Go Ahead, Girl- Toot!

Tip: Tell your spouse regularly how amazing you are. And believe it.

Ah, if you knew my father, you would understand how long I have been brainwashed into being confident. Sounds a bit bizarre, huh? Humor me for a moment and picture being awakened each morning to the baritone crooning of, “What makes me so handsome? What makes me so debonair?” Every morning, and I do mean EVERY morning, my father would gaze at himself, face of white foam beckoning his razor, singing these exact words to himself and for the rest of us to hear.

He was a master of self-promotion before it became a coined buzz phrase and would have you believe that his accomplishments- both big and small- were more significant than reality would have indicated. Beyond his borderline narcissistic opinion of his appearance, my father has rewritten himself as somewhat of a boyhood Philadelphia sports legend to those willing to listen, from street boxing to basketball and even ice skating. Do I, as an adult, believe all of his stories? It’s hard to say. But what’s more important is that the factual accuracy is of little importance. In my heart and in my mind he is a legend… largely because of how highly he regarded himself AND because his actions as a father were congruent with his self-created status.

Enter present day. As I juggle running a small (but growing) college consulting firm, being a devoted wife and amazing mother (note: self-promotion at work), I periodically think to myself, “Whoa, I’m impressed.” And I’ve come to realize that if you don’t acknowledge your wonderfulness, one of two things is bound to happen (or perhaps both): foremost, others will be less likely or perhaps even unable to see it; second, you will be defeated or, at the very least, come to have a defeated attitude. I don’t know about you but neither of these options whets my appetite.

So as I prepare a breakfast of hard boiled eggs, bacon, and fresh berries (of the straw and blue variety) and sliced pears, volunteer in my daughter’s kindergarten class, edit college essays for two clients, prepare shiitake & ginger-glazed salmon with sautéed kale and creamy risotto for dinner, wash two loads of laundry, engage in two college choice meetings, and conduct an 8 o’clock conference call with a client in Florida, I stand back and marvel at not just what I am able to do but who I am. Not arrogant or cocky (well, perhaps a little), but self-assured and ready to start anew tomorrow. Conversely, I could have focused on the 26 things that didn’t get done (notice I mentioned washing two loads of laundry but nothing about folding them) on any given day but why? Instead I choose to bestow upon myself positive affirmations and at least once (sometimes two or three times) ask my husband at some point during the day: “Do you know how lucky you are? You do realize how terrific your wife is, right?” To which he laughs, shakes his, and starts in on his equal or surpassing contributions (it goes both ways, you know) but not before his hugs or words of appreciation have been lavished on me.

Happy tooting- I’m off to yet another tremendous feat of a day…

Communal Dressing Rooms, Really?

Tip: Get over your post-baby body hang-ups or do something about it- your choice.

Personal truths, things we know for sure…hot topics these days, huh? Well, this I know for sure: small-space, 360-degree mirrored communal dressing rooms were most certainly designed by men.

Once upon a time, in what seems today like more than an eternity ago, I wouldn’t even think twice about disrobing in front of total strangers. Once the insecurities of high school (about the three stretch marks I had) wore off, and I was finally not only comfortable but confident in my skin, I’d make a b line for the dressing room resigned not to wait in the absurdly long line for private dressing rooms. I scoffed at those silly women wanting, needing the shield of three walls and a door to hide from the glances of their fellow dressing counterparts. Then I had kids.

Ah, a Mother’s Day treat, out for an afternoon of shopping, sans the children, and lunch w/ my twenty-something, commitment-free sister. Excited that baby-doll shirts and knee length shorts are still fashionably in, I toted my pieces over to the dressing room area. In my post-partum ignorance or perhaps sheer denial, I convinced my sister that it would be silly to wait in line for our own room when we could just join the ranks of other secure-in their-own-skin women unafraid to share their bodies with other like women.

What initially seemed like gobs of great finds quickly became a pile of not going-to-work. Too low-cut for my barely-there breasts. Too circulation-depriving for my ever expanding child-bearing hips (which, by the way, should theoretically go away now that I’m done using them, right?). But I was okay with my shopping disappointment as I watched other women shift, tuck, and eventually give up on pieces that wouldn’t work for them either.

Then my nemesis sauntered in. Perpetual smile on her face, she had to be at least 5-9, and everything she tried on worked, even the items she and her mother decided weren’t perfect. She was thin, but not in a does-anybody-have-a-donut-for-this-girl? thin. She was well-proportioned and most envy-worthy of all she was smooth, skin so taut that a ripple of cellulite wouldn’t stand a chance. She rocked skinny jeans the way they are intended to be rocked, with a clear space between the inner thighs and tapering off at just the right spot on the ankle. The bohemian blouses she pulled over her head draped softly over her shoulders and didn’t for a second make her appear bloated or consumed. That’s when the despair of what used to be set in. All of a sudden my alliance with my out-of-shape comrades I had been leaning and counting on in the dressing room began to unravel. The “oh-well, I guess these don’t fit” nonchalance morphed into the “I’m not even going to bother try these on” devastation. I suddenly looked a little more critically at my dimpled thighs that I had full sight of thanks to the panoramic mirrors and the stretch marks on my stomach that have now officially overtaken my tummy.

I left the dressing room feeling defeated, convinced that I would hit the gym first thing Monday morning to reclaim what that girl in the dressing room had so unintentionally flaunted. I left the dressing room questioning the basis for such an arrangement where women are exposed and vulnerable. Some business man (probably akin to my own MBA, finance-minded husband) driven by sales figures and bottom lines decided, “Hey, we could conserve space and just throw the shoppers of our consumer-glutton society into one big open area so there’s more room for more stuff for more profits.”

I am pleased to report- I quickly dismounted my soapbox. Because the truth is if I really wanted to do something about any of what I’ve just ranted about I could. I could choose next time to wait an extra five or 10 minutes for my own dressing room. I could use the gym membership I bought last month and decide once and for all to get back in shape (I didn’t, however, hit the gym like I was so convinced I would do upon leaving the dressing room). But the sad and perhaps astounding truth of the matter is that I probably won’t do either. I’m so impatient these days, and shopping without my daughters playing hide-n-go seek in the clothing racks is a luxury I don’t often have. 10 extra minutes of waiting in line for a personal room just isn’t going to happen. And even though I periodically wallow in the pity party I throw for my new body, experiencing lapses in the confidence I’ve built as a woman and a mother, I like myself. Actually, I absolutely love and adore myself (most of the time). And the parts I don’t like, that’s what more productive shopping trips are for.

'Til Death (or Divorce) Do Us Part

It’s sad to say, but my husband and I have speculated. We’ve read the statistics and always come to the same conclusion: how on earth could the number be so high? Then we joined the ranks of thirty-somethings, and suddenly we watched the number take shape and become real.

It’s the whole car wreck phenomenon I suppose- you stare hoping to both see fully the carnage yet rest comfortably in your own steel cocoon knowing that you have gone unscathed. My husband and I would think about our married friends and wonder if the tentacles of divorce would somehow be powerless against our circle. Sure we would question the effectiveness of some friends’ communication skills. Question the alignment of their interests. Consider their motives for marrying. But very rarely did we ever agree adamantly that a couple was destined to fall short of death being the impetus for their demise. And always I would take solace in the cocoon that my husband and I had so carefully and intricately woven over the past ten years. Thinking never.

Funny thing is as the conversation surrounding divorce went from the abstract- snippets on Oprah, articles in magazines, bitter divorcees on talk radio programs- to the real lives of families we had eaten dinner with, celebrated holidays with, and welcomed new babies into the world with it began to eat at me. Suddenly the lives of those moving from the married to the divorced category were not so foreign and eerily similar, at least from the outside looking in, to my own. My once unshakable faith in my own marriage, not because of any particular problem or hardship, was now being questioned.

Could my husband just wake up one morning and decide that he wanted out? That he wasn’t in love with me anymore? That he wanted the freedom of commitment-free living? That he had found someone else to replace me? Or could I? My father, never short on advice and vehemently convinced that age imparts wisdom, once told me that people don’t change- much; I’m sure hoping that he’s right.

So if I buy into his truth, that people don’t change, my line of questioning changes. Do people enter into marriage wearing blinders or steeped in denial? Do they have a visceral or carnal sense that screams “No” as they approach the alter but choose to focus on the smiles and tears of joy that usher them down the aisle on the wedding day instead? Don’t get me wrong- the lure of a wedding can be intoxicating and the shame of a cancellation unthinkable, perhaps for some even more unthinkable than filing for divorce.

So as the category of divorcees in my own circle becomes more robust, I’m convinced and encouraged to keep building my own marriage. Even amongst the chaos that is life in the present- two children, a husband who works entirely too much, running a business, playdates and parties, keeping the house from going to shambles, creating a balance of culture, exposure and free play for our children, keeping the family spiritually grounded, trying to cook gourmet meals, and holding it down in the bedroom (yeah, just imagine if this all actually got done)- I realize that without the solidity of our relationship, everything else falls by the wayside. And for me, I have to trust that the voice that screamed, “Yes, this is absolutely right,” some eleven years ago was genuine, knowing that my husband heard and believes the same.

To Spank or Not to Spank?

I have never once wanted to spank my children…during a state of calm or enlightenment.  Instead, the scene usually plays out something like this:  We’re an hour past bedtime (likely my fault for trying to cram in just one more errand, outing, or game), and I’m trying to get the girls bathed, teeth brushed, pjs on, stories read, songs sang and prayers recited in 20 minutes.  My patience is past waning; we’re likely in the deficit category at this point, because I have at least 26 things I need to do before I can go to bed, which we all know can’t happen until the children are there first.  My daughters, awake now only by the grace of fumes from the adrenalin rush that has kicked in to thwart exhaustion, are jumping on the bed, giddy and now totally amused by tossing their bears and babies from one side of the room to the other.  Their listening ears have long since stopped working, and it’s as if I am completely invisible and mute even as I stand in the middle of their room bellowing orders.  This is when the urge to spank sets in.

 

That “I’ll show them who’s boss” voice starts to chime in my head.  I may even begin to enumerate internally all the things I have done and sacrifices I have made to create yet another perfectly balanced day in their preschool lives.  Which, they have absolutely no understanding of, nor should they.  The tension that I can now feel building in my neck and shoulders is matched only by the heaviness of my eyelids now threatening to close.  Anger is mounting, and I’m in search of a quick fix to alter the situation.  A swift smack to the bottom will surely teach them, right?  Yes it would, but what and at what cost?

 

You see, I love words.  They are powerful tools that influence beyond their silence.  But so are actions.  Children are so intuitive, bright, and open to remember every experience, especially the ones we want them to forget.  Lashing out in a fit of virtual rage will most certainly leave a lasting impression, one that they are likely to replicate with each other and others around them.  My lashing out screams:  I’m angry and frustrated, so I’ll act out.  I want to influence behavior so I’ll intimidate physically and bully those who are weaker than me into submission.  I want and need to have a better way. 

 

In my own self-described cauldron of hostile feelings and frustration, I would never want to make any decision, much less one that impressionable three-year-olds are watching and soaking in.  I was spanked (and in all fairness to my parents it was once in my entire life- Superbowl Sunday- a house full of people, and parents whose frustration levels probably mirrored my own), my husband was spanked, many of my friends were spanked, and we all turned out fine.  We’re well-educated, productive, contributing members of society, who are still close with our parents, but so are others who weren’t.  In every way possible I want to build my children up, toughen their skin without making them callous. And I don’t get the sense that spanking them meshes with these goals.  Conversely, I think it would in some way- perhaps in a minute way- break them down or at least chip away at them. 

 

I must also admit, at the height of my own frustration- kids bickering, throwing tantrums, not following a single direction- there is something powerful about being in total control of my actions.  About letting my emotion of incomparable love for my daughters fuse with logic that intuitively says I cannot teach reasoning and tolerance mid strike.  Perhaps I’m thinking too deeply, but being a mother makes me question everything, and parenting twins make me do it twice as much.  Almost every word I say, gesture I make, or action I carry out is eventually (and sometimes immediately) replicated in my daughters’ interaction with each other.  Now that’s a lot of pressure, but I think (and hope and pray) I’m up for the challenge.

Do Skinny Jeans Really Make You Skinny?

A misnomer at best, but let’s just say that all trends are not created equal.  And some, skinny jeans included, are best left for the Hollywood elite and their real-life look-alikes, naturally and otherwise endowed.  Every magazine cover, TV fashion clip, and article, though, proclaimed skinny jeans as this year’s casual must-have.  So I was feeling some pressure, and the older I get, the more likely I am to break my lone golden fashion commandment: know thy body type.  Being a relatively new mother, too, certainly hasn’t helped my steadfastness.  I am more inclined now than ever to cling to my youth, even to my own fashion detriment. 

 

My enthusiasm when I began my quest for skinny jeans was palpable.  Nordstrom gift certificate in tow to eradicate most of my spending guilt, my mother at home to watch the girls, and an impending girlfriends’ getaway to justify the purchase.  I thought all of my bases had been covered. 

 

I headed for the juniors department, probably my first mistake, where all of the hot trends make their grand entrances (and mostly quick departures).  I must admit that there was some hint of apprehension even asking the sales associate to point me in the right direction.  Being 30-something with two children doesn’t exactly boost one’s morale in the quest for hot new trends.  Anyhow, I persisted, determined to find, try on, and purchase the goods.  And, you see, this was my biggest mistake of all.  Typically, when I go on a shopping mission of some sort, I am at peace with the fact that I may leave the store empty handed.  Perhaps not a good fit, not enough of a bargain- whatever the reason, I usually acknowledge the possibility that the purchase may not be in my shopping cards.  Not this time.

 

With the help of the young and trendy sales associate, I found the jeans and headed for the dressing room.  I somehow managed to paste the jeans onto my legs and get them fastened, but in doing so I am certain that I met my cardio exercise requirement for the day.  Immediately, and I do mean from the moment that I zipped them, I knew that I should have just let it go.  Chalked it up to a trend that would peacefully elude me.  The goal, after all, was not to accentuate my saddle bags and the post-pregnancy pooch that spills over.  I was going more for the suck-everything-in effect, which clearly I had failed to achieve.

 

I quickly removed the jeans, thankful that I was not in a communal dressing room, and headed for the cash register, blaming the ill-fated fit on inappropriate shoes and accessories.  They’ll be perfect when I get home. 

 

Wrong again.  Shoe after shoe only served to confirm what I already knew in my heart.  It wasn’t the shoes, accessories, or even the jeans.  It was me and the body I have on almost every occasion come to embrace and appreciate.  There are still those rare occasions, however, when I just hope, wish, and sometimes go as far as to pretend that my body is something I know rationally it is not.  Needless to say, the jeans remain in the bag, with tags, on the rare chance that one of my body-changing wishes will miraculously be granted by the fashion gods.  Hey, a girl can still dream.

 

That Twit Stole My Parking Spot

I cannot remember the last time I was so incensed.  Maybe I was already a little tense, trying to cope with single parenting for the week, making Spanish tapas for preschool snack (don’t ask), and finalizing plans for a LONG summer break with the kids.  But when that skinny twit brazenly stole my parking space, I lost it.  At least in my head I did.

 

It was such a beautiful day.  Virtually no humidity, a rarity in and around our nation’s capital, and I was out for a spur-of-the-moment lunch with my mother.  I knew the parking lot would be insane based on the line of cars I outwitted to get into the shopping center, so when I saw the rear white reverse lights as I pulled into the first row, I started to hum a little of Barry White’s Lady Luck in my head.  In retrospect I should have been singing something a little more Rage-Against-the-Machine esc.

 

I pulled just beyond the parked car’s bumper like the courteous driver I typically am and signaled accordingly to let the masses know that they should look elsewhere- this spot was mine.  Or so I thought.  As I waited patiently for the driver to back out, a late model SUV swooped in and just stole the spot from under what should have been my tires.  I was pissed and shocked, not a good combination for a retort. 

 

I sat in the car and watched this twig of a woman emerge from the driver’s side, and I hate to admit it but my first thought was, “Oh, that is a cute haircut.”  But I refused to let myself be distracted.  The lingering compliment was quickly supplanted by a bevy of four-letter words racing through my head, so plentiful I was having a hard time figuring out which ones I should use and in what order to make some sort of semantic sense.  So I reverted to my parenting mantra of the last two years as I have tried to encourage two now four-year-olds to talk first instead of merely react in a fit of rage, and all I could come up with was, “Excuse me but I was waiting for that spot.”  I know, I know- I’m dodging the tomatoes right now and trying to block out the hiss of boos I’m quite sure my lame response is eliciting. What a disappointment.

 

The real salt I could feel her pouring into the wound, though, came as she calmly replied mid-stride on her way to lunch, “Well, so was I and I’m not moving.”  That was it.  She  barely glanced at me, but I’m quite sure I could, even two weeks later, pick her out of a line up.  I sat there stunned, barely aware that my mother was encouraging me to just find another spot. 

 

Now, just because I mustered this degree of restraint does not mean this meshed well with the visceral reaction I kept at bay.  I wanted to hurl wretched insults that would somehow ruin her life or at least her day.  I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the pulsating urge I experienced to get out of the car and cause her bodily harm, key her car, or slash her tires.  I even went as far as to try to track her down inside one of the many restaurants in the shopping center, although I’m still not sure what I was trying to accomplish or what I would have done had the chance for face-to-face confrontation emerged.  Needless to say- I couldn’t find her.

 

The shroud of anger lingered for a few minutes longer, my face literally hot with rage.  I did eventually go on to have a wonderful and much needed lunch with my mom.  But the entire experience kept eating at me, and I kept wondering why I was so affected by someone taking a parking space when I found another one a whole 45 seconds later.  And it finally hit me- I was so angry because she had taken something from me that I covet entirely more than I should- control.  I wasn’t really that mad that she was rude- it’s likely that I’ll never see let alone interact with this woman again.  But she had wronged me, and there wasn’t one logical thing I could do to correct the matter.  This is what grated on me until I could hear the playback of my own voice trying to convince my daughters of a little gem of wisdom that learned early will spare them of unneeded personal torture and torment: You will never be able to control the actions and feelings of others.  But you are, 100 percent, in charge of how you allow yourself to feel and act.  (It usually sounds more like this: why are you LETTING her annoy you?”) It was clearly time for me to start using some of that parenting advice I so regularly spew solicited or un.   Perhaps I should start listening to myself more often.

 

 

About Me

I do not drive a minivan.  On some fronts, I am completely shallow (see previous comment), but in other ways my depth can be borderline nauseating (see the life I’ve lived for the past five years mulling over everything from food choices to preschools to raise happy, healthy, grounded, and conscientious daughters).  This is my commentary on these extremes, as they relate to me as a woman, wife, and mother, and everything in between.  Literally written at a coffeehouse...