Quirky Gurrrrrl

I want to give a shout out to the girls out there. I love them all. Even the lame ass ones that make other people's girls cry. Someone did them a disservice at some point. My love for them is that they can turn it around. (If they don't and they become mean women, well then I will be honest. I hate them.)

In my heart today is a shout out to the "quirky girl". The beat of their own drummer girl. The "anyone can play with me if I wish to be around anybody, which maybe I don't, but check back with me later" girl. The girl that doesn't quite match, thank goodness. The girl who sticks up for the little ones, for herself, for ants (but maybe not stink bugs), for snakes, for pickles.

My mind is on my middle- and I don't mean my gut, for once. My middle child is turning 8. I have written about her before and I have decided to repost that today for my blog. I also wanted to add a few cool resources out there that give great advice on books and movies and great women to talk about with your daughter:
Mighty Girl is on Facebook. Like it and make it apart of your daily feed. A friend told me about it and I enjoy it.
Random House's great picks for girls for some books.
PBS has top picks on books as well.
PBS dedicates a whole section to understanding and raising girls. (PBS, I love you. I LUUUUUURVE YOU!!!!!!)
Dove is on board! They have a whole campaign going on I missed because I fast forward commercials.

So, just some stuff. Of course, the number one way I am focusing on raising my girls to be who they want to be, as best I can, is allowing myself to be me. Not commenting in a negative manner at my reflection. Sharing what I am good at and expressing that to them without boasting. Lots and lots of story sharing and dialogue. I do a multiple dialogue choice approach with my children when my kids are in a bind. I find giving my kids a very loose script, they can then know how to approach a friend, teacher, pest, and get across their feelings and thoughts more effectively. I cry around my children. I can't help it because when I praise them, I cry. When I talk about something that is hard for them, I cry. (Usually I retain my normal voice, but I sometimes get all squeaky) I let them know when I am nervous or when I am having a struggle. They are starting to give me advice. How about that? I am human with them as much as I can be. That includes making mistakes. That include apologizing. (I loathe apologizing. I know. Nice quality, no? Well, I seem to have passed it on.) We can always grow. I like doing it as a family.

Without further ado...................

My previous post about Evelyn in case you still have some coffee left to sip.

Ahhh, Girls. Mean Girls.

I had every intention of coming here with a funny and witty post this week.  However, I keep being drawn back to the issue of Mean Girls.  I know Mean Girls exist, but I am naive in trusting that they are few and far between.

With my oldest in high school, I have been reliving many memories with each passing day of stories that my trusting and sharing girl brings home to me.  With the description of the daily high school life, my teenage self comes bouncing back to the surface.  The insecurities I felt are ripe as if they were just yesterday; the confidence I enjoyed also emerges with a fresh remembrance, and the Mean Girls' drama comes roaring down upon me with the re-breakage of my emotional dam.

Mean Girls.  You suck.  There you go. 

If you know your best friend likes a certain boy, the absolute WORST thing you can do is go after said boy.  Seriously?  Do you value your friendship?  Apparently, the answer to that prior question is a big resounding no.

You see, this particular incident also happened to me during my freshman year.  Thankfully, the experience has fast forwarded some twenty-five years and I am now able to share my story with my freshman daughter.  I honestly do know how she is feeling.  I also know that when this experience happened to me, it opened the doors for me to become friends with a beautiful girl who I am still very good friends with today.  Had I not had a Mean Girl experience, I would not have opened my friendship door of opportunity to someone else.

Sharing my freshman Mean Girl story helps my daughter, but it does not take away the pain and the hurt she feels by being betrayed by her best friend.  Oh, did I mention this best friend has not done this once, nor twice, but multiple times in the past month or so?  My Momma-Bear claws are out; however, I can only gently guide my daughter through the Bitchland.  She has to make her own choices, her own decisions on what is the best way to handle her relationships.  She has taken my life lessons of being the bigger and better person to the ultimate level thus far. 

As I have reflected upon this visit through high school estrogen sabotage, I realize that even as an adult there are still quite a few residents of Bitchland.  I guess some Mean Girls grow up to be mean women. 

 

Meh.  My rose-colored glasses are not as crystal clear as I would like them to be.

Am I naive to think that all of us women should be supporting each other?  I understand that in high school, the girls are still navigating their ways through uncharted terrorities of boys, high school curriculum, finding their role in this universe and so much more. As grown women, with many years of life experience under our belts, should we not have enough to guide us in a gentle way with each other?  Can we not have the opportunity to agree to disagree with each other, without belitting or hurting the other's feelings?

I promise to support my female friends in any of their endeavors.  I may not agree with your choice, or your action, but I will support you.  Why would I not?  I will offer you my advice and my experience in your times of tribulation; and I may not prefer your method in handling the same but I respect that it is your choice to make and I will not judge accordingly. 

At the end of the day, being kind to each other really is the best way to spend our time on this Earth.  Our lives, as we know, are too short and to waste any time being negative or mean is just so sad.

For those of you who have been a Mean Girl to me in my lifetime, both past, present and future - well, go ahead.  Shame on you.  I will still walk with my head high.  I will still kill you with kindness.  I will dump you from my life.  I will teach my children how to behave around your very likely Mean Children and they will walk with their heads held high.

My inquiring mind wants to know, how do you handle a Mean Girl experience either now as an adult or with your child(ren)?

Yoga in the Air...I Guess I Can't Fly

Two things I know are true.

1.) A good yoga class can bring out different difficult emotions, and
2.) I am having a hard time right now.

There was a third thing I thought was true, and that was the fact that I am strong enough to transcend the stresses of everyday life, that I am bigger than my problems, that I don't let them stand in my way of doing what I want to do.

This little theory was disproved at my first Aerial Yoga class yesterday, in Northborough, MA.

The truth was that this particular discipline of yoga has everything to do with courage, trust and letting go. These happen to be 3 areas in which I am struggling terribly right now.

I haven't been burned beyond repair -- the emotions just happen to be a little raw. I am highly mistrustful of my fellow human beings, I am alternatively full of a blinding rage and a peaceful transcendence. I flip-flop between wishing a particular someone a blissful journey (out of my life) and harboring feelings of wanting to stab their eyes out with my fingers and push them down a flight of stairs. Yes, lil old me. I am battling my own violent side.

A peaceful warrior was a good start.

 But what surprised me...genuinely surprised me...was my difficulty in letting go when it came time to hang upside down, to lean backwards and drop, to let go of the silks. I felt terrified. And What made me sad was that I know this isn't my general nature -- it just happens to be my reality right now. Turns out trust is a precious inner commodity that can be damaged, dented or even broken, and it seeps into areas of your life in which is doesn't necessarily belong.

 I tried to become a child again, to lose the weight of my adult issues, to go back to a time when hanging from the monkey bars was natural and freeing. Turns out this is easier said than done. Maybe I have come too far to go back there.

There is a third thing I know is true. Savasana in a silk hammock is an experience so far unparalleled in my life. It was a safe, warm, comfortable place and I will travel back there in my mind in weeks to come when life outside of the silks poses its challenges.

For anyone in the greater MA area, Aerial Yoga is yours for the taking! A single class costs $25 and you can see the schedule and learn more about Ebb n Flow Yoga studio HERE!

"I'll Never Be the Person That I Thought I'd Be"

I was listening to music on Thursday after getting some news about a job I didn't apply for... 

Well, I got it. 

As I was on the phone listening to the Assistant Principal talking about this job I had not known about, little comfort in, skeptical desire for, I kept shaking my head no. I wondered if she could hear the scratching noises my hair was making during my tight, repetitive head shakes as she went on. Then there was a silence and I figured it was my turn to speak. I opened my mouth and the words "Yes, if you are offering me that job, then I will take it." came out. I looked around startled. 
Who said that? 

I needed a "Den Talk" with my dad. He used to bring us in there for serious discussions that created a huge knot in the colon and flame in the belly. I called the apartment and got my mom. We had one of our "Kitchen Talks". The usual- get real, you can do it, well then don't do it, well then stop complaining type of chat.

Mom asked me what grades it was for. I told her 6th, 7th, 8th. Also known as Worst. Years. Ever. when it came to my life growing up. Those were the years of the most teasing, the biggest weight gain, the greatest confusion in school. I was in an educational hole, falling continuously behind in a challenging school. Those were the years when everything was absolute crap. Those were the years of my dad helping me through terrible Sunday nights.

"Oooh. 6th grade. The girls can be so mean!" my mom seethed out, remembering the turmoil of the time.

"Why did I say yes, Mom?"

"Because you are a good girl."

"Ugh!"

"Well, why do you think you took it?"

"I told the Assistant Principal that I am 40 and it is time to get out of my comfort zone."

"Good girl!" (Yes, the praise is like I am 9, but it still works, people.)

"I don't even know the difference between 8th grade math and Japanese."

"I wonder if you will be great at this?" she said, thinking out loud to herself.

"Ugh."

"Maybe you know exactly who these kids are and you will help them."

"Ugh."

"You aren't in 6th or 7th grade anymore, Kate. Maybe you will reach them and you will change them because you will get them. They need you."

"Hm." Reflexive kick of the wall I was near. "Maybe." said grudgingly. 

But I felt lighter.

"Maybe you were supposed to be this and you didn't know." Mom added.

"Yeah. Maybe..."

Maybe.

And that all got me thinking that maybe I just assumed what I was doing with my life is what I am supposed to be doing with my life. Maybe I don't know what is best for me, but need life to throw me the curve so I can experience something I would have otherwise avoided. I am not saying this is some Lifetime movie, Stand and Deliver, Lean on Me kind of thing. In my gut I feel like the little kids in my own little classroom is where I am supposed to be. But here is an appetizer sized experience with something different than that and I will try it out. It could lead to a position I want next year, or it could lead to a second Masters in Education and wouldn't that be (exhausting) amazing? Because who the hell knows what I am meant to be? I am a teacher, of that I am certain. But there are so many different types of teachers. Maybe, in my life, I will be more than the one kind of teacher that I thought I'd be. 

Or maybe I will just be amazed at myself for stepping outside my womby box.

So the reason I brought up the music I was listening to in the beginning of this entry was that a pal introduced me to the music of Amanda Palmer. This song came on and inspired me to write about this experience. I will tell you that the video is kind of raw so I went with the still shot of her cute belly. I wanted to share the song and the lyrics. It is way more deep and encompassing than what I experienced, but the words also touch on so many of our Curvies' posts that I was compelled to share. Enjoy.

In my mind
In a future five years from now
I'm one hundred and twenty pounds
And I never get hung over
Because I will be the picture of discipline
Never minding what state I'm in
And I will be someone I admire
And it's funny how I imagined
That I would be that person now
But it does not seem to have happened
Maybe I've just forgotten how to see
That I am not exactly the person that I thought I'd be

And in my mind
In the faraway here and now
I've become in control somehow
And I never lose my wallet
Because I will be the picture of of discipline
Never fucking up anything
And I'll be a good defensive driver
And it's funny how I imagined
That I would be that person now
But it does not seem to have happened
Maybe I've just forgotten how to see
That I'll never be the person that I thought I'd be

And in my mind
When I'm old I am beautiful
Planting tulips and vegetables
Which I will mindfully watch over
Not like me now
I'm so busy with everything
That I don't look at anything
But I'm sure I'll look when I am older
And it's funny how I imagined
That I could be that person now
But that's not what I want
But that's what I wanted
And I'd be giving up somehow
How strange to see
That I don't wanna be the person that I want to be

And in my mind
I imagine so many things
Things that aren't really happening
And when they put me in the ground
I'll start pounding the lid
Saying I haven't finished yet
I still have a tattoo to get
That says I'm living in the moment
And it's funny how I imagined
That I could win this win-less fight
But maybe it isn't all that funny
That I've been fighting all my life
But maybe I have to think it's funny
If I wanna live before I die
And maybe it's funniest of all
To think I'll die before I actually see
That I am exactly the person that I want to be

Fuck yes
I am exactly the person that I want to be

Dictionary – Mothers Edition 2013

Who needs Websters Dictionary when Mothers alone can define many great terms?  Here's a collection of my very own:

 

Black Hole – that space between the front seats of the vehicle and the console between them.  Intense magnetic force pulls everything from French fries to lunch money quarters to chapsticks and everything in between to the deep, cavernous and non-reachable crevasse of your car.

Figgy Pudding – that blubbery, jiggly, stretch-marked vastness that reaches from belly button to the southern nethers below; who cares if it housed three beautiful children for a collective twenty-six month period of time.   Little five year old fingers squish the goodness out of it whilst singing a made up figgy pudding song.  Lovely.

The Face – you know, THAT face…the one that children and spouses alike know that you are one minute-millisecond away from an explosion to rival Hiroshima.  The one face that everyone within a five mile shock zone knows that no words are needed, action is immediately necessary and that bomb shelter may be an appropriate hide-out for the next few hours.

Padded Cell – the one room in the house that a mother goes for a brief ten minute sanity check:  the bathroom.  Little does the family know that when mother is in her padded cell, resist the luring desire to jiggle said cell door handle despite an overwhelming need to do so at that moment.  Any continued attempts to break into the padded cell while a mother is in there may cause an immediate display of The Face (re-read above to prepare for the consequences).

Grey Hair – they sprout on your head like dandelion weeds in the heat of summer.  Each time you see a child wearing one of YOUR sacred socks.  A child bringing home the 40-Millionth fundraiser this week that matches the same one his sibling brought home.  The husband snoring for hours on end resulting in yet another night of missed sleep. 

STFU&EI – the response you dole out when the complaints start flying about the myriad of vegetables and healthy assortment of foods you spent time preparing for their dinner.  Of course, that STFU&EI remains bouncing off the inner most part of your skull while you kindly ask the family to please try it, eat a few bites and then make them a PB&J.

Snatch – despite a Mother’s best effort to persuade a child to order their own entrée or eat their own requested food, the acts of wee wittle offspring deciding they want what is on the Mother’s plate.  Said act of snatching leaves the Mother with no option but to ingest the childish food; otherwise, said Mother would be stick thin.

Cliffhanger – waking up in the middle of the night grasping and clinging on for dear life by the mere threads of a 400 count sheet as a tiny thirty-five pound body manages to take up 99% of the marital bed residence.

Tell me, any new definitions that you propose being added to Mothers Edition 2013? 

Silence

The silence is almost painful. It's a cruel reminder of the fact that I don't own my children, that I have simply borrowed them from their very own individual futures and someday they will hit the ground running, leaving me with the stillness their departure leaves in its wake.

Every now and again I get a taste of life without them, and most often it's a welcome respite from the fighting and bickering, the neverending requests and demands. Tonight, the little girls are at Gramma's, the oldest at a sleepover. It is the dead of winter, the calm after a storm of winds so severe they blew barrels across the highway at our car, the snow a fresh and blinding blanket covering a whole universe of promise.

But that silence -- that's what covers me. It makes the hairs on my arm stand on end; they are listening too.

I know my good fortune -- I never waver in this. I am coming down, emotionally, from a weekend of bonding and cameraderie, of love and meaning and joy as we snuck away to a campy and cozy inn in the middle of Maine with our closest family friends. I know how rare and beautiful this is because I have been seeking it and waiting for it my entire adult life.

I stopped at least a dozen times -- while the kids were gorging themselves on pancakes and homemade pizza, or dancing or singing or having a heated poker game -- I stopped then in my tracks.

The kids didn't see me frantically wiping away the tears. I believe I was the only one crying and thank goodness for that because even with 11 bedrooms, there was only space for one lunatic in that house. I am getting a little emotional in my older age, because I feel moments like this are starting to slip away between the very same fingers that once soothed wayward cowlicks and held tiny baby hands while nursing.

Pretty soon, these children that I love -- not only mine but my friends' -- will start to go away, and their visits home will become less and less frequent. Many of them have been coming to my house -- for sleepovers, for babysitting, to give their moms some breathing room -- since they were little, some of the friendships are new enough that I am still only starting to uncover the wonderfulness that is them. But whichever way you have it, my love runs deeper than I ever imagined it would.

Deep enough that as each family packed up its SUV or minivan and the grown-ups exchanged goodbyes, I grabbed even the adolescent boys into bear hugs before they had the chance to escape it. And oh how they tried.

Here's the thing. I have loved raising my children. Not every minute of it, but somehow every day of it. I have loved watching them grow and develop into little people and establish themselves in the world -- in my world. And I have loved being a friend, of developing friendships and growing them and sometimes fixing them and frequently walking away from them even if just for a day. I know in my mind that when my kids are grown and gone, there will be new experiences to love but it still looms over me like a loss just waiting to happen.

I am blessed with the chaos and the noise, the bustle and the boisterousness. And I will be blessed with the silence in the aftermath of raising my family -- it's just that the lack of volume is going to take a little getting used to.

My fear is that I will always want these moments back, always be pining for exactly what I have right now.

Right now.

Et Tu, Undies?

Y'alls. My undies are too tight.

Yes, we know when the jeans are too tight and get up in our nethers. Or the shirt is too tight and reveals the muffin tops and bra squishouts. But when the underwear is too tight... it is like a girlfriend saying to you, while at a chocolate buffet or something, "are you sure you want to eat that?"
Complete.
Total.
All encompassing.
Betrayal.

Undies are your closest clothings ever. They are literally alllll up in your business. To have them leave a mark upon thy upper thigh/side butt fat pillows is a slap on the cheek, indeed. Or you bend and they just leave you hanging...
Crack is wack, people. Why would my underwear do this to me?

Look, I can see my fault in it. I don't use woolite. 
Admitted. 
Out there.
My "lingerie" drying rack holds....nothing since it is folded and wedged under some shelves. I throw everything in the dryer. (And before you try to help me, seeing me flailing out here in the wind- they didn't shrink. I pretended that already.) So it isn't like I am completely kind to my little tighties.

So, looking out the window at the soft cascading snow, I gave myself the little pep talk we all have. The one when we 

aren't in a disgusted mood with ourselves. A touch of 
reprimand. A touch of understanding. I took the animal instinct approach. We are like bears. We are fattening to keep warm. Of course I don't want to exercise, it is against my nature in Winter. Tucking in to warmth and food to survive the long winter....Less daylight to ensure resting up.


But, do you have to hide the chocolates from the kids so you don't have to share? No. That is wrong. Let the kids eat some. And it is time to buy the kids the treats you don't like so you will stop sneaking them. 
Yes. Yes. Yes. True.
And only ONE more Little Debbie Heart cakes. One. Then move on!
(or opt for commando)