ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-64272998827419193442015-09-11T20:18:00.000-04:002015-09-27T16:43:48.054-04:00Summer 2015<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Uxi7rxXBQ2-ppKsBQBswI_K3qsGKhLesHA2GRSkcI7IqAmw4zcmbSKljbCTj0OFSMPzvPNGqVDhA8a_ZSZ8KJ8PPHZUz_cLV947brOjeWvTbv31YU3sN6P4bUCiZgDKnrhji1acyaAI/s1600/Summer2015+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Uxi7rxXBQ2-ppKsBQBswI_K3qsGKhLesHA2GRSkcI7IqAmw4zcmbSKljbCTj0OFSMPzvPNGqVDhA8a_ZSZ8KJ8PPHZUz_cLV947brOjeWvTbv31YU3sN6P4bUCiZgDKnrhji1acyaAI/s200/Summer2015+%25281%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a>It would be no stretch of anyone’s imagination, least of
all mine, to regard the summer of 2015 as remarkable. We did everything. Literally.
I’m not kidding when I say that there were planes, trains and automobiles
involved. As well as oceans, both the Pacific and Atlantic, museums galore, plenty
of sugar, ice cream, trips to McDonald's, not enough carousel rides, swimming
pools big and small – lessons too, movies, hikes, crafts, injuries (a really
ugly scrape to the knee), and some major milestones achieved. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My sprite of a human has a capacious personality; vibrant
and intense, she <i>knows</i> what she wants
when she wants it, and Lucy has been blessed with the ability to articulate
such desires. While on one hand this is fabulous for communication, it can also
be a distraction. I often have to remind myself that despite the fact that she
can speak in sentences, she’s still not-quite two years old. She may be able to
tell me about with whom she played or the dinosaur she colored purple at school that day, and repeat, from A to Z, all the rad American women in her
book, but when she’s pissed or frustrated or tired, this 23 month-old is not
above throwing a gargantuan tantrum. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQ7JePM0ZP2cFwVQsW8HQRo8RaH9adNhgZ2LqiowCkMiKaMOr5tb8idIVlVxZvxjYbquZb33VGglfQi49gCtewmzZvsHV9IBDp64C6ztKfmxzLuce7WRx7CgNCKfcDjHPqmWfPueDfyY/s1600/Summer2015+%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQ7JePM0ZP2cFwVQsW8HQRo8RaH9adNhgZ2LqiowCkMiKaMOr5tb8idIVlVxZvxjYbquZb33VGglfQi49gCtewmzZvsHV9IBDp64C6ztKfmxzLuce7WRx7CgNCKfcDjHPqmWfPueDfyY/s200/Summer2015+%25285%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a>And oh my, how those meltdowns have tested me. They have
brought me to the brink, and have forced me to use every ounce of patience
within my possession and then some. These moments are my kryptonite. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Because of all this – a little girl with advanced
language skills, a robust personality, a strong sense of self and desire, I’m
often hit with the commentary that sounds like, “You’re going to have a tough
time with her when she gets older…” Why is the assumption that because, by all
intents and purposes, my toddler is behaving <i>like a toddler</i>, that she’s going to be difficult? She’s (almost) TWO.
Why wouldn’t I expect her tiny brain to go haywire when she can’t cope with big
emotions? And why doesn’t anyone expect a “quiet” child to be problematic? I
refuse to label my daughter. In fact, I try to see her big personality as one
that will be the backbone she relies upon as she navigates the world <i>successfully</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyM1VN-Xx3GnCzY2bGwUNdf8swdk5nQL_Sd_lSBNMgeybHmr6Cuk9BTeqpH5fUAy9294dWfn7AHX1voptpMNEDX18UO3bVF-TdFRkbl62X6Xa8ne4DSXe0V0UvJJQGTPIz-W5dn1XRdE/s1600/Summer2015+%252871%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyM1VN-Xx3GnCzY2bGwUNdf8swdk5nQL_Sd_lSBNMgeybHmr6Cuk9BTeqpH5fUAy9294dWfn7AHX1voptpMNEDX18UO3bVF-TdFRkbl62X6Xa8ne4DSXe0V0UvJJQGTPIz-W5dn1XRdE/s200/Summer2015+%252871%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a>We hit some pretty major milestones in this young lady's life. She pooped on the potty, and we got rid of the binky. The first one is
self-explanatory, so I’ll spare you the details. But the second was HUGE. It
had been a while coming, and this binky business was starting to create issues.
We’d relegated it to the crib for just sleep, but this wise child figured out
that if she asked to go in the crib, she could enjoy some time with her most
beloved possession. At first it was a non-issue, but recently the requests to
go in the crib began to increase, and when it was inconvenient, major fits were
thrown. The last straw was the day after our return from California. All she
wanted to do was go in the crib and chew on the damn bink. I hit my breaking
point. We made the decision then and there to take it away. Cold turkey. No
lead up. No “binky fairies,” no party, zero fanfare. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4QE7hLJkArgXfHFHxBzFbYL2WzbajvuJ1U0PdkNew5U8jCcdsqnHaTKtDjYV3O995J2dOcMsSQoWdFz4bx3aKpr0ZITSbznM0JWa_Xo5UEpMUkk587iNb2C8JwPpc3U6FDJ1noJN_jU/s1600/yes+%252823%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4QE7hLJkArgXfHFHxBzFbYL2WzbajvuJ1U0PdkNew5U8jCcdsqnHaTKtDjYV3O995J2dOcMsSQoWdFz4bx3aKpr0ZITSbznM0JWa_Xo5UEpMUkk587iNb2C8JwPpc3U6FDJ1noJN_jU/s200/yes+%252823%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a>That first nap without the use of the pacifier was the
undiscovered tenth circle of hell. She pitched the Armageddon of tantrums. She
banged her water bottle against the wall, then chucked it across the room.
Then, she hurled every single stuffed animal and pillow out of her crib. She
howled and wailed, begged and pleaded for her bink, non-stop, for forty
minutes. FORTY MINUTES. And for forty minutes, I cried. I was wrecked. I had
all the mama guilt in the world. I was certain she would hate me, that she’d
forever hold this against me, that she would never ever say again, “I wuv you,
mama.” I feared I’d screwed her up somehow. I was awash in doubt. And then just like that, it was over. At the forty-first minute, she quit. She lay
herself down and she passed out cold, not moving a single muscle or appendage
for an hour and a half. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She had exerted her will, did her best to compel me to
change my stance – she had been a worthy opponent, but this was a battle I
wasn’t going to lose. Nighttime was easier. She only cried for ten minutes.
Since that Sunday, the bink has been gone, without much ado. And since that
Sunday, she’s laughed with me, told me she “wuvs” me, and has in her own lovely
way let me know that I’m still in her good graces.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1rG2PKeD52rYUdDjVn2frVgCsg_HxIOuYmsWsvIrwuC3jQiEyctxj9oMenBxTz04oC86OvAupOQM08mA8u7wZLI87EcaX060qugibHT2vvFc5pOfEQMiibVR4t_Owv34AG_6FXxd08qo/s1600/yes+%252826%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1rG2PKeD52rYUdDjVn2frVgCsg_HxIOuYmsWsvIrwuC3jQiEyctxj9oMenBxTz04oC86OvAupOQM08mA8u7wZLI87EcaX060qugibHT2vvFc5pOfEQMiibVR4t_Owv34AG_6FXxd08qo/s200/yes+%252826%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a>That night, the first night of no pacifier, Big Red
looked over at me and commented on how he was surprised how much this had all
affected me. That I’m normally so strong in my convictions and so assured of
myself, but that a thing as small as a pacifier had brought me to my
knees. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s because of <i>her</i>,
I told him. That instinct to want to protect and not bring harm or pain is
overwhelming, and to know that I may have been the cause of her frustration and
her discomfort, however small or large they were, was horrifying. Now that the
fiasco is behind us, I’m beyond glad we did what we did when we did it. But
damn, it wasn’t easy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Q6dQ7BoF_NkAd7QNFlavIUohSLk9PEDvBSLe_P7f1OpQT9-dPdb6CWfDMbRr6d2Mv8hy0fjVKchBSRGQ7Yn6vHqt6uL8dFgSBSmrE2hUtmaHwj968klDhjyPF884zw9UqmtvfJt8-vI/s1600/yes+%252863%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Q6dQ7BoF_NkAd7QNFlavIUohSLk9PEDvBSLe_P7f1OpQT9-dPdb6CWfDMbRr6d2Mv8hy0fjVKchBSRGQ7Yn6vHqt6uL8dFgSBSmrE2hUtmaHwj968klDhjyPF884zw9UqmtvfJt8-vI/s200/yes+%252863%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a>Currently, Lucy is nursing a cold, caught just in time
for the start of the school year for me. Nights have been a little rough, but
they seem to be getting better. I’ll go into her room if she’s having a
coughing fit to try and help her out of it, give her some water, and hold her
for a bit. She still fits against my body – I haven’t lost that yet. She’s
bigger, she’s heavier, she’s more of her own person, but she still <i>needs</i> me.
In the wee hours of the night, last night, I went into her room and lifted her
out of the crib. I gave her something to drink and held her against me. We
rocked in the chair for a bit and I rubbed her back until the coughing stopped
and she settled. As I stood up to put her back to bed, through a tiny hoarse
voice, in barely a whisper, she said, “no mama, in da rock’n chair pease.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5LU4aMjAQ01ZvZ3kg_NLc3j_8tXj9cHPX-CZelVBSXpsNw0IuqRppZYLaUmt4uCEy0IZeyzDw1BInnW62x6_7UKkwHLQLoE7c04u1mGLVjRsiGDbhdkKK85uw3kdZYnQ-ScAGwLxxORs/s1600/yes+%252883%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5LU4aMjAQ01ZvZ3kg_NLc3j_8tXj9cHPX-CZelVBSXpsNw0IuqRppZYLaUmt4uCEy0IZeyzDw1BInnW62x6_7UKkwHLQLoE7c04u1mGLVjRsiGDbhdkKK85uw3kdZYnQ-ScAGwLxxORs/s200/yes+%252883%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a>So I sat down, fighting my own internal battle – the one
most mamas know – the face-off between wanting to want to hold onto her and
desperately needing to go back to sleep, and rocked my almost two year-old a
little longer. As I listened to her breathe, I tried to recall all the best of
our summer. She’d run me ragged, but I’d do it all over again with a smile on
my face. When our plane took off from California, climbing high into the early
morning, still-dark sky, I thought it apropos that the final scene of summer
would be the image of gold sequenced glittering lights of a city below. That was our summer –
sparkling, expansive and forever etched into my memory.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzYJ0EnlL6fefvDWpoKfpvYWRoNS8TsrYnmd63_qk-Nw9B-Piu13A-1OBC22k2xzQrr1p9guQnD7JNYASJbicpHIeFy4Hs-j6q2dx5Ia5ywCPPbAgBstkDxgRDF0ZMAKI8no2U2qPl_Y8/s1600/Summer2015+%2528140%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzYJ0EnlL6fefvDWpoKfpvYWRoNS8TsrYnmd63_qk-Nw9B-Piu13A-1OBC22k2xzQrr1p9guQnD7JNYASJbicpHIeFy4Hs-j6q2dx5Ia5ywCPPbAgBstkDxgRDF0ZMAKI8no2U2qPl_Y8/s320/Summer2015+%2528140%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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My sweet Lucille won’t remember how she laughed at her
Papa’s donkey noises, how she ran to her Nana’s arms for “huggies,” or how she
rode her first ride at an amusement park with her Grandma. She won’t remember
her terror during her first swimming lesson, or how she sat through half of a
movie in a movie theater before asking to be “all done.” She won’t remember the
carousel rides and how she never wanted to get off, how we hiked together, made
crafts together, and ate too much ice cream. She won’t remember how gleefully
happy she was to run around naked and splashing in her pool.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In one month, she turns two years old. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She won’t remember any part of this summer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I will. <o:p></o:p></div>
ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-23572219140297464162015-09-04T14:02:00.002-04:002015-09-04T14:50:06.991-04:00Aylan KurdiI was scrolling through my FB feed this morning, as I normally do, and came across a friend's post that showed a hand-drawn image of a young boy among stars and an ocean, face down. Immediately I knew this had something to do with the drowning of the young Syrian boy, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/09/04/world/europe/syria-boy-drowning.html?_r=0">Aylan Kurdi</a>. For selfish reasons, I'd been avoiding the image, and I knew bits and pieces of the story, but it wasn't until this afternoon that I read the article in the New York Times, that I saw the picture and got the full story.<br />
<br />
And I couldn't stop <i>unseeing</i> it.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's because I'm exhausted, not having slept well this past week, but this picture has affected me, viscerally. My daughter has been getting up in the middle of the night, shaken awake by a cold she's getting over, coughing, calling out for me. In those moments, I'm frustrated, sometimes even angry, just wishing that she'd sleep so I could sleep.<br />
<br />
That image of Aylan, the waves falling over his cheeks, in one instant, has made me profoundly grateful of my first world problems, of the fact that I have a bed to sleep in soundly and safely, and mostly of the fact that my daughter is alive and well and capable of calling out for her mama.<br />
<br />
I am sick to my stomach, and the tears just keep pooling.<br />
<br />
It's as if birthing my daughter split me open. There is a fissure that exists, a permanent fracture that reaches to the blackest darkest corners of my very existence and understanding of the world around me. Seeing that little boy, just a year older than my own daughter, face down, <i>dead - </i>there are no words. Literally none. No poetry, no language, no lyric can define what grips me and reaches far beyond the barbed borders of fear and terror.<br />
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It is impossible to remain present, every single second of every day - I am human and I forget, but tonight, should my daughter call out to me, I will <i>try</i> to remember how very lucky we are.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image: Yante Ismail - UNHCR</td></tr>
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<br />ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3741553967243509601.post-17736251280153050232015-07-27T15:04:00.000-04:002015-07-27T22:07:02.852-04:00Dollar MenuBefore I'd even conceived my daughter, I was hell-bent on breastfeeding. I took a class, I read articles, I had all the accessories including the newest and greatest pump so that when I returned to work I could continue to provide her with liquid gold. Enter <i>the best laid schemes</i>...<br />
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The reality of our breastfeeding experience was markedly different than the one I'd dreamed of. Unbeknownst to me, just after Lucy's birth, I developed postpartum anxiety. Eventually I sought help, but not until nearly two months later when it became clear to me that something wasn't right. Coupled with this awful feeling and the newness of motherhood, our breastfeeding relationship went down the toilet in an ugly swirly of my snotty tears, pretty quickly. The pump followed soon thereafter. </div>
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I was overcome with an overwhelming sense of guilt, and failure as a mother. I couldn't do the <i>one</i> thing I wanted to do for my daughter. There were plenty of loving responses from friends who were mothers themselves, some of whom had successfully breastfed, others who hadn't. I was reminded that children are fed with love, whether from a bottle or at the breast. My own mom let me know she'd only breastfed for four months. It took me a long, <i>long</i> time to shed the guilt, and as my own personal vindication, I vowed to make all my daughter's food from scratch, from only organic sources, for at least her first year. There would be nothing processed, no sugar, no chemicals, nothing but the best.</div>
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So that's exactly what I did. Starting at four months, my daughter ate the cleanest food around. Every couple of weeks I'd stock up on organic produce, steam and puree my way into baby food bliss. She ate it all, and nothing pleased me more than to spoon the brightly colored foods into her little bird mouth. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglA7ym8AX8xFTJ5mZCbuXfwQALQPv8qR79IUvCIlcIZTNiUmlq9bpVziH97LmSkxpfJNr0tH3eR9-ak4SA1AFMqDxRajke2CLHZGM3i45tDVpz4VCjg7rR7C6ZqRrfY5EjmwZOrvuIMSk/s1600/burger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglA7ym8AX8xFTJ5mZCbuXfwQALQPv8qR79IUvCIlcIZTNiUmlq9bpVziH97LmSkxpfJNr0tH3eR9-ak4SA1AFMqDxRajke2CLHZGM3i45tDVpz4VCjg7rR7C6ZqRrfY5EjmwZOrvuIMSk/s320/burger.jpg" width="240" /></a>Fast-forward a year and a half, and this happened. After a visit to the museum for a date with Lucy's beloved dinosaurs, we had to stop at the grocery store for a few things. Because it was running close to lunch time, I bit the bullet and we ate at the McDonald's right next to the grocery store. Lucy enjoyed a hamburger, a yogurt, and then her first ice cream cone that was hers alone and not one that she was sharing with me. </div>
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The organic, homemade food mama in me died a little that day. </div>
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Look, I grew up eating plenty of McDonald's. I once ate a Big Mac in five bites. It's my favorite burger from the place. The thing was, Lucy had <i>never</i> had fast food up until last Friday. I know, I know. I'm <i>that</i> mama. Strike that. I'm not anymore. One very important lesson I've learned as a mama is to never say never. Man how I used to let those <i>never will she</i> fly before said she was actually here. Now that my kid is a real-life person, times have changed. I've reneged on SEVERAL points of contention. Screen time? Hell yes. Calliou (<i>that whiny asshole</i>) saves my sanity when I need to get something done. Mickey Mouse Clubhouse helps get us through breakfast so that I can actually make something for myself as well. Pacifier? You betcha. She still sleeps with one, and she'll be two in October. </div>
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I've held my ground on other issues, but what it comes down to is common sense, what works for our family, and frankly - survival. Parenting is difficult on a good day. I love her to pieces, I do, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to throw her out with the bath water when she's being a jerk. At this time, I'd like to take the opportunity to thank Toddlerhood for introducing us to new levels of jerkhood. </div>
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While I grieved the loss of a breastfeeding experience, I was, and am incredibly proud of my efforts to give her the very best food that first year of life. We continue to feed Lucy a pretty healthy diet, although I've definitely lessened my stringency. She eats processed food once in a while and has sugar in limited quantities. While others may scoff at this, to the naysayers - this is the way we work: she's my kid, so I get to choose how to raise her and part of that is what's offered at dinner. </div>
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There is definitely a balance to be achieved. No sugar/processed, ever, is impossible. And frankly, I want her to enjoy the delicious treats out there. As with everything, moderation. If we have ice cream in the house, Lucy gets some. If our amazing neighbors bestow upon us slices of freshly baked blueberry cake - then by all means, eat up my darling. </div>
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Secondary to all this eating business, I've noticed that Lucy is stretching out. The protruding belly is slowly flattening out. The distinct tires of delectable baby fat no longer encase her arms and legs. As I sit with her in the evenings and we read books, I've become quite aware that this is a little girl sitting on my lap and not a baby. And sometimes I find myself hoping that she inherits Big Red's height and metabolism, because we all know it's a difficult world to navigate as a woman, especially when it comes to body issues. Then later, when I've had a moment to reflect, I get upset that I've wished away my own physique. Because guess what - if Lucy is built like her mama, then she'll be strong. <i>Really strong</i>. I have to remind myself that the same thighs I've rebuked, are the very ones that propelled me through the air as a goalkeeper. The same ones that helped earn me a scholarship to a division one program. The now matronly arms that wiggle more than I care to admit, are the very pair that have cut through lake waters in triathlons.</div>
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I revise my wish: let my daughter's body grow strong, and let her love both vegetables and ice cream, and fine - the occasional McDonald's burger. </div>
ilene.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06618595629428570477noreply@blogger.com0