I am a bit beside myself this evening (a tremendous understatement). In July, I wrote a post about my "secret" promotion, which now is far, far from secret. At my school district's administration meeting yesterday, my colleagues were openly congratulating me. One person even gave me a hug. What these people did not know was I had just left a meeting where I learned that what I thought my salary was going to be is no where near what I was going to be offered. Yet during a preliminary meeting in July, I presented what I wanted as a salary, and no one made any indication that I was not even close.
Since yesterday I have consulted a lawyer and had a second negiotiation meeting, all to no avail. Th big bosses want me to take this newly created job (absorbing the full responsibilities of someone's previous job while also fulfilling my current responsibilites) when my take home pay increase will equal less than what I spent on first car, a 1986 Dodge Daytona (w/ t-tops of course). It is a huge job. It is a shitty offer. I have 24 hours to make a decision. But I will give you a preview of how the phone conversation will go...
"Hi Very Friendly Admin Assistant...is Big Boss available?"
"Sure, Working Mom. I'll put you through. Oh, by the way, congratulations on your new job! I think that's wonderful."
"Ummm...Thanks Very Friendly Admin Assistant."
"Working Mom? It's Big Boss. How are you today?"
"Good, good. Listen, I know you are busy so let me cut to the chase."
"OK, great."
"You have offered me what basically constitutes my dream job, one that will challenge me and thrill me, a job that I will somehow work even harder than I already do to make sure I am successful, therefore making our school district successful. During all of our discussions you have given me some truly fantastic compliments and assured me that I am the person you want to do this job. At each meeting, you stated that you are fully confident that I am the individual who can make this supervisory model work. It has all been so kind of you to share that with me."
"Well, Working Mom, all the school administrators feel that way. We know you are the person for this job."
"Again, Big Boss, thanks. But you see, Big Boss, I drive a Ford now, and I really have no need for a 1986 Dodge Daytona. Nor do I need a new Pottery Barn throw rug (the big one). And I certainly don't need those extra funds to splurge on a Prada bag (not retail price, of course but we all know I love Ebay). It just doesn't seem fair to my colleagues for me to accept this district position, which oversees the curriculum development and implementation for over 7,000 students, professonial development training for approximately 200 teachers, direct supervision of over 35 department members, and then flaunt the fact that I was able to use my raise to buy a pair of used skis for Princess."
"I see."
"So I am going to have to say no to my dream job. I'm sure you understand."
Okay. It probably will go more along these lines....
"I have carefully considered your offer, taking numerous factors into account while doing so. Since it is a job I want to do and one I know I would love, you can imagine how difficult it is to me to say no. I can't do it. My bottom number is still thousands away from your best offer. The position is worth more than that. I am worth more than that. And the additional time I will spend away from Princess is worth more than that. I also know that while you have promised me you will not dissolve my current position, by turning this job down I am destroying any additional possibilities for career advancement here, at a school I really love. But I stand by what I said yesterday; the salary offer is unfair and unreasonable. And as hard as I have tried to do so, I cannot justify accepting it, knowing how much it will cost me and my family."
And then I will hang up the phone and cry. Or I might wait until I get into my car (that is where I have been doing much of my sobbing these last two days). I don't know. I'll be on pins and needles waiting to see how long I can control the lump in my throat.
So a lesson, my friends. When you count your chickens, make sure everyone involved in this exercise is counting eggs in the same coop, or you might end up like me...with slimy yolk all over your face.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
For Adults Only
Okay...before you get too excited, it's not a racy post. Instead, I need to vent about where I believe it is appropriate to take kids, especially those 10 and under. As you all know, I am a parent of a 2 year old who is just as sweet as sugar, but there are places I do not take her because it is not fair for other patrons to suffer through a whiny tantrum or a "I'm so sleepy" crying episode. I made her (well there were 2 of us present during her creation), so it is my job to deal with those fun moments. Yet, those people out to enjoy a nice dinner at a good restaurant, or I don't know, let's say women set to enjoy a quiet pedicure on a Sunday morning, should not be subjected to a screaming child. And yet, during my ONE hour of alone time on Sunday, that is exactly what happened.
As many of you already know, my husband works like a maniac, especially during the summer months. From May through September, I am basically on my own. So those few times when I get to go somewhere, anywhere without toting extra diapers, a sippy cup, wipes, Abby Caddabby, matchbox cars and crayons, well those are rare. special moments for me. This Sunday, though, my husband was home for a total of 24 hours, and he said I should go out and treat myself to some alone time. Before he completed the sentence, I sprinted to my car with just my debit card, iPod and book in hand. Off I drove to Jane's Nails, the only local salon open on Sundays.
It all started off very well. I walked in, and they immediately fulfill my "mani-pedi" request. Fantastic. Approximately five minutes into my manicure, a mom walks in with her 5 year old daughter to get a pedicure. At first, this sight does not trouble me at all. I understand a mother's need to get out of the house. I understand her desire to treat herself to a foot soak. I understand her want of red polish on her toes. I've been alone with a toddler for the last 3 days; I get it. But, then she says she wants her daughter to get a pedicure too, and I think "This is going to be trouble."
Now, ladies (no offense to my dear male friends who read this blog as well - please don't feel excluded), you know damn well that occasionally you'll get pinched or the water will be a little too hot or the file will burn just a bit. And you are not a five year old girl with tickly feet who squirms and wiggles because, you know, you're 5! You're a grown up who can sit still for 30 - 45 minutes, longer if someone is rubbing your feet! But a kind (perhaps naive) technician invites this sweet little girl to climb into a massage chair to give her a pedicure.
At first, it's okay. Yes, she's a chatty five year old and I would prefer a little more serenity (as I just left my chatty 2 year old), but it's manageable. The little girl is good for the first 10 - 15 minutes and I think, "I misjudged; shame on me. A preschooler can get a pedicure." However, before the daydreams of kindergarten Princess and I getting pedis begin, a scream catapaults from this girl's mouth out into the salon. This little girl's yelp reverberates off the salon's coral walls, circles each patron's head, and sends familiar maternal quesiness into my belly. Then, the tears pour from this little girl's face and true hysterics set in. Her mother frantically interrogates the girl and the tech, "What happened? What hurts?" But no one speaks, or if they do, I can't hear it over the child's gut-wrenching, "my foot has been cut off" cries.
Just the relaxing Sunday morning I was looking for.
So it turns out, as the tech clipped the little girl's big toe nail, the girl flinched, and the tech caught a tiny piece of skin. Yep, that hurts. I don't blame the child for screaming. She's five... I blame the mom for getting her a pedicure because, you know, she's five...
After several minutes of consoling her, wrapping her toe in mountains of gauze and assuring her it would be fine, the mother finally decides to remove her daughter from the salon. But as she leaves, she doesn't apologize or state (with contrition) "This probably wasn't a good idea." No, instead she makes a ridiculous proclamation: "Don't worry, baby. We will NEVER come back to this TERRIBLE place again! They OBVIOUSLY don't know how to take care of their CUSTOMERS properly."
Lady...she's five, and you got her a pedicure. And your daughter's screaming ruined 20 minutes of my 60 allotted minutes to be without my own screaming child. Let's not pass blame on the salon here.
So, call me crazy, unreasonable or plain mean. But there are some places that really are for adults only. If men can have an entire section of a non-franchised video store (b/c we all know women order their porn online), then I think ladies should be allowed to have nail salons.
There are just some places that should be for Adults Only.
As many of you already know, my husband works like a maniac, especially during the summer months. From May through September, I am basically on my own. So those few times when I get to go somewhere, anywhere without toting extra diapers, a sippy cup, wipes, Abby Caddabby, matchbox cars and crayons, well those are rare. special moments for me. This Sunday, though, my husband was home for a total of 24 hours, and he said I should go out and treat myself to some alone time. Before he completed the sentence, I sprinted to my car with just my debit card, iPod and book in hand. Off I drove to Jane's Nails, the only local salon open on Sundays.
It all started off very well. I walked in, and they immediately fulfill my "mani-pedi" request. Fantastic. Approximately five minutes into my manicure, a mom walks in with her 5 year old daughter to get a pedicure. At first, this sight does not trouble me at all. I understand a mother's need to get out of the house. I understand her desire to treat herself to a foot soak. I understand her want of red polish on her toes. I've been alone with a toddler for the last 3 days; I get it. But, then she says she wants her daughter to get a pedicure too, and I think "This is going to be trouble."
Now, ladies (no offense to my dear male friends who read this blog as well - please don't feel excluded), you know damn well that occasionally you'll get pinched or the water will be a little too hot or the file will burn just a bit. And you are not a five year old girl with tickly feet who squirms and wiggles because, you know, you're 5! You're a grown up who can sit still for 30 - 45 minutes, longer if someone is rubbing your feet! But a kind (perhaps naive) technician invites this sweet little girl to climb into a massage chair to give her a pedicure.
At first, it's okay. Yes, she's a chatty five year old and I would prefer a little more serenity (as I just left my chatty 2 year old), but it's manageable. The little girl is good for the first 10 - 15 minutes and I think, "I misjudged; shame on me. A preschooler can get a pedicure." However, before the daydreams of kindergarten Princess and I getting pedis begin, a scream catapaults from this girl's mouth out into the salon. This little girl's yelp reverberates off the salon's coral walls, circles each patron's head, and sends familiar maternal quesiness into my belly. Then, the tears pour from this little girl's face and true hysterics set in. Her mother frantically interrogates the girl and the tech, "What happened? What hurts?" But no one speaks, or if they do, I can't hear it over the child's gut-wrenching, "my foot has been cut off" cries.
Just the relaxing Sunday morning I was looking for.
So it turns out, as the tech clipped the little girl's big toe nail, the girl flinched, and the tech caught a tiny piece of skin. Yep, that hurts. I don't blame the child for screaming. She's five... I blame the mom for getting her a pedicure because, you know, she's five...
After several minutes of consoling her, wrapping her toe in mountains of gauze and assuring her it would be fine, the mother finally decides to remove her daughter from the salon. But as she leaves, she doesn't apologize or state (with contrition) "This probably wasn't a good idea." No, instead she makes a ridiculous proclamation: "Don't worry, baby. We will NEVER come back to this TERRIBLE place again! They OBVIOUSLY don't know how to take care of their CUSTOMERS properly."
Lady...she's five, and you got her a pedicure. And your daughter's screaming ruined 20 minutes of my 60 allotted minutes to be without my own screaming child. Let's not pass blame on the salon here.
So, call me crazy, unreasonable or plain mean. But there are some places that really are for adults only. If men can have an entire section of a non-franchised video store (b/c we all know women order their porn online), then I think ladies should be allowed to have nail salons.
There are just some places that should be for Adults Only.
Friday, August 24, 2007
One Last Sweet Treat
Princess and I had ice cream for lunch...and it was delicious! Now before anyone reports me to an agency for bad parents, let me defend myself.
I go back to work next week. My summer fun officially stops on Tuesday. So today after a morning of music class, followed by a late morning of walking around a farm feeding lots of animals, Princess and I each got a Kiddie cup full of silky vanilla ice cream. We found a nice little picnic bench (far enough away from both farm animals and garbage cans thus avoiding a swarm of bees reminiscent of My Girl) and indulged ourselves in spoonful after spoonful of the creamy sweet treat. It was our swan song for a lovely mother-daughter summer that feels as if it only just begun.
As I wiped the sugary drips from my daughter's cheeks (and knees, fingers, t-shirt, shorts and one ear - not sure how that happened), I felt that familiar knot creep into the back of my throat. Our mornings of music, cooking shows, play-doh, car races, crayons, books, blocks and dolls are over. The afternoons of pool splashes, park swings, and salt shakers (to season the dinners we watched assembled on Food Network, of course) are through. We will walk back in the maelstrom of early morning wake-up calls, long hours without one sticky kiss from Princess, and ridiculous traffic jams which nibble away our few precious hours together. The knot is repositioning itself as I write.
So, yes, we had ice cream for lunch. We licked away our fun summer and prepared ourselves for another school year.
And don't worry...we are having chicken and a big salad for dinner.
I go back to work next week. My summer fun officially stops on Tuesday. So today after a morning of music class, followed by a late morning of walking around a farm feeding lots of animals, Princess and I each got a Kiddie cup full of silky vanilla ice cream. We found a nice little picnic bench (far enough away from both farm animals and garbage cans thus avoiding a swarm of bees reminiscent of My Girl) and indulged ourselves in spoonful after spoonful of the creamy sweet treat. It was our swan song for a lovely mother-daughter summer that feels as if it only just begun.
As I wiped the sugary drips from my daughter's cheeks (and knees, fingers, t-shirt, shorts and one ear - not sure how that happened), I felt that familiar knot creep into the back of my throat. Our mornings of music, cooking shows, play-doh, car races, crayons, books, blocks and dolls are over. The afternoons of pool splashes, park swings, and salt shakers (to season the dinners we watched assembled on Food Network, of course) are through. We will walk back in the maelstrom of early morning wake-up calls, long hours without one sticky kiss from Princess, and ridiculous traffic jams which nibble away our few precious hours together. The knot is repositioning itself as I write.
So, yes, we had ice cream for lunch. We licked away our fun summer and prepared ourselves for another school year.
And don't worry...we are having chicken and a big salad for dinner.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Never Too Many Cooks
Many people learn to cook in their mothers' or grandmothers' kitchens. They cozy up around countertops or linger over hot stoves, consuming every morsel of culinary knowledge available. That is not my story. My mother, bless her heart, does not love to cook. Growing up we had lots of meals generated from cardboard boxes, and that was really fine with me. However, several years ago I decided I wanted to learn more about cooking and to try to become a really, really good cook. So my education began...thanks to Food Network.
Not really the touchy, feely comfortable place to learn, but hey - I didn't even know how to chop an onion when I started. Lovingly (though two dimensionally), food network cooks invited me into their kitchens and showed me the ropes - well the microplanes, whiskers and juicers. Rachel Ray became my new best friend as I watched night after night of 30 minute meals. Not only did I learn how to chop an onion, but before I knew it I was making sauces, entrees, side dishes, and salads, all from scratch. I tossed my measuring cups and spoons, preferring to "eyeball" it like my dear friend Rachel (this decision has created some salty disasters, but I have learned my lesson).
Then I started having dinner parties, inviting couples and family members over to experiment with new recipes. Nothing is more fulfilling than filling the bellies of those you love with delicious food. I've made balsamic pork tenderloin for 4 and 14. Of course, I am now a bit famous for my Christmas Eve dinner (utilizing seven types of fish to honor my husband's Italian heritage and making killer filet mignon for those who can't stomach the pesce). I have to say I am pretty darn good now and have graduated to creating my own recipes.
Yet, when Princess came along a few years ago, cooking became much more difficult. Finding the time to make the macaroni & cheese from scratch (w/ freshly ground nutmeg, of course) became nearly impossible. So some cardboard boxes have made their way into my pantry. As a working mom, I had to let go of some of my homemade dinners in order to spend those precious evening hours with my little girl.
But now Princess has discovered Food Network as well, and all may be right with the world again. Yes, my two year old (former lover of all things Mickey and Zoe) would prefer to watch Rachel, Emeril, or Ina "do some cooking" rather than any kids' show. Recently, I updated my Tivo so that these beloved cooking shows could be viewed at a moment's notice. Princess also loves to help in me in my kitchen, which can present some toddler challenges (no, honey, you can't pour the gallon of milk into the very hot saucepan). But she can mix salads, spices and vinagrettes pretty well. Overall, it has been really fun!
Yesterday, I prepared a Sunday dinner for my family. It was an unusually chilly day for August, so I made my husband's favorite roast chicken along with cous cous and green beans. For some of the time, Princess was propped up on the counter asking "What's this mommy?" or "Can I mix that mommy?"
As she inquisitively pointed to each ingredient I realized something. While she may love the TV cooks as much as I do, she may actually be learning to cook while hanging out in my kitchen and stirring our family's orzo salad. That brings me great joy and I hope years worth of wonderful memories.
So thank you Rachel Ray...I owe you one.
Not really the touchy, feely comfortable place to learn, but hey - I didn't even know how to chop an onion when I started. Lovingly (though two dimensionally), food network cooks invited me into their kitchens and showed me the ropes - well the microplanes, whiskers and juicers. Rachel Ray became my new best friend as I watched night after night of 30 minute meals. Not only did I learn how to chop an onion, but before I knew it I was making sauces, entrees, side dishes, and salads, all from scratch. I tossed my measuring cups and spoons, preferring to "eyeball" it like my dear friend Rachel (this decision has created some salty disasters, but I have learned my lesson).
Then I started having dinner parties, inviting couples and family members over to experiment with new recipes. Nothing is more fulfilling than filling the bellies of those you love with delicious food. I've made balsamic pork tenderloin for 4 and 14. Of course, I am now a bit famous for my Christmas Eve dinner (utilizing seven types of fish to honor my husband's Italian heritage and making killer filet mignon for those who can't stomach the pesce). I have to say I am pretty darn good now and have graduated to creating my own recipes.
Yet, when Princess came along a few years ago, cooking became much more difficult. Finding the time to make the macaroni & cheese from scratch (w/ freshly ground nutmeg, of course) became nearly impossible. So some cardboard boxes have made their way into my pantry. As a working mom, I had to let go of some of my homemade dinners in order to spend those precious evening hours with my little girl.
But now Princess has discovered Food Network as well, and all may be right with the world again. Yes, my two year old (former lover of all things Mickey and Zoe) would prefer to watch Rachel, Emeril, or Ina "do some cooking" rather than any kids' show. Recently, I updated my Tivo so that these beloved cooking shows could be viewed at a moment's notice. Princess also loves to help in me in my kitchen, which can present some toddler challenges (no, honey, you can't pour the gallon of milk into the very hot saucepan). But she can mix salads, spices and vinagrettes pretty well. Overall, it has been really fun!
Yesterday, I prepared a Sunday dinner for my family. It was an unusually chilly day for August, so I made my husband's favorite roast chicken along with cous cous and green beans. For some of the time, Princess was propped up on the counter asking "What's this mommy?" or "Can I mix that mommy?"
As she inquisitively pointed to each ingredient I realized something. While she may love the TV cooks as much as I do, she may actually be learning to cook while hanging out in my kitchen and stirring our family's orzo salad. That brings me great joy and I hope years worth of wonderful memories.
So thank you Rachel Ray...I owe you one.
Friday, August 17, 2007
A New Romance...
This entry is a two-parter, so bear with me.
Last night, my husband and I (unable to bear watching the Yankees lose again, but we still love them) watched a rerun of Scrubs. Those of you who have never seen it are really missing out. It is a quirky, entertaining show with at least one laugh out loud moment in each episode. Anyway, this episode was the season finale from last year, one of my favorites. See one of the main characters, Elliot, gets engaged to her boyfriend, Keith. But her old boyfriend and still good friend, JD, looks on and realizes he still loves her. It is a wonderful scene with a great song playing in the background. I decide to go on a mission to track down that great song...and my whole world opened up.
I began on iTunes, searching for my "best guess" song titles and possible artists. No luck. Hmmm...I really needed this song. So I thought "Let me give this web site the kids call 'YouTube' a try." Oh my goodness...I will never turn the computer off again.
First, I found the Scrubs scene I described above in about 3 seconds, thus finding the song title (as the person mentions it in their Notes section). Hey...do you want to watch it too? It's so simple...just click here. Or maybe you'd like to check out my other favorite scene of all time from the show where Turk dances to Bel Biv Devoe's song "Poison?" Oh, you do? Then just click here .
Amazing, isn't it? I thought I was so advanced by getting Tivo (and I love my Tivo). But I had no idea sitcoms' highlight reels were right at my fingertips! So you know what I did for the rest of the night? That's right...I searched for every freakin' favorite tv moment I could think of. You know what I realized next (here comes part 2)? I am a sucker for the sitcom romances.
Yep, that's right people. I love Ross and Rachel's first kiss in the coffee shop. You too? Here it is. I love their break up (you get the picture now - find that one on your own). I love the ups and downs of Jim and Pam on The Office. I even find a place in my heart for those crazy preteen sweethearts Kevin and Winnie of The Wonder Years. And, of course, Carrie and Mr. Big from Sex and the City. Now, thanks to the magical powers of YouTube, I can relive these tv moments over and over again. Bless you Mr. Internet Inventor. Double blessings to the guy or girl who started You Tube.
Yes, I appreciate the guy who invented fire and the other one who figured out pencillin, thanks for those. But You Tube...wow. Let's just say if you need me, I'll be hanging out at some coffee shop (maybe Central Perk) laughing and crying over Carrie and Aiden (because didn't they really belong together?). OK (reality check), I'll probably be home on the couch with Princess at my knee and my husband rolling his eyes at my latest obsession, but I was trying to paint a more romantic picture. You know...me and my new beau, YouTube, sharing a latte and some giggles.
Stay tuned. It's going to be a great love story.
Last night, my husband and I (unable to bear watching the Yankees lose again, but we still love them) watched a rerun of Scrubs. Those of you who have never seen it are really missing out. It is a quirky, entertaining show with at least one laugh out loud moment in each episode. Anyway, this episode was the season finale from last year, one of my favorites. See one of the main characters, Elliot, gets engaged to her boyfriend, Keith. But her old boyfriend and still good friend, JD, looks on and realizes he still loves her. It is a wonderful scene with a great song playing in the background. I decide to go on a mission to track down that great song...and my whole world opened up.
I began on iTunes, searching for my "best guess" song titles and possible artists. No luck. Hmmm...I really needed this song. So I thought "Let me give this web site the kids call 'YouTube' a try." Oh my goodness...I will never turn the computer off again.
First, I found the Scrubs scene I described above in about 3 seconds, thus finding the song title (as the person mentions it in their Notes section). Hey...do you want to watch it too? It's so simple...just click here. Or maybe you'd like to check out my other favorite scene of all time from the show where Turk dances to Bel Biv Devoe's song "Poison?" Oh, you do? Then just click here .
Amazing, isn't it? I thought I was so advanced by getting Tivo (and I love my Tivo). But I had no idea sitcoms' highlight reels were right at my fingertips! So you know what I did for the rest of the night? That's right...I searched for every freakin' favorite tv moment I could think of. You know what I realized next (here comes part 2)? I am a sucker for the sitcom romances.
Yep, that's right people. I love Ross and Rachel's first kiss in the coffee shop. You too? Here it is. I love their break up (you get the picture now - find that one on your own). I love the ups and downs of Jim and Pam on The Office. I even find a place in my heart for those crazy preteen sweethearts Kevin and Winnie of The Wonder Years. And, of course, Carrie and Mr. Big from Sex and the City. Now, thanks to the magical powers of YouTube, I can relive these tv moments over and over again. Bless you Mr. Internet Inventor. Double blessings to the guy or girl who started You Tube.
Yes, I appreciate the guy who invented fire and the other one who figured out pencillin, thanks for those. But You Tube...wow. Let's just say if you need me, I'll be hanging out at some coffee shop (maybe Central Perk) laughing and crying over Carrie and Aiden (because didn't they really belong together?). OK (reality check), I'll probably be home on the couch with Princess at my knee and my husband rolling his eyes at my latest obsession, but I was trying to paint a more romantic picture. You know...me and my new beau, YouTube, sharing a latte and some giggles.
Stay tuned. It's going to be a great love story.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Home Sweet Home
Back from the beach! I did get a pretty good tan and some hard earned R & R. Yet I have to admit, it is really good to be home. Not only is it fantastic to sleep in my own queen size bed (a double with the hubby is just too squished), it is great to have my little Princess back as well. "Didn't she go on vacation?" you ask. Of course she did. But when we got to the beach another Princess emerged, one who followed every move her older (by 4 months) cousin made, including all the bad ones. And, the saddest part of all for me, this Princess was not very interested in reading, coloring, swimming or playing with Mommy (the one who carried her for 9 months and endured 12 hours of unmedicated labor only to be subjected to major abdominal surgery). No, unless she fell down or was really tired, she was all about DADDY!
At first this might sound great to some of you moms who spend more time feeling like a human jungle gym with little people dangling from your limbs. It was a nice break for the first day or so. But then I started to really miss her. She wouldn't climb in my lap, bury my feet in the sand or you know, make eye contact. No, Daddy was the go-to guy. When he wasn't around, she had plenty of other admirers from which to choose. Her older cousins, her aunt, uncle, grandma and pop-pop were all at the ready to entertain my little one. Only if none of them were available would she scamper to me looking for some entertainment (or more likely a diaper change...great). My husband kept telling me not to take it personally. She is with me everyday now and is just looking for other playmates. My logical side tells me this statement is true; however my paranoid I'm a bad mom side continued to torment me with "Ha! Ha! She doesn't love you."
On Monday, we arrived home late and tucked a sleeping Princess into her familar bed. Magically, the next morning my Princess awoke, gave me one of her most delicious hugs and all was right in the world.
It is so good to be home.
At first this might sound great to some of you moms who spend more time feeling like a human jungle gym with little people dangling from your limbs. It was a nice break for the first day or so. But then I started to really miss her. She wouldn't climb in my lap, bury my feet in the sand or you know, make eye contact. No, Daddy was the go-to guy. When he wasn't around, she had plenty of other admirers from which to choose. Her older cousins, her aunt, uncle, grandma and pop-pop were all at the ready to entertain my little one. Only if none of them were available would she scamper to me looking for some entertainment (or more likely a diaper change...great). My husband kept telling me not to take it personally. She is with me everyday now and is just looking for other playmates. My logical side tells me this statement is true; however my paranoid I'm a bad mom side continued to torment me with "Ha! Ha! She doesn't love you."
On Monday, we arrived home late and tucked a sleeping Princess into her familar bed. Magically, the next morning my Princess awoke, gave me one of her most delicious hugs and all was right in the world.
It is so good to be home.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Just in Case
We are off to the beach today for a well-deserved vacation! The caravan is stuffed with lots of "just in case" and "rainy day" items. It is truly astounding how many things fall into these categories when it comes to a two year old. In the days of yore (a.k.a before baby) I packed for an entire week in one small suitcase and a beach bag. My rainy day items consisted of the latest New York Times bestseller and a deck of cards. Right now my car is expertly packed with a huge rolling suitcase, a small rolling suitcase, endless shopping bags of snacks, two medium tupperware boxes with toys and books, beach chairs, a beach umbrella, a beach tent (hey, it's small, maybe she'll use it), a gigantic beach bag, a cooler, and the list goes on and on.
What is not coming with me is this computer...so I will probably have some kind of withdrawal at about 11 tonight. When I get back in a few days, I hope to have some entertaining toddler tidbits to share (and a killer tan)!
What is not coming with me is this computer...so I will probably have some kind of withdrawal at about 11 tonight. When I get back in a few days, I hope to have some entertaining toddler tidbits to share (and a killer tan)!
Monday, August 6, 2007
Our Layers
Disclaimer: Feeling a little "off" for the last few days so this entry is a bit more serious than I usually allow myself to be here. However, there is a great poem at the end so feel free to skip to the bottom for a powerful piece of writing worth printing out! When I get back from vacation next week, I promise, back to my usual lighthearted self!
We are complicated beings. Ones filled with twisted, gnarled emotions, attached to memories, people and losses we should have let go of long ago. There are nights, like this one, when I cannot forgive myself for not being able to do just that. Let go.
The world I have constructed for myself is one that is full of questions, insecurities and fear. I can only recall a handful of times when I have actually just allowed myself to relax, have fun and not "overthink" (my husband's favorite description of me). Those nights are so precious to me because I felt wonderfully alive and free. Many of you who read this blog were probably at most of those events. Let's see...my wedding, a Halloween party at the "famous" NYC apartment (shout out to Super Jeff), a night at Sweet Melissa's (bar in NYC), a dinner party at my house, one night at the "upscale" campus bar for my 22nd birthday, and my senior spring college formal. Strange that they all involve alcohol, but let's not deconstruct that now.
What I do notice, though, is the events do have people in common. So while I search for a hobby that fulfills me, a place that feels comfortable, or a dream that is realized, perhaps I should just spend more time with the people who know me (really know me) and love me anyway. Perhaps I should dedicate less time to climbing a corporate ladder and accumulating materialistic goods. Maybe I should focus on them, on you, on the people who matter to me.
Stanley Kunitz writes "Live in the layers/ not on the litter." It is from one of my favorite poems (see below), and it is a line I repeat to my students time and again when they get caught up in the thorny parts of life. Maybe it is time I listen too.
The Layers
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
Stanley Kunitz
We are complicated beings. Ones filled with twisted, gnarled emotions, attached to memories, people and losses we should have let go of long ago. There are nights, like this one, when I cannot forgive myself for not being able to do just that. Let go.
The world I have constructed for myself is one that is full of questions, insecurities and fear. I can only recall a handful of times when I have actually just allowed myself to relax, have fun and not "overthink" (my husband's favorite description of me). Those nights are so precious to me because I felt wonderfully alive and free. Many of you who read this blog were probably at most of those events. Let's see...my wedding, a Halloween party at the "famous" NYC apartment (shout out to Super Jeff), a night at Sweet Melissa's (bar in NYC), a dinner party at my house, one night at the "upscale" campus bar for my 22nd birthday, and my senior spring college formal. Strange that they all involve alcohol, but let's not deconstruct that now.
What I do notice, though, is the events do have people in common. So while I search for a hobby that fulfills me, a place that feels comfortable, or a dream that is realized, perhaps I should just spend more time with the people who know me (really know me) and love me anyway. Perhaps I should dedicate less time to climbing a corporate ladder and accumulating materialistic goods. Maybe I should focus on them, on you, on the people who matter to me.
Stanley Kunitz writes "Live in the layers/ not on the litter." It is from one of my favorite poems (see below), and it is a line I repeat to my students time and again when they get caught up in the thorny parts of life. Maybe it is time I listen too.
The Layers
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
Stanley Kunitz
Friday, August 3, 2007
Joy...
A short entry today...
There is nothing like watching my dear daughter experience pure joy. We went to our mommy & me music class yesterday, and for the first time she really let loose rather than her usual lingering outside the circle's perimeter. She's been a bit hesitant and shy (her usual) at music class, but this week she sashayed in like she owned the place. Class began and she sang every word, marched in the circle (without clinging to my leg), and beat her drum like she was in a 1980s hair band. She danced when everyone else was still sitting, banged her shakers on the floor with passion, and smiled from ear to ear.
Pure joy for her -- and me.
There is nothing like watching my dear daughter experience pure joy. We went to our mommy & me music class yesterday, and for the first time she really let loose rather than her usual lingering outside the circle's perimeter. She's been a bit hesitant and shy (her usual) at music class, but this week she sashayed in like she owned the place. Class began and she sang every word, marched in the circle (without clinging to my leg), and beat her drum like she was in a 1980s hair band. She danced when everyone else was still sitting, banged her shakers on the floor with passion, and smiled from ear to ear.
Pure joy for her -- and me.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
That Crazy Lady at the Gym
Stop the presses...I went to the gym yesterday. Yes, it has been a full year since I showed my face at the Y for a reason besides "Mommy and me" swim classes. But yesterday Princess went to school in the morning, and I (in my continuing search for me - see previous post) thought a trip to the gym would do me good. I dusted off my sneakers, found my ipod earphones, and off I went.
It was great - exhilarating and fun. In my previous life (before husband and daughter) I loved going to the gym, especially lifting free weights. When I was in college, those little dumb bells helped me lose that freshmen 15 ( and the sophomore 10). So I really owe them a visit, at least for old times sake. I still love my infrequent trips to the gym, as they allow me to just focus on being healthy and give me 60 minutes to listen to my music - really loud. And this music listening may be where I get myself in trouble.
In the life before my previous life (aka high school), I was a dancer and music lived in every muscle. It was impossible for me not to tap my foot, shake my shoulders, and/or snap my fingers when a song was playing. If I knew the song well, it was more impossible for me not to mouth the words.
This kinesthetic condition continues to this day. I can hide it a bit on the treadmill because I simply time my walk/run to the beat of the music. While "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers plays, I run quickly; "Stay" by Dave Matthews gives me a boost as I trudge the incline. But the problem really shows itself when I move to the beloved dumb bells. Again, I can time my bicep curl so it aligns with the beat, but any trainer will tell you you should rest between sets. And so I sit on a bench for a few minutes. Before I know it, I am mouthing words to a song only I can hear and nodding my head like a bobble head doll. I don't know how to control it. Yet I don't know if I should have to.
A few weeks ago my husband, Princess and I took a trip to my sister-in-law's house. On our way there, we passed a large marina with an active running path. As traffic slowed, I noticed a woman with large headphones dancing and singing as she jogged. She was living by the motto "dance as if no one is watching," because she was swinging her arms, jumping up and down, and shaking her whole body. To me, she looked like she was having a great time. I felt a pang of jealousy of her uninhibited nature. My husband thought she was crazy.
While I rested on the bench yesterday I thought of her. She would probably bob and sway and sing without a care. Perhaps I should do the same. So I let myself go a little. I did not bust out with a Martha Graham performance (well more like a So You Think You Can Dance? reject), but as I did my ab crunches I moved a little more, I mouthed all the words, and I felt really good.
Maybe I am now known as "that crazy lady at the gym," but I like to think they are all just jealous.
It was great - exhilarating and fun. In my previous life (before husband and daughter) I loved going to the gym, especially lifting free weights. When I was in college, those little dumb bells helped me lose that freshmen 15 ( and the sophomore 10). So I really owe them a visit, at least for old times sake. I still love my infrequent trips to the gym, as they allow me to just focus on being healthy and give me 60 minutes to listen to my music - really loud. And this music listening may be where I get myself in trouble.
In the life before my previous life (aka high school), I was a dancer and music lived in every muscle. It was impossible for me not to tap my foot, shake my shoulders, and/or snap my fingers when a song was playing. If I knew the song well, it was more impossible for me not to mouth the words.
This kinesthetic condition continues to this day. I can hide it a bit on the treadmill because I simply time my walk/run to the beat of the music. While "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers plays, I run quickly; "Stay" by Dave Matthews gives me a boost as I trudge the incline. But the problem really shows itself when I move to the beloved dumb bells. Again, I can time my bicep curl so it aligns with the beat, but any trainer will tell you you should rest between sets. And so I sit on a bench for a few minutes. Before I know it, I am mouthing words to a song only I can hear and nodding my head like a bobble head doll. I don't know how to control it. Yet I don't know if I should have to.
A few weeks ago my husband, Princess and I took a trip to my sister-in-law's house. On our way there, we passed a large marina with an active running path. As traffic slowed, I noticed a woman with large headphones dancing and singing as she jogged. She was living by the motto "dance as if no one is watching," because she was swinging her arms, jumping up and down, and shaking her whole body. To me, she looked like she was having a great time. I felt a pang of jealousy of her uninhibited nature. My husband thought she was crazy.
While I rested on the bench yesterday I thought of her. She would probably bob and sway and sing without a care. Perhaps I should do the same. So I let myself go a little. I did not bust out with a Martha Graham performance (well more like a So You Think You Can Dance? reject), but as I did my ab crunches I moved a little more, I mouthed all the words, and I felt really good.
Maybe I am now known as "that crazy lady at the gym," but I like to think they are all just jealous.
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