Their silent wounds have speech
More eloquent than men;
Their tones can deeper reach
Than human voice or pen.
~William Woodman
While I stand on the sidewalk during our town’s Memorial Day parade, I will fix my thoughts on the extraordinary acts performed by ordinary men and women on my behalf. I stand in awe at their bravery and wonder how they were able to stir up such courage in order to put their lives on the line for the ideals which they held so dear. They did it for me. They did it for you. William Woodman said it well: “their tones reach deeper than human voice or pen.” Words cannot convey —nor can the mind fully comprehend—the generosity and unadulterated self-sacrifice bestowed on us by ordinary people throughout the ages.
I urge you to pray for the men and women in our Armed Forces who are this day putting their lives on the line in far corners around the globe in order to protect our personal freedoms and to defend the liberties which we hold so dear. Pray for the families who are fervently praying and awaiting their loved ones’ safe returns.
Blessings on Memorial Day to you and yours.
“Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism?” ~Henry Ward Beecher
A Quick Note
FourQ Press will close for the summer, starting today, Memorial Day, through Labor Day. I will officially re-enter corporate America next Monday. My new job, along with a new writing project, the Rocket Mom Society, our four kids and my husband (and dog and guinea pig and house) will occupy my summer days—and you will undoubtedly be too busy to read my Newsletters anyway! Please feel free to email any time! I’d love to hear from you. My weekly ROCKET MOM! Newsletters will resume the Monday after Labor Day. Until then, enjoy everything that the summer has to offer.
A Rocket Mom Society Note
The final society meeting of the school year will be held on Tuesday night, June 27 at 7:30 PM here at the Mother Ship. Our guest speaker will be Sherry Artemenko of Play on Words. LLC. She’ll teach us how to use games and fun, playful activities with our young children in an effort to increase language development.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Monday, May 22, 2006
Going the Distance
Without a doubt, the last few weeks of school are amongst the busiest in the calendar year. Graduations, recitals, concerts, sporting competitions and final exams all exert undue influence over the time and energy of students and parents alike. Most days find me traveling across the county shuffling kids to one event or another; May and June find me barely able to navigate the logistical gymnastics required for all of the above.
This weekend was no different. Batting clinics, lacrosse games and a year-end orchestra concert in which three of our kids played, took up most of our time. Thankfully, a quick visit (and fun May ritual) from my oldest friend from out-of-town provided just the fresh spark I needed to keep my enthusiasm level high throughout. It was a happy, happy weekend, filled with family, friends and fun.
Anecdotes throughout the weekend presented a resounding theme: going the distance is worth it. It’s worth the time. It’s worth the energy. It’s worth the driving around. It’s worth the work.
A visit to an antiques shop in Connecticut—and a wonderfully long chat with the owner—convinced me of the need to counter our “fixed in a flash” modus operandi with a longer term perspective on life. The antiques dealer winced at the notion that young people today desire their homes to be instantly furnished and decorated, using a few clicks of the mouse on eBay to supply them with everything from linens to lamps to dining room tables. Few young people today are willing to take the time and energy to wisely shop for their homes anymore. To scour antiques shops in faraway towns. To put in the time for adventure. To find thrill in “the hunt.” The pursuit, which used to take center stage, has been replaced in these bustling days of ours with “the catch.” We become satisfied with second-rate, because hunting for “wonderful” is just too cumbersome.
Friendships, too, take years and years to develop. They blossom eventually, through years of coffees and lunches, movies and trips, phone calls and postcards. They start as budding relationships, and grow and grow and grow if well-watered. Surviving a few inevitable bumps in the middle, like acne on our teens’ faces, they eventually develop into beautiful models of faith and trust and love. Like our children, friendships require years of nurturing. Of time and energy and good old-fashioned hard work.
Some of the most talented kids in our town performed in the end-of-year concert for the youth orchestra this weekend. My husband and I got lumps in our throats watching our own children play a Beethoven symphony in its entirety. No “fixed in a flash” model there. Obtainable only through years of lessons. Of weekly practices. Of discipline. Persistence. Vision. Determination.
I know that this month—heck, this week!—may find you physically exhausted. Parenting rarely finds a busier time of year. Class parties and field trips exert unusually high demands on our time. Our kids—and their teachers and coaches and conductors—tend to simply wear us out right about now. I hope that as you travel down the home stretch in these days and weeks ahead, that you’ll find renewed optimism in the knowledge that your energy invested in your kids now will find enormous rewards a few years down the road. It can be so difficult to see this through bloodshot eyes. But keep the course. Maintain the energy. Stay focused on the vision. For as parenting is wonderfully relentless, its fruits are wonderfully delicious. And you need to go the distance so that you’re guaranteed to taste them.
Blessings on your week!
Carolina
A Rocket Mom Society Note
Join us this Tuesday for our monthly meeting at Chico’s on Main Street at Bailey Avenue, Ridgefield, CT, at 7:30 PM for a “Shopping and Sipping Soiree.” Chico’s has generously offered a 10% discount on all purchase made by members (and their guests) that night! Members, please bring a friend or two so they can see what we’ve been talking about. Guests will be welcomed at the door. Questions? emomrx@yahoo.com.
Without a doubt, the last few weeks of school are amongst the busiest in the calendar year. Graduations, recitals, concerts, sporting competitions and final exams all exert undue influence over the time and energy of students and parents alike. Most days find me traveling across the county shuffling kids to one event or another; May and June find me barely able to navigate the logistical gymnastics required for all of the above.
This weekend was no different. Batting clinics, lacrosse games and a year-end orchestra concert in which three of our kids played, took up most of our time. Thankfully, a quick visit (and fun May ritual) from my oldest friend from out-of-town provided just the fresh spark I needed to keep my enthusiasm level high throughout. It was a happy, happy weekend, filled with family, friends and fun.
Anecdotes throughout the weekend presented a resounding theme: going the distance is worth it. It’s worth the time. It’s worth the energy. It’s worth the driving around. It’s worth the work.
A visit to an antiques shop in Connecticut—and a wonderfully long chat with the owner—convinced me of the need to counter our “fixed in a flash” modus operandi with a longer term perspective on life. The antiques dealer winced at the notion that young people today desire their homes to be instantly furnished and decorated, using a few clicks of the mouse on eBay to supply them with everything from linens to lamps to dining room tables. Few young people today are willing to take the time and energy to wisely shop for their homes anymore. To scour antiques shops in faraway towns. To put in the time for adventure. To find thrill in “the hunt.” The pursuit, which used to take center stage, has been replaced in these bustling days of ours with “the catch.” We become satisfied with second-rate, because hunting for “wonderful” is just too cumbersome.
Friendships, too, take years and years to develop. They blossom eventually, through years of coffees and lunches, movies and trips, phone calls and postcards. They start as budding relationships, and grow and grow and grow if well-watered. Surviving a few inevitable bumps in the middle, like acne on our teens’ faces, they eventually develop into beautiful models of faith and trust and love. Like our children, friendships require years of nurturing. Of time and energy and good old-fashioned hard work.
Some of the most talented kids in our town performed in the end-of-year concert for the youth orchestra this weekend. My husband and I got lumps in our throats watching our own children play a Beethoven symphony in its entirety. No “fixed in a flash” model there. Obtainable only through years of lessons. Of weekly practices. Of discipline. Persistence. Vision. Determination.
I know that this month—heck, this week!—may find you physically exhausted. Parenting rarely finds a busier time of year. Class parties and field trips exert unusually high demands on our time. Our kids—and their teachers and coaches and conductors—tend to simply wear us out right about now. I hope that as you travel down the home stretch in these days and weeks ahead, that you’ll find renewed optimism in the knowledge that your energy invested in your kids now will find enormous rewards a few years down the road. It can be so difficult to see this through bloodshot eyes. But keep the course. Maintain the energy. Stay focused on the vision. For as parenting is wonderfully relentless, its fruits are wonderfully delicious. And you need to go the distance so that you’re guaranteed to taste them.
Blessings on your week!
Carolina
A Rocket Mom Society Note
Join us this Tuesday for our monthly meeting at Chico’s on Main Street at Bailey Avenue, Ridgefield, CT, at 7:30 PM for a “Shopping and Sipping Soiree.” Chico’s has generously offered a 10% discount on all purchase made by members (and their guests) that night! Members, please bring a friend or two so they can see what we’ve been talking about. Guests will be welcomed at the door. Questions? emomrx@yahoo.com.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Infusing Heart into the Hearth of the Home
"There is no reason, either in prose or in rhyme, why a whole house should not be a poem." Ella Church Rodman
With any luck, your Mother’s Day weekend was as wonderful as was mine. As one day cannot hold the full celebration, the “holiday” has been elevated—in my family anyway—to the entire weekend. It starts on Thursday night and extends ‘til midnight on Sunday. Extra lounging in an excusable indulgence, as is extra chocolate, extra newspaper perusing, and extra sleep.
And if that’s not quite enough, in this section of Connecticut where we make our home, kitchen tours have been perfectly calibrated to Mother’s Day “weekend,” and so I became happily transplanted to two different towns…with a third this coming week…all in the name of “Happy Mother’s Day.” Call it wonderful coincidence or perfect event planning: celebrating the hearth gets to us mothers’ hearts whether we like it or not.
These tours, quite spectacular in every imaginable way, go beyond the familiar house tour offered by many historical societies or trusts for historic preservation in cities across the country. They zoom in specifically on the most honored room in the house: the kitchen. Architects and kitchen designers stand for the duration of the tour, beaming with pride over the perfectly appointed rooms they have created for their clients. As they should. Most of the work is exquisite and deserves recognition.
And recognize we patrons did in full force. Attended by hundreds of would-be renovators scourging the tour for ideas, curiosity seekers anxious to see what the next-door neighbor has been up to, professionals simply checking out the competition, and HGTV and Food Network junkies by the truckloads, the kitchens on tour scratch our collective itch.
As a wannabe kitchen renovator (my oven is falling apart, my fridge door hardly stays shut and my stove is on its last leg), I had a strong desire to see what folks are doing in kitchens around my neck of the woods. Granted, Fairfield County, Connecticut can be a rather daunting neck to grasp; the most difficult part is simply getting my brain wrapped around the scope of the kitchens on tour. For we’re not talking merely ripping up vinyl flooring and replacing it with hardwood here. We’re talking six burner professional ranges, imported marble countertops, double Sub Zero’s, handmade tile backsplashes and handpainted friezes. Copper countertops and double-wide limestone farm sinks. Trips to Europe—with interior designer in tow—in search of that perfect armoire. Or vacations spent trolling through the Paris flea market for the grandest chandelier. One of the homes undertook a four-year renovation; granted, its 10,000 square foot size required a committed team of experts in order to eventually pull it off. But its final result—impressive, certainly—boggled my mind.
Now, there’s certainly nothing wrong with any of these indulgences. We can call it “protecting our investment” or “infusing our home with beauty” or “doing careful research.” The kitchens on tour were, with few exceptions, veritable works of art.
And as a visual artist, I appreciate the need for transformative beauty as much, if not more than, the next person. Indeed, my need to fill my kitchen with things that I love, things that I find beautiful, is a highly motivating adventure for me. Ever in search of wonderful roosters or lamps or linens or candles: I’m almost always on the hunt.
But as I tromped through house after house, I remained inspired most by understatement, as always. By the antique and smallish house that didn’t scream “Look at me!” Which spoke to me through its quietly unassuming authenticity. Of wonderful proportions, clean color and organic materials. Of beautiful, yet simple, fabrics. I like things that are gorgeous. But I like them to come at me in the same way that nature does. “The earth laughs in flowers,” Emerson wrote, and certainly their beauty is inescapable for those willing to slow down long enough to fully appreciate it. But flowers don’t scream. They softly persuade. They whisper “Come hither.”
As I go about the initial steps towards a complete kitchen re-do, I hope I can translate my need for organic beauty to the designer with whom I will eventually work side-by-side. I hope my desire for open shelving, a rather common solution in kitchens across Europe, overrides designer’s dreams of expansive (and expensive) full-scale cabinetry. I hope that my desire for a glass-doored refrigerator, one which I’ve held for more than two decades, is not met with skepticism by well-intentioned planners who worry that children’s fingerprints and messy living habits will intrude on the assumptive need for impeccable order and cleanliness. I hope that my desire to impart my own stamp, through my collections formed over nearly a quarter century of marriage, will not be met with a “professional’s” desire for something less artsy. Or for something that appeals to his or her aesthetic, rather than to mine.
For the one thing I had hoped to see more of in these wonderfully designed kitchens was the owner’s handprint. Or that of their children. I would have loved to have seen a crumb or two. Or some suggestion that the owners actually cooked there. That dough was, on some days, actually rolled out on the marble countertop and that vegetables were stir-fried on one of those six burners. Indeed, the phrase “working kitchen” has evolved in order to distinguish between those kitchens which are designed to be merely beautiful versus those in which homeowners actually cook.
I’d like to think that some kitchens stand—from decades of use or from recent renovation—where roasts are basted and hearts are repaired. Where bills are paid and where lunchboxes are packed. Where we value the notion of nurturing: through meals and through conversation. With preparation along with presentation.
Few things tug at our heartstrings as do our kitchens. We have long recognized them as the hearth of the home. Let’s just hope that in the real estate frenzy—as well as in the overly-consumptive age in which we find ourselves—that we keep the heart in the hearth of our homes. And that we are able to translate it aesthetically so that our loved ones can benefit. Via fabulous aromas or soothing patterns and color. Through folk art collections or through hand-crafted dinner plates. Through pottery or placemats.
For therein lies the challenge. As always. Infusing the hearth with heart.
May you find beauty in your week.
Carolina
A Quick Note
My wish for a new digital camera and photo printer was happily met by my husband and kids. They understood quickly—and precisely—my specs for an idiot-proof system, and we found one. Send me an email if you’re on a similar hunt, and I’ll tell you what we wound up with: emomrx@yahoo.com.
A Rocket Mom Society Note
Please join us at 7:30 PM on Tuesday night, May 23, for an evening of shopping at Chico’s. They are paying special homage to our Society by extending a generous discount on all purchases made that night. Bring a friend. You need not be a member to come. You just need to know one (that would be moi!)
"There is no reason, either in prose or in rhyme, why a whole house should not be a poem." Ella Church Rodman
With any luck, your Mother’s Day weekend was as wonderful as was mine. As one day cannot hold the full celebration, the “holiday” has been elevated—in my family anyway—to the entire weekend. It starts on Thursday night and extends ‘til midnight on Sunday. Extra lounging in an excusable indulgence, as is extra chocolate, extra newspaper perusing, and extra sleep.
And if that’s not quite enough, in this section of Connecticut where we make our home, kitchen tours have been perfectly calibrated to Mother’s Day “weekend,” and so I became happily transplanted to two different towns…with a third this coming week…all in the name of “Happy Mother’s Day.” Call it wonderful coincidence or perfect event planning: celebrating the hearth gets to us mothers’ hearts whether we like it or not.
These tours, quite spectacular in every imaginable way, go beyond the familiar house tour offered by many historical societies or trusts for historic preservation in cities across the country. They zoom in specifically on the most honored room in the house: the kitchen. Architects and kitchen designers stand for the duration of the tour, beaming with pride over the perfectly appointed rooms they have created for their clients. As they should. Most of the work is exquisite and deserves recognition.
And recognize we patrons did in full force. Attended by hundreds of would-be renovators scourging the tour for ideas, curiosity seekers anxious to see what the next-door neighbor has been up to, professionals simply checking out the competition, and HGTV and Food Network junkies by the truckloads, the kitchens on tour scratch our collective itch.
As a wannabe kitchen renovator (my oven is falling apart, my fridge door hardly stays shut and my stove is on its last leg), I had a strong desire to see what folks are doing in kitchens around my neck of the woods. Granted, Fairfield County, Connecticut can be a rather daunting neck to grasp; the most difficult part is simply getting my brain wrapped around the scope of the kitchens on tour. For we’re not talking merely ripping up vinyl flooring and replacing it with hardwood here. We’re talking six burner professional ranges, imported marble countertops, double Sub Zero’s, handmade tile backsplashes and handpainted friezes. Copper countertops and double-wide limestone farm sinks. Trips to Europe—with interior designer in tow—in search of that perfect armoire. Or vacations spent trolling through the Paris flea market for the grandest chandelier. One of the homes undertook a four-year renovation; granted, its 10,000 square foot size required a committed team of experts in order to eventually pull it off. But its final result—impressive, certainly—boggled my mind.
Now, there’s certainly nothing wrong with any of these indulgences. We can call it “protecting our investment” or “infusing our home with beauty” or “doing careful research.” The kitchens on tour were, with few exceptions, veritable works of art.
And as a visual artist, I appreciate the need for transformative beauty as much, if not more than, the next person. Indeed, my need to fill my kitchen with things that I love, things that I find beautiful, is a highly motivating adventure for me. Ever in search of wonderful roosters or lamps or linens or candles: I’m almost always on the hunt.
But as I tromped through house after house, I remained inspired most by understatement, as always. By the antique and smallish house that didn’t scream “Look at me!” Which spoke to me through its quietly unassuming authenticity. Of wonderful proportions, clean color and organic materials. Of beautiful, yet simple, fabrics. I like things that are gorgeous. But I like them to come at me in the same way that nature does. “The earth laughs in flowers,” Emerson wrote, and certainly their beauty is inescapable for those willing to slow down long enough to fully appreciate it. But flowers don’t scream. They softly persuade. They whisper “Come hither.”
As I go about the initial steps towards a complete kitchen re-do, I hope I can translate my need for organic beauty to the designer with whom I will eventually work side-by-side. I hope my desire for open shelving, a rather common solution in kitchens across Europe, overrides designer’s dreams of expansive (and expensive) full-scale cabinetry. I hope that my desire for a glass-doored refrigerator, one which I’ve held for more than two decades, is not met with skepticism by well-intentioned planners who worry that children’s fingerprints and messy living habits will intrude on the assumptive need for impeccable order and cleanliness. I hope that my desire to impart my own stamp, through my collections formed over nearly a quarter century of marriage, will not be met with a “professional’s” desire for something less artsy. Or for something that appeals to his or her aesthetic, rather than to mine.
For the one thing I had hoped to see more of in these wonderfully designed kitchens was the owner’s handprint. Or that of their children. I would have loved to have seen a crumb or two. Or some suggestion that the owners actually cooked there. That dough was, on some days, actually rolled out on the marble countertop and that vegetables were stir-fried on one of those six burners. Indeed, the phrase “working kitchen” has evolved in order to distinguish between those kitchens which are designed to be merely beautiful versus those in which homeowners actually cook.
I’d like to think that some kitchens stand—from decades of use or from recent renovation—where roasts are basted and hearts are repaired. Where bills are paid and where lunchboxes are packed. Where we value the notion of nurturing: through meals and through conversation. With preparation along with presentation.
Few things tug at our heartstrings as do our kitchens. We have long recognized them as the hearth of the home. Let’s just hope that in the real estate frenzy—as well as in the overly-consumptive age in which we find ourselves—that we keep the heart in the hearth of our homes. And that we are able to translate it aesthetically so that our loved ones can benefit. Via fabulous aromas or soothing patterns and color. Through folk art collections or through hand-crafted dinner plates. Through pottery or placemats.
For therein lies the challenge. As always. Infusing the hearth with heart.
May you find beauty in your week.
Carolina
A Quick Note
My wish for a new digital camera and photo printer was happily met by my husband and kids. They understood quickly—and precisely—my specs for an idiot-proof system, and we found one. Send me an email if you’re on a similar hunt, and I’ll tell you what we wound up with: emomrx@yahoo.com.
A Rocket Mom Society Note
Please join us at 7:30 PM on Tuesday night, May 23, for an evening of shopping at Chico’s. They are paying special homage to our Society by extending a generous discount on all purchases made that night. Bring a friend. You need not be a member to come. You just need to know one (that would be moi!)
Monday, May 08, 2006
What Mom Really Wants for Mother's Day
When I told my fourteen-year-old daughter that what I really wanted for Mother’s Day was to hear her perform the Bach A-minor concerto onstage in Woolsey Hall at Yale University, she rolled her eyeballs and said in that teenage girl voice that only bona fide teenage girls can do: “That’s not what I had in mind, Mooooom.”
“But it’s what I really want,” I replied.
My completely earnest request was met with more eye ball rolling, swooshing of the hair over the neck, arms crossed under the chest and complete silence for most of the hour-long drive to New Haven.
We wound up going, my daughter and I, and, as far as I’m concerned, I got what I really wanted for Mother’s Day. She played beautifully and the afternoon concert more than filled my cup. So I don’t want the flowers. Don’t want the chocolate (okay, so maybe if it’s extra dark, I’ll cave in). And certainly don’t want the plush animal (seriously, who are the teddy bear companies kidding?!?)
My daughter had “in mind” a mani/pedi, my favorite indulgence on the planet…and maybe even in the entire galaxy. Give me freshly sculpted fingernails and fiercely loofahed feet and I’m one smiling mom. So I felt confident that, with the “what I really wanted concert” behind me and a possible mani/pedi ahead of me, that the week leading up to Mother’s Day would be smooth sailing.
And then a flyer poked out of the newspaper and a gadget caught my eye. Well, not really a gadget per se. It was a digital camera. Well, it was a digital camera attached to a photo printer, if you want to be exact about it. And it looked so, well, easy. It was small and slick and adorable all at the same time. And, most importantly, it looked like it was idiot-proof. It appealed—strongly—to me, the resident technology idiot.
Now, I’m not pretending to be an idiot. Not wanting to sound humbly self-effacing or anything of that nature. No. I’m a rather smart cookie and I’m proud of that. But technology? Well, you see, the tech craze just happened to coincide with my rearing of that fourth kid as well as the premature onset of menopause, and, while not using either as the perfect excuse for being technologically-retarded, given that the final push of childbirth (and the mere experience of pregnancy) depletes brain cells and that menopause in and of itself has been scientifically proven to cause severe lapses in mental prowess, heck: if it’s good enough for the American Medical Association, it’s good enough for me. Childbirth and premature menopause cause technological retardation, OK?
So spying an ad for an idiot-proof digital camera really sparked my interest. And I thought, “Now that’s what I really want for Mother’s Day.” I am dreadfully and hopelessly behind in organizing my “memories” (does anyone even use the word “photos” anymore?) and the whole conversion of film to disc to online storage to email ordering thing has really gotten me down. Just when I got the whole take-the-photos-to-the-drugstore (now there’s an archaic word for you)-to-get-developed ritual down pat, along came digital photography. (I think I was in childbirth #4 around that time). With fewer brain cells with which to figure this one out, I turned the photography division of labor over to hubby. He got a kick out of it, and about four digital cameras later, has a multitude of files stored on my laptop, which I can never quite find when I need them. But he’s convinced me that they are in there somewhere.
Now lest you think I have completely lost my mind, let me assure you that there is a whole segment of women in the universe who are in exactly the same age group/life stage/hormonal imbalance level who understand EXACTLY what I’m saying: we got caught between the proverbial rock and technology hard place because we failed to time life perfectly. We’re bright, highly educated women who desire more than anything to have perfectly preserved memories of our children’s happy childhoods—but we now have no clear idea how to do it. The lady I met at the “drugstore” a few weeks ago confirmed my observation: we struck up a quick friendship while scanning photos into the machine and kibitzing about the technology rock-hard-place thing. We commiserated with each other about the inherent difficulty of it all (and while we were at it, swapped cell phone data entry horror stories, too) and we shared ideas of how we did—or did not—do the new technology photo/memory bit.
What I really want for Mother’s Day is a new digital camera and a matching photo printer. I do not want the manual nor do I want to read anything; I want my husband to sit down with me for a half hour and tell me exactly how to do it. I do not want to know all the tricks of this new trade; I just want him to sit down at my laptop and tell me how to retrieve all of the files he created for me which I cannot find. And then I want him to tell me how to print them out so that I can organize them into the beautiful books I bought after childbirth #2 when I merely glued those suckers in and wrote captions out long hand. No stickers. No brads and studs. No countless, colored versions of the alphabet printed on plastic-coated sheets. Just tell me—or show me—how to take a picture, print it out and get it into an album. Show me how to go from the push of the camera’s button to the computer. Show me how to plug a very short cord into something so that by the count of “three” I have a photo not just in my hand, but archivally preserved into my album!
I figure that there are at least ten million of us moms out here (if I’m doing the math correctly) who will find ourselves in this predicament on Mother’s Day. We’re haplessly watching the technological world swirl by, fazed by our lack of familiarity with it and by our inability to tackle it, yet unfazed by whippersnapper moms who already have all of this figured out (for we have the luxury of recounting wonderful successes, albeit technologically un-savvy ones, accomplished over the past ten to twenty years that techie-guru moms strongly desire, even if they haven’t yet verbalized or consciously realized it yet).
What we mothers really want for Mother’s Day is a husband or a teen—or heck, even a toddler—to show us how to do this stuff. To move us, slowly and tenderly, out of the place in which we have so lovingly settled, and into the fast-moving technological world which frightens and confuses and amazes us.
And if I can’t get all of the above, what I really want for Mother’s Day is just a few great pictures of my family. You could throw in the mani/pedi just in case—and dark chocolate never hurts—but some pictures taken, printed and gosh, maybe even organized onto a page in my album, and I’d say that Mother’s Day would be just swell.
Happy, happy Mother’s Day!
Carolina
“But it’s what I really want,” I replied.
My completely earnest request was met with more eye ball rolling, swooshing of the hair over the neck, arms crossed under the chest and complete silence for most of the hour-long drive to New Haven.
We wound up going, my daughter and I, and, as far as I’m concerned, I got what I really wanted for Mother’s Day. She played beautifully and the afternoon concert more than filled my cup. So I don’t want the flowers. Don’t want the chocolate (okay, so maybe if it’s extra dark, I’ll cave in). And certainly don’t want the plush animal (seriously, who are the teddy bear companies kidding?!?)
My daughter had “in mind” a mani/pedi, my favorite indulgence on the planet…and maybe even in the entire galaxy. Give me freshly sculpted fingernails and fiercely loofahed feet and I’m one smiling mom. So I felt confident that, with the “what I really wanted concert” behind me and a possible mani/pedi ahead of me, that the week leading up to Mother’s Day would be smooth sailing.
And then a flyer poked out of the newspaper and a gadget caught my eye. Well, not really a gadget per se. It was a digital camera. Well, it was a digital camera attached to a photo printer, if you want to be exact about it. And it looked so, well, easy. It was small and slick and adorable all at the same time. And, most importantly, it looked like it was idiot-proof. It appealed—strongly—to me, the resident technology idiot.
Now, I’m not pretending to be an idiot. Not wanting to sound humbly self-effacing or anything of that nature. No. I’m a rather smart cookie and I’m proud of that. But technology? Well, you see, the tech craze just happened to coincide with my rearing of that fourth kid as well as the premature onset of menopause, and, while not using either as the perfect excuse for being technologically-retarded, given that the final push of childbirth (and the mere experience of pregnancy) depletes brain cells and that menopause in and of itself has been scientifically proven to cause severe lapses in mental prowess, heck: if it’s good enough for the American Medical Association, it’s good enough for me. Childbirth and premature menopause cause technological retardation, OK?
So spying an ad for an idiot-proof digital camera really sparked my interest. And I thought, “Now that’s what I really want for Mother’s Day.” I am dreadfully and hopelessly behind in organizing my “memories” (does anyone even use the word “photos” anymore?) and the whole conversion of film to disc to online storage to email ordering thing has really gotten me down. Just when I got the whole take-the-photos-to-the-drugstore (now there’s an archaic word for you)-to-get-developed ritual down pat, along came digital photography. (I think I was in childbirth #4 around that time). With fewer brain cells with which to figure this one out, I turned the photography division of labor over to hubby. He got a kick out of it, and about four digital cameras later, has a multitude of files stored on my laptop, which I can never quite find when I need them. But he’s convinced me that they are in there somewhere.
Now lest you think I have completely lost my mind, let me assure you that there is a whole segment of women in the universe who are in exactly the same age group/life stage/hormonal imbalance level who understand EXACTLY what I’m saying: we got caught between the proverbial rock and technology hard place because we failed to time life perfectly. We’re bright, highly educated women who desire more than anything to have perfectly preserved memories of our children’s happy childhoods—but we now have no clear idea how to do it. The lady I met at the “drugstore” a few weeks ago confirmed my observation: we struck up a quick friendship while scanning photos into the machine and kibitzing about the technology rock-hard-place thing. We commiserated with each other about the inherent difficulty of it all (and while we were at it, swapped cell phone data entry horror stories, too) and we shared ideas of how we did—or did not—do the new technology photo/memory bit.
What I really want for Mother’s Day is a new digital camera and a matching photo printer. I do not want the manual nor do I want to read anything; I want my husband to sit down with me for a half hour and tell me exactly how to do it. I do not want to know all the tricks of this new trade; I just want him to sit down at my laptop and tell me how to retrieve all of the files he created for me which I cannot find. And then I want him to tell me how to print them out so that I can organize them into the beautiful books I bought after childbirth #2 when I merely glued those suckers in and wrote captions out long hand. No stickers. No brads and studs. No countless, colored versions of the alphabet printed on plastic-coated sheets. Just tell me—or show me—how to take a picture, print it out and get it into an album. Show me how to go from the push of the camera’s button to the computer. Show me how to plug a very short cord into something so that by the count of “three” I have a photo not just in my hand, but archivally preserved into my album!
I figure that there are at least ten million of us moms out here (if I’m doing the math correctly) who will find ourselves in this predicament on Mother’s Day. We’re haplessly watching the technological world swirl by, fazed by our lack of familiarity with it and by our inability to tackle it, yet unfazed by whippersnapper moms who already have all of this figured out (for we have the luxury of recounting wonderful successes, albeit technologically un-savvy ones, accomplished over the past ten to twenty years that techie-guru moms strongly desire, even if they haven’t yet verbalized or consciously realized it yet).
What we mothers really want for Mother’s Day is a husband or a teen—or heck, even a toddler—to show us how to do this stuff. To move us, slowly and tenderly, out of the place in which we have so lovingly settled, and into the fast-moving technological world which frightens and confuses and amazes us.
And if I can’t get all of the above, what I really want for Mother’s Day is just a few great pictures of my family. You could throw in the mani/pedi just in case—and dark chocolate never hurts—but some pictures taken, printed and gosh, maybe even organized onto a page in my album, and I’d say that Mother’s Day would be just swell.
Happy, happy Mother’s Day!
Carolina
Monday, May 01, 2006
Keeping the Train on Track
“Talent is 99 percent perspiration and 1 percent inspiration.” Thomas Edison
I experienced the privilege and joy of sitting back and watching my daughter perform in a Suzuki Festival this weekend at Yale University. In its glorious Woolsey Hall, oversized, magnificent gilded pipes for the front-and-center organ stared us parents (and more-than-proud grandparents) in our faces while we watched a couple hundred musicians balance pint-sized violins, maneuver mini-cellos and stroke lightweight guitars on stage. Classical and folk music filled the air, starting with Copland’s invigorating “Hoedown” and ending with the Suzuki signature “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” which we parents have enjoyed (or endured) anywhere from a hundred to a zillion times, depending on our length in the Suzuki program. But we sat there, all of us, mesmerized and busting with pride. To think that our kids could have multiple books of music permanently ingrained in their brains; that their thin little fingers could glide over the strings at lightning speed; and that they could produce such beautiful music with complete strangers in perfect harmony, their only bond being the study of the same music under the same pedagogical training, was almost too much to comprehend. It was nothing short of splendid.
It was a sadly striking observation—especially given the glory of the occasion—to note the high rate of “de-selection” out of the system as kids grew older. While dozens upon dozens of little ones proudly played “Twinkle,” only a handful of teens took to the stage for the advanced pieces.
Now, this could be said of practically anything. How many toddler girls enjoy all of that pink tulle for those first few years of ballet, after all, only to drop out right before going on to pointe? Or enthusiastically embrace early morning lap swimming with the neighborhood gang, only to drop out when the coach asks them to swim five hours a day? How many unused drum sets, guitars, easels and athletic equipment are collecting dust in garages across the globe as overly-ambitious pursuits—quick shots out of the blocks each one of them—fizzle to a grinding halt once the realization of all of that hard work sets into our youngsters’ collective consciousnesses?
Let’s face it: it’s a lot more difficult to stick with something than it is to get something started. Drumming up enthusiasm for a new project, be it taking up the oboe or taking up oil painting, is no harder for most of us than getting our fannies up and off the sofa. We order the new gear, new art supplies or new instruments, practically salivating at the vision. We enthusiastically walk into our new lessons, proudly toting new stuff, bubbling over with excitement and energy for the newness of it all. Like staring into a new baby’s eyes and understanding that this life holds such promise, we zealously embrace new projects, and realize, all too slowly, the terrific sacrifices demanded for growth.
One of the most difficult challenges of parenting is discerning how long we require our children to stick with something…keeping the train on the track…and knowing when it’s okay to let them jump off.
Do we decide at the point when the frustration level becomes unbearable that “now is the time”? Or do we grit our teeth and understand that this is all just part of the process? When our kids slam the door, stomp their feet and scream “I hate this!” do we take that as a sign that we should stop now? Or do we simply acknowledge that as a good time for a strong cup of coffee, a bit of dark chocolate and a time-out?
I have remained amazed—over these past almost twenty years—of the number of parents who throw in the towel too soon, as well as the ones who manage to hold on through their children’s mastery. I have taken my own fair share of well-intentioned yet unsolicited advice from honest parents who simply see things differently than I do. There is a great deal of difference here and it’s a tough one to sort out. And it was particularly glaring today.
As there are, of course, vast personal differences among children and families; in constraints on time, energy and financial resources; and in personality variances of pure persistence (or of pure stubbornness), one can’t devise blanket generalizations for keeping—or moving—the train on track. There are just too many variables in the equation. Regardless, one bottom line is true virtually across the board: children despise hard work, and anything requiring mastery demands hard work! As parents, we need to figure out when to chalk up something unpleasant—violin practice or spelling drills or swimming regimens or frustrated painting sessions—to hard work, pure and simple—or to “it’s time to get the train off the track.” There are few things couples argue more over, few questions moms ask me more frequently, and few things that cause me greater personal angst, than this issue.
I wish I had the answer. I wish every situation had a pat solution. I wish it was as easy as encouraging every parent to stick with it ‘til the bitter end! To battle it out until the final victory is achieved! ‘Til you hear “the” recital, witness the home run or hang the blue ribbon you’ve been waiting for. That you won’t let him quit until he finishes that tenth book of violin music or makes it all the way through the majors in Little League. That she has to take Spanish all the way through high school. Or must enroll in art school until she uses up all of her expensive supplies.
But it’s never that easy. Nope. Parenting is always full of surprises. Our kids can out-smart us, out-maneuver us and out-last us…and they will. Just when we think we’ve got this parenting thing figured out, we face another trick or challenge or dilemma and we feel like we’re back at square one. Or we realize that what worked for the first kid has no power over the second. Oh geez.
One thing I know for sure: mastery commands respect. As does consistency. Perseverance. Persistence. Stick-to-it-ive-ness. We reward singers who make it all the way on American Idol and athletes who make it to the Olympics. We love stories of persevering against all odds and of sticking it out even when it hurts. And so while that certainly doesn’t mean that it’s never okay to let the train jump off the tracks—because some times that truly is the right thing to do—make sure that you don’t trade common everyday impatience for quick fix solutions. For increased peace and quiet in the home. Or increased harmony. For less fighting or foot stomping or door slamming.
Remember, always, the dirty little secret of parenting: it takes far more nurturing, far more patience and far more energy than anyone ever warned you about. That it takes years of hard work and practice. That practice is hard work and that hard work is just practice. And that it will all be worth it when you receive the joy—as I did today—as you simply sit back, smile, and think: “We done good.”
Blessings on your week,
Carolina
I experienced the privilege and joy of sitting back and watching my daughter perform in a Suzuki Festival this weekend at Yale University. In its glorious Woolsey Hall, oversized, magnificent gilded pipes for the front-and-center organ stared us parents (and more-than-proud grandparents) in our faces while we watched a couple hundred musicians balance pint-sized violins, maneuver mini-cellos and stroke lightweight guitars on stage. Classical and folk music filled the air, starting with Copland’s invigorating “Hoedown” and ending with the Suzuki signature “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” which we parents have enjoyed (or endured) anywhere from a hundred to a zillion times, depending on our length in the Suzuki program. But we sat there, all of us, mesmerized and busting with pride. To think that our kids could have multiple books of music permanently ingrained in their brains; that their thin little fingers could glide over the strings at lightning speed; and that they could produce such beautiful music with complete strangers in perfect harmony, their only bond being the study of the same music under the same pedagogical training, was almost too much to comprehend. It was nothing short of splendid.
It was a sadly striking observation—especially given the glory of the occasion—to note the high rate of “de-selection” out of the system as kids grew older. While dozens upon dozens of little ones proudly played “Twinkle,” only a handful of teens took to the stage for the advanced pieces.
Now, this could be said of practically anything. How many toddler girls enjoy all of that pink tulle for those first few years of ballet, after all, only to drop out right before going on to pointe? Or enthusiastically embrace early morning lap swimming with the neighborhood gang, only to drop out when the coach asks them to swim five hours a day? How many unused drum sets, guitars, easels and athletic equipment are collecting dust in garages across the globe as overly-ambitious pursuits—quick shots out of the blocks each one of them—fizzle to a grinding halt once the realization of all of that hard work sets into our youngsters’ collective consciousnesses?
Let’s face it: it’s a lot more difficult to stick with something than it is to get something started. Drumming up enthusiasm for a new project, be it taking up the oboe or taking up oil painting, is no harder for most of us than getting our fannies up and off the sofa. We order the new gear, new art supplies or new instruments, practically salivating at the vision. We enthusiastically walk into our new lessons, proudly toting new stuff, bubbling over with excitement and energy for the newness of it all. Like staring into a new baby’s eyes and understanding that this life holds such promise, we zealously embrace new projects, and realize, all too slowly, the terrific sacrifices demanded for growth.
One of the most difficult challenges of parenting is discerning how long we require our children to stick with something…keeping the train on the track…and knowing when it’s okay to let them jump off.
Do we decide at the point when the frustration level becomes unbearable that “now is the time”? Or do we grit our teeth and understand that this is all just part of the process? When our kids slam the door, stomp their feet and scream “I hate this!” do we take that as a sign that we should stop now? Or do we simply acknowledge that as a good time for a strong cup of coffee, a bit of dark chocolate and a time-out?
I have remained amazed—over these past almost twenty years—of the number of parents who throw in the towel too soon, as well as the ones who manage to hold on through their children’s mastery. I have taken my own fair share of well-intentioned yet unsolicited advice from honest parents who simply see things differently than I do. There is a great deal of difference here and it’s a tough one to sort out. And it was particularly glaring today.
As there are, of course, vast personal differences among children and families; in constraints on time, energy and financial resources; and in personality variances of pure persistence (or of pure stubbornness), one can’t devise blanket generalizations for keeping—or moving—the train on track. There are just too many variables in the equation. Regardless, one bottom line is true virtually across the board: children despise hard work, and anything requiring mastery demands hard work! As parents, we need to figure out when to chalk up something unpleasant—violin practice or spelling drills or swimming regimens or frustrated painting sessions—to hard work, pure and simple—or to “it’s time to get the train off the track.” There are few things couples argue more over, few questions moms ask me more frequently, and few things that cause me greater personal angst, than this issue.
I wish I had the answer. I wish every situation had a pat solution. I wish it was as easy as encouraging every parent to stick with it ‘til the bitter end! To battle it out until the final victory is achieved! ‘Til you hear “the” recital, witness the home run or hang the blue ribbon you’ve been waiting for. That you won’t let him quit until he finishes that tenth book of violin music or makes it all the way through the majors in Little League. That she has to take Spanish all the way through high school. Or must enroll in art school until she uses up all of her expensive supplies.
But it’s never that easy. Nope. Parenting is always full of surprises. Our kids can out-smart us, out-maneuver us and out-last us…and they will. Just when we think we’ve got this parenting thing figured out, we face another trick or challenge or dilemma and we feel like we’re back at square one. Or we realize that what worked for the first kid has no power over the second. Oh geez.
One thing I know for sure: mastery commands respect. As does consistency. Perseverance. Persistence. Stick-to-it-ive-ness. We reward singers who make it all the way on American Idol and athletes who make it to the Olympics. We love stories of persevering against all odds and of sticking it out even when it hurts. And so while that certainly doesn’t mean that it’s never okay to let the train jump off the tracks—because some times that truly is the right thing to do—make sure that you don’t trade common everyday impatience for quick fix solutions. For increased peace and quiet in the home. Or increased harmony. For less fighting or foot stomping or door slamming.
Remember, always, the dirty little secret of parenting: it takes far more nurturing, far more patience and far more energy than anyone ever warned you about. That it takes years of hard work and practice. That practice is hard work and that hard work is just practice. And that it will all be worth it when you receive the joy—as I did today—as you simply sit back, smile, and think: “We done good.”
Blessings on your week,
Carolina
Monday, April 24, 2006
Very Talented
Ahhh. Travel. One of my favorite things about going away is meeting up with old—and new—friends and seeing how the other half of the world lives. And of how different spots in the world look! I am well aware that my own little place on top of this Connecticut ridge of ours would be unimaginable to much of the world, particularly if one were not familiar with the topography of New England…or with much of America for that matter. When I traveled to Florida last week for spring break, I felt somewhat out of my element; indeed, had it not been for the two years we spent living in Miami, I would have felt like I landed on another planet. Its juxtaposition to the northeast could not have been sharper. What with the dreary weather we’ve experienced for gadzooks, what seems like an eternity and the complete void of greenery and pops of fresh sprouts, waking up to sunshine, warmth and brightly-colored flowers was nothing short of glorious. It didn’t hurt, either, that my “second mom” (with whom I stayed) spoiled me half-rotten, with al fresco lunches on her patio, extravagant treats at local eateries, dinners at candlelit tables overlooking the bay, late night chats over dark chocolate, and late morning coffee, served piping hot on that proverbial silver platter.
While in Naples, I had the wonderful fortune of sharing lunch one afternoon with my “mom’s” best friends…and the delightful luck of being seated next to one of my favorite people in the world. Artist extraordinaire, world traveler and the author of three books, Very California, Very Charleston and Very New Orleans, she is, needless to say, Very Talented.
I first met Diana Gessler about five years ago when her first book debuted and she did a signing at a private home in Naples. A good friend of my second mom, I became instantly attracted to her. She radiates warmth, sincerity and, of course, talent out the whazoo. We toured the gallery which represents her work and talked about her book project, which propelled her to super-stardom seemingly over night.
But we know that overnight sensations are illusions. And Diana is no exception. Her story is quite remarkable and, as it is loaded with some great life lessons, I feel especially inclined to share it with you.
Her parents recognized her artistic talents very early on, and they promptly equipped her by providing her with the best instruction that they could both find and afford. She studied intensely for years, working both in the fine and in the graphic arts. She is now best-known for her watercolor landscapes and renderings of historic or architecturally-interesting homes and buildings, all of which command truly respectable rates. She also paints gorgeous florals and still lifes. Anyway, she has always “paint-journaled” her various world travels, choosing to capture scenes, people and experiences in watercolor renderings rather than through photographs or words (as the rest of us mere mortals do). Twenty-five years later, she has a huge collection of travel journals, all hand-painted and hand-lettered.
If I have the story properly recollected, it was shortly after she returned from a lengthy trip to California when she visited a publisher (on short notice) and inquired as to whether or not they might find some commercial value of her handpainted travel journal of her trip criss-crossing the state. A short interview there was generously concluded with a book contract, and the rest, as they say, is history.
I met Diana when Very California was hot off the press. I “got” her work…and its long-term potential…in a nanosecond. “Diana, you’ve got a real concept here. There’s not a city in the world you couldn’t do.” Sure enough, that first book was followed by Very Charleston and the recent Very New Orleans, which was, coincidentally, being printed as New Orleans was literally sinking in the flood of the century. Thankfully, Diana’s book preserves the city perfectly.
Diana and her work have taught me a lot about life in general, and about being an artist in particular. But they’ve also shed light on the process of parenthood. They have taught me, first of all, the value of recognizing innate giftedness early in a child’s life. And of fostering genius when it is first glimpsed. Diana’s parents get gold stars for doing that so generously. We all need to be on the lookout for flashes of genius in our own kids. And be willing to bring it to an honorable conclusion so that the rest of the world may benefit.
Secondly, I learned that it usually really does take a couple decades—at least—to bring out true talent. That practice, practice, practice gets you to Carnegie Hall. And that it takes dozens of journaled trips to get you to publisher’s attention and best-seller status. There is really hardly ever flash-in-the-pan success that’s worth writing—or reading—about. So don’t let your kids moan and groan about drills and workouts and practice….in whatever area in which they are currently working or struggling. It takes more years than we care to think about to finally “arrive.”
Thirdly, serendipity happens. Diana confessed that she wasn’t thinking about publishing her journals into books at the time she was actually painting them. It wasn’t until much later that the inspiration struck her. The important thing was that she kept practicing her talent so that when the opportunity presented itself, she was ready to accept it and go for it. How many times have you seen the same thing happen with others who have faced similar good fortune? As they say, there is no such thing as good luck; it’s just preparation meeting opportunity.
Lastly, seeing Diana again reinforced how much I appreciate mingling with a humble spirit. Diana is Very Talented. But she is extremely humble about it. Hasn’t gone to her head. Or to her attitude. She’s quietly unassuming about it all…which is particularly refreshing in these days of obnoxious, celebrity-driven headline news about trivial baloney. (Do we really need to know day-by-day accounts of baby Suri Cruise?!?) It’s wonderful seeing someone of Diana’s talent and stature maintaining a low profile and an accurate sense of self.
You may have a similar story of parental nurturing. Of grown-up success. Of being Very Talented. If so, I hope you take some of these observations to heart. Or perhaps you’ll use them as encouragement in addressing your own children’s needs. Of being attentive to flashes of brilliance. Or of unusual giftedness. Of extremes in the senses. Great visual acuity. Great kinesthetic awareness. Great sense of taste. Or of touch. Gifts that can all be cultivated. That can be boosted with time or energy or money or teaching or mentoring.
For we can all aspire to be Very Talented. And Very Wonderful, too. Just like Diana.
Happy week,
Carolina
A Quick Note
Diana Gessler’s web site provides some of the best eye candy on earth. Go to: http://www.dianagessler.com. Her books of course have special appeal if you have any connections to California, Charleston or New Orleans. They make perfect gifts!
She also provides free tips and tricks of the journaling trade at: http://www.gellyroll.com/craft/journal/gessler/gessler.html
While in Naples, I had the wonderful fortune of sharing lunch one afternoon with my “mom’s” best friends…and the delightful luck of being seated next to one of my favorite people in the world. Artist extraordinaire, world traveler and the author of three books, Very California, Very Charleston and Very New Orleans, she is, needless to say, Very Talented.
I first met Diana Gessler about five years ago when her first book debuted and she did a signing at a private home in Naples. A good friend of my second mom, I became instantly attracted to her. She radiates warmth, sincerity and, of course, talent out the whazoo. We toured the gallery which represents her work and talked about her book project, which propelled her to super-stardom seemingly over night.
But we know that overnight sensations are illusions. And Diana is no exception. Her story is quite remarkable and, as it is loaded with some great life lessons, I feel especially inclined to share it with you.
Her parents recognized her artistic talents very early on, and they promptly equipped her by providing her with the best instruction that they could both find and afford. She studied intensely for years, working both in the fine and in the graphic arts. She is now best-known for her watercolor landscapes and renderings of historic or architecturally-interesting homes and buildings, all of which command truly respectable rates. She also paints gorgeous florals and still lifes. Anyway, she has always “paint-journaled” her various world travels, choosing to capture scenes, people and experiences in watercolor renderings rather than through photographs or words (as the rest of us mere mortals do). Twenty-five years later, she has a huge collection of travel journals, all hand-painted and hand-lettered.
If I have the story properly recollected, it was shortly after she returned from a lengthy trip to California when she visited a publisher (on short notice) and inquired as to whether or not they might find some commercial value of her handpainted travel journal of her trip criss-crossing the state. A short interview there was generously concluded with a book contract, and the rest, as they say, is history.
I met Diana when Very California was hot off the press. I “got” her work…and its long-term potential…in a nanosecond. “Diana, you’ve got a real concept here. There’s not a city in the world you couldn’t do.” Sure enough, that first book was followed by Very Charleston and the recent Very New Orleans, which was, coincidentally, being printed as New Orleans was literally sinking in the flood of the century. Thankfully, Diana’s book preserves the city perfectly.
Diana and her work have taught me a lot about life in general, and about being an artist in particular. But they’ve also shed light on the process of parenthood. They have taught me, first of all, the value of recognizing innate giftedness early in a child’s life. And of fostering genius when it is first glimpsed. Diana’s parents get gold stars for doing that so generously. We all need to be on the lookout for flashes of genius in our own kids. And be willing to bring it to an honorable conclusion so that the rest of the world may benefit.
Secondly, I learned that it usually really does take a couple decades—at least—to bring out true talent. That practice, practice, practice gets you to Carnegie Hall. And that it takes dozens of journaled trips to get you to publisher’s attention and best-seller status. There is really hardly ever flash-in-the-pan success that’s worth writing—or reading—about. So don’t let your kids moan and groan about drills and workouts and practice….in whatever area in which they are currently working or struggling. It takes more years than we care to think about to finally “arrive.”
Thirdly, serendipity happens. Diana confessed that she wasn’t thinking about publishing her journals into books at the time she was actually painting them. It wasn’t until much later that the inspiration struck her. The important thing was that she kept practicing her talent so that when the opportunity presented itself, she was ready to accept it and go for it. How many times have you seen the same thing happen with others who have faced similar good fortune? As they say, there is no such thing as good luck; it’s just preparation meeting opportunity.
Lastly, seeing Diana again reinforced how much I appreciate mingling with a humble spirit. Diana is Very Talented. But she is extremely humble about it. Hasn’t gone to her head. Or to her attitude. She’s quietly unassuming about it all…which is particularly refreshing in these days of obnoxious, celebrity-driven headline news about trivial baloney. (Do we really need to know day-by-day accounts of baby Suri Cruise?!?) It’s wonderful seeing someone of Diana’s talent and stature maintaining a low profile and an accurate sense of self.
You may have a similar story of parental nurturing. Of grown-up success. Of being Very Talented. If so, I hope you take some of these observations to heart. Or perhaps you’ll use them as encouragement in addressing your own children’s needs. Of being attentive to flashes of brilliance. Or of unusual giftedness. Of extremes in the senses. Great visual acuity. Great kinesthetic awareness. Great sense of taste. Or of touch. Gifts that can all be cultivated. That can be boosted with time or energy or money or teaching or mentoring.
For we can all aspire to be Very Talented. And Very Wonderful, too. Just like Diana.
Happy week,
Carolina
A Quick Note
Diana Gessler’s web site provides some of the best eye candy on earth. Go to: http://www.dianagessler.com. Her books of course have special appeal if you have any connections to California, Charleston or New Orleans. They make perfect gifts!
She also provides free tips and tricks of the journaling trade at: http://www.gellyroll.com/craft/journal/gessler/gessler.html
Monday, April 10, 2006
It's Not About the Bunnies
Just when we thought spring had finally arrived, we got blasted with snow flurries and wretched weather all day Saturday. Rain mixed with snow and sleet…and spring spirits dashed right along with hopes of getting anything done outside in the garden…or of simply catching a whiff of fresh spring air. Because my calendar tells me that spring has officially arrived—we’re ten days into it for crying out loud and chocolate bunnies, eggs and marshmallow chicks line rack upon rack of grocery store shelves after all—yet my eyes tell me that winter is indeed, still in our midst—we cannot leave our homes without bulky overcoats and sweaters—I’m caught between the desire for celebrating spring’s freshness and vitality with the inescapable resignation that winter, at least up here in New England, is still here.
Such is Holy Week. We want so badly to celebrate the Resurrection at Easter, but we feel overcome with the passion and trial of the days leading from Palm Sunday through Good Friday. This season signals—around the world—time for reflection. During Holy Week, we move—day by day—from sadness to enthusiasm. From the valley of darkness to the tunnel of light. And that entails conflict.
Many of us feel conflicted these days. Overall, general “conflictedness.” The war in Iraq might be bogging us down in one way or another; college acceptance and rejection letters might be cause for overall malaise or even panic; and figuring out the calendar for summer activities for your kids in light of your own schedule might be more than you can emotionally handle.
I’ve been unusually conflicted lately. I’ll most likely be re-entering the official workforce in the next few weeks or months, and I’ve been interviewing, taking tests and talking with lots of different folks from varied areas of the work-world in an effort to nail down what I should be doing with myself, professionally, for the next oh, twenty years or so. A huge decision. We’re trying to figure out how to transition from having a mom in the home to having one gone during the day; how to shuffle kids to various activities without a mom-chauffeur yet with a new teen driver on our roster; and yet how to deal with the financial reality of multiple college tuition bills for most of the foreseeable future which, in and of itself is enough to cause discomfort. Perhaps my family just has too many balls in the air. Too many unanswered questions. Too many variables in the equation.
Yet as I look around, I see so many others facing conflict and discomfort. I cannot go one week without receiving an email or a phone call from a reader whose family member is struggling with one problem or another. Financial problems, health concerns, relationship issues. Most of us hate being uncomfortable. We hate conflict. Hate uncertainty. Hate dealing with the struggle in order to celebrate the victory. And yet that’s the real lesson of Holy Week.
However tempting it is to focus your thoughts and energies this week on the celebration of Easter—on resurrection and renewal—I hope that you allow yourself some quiet time to sort out the conflicts and discomforts of Maundy Thursday and of Good Friday. To focus on the sacrifice. For as you grow more fully aware of the sacrifice that Christ made on your behalf, you will gain immeasurable joy at the power of the Resurrection.
And if you are of another faith, please be sensitive to the fact that this week brings with it introspection for millions of people around the world. Passover will be celebrated by Jews and they will have rituals and holy remembrances, too.
So as tempting as it is when you’re in discomfort, confused…or just in a funk…to focus on spring’s lightheartedness and brightness, on chicks and on chocolate, remember that for a few days anyway, it’s not about that. It’s not about the bunnies. Even though, I admit, they’re taking up inordinate amounts of windowsill and tabletop real estate in my own home these days, and as much as they emotionally lift me out of the doldrums of winter, out of my own confusion and state of disequilibrium and into the sublime celebration of spring, they have little to do with the days ahead of us this week.
Go ahead and splurge on chocolate and on baskets. On flowers for your home or in a new outfit or on travel. This is a time for celebration, to be sure, come Easter Day. But allow yourself in the next few days, to internalize the conflict of Holy Week. It is one time of year when your internal struggle should be palpable. For we cannot get to Easter, to victory, without coming to grips with the sacrifice of Good Friday. Throughout life, we cannot get to true celebration without coming to grips with life’s struggle.
Until next week,
Carolina
A Quick Note
Thank you to rocket mom, Serena, who emailed me with these fun statistics after reading last week’s Newsletter.
• If shop mannequins were real women, they'd be too thin to menstruate.
• There are 3 billion women who don't look like supermodels and only eight who do.
• Marilyn Monroe wore a size 14.
• If Barbie was a real woman, she'd have to walk on all fours due to her proportions.
• The average American woman weighs 144 lbs. and wears between a size 12 and 14.
• One out of every four college aged women has an eating disorder.
• The models in the magazines are airbrushed-they're not perfect!!
• A psychological study in 1995 found that three minutes spent looking at models in a fashion magazine caused 70% of women to feel depressed, guilty, and shameful.
• Models twenty years ago weighed 8% less than the average woman, today they weigh 23% less.
(http://www.randiwortman.com/stats.html)
Resources:
• Body image, Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005
• Hartline, Christine MA. Dying to Fit In- Literally! Learning to Love Our Bodies and Ourselves Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005..
• Lightstone, Judy. Improving Body Image Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005..
• Maynard, Cindy MS, RD. Body Image Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005..
• Surprising Stats and Facts Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005..
• Size and Self-Acceptance for Achieving Healthy Weight Date of Access: 11 Jul. 2005..
• Weight and Body Image: A Problem for Boys and Girls of All Races Date of access: 11 Jul. 2005.
• Women’s Body Image Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005. http://www.wellesley.edu/Health/BodyImage/
A Rocket Mom Society Note
The next meeting is a spring Make-n-Take here at the Mother Ship. We’ll be planting bulbs in decorative containers for beautiful tabletop centerpieces. Start going through your favorite containers and come ready for a night of fellowship, food and fun. Bring a friend! Please RSVP so that I can get an accurate head count.
Rocket Mom in the News
Do you struggle with self-sabotaging habits that you’ve tried to break over and over again only to find yourself fighting them well, over and over again? Pick up a copy of this month’s (April) Redbook magazine and read Charlotte Latvala’s article in which my advice is given to readers. Her article, “Make over your bad habits!” deals with everything from impatience to sleeping late. See how yours truly struggles with these issues, too.
Such is Holy Week. We want so badly to celebrate the Resurrection at Easter, but we feel overcome with the passion and trial of the days leading from Palm Sunday through Good Friday. This season signals—around the world—time for reflection. During Holy Week, we move—day by day—from sadness to enthusiasm. From the valley of darkness to the tunnel of light. And that entails conflict.
Many of us feel conflicted these days. Overall, general “conflictedness.” The war in Iraq might be bogging us down in one way or another; college acceptance and rejection letters might be cause for overall malaise or even panic; and figuring out the calendar for summer activities for your kids in light of your own schedule might be more than you can emotionally handle.
I’ve been unusually conflicted lately. I’ll most likely be re-entering the official workforce in the next few weeks or months, and I’ve been interviewing, taking tests and talking with lots of different folks from varied areas of the work-world in an effort to nail down what I should be doing with myself, professionally, for the next oh, twenty years or so. A huge decision. We’re trying to figure out how to transition from having a mom in the home to having one gone during the day; how to shuffle kids to various activities without a mom-chauffeur yet with a new teen driver on our roster; and yet how to deal with the financial reality of multiple college tuition bills for most of the foreseeable future which, in and of itself is enough to cause discomfort. Perhaps my family just has too many balls in the air. Too many unanswered questions. Too many variables in the equation.
Yet as I look around, I see so many others facing conflict and discomfort. I cannot go one week without receiving an email or a phone call from a reader whose family member is struggling with one problem or another. Financial problems, health concerns, relationship issues. Most of us hate being uncomfortable. We hate conflict. Hate uncertainty. Hate dealing with the struggle in order to celebrate the victory. And yet that’s the real lesson of Holy Week.
However tempting it is to focus your thoughts and energies this week on the celebration of Easter—on resurrection and renewal—I hope that you allow yourself some quiet time to sort out the conflicts and discomforts of Maundy Thursday and of Good Friday. To focus on the sacrifice. For as you grow more fully aware of the sacrifice that Christ made on your behalf, you will gain immeasurable joy at the power of the Resurrection.
And if you are of another faith, please be sensitive to the fact that this week brings with it introspection for millions of people around the world. Passover will be celebrated by Jews and they will have rituals and holy remembrances, too.
So as tempting as it is when you’re in discomfort, confused…or just in a funk…to focus on spring’s lightheartedness and brightness, on chicks and on chocolate, remember that for a few days anyway, it’s not about that. It’s not about the bunnies. Even though, I admit, they’re taking up inordinate amounts of windowsill and tabletop real estate in my own home these days, and as much as they emotionally lift me out of the doldrums of winter, out of my own confusion and state of disequilibrium and into the sublime celebration of spring, they have little to do with the days ahead of us this week.
Go ahead and splurge on chocolate and on baskets. On flowers for your home or in a new outfit or on travel. This is a time for celebration, to be sure, come Easter Day. But allow yourself in the next few days, to internalize the conflict of Holy Week. It is one time of year when your internal struggle should be palpable. For we cannot get to Easter, to victory, without coming to grips with the sacrifice of Good Friday. Throughout life, we cannot get to true celebration without coming to grips with life’s struggle.
Until next week,
Carolina
A Quick Note
Thank you to rocket mom, Serena, who emailed me with these fun statistics after reading last week’s Newsletter.
• If shop mannequins were real women, they'd be too thin to menstruate.
• There are 3 billion women who don't look like supermodels and only eight who do.
• Marilyn Monroe wore a size 14.
• If Barbie was a real woman, she'd have to walk on all fours due to her proportions.
• The average American woman weighs 144 lbs. and wears between a size 12 and 14.
• One out of every four college aged women has an eating disorder.
• The models in the magazines are airbrushed-they're not perfect!!
• A psychological study in 1995 found that three minutes spent looking at models in a fashion magazine caused 70% of women to feel depressed, guilty, and shameful.
• Models twenty years ago weighed 8% less than the average woman, today they weigh 23% less.
(http://www.randiwortman.com/stats.html)
Resources:
• Body image, Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005
• Hartline, Christine MA. Dying to Fit In- Literally! Learning to Love Our Bodies and Ourselves Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005.
• Lightstone, Judy. Improving Body Image Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005.
• Maynard, Cindy MS, RD. Body Image Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005.
• Surprising Stats and Facts Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005.
• Size and Self-Acceptance for Achieving Healthy Weight Date of Access: 11 Jul. 2005.
• Weight and Body Image: A Problem for Boys and Girls of All Races Date of access: 11 Jul. 2005
• Women’s Body Image Date of access: 13 Jul. 2005. http://www.wellesley.edu/Health/BodyImage/
A Rocket Mom Society Note
The next meeting is a spring Make-n-Take here at the Mother Ship. We’ll be planting bulbs in decorative containers for beautiful tabletop centerpieces. Start going through your favorite containers and come ready for a night of fellowship, food and fun. Bring a friend! Please RSVP so that I can get an accurate head count.
Rocket Mom in the News
Do you struggle with self-sabotaging habits that you’ve tried to break over and over again only to find yourself fighting them well, over and over again? Pick up a copy of this month’s (April) Redbook magazine and read Charlotte Latvala’s article in which my advice is given to readers. Her article, “Make over your bad habits!” deals with everything from impatience to sleeping late. See how yours truly struggles with these issues, too.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Weighing In On Spring
As I sit down at my laptop with thoughts of responding to Sunday’s Headliner, “Before Spring Break, The Anorexic Challenge” in the Style section of The New York Times (April 2, 2006), a banner flashes across my home page with news of the hunger challenge facing millions of women in Africa.
The juxtaposition frightens me.
Apparently, anorexia and bulimia, advocated by teen girls throughout the northern western hemisphere and affectionately referred to as “pro-ana” and “pro-mia” respectively, have taken our daughters by storm. Thousands of teens are forcing themselves to 300-calories-a-day diets in order to fit into string bikinis for spring breaks in resorts all over the Caribbean…while millions of young girls on the other side of the world are sent to school in order to get just one half-way decent meal within any 24-hour period.
As my own daughter and I were lunching with the family on Sunday, she asked me how many pounds I thought she could reasonably lose before she went to Florida to celebrate spring break with a girlfriend and her family. We chatted about the need for daily exercise (and she spelled out their plan for daily visits to the gym as well as for long beach jogs) and the forsaking of sugary snacks (my husband at this point adding his own two-cents worth of the need to stop eating ice cream and cookies as well as to check fiber content in white vs. whole wheat bread and his estimate that she could, indeed, expect to lose seven-and-a-half-pounds in the next two weeks pre-bikini season.) With his tongue clearly in cheek, my daughter, frustrated and a little angry at his underestimation screamed: “But Mooommmm! You said I could lose ten?!?”
So what’s a mom to do when her teen daughter gets regularly bamboozled by peers who post photos of super-skinny models on their home page of Facebook.com (called “thinspiration” or “thinspo” according to the Times article) and by hosting dieting marathons of their own; by celebrity advertising using the skinniest and prettiest of human creation; and by her own mom who is desiring to get back into bathing suit season with stringent expectations of her own? (I confess to verbally, i.e. in front of my own teen daughter, dreading my need to shed the unwanted seven L.B.’s picked up post-Christmas and hidden underneath layers of New England polar fleece; my own visit to Florida in two weeks to visit my “adopted” mom brings internal freaking out about not fitting into my cutest Lilly Pulitzer skirt unless I move and re-sew the waist button.) This sounds so bizarre, even as I write it, and yet I know I am striking a nerve (or cellulite dimple) as many moms have confessed to me (and to friends whose friends have confessed to them) that we could all stand to lose at least ten ugly pounds apiece.
The New York Times article goes along to quote Dr. Margo Maine, a clinical psychologist specializing in eating disorders: “Every year spring break seems to get bigger and bigger,” adding that “body-image pressure also rises…(sic) with expectation that you have to ‘party like a rock star and be over the top” including ‘looking like a rock star, that is, fashionably, even dangerously skinny.’” (*)
Let’s face it: cultural expectations demand leanness. I read a quote two decades ago in a magazine article apparently earth-shattering as it has stayed in my long-term memory all this time, that “the ultimate status symbol is a fit and thin body.” So times haven’t changed all that much, except in the intensity and extremes with which we move toward that end.
That said, and given the enormity of the problem (which might be better understood by reading the fascinating yet deeply troubling article in its entirety…see NOTE at end of this article) here are 7 Ways in which we are weighing in on spring in our own household:
1)Continue to stress radiant health rather than compulsive weight-checking and clothing size comparisons. Granted, this is easier said than done on some days, like on Friday when I had my annual OBGYN check-up. I half-jokingly asked the doc what the deal was with the stuff around my middle, grabbing a couple inches of ugliness and looking up quizzically at my doctor’s face. He picked up my chart and reviewed my own weight trend during the past three years. “Let’s see,” he dead-panned. “The first year you saw me you refused to get on the scale, and last year you were ten pounds lighter.” While I explained to him that this was not exactly one of my lighter weeks—if you get what I mean—and that these heavier weeks consistently carry with them an extra five pounds of pure water weight, and that I just ate breakfast and was fully clothed so that the delta was more like two to three pounds, he did affirm that I looked “great.” While that was clearly code for “don’t feel like you need to lose weight but if you’re asking me about your middle, it’s called ‘fat,’ he did place a premium on being fit and strong over being super-skinny. The fact that I had my tennis skirt and shoes on along with a scheduled game immediately following my check-up was good enough for him. And it’s what I stress over and over with my daughter: just keep exercising and eating in a healthy manner and the rest will take care of itself…even if some weeks are “fat weeks” and some weeks are “thin weeks.” (I realize this is a foreign concept to rocket dads, but trust me on this one.)
2)Strive for a diet that is as natural as possible. Avoid processed foods, refined sugars, refined flours, excessive sodium, and chemical additives. While this might make packing the kids’ lunchboxes more challenging (those cereal bars, juice boxes and mini-bags of chips are awfully convenient) it’s far healthier to pack a piece of whole fruit, some raw nuts and a water bottle. Try to cook as many meals from scratch as is humanly possible, avoiding packaged and prepared entrees that are loaded with preservatives and artificial flavorings and coloring.
3)Drink lots of water. Forget sodas and fruit juices loaded with unnecessary refined sugars. Train your kids to drink that proverbial eight to ten glasses a day. And add a squeeze of lemon or lime whenever possible as the health benefits of doing so are tremendous.
4)Eat several small meals a day or three solid ones, never skipping breakfast or eating on the run. If it means getting up in the morning a half-hour earlier in order to get some healthy food on the table, it’s important that you put this practice into play with consistency and longevity. Just because your kids are old enough to make meals on their own does not mean that you should give up on the practice of seeing them out the door in the morning without this wonderful foundation. Sliced fresh fruit or a protein fruit smoothie is far better than a sugary doughnut or processed fruit roll-up. Make sure that when you pack snacks into lunchboxes, too, that they’re as healthy as manageable. I tend towards organic nuts, yogurt and fruit, or dark chocolate chips or whole-grain, organic cookies. (My husband is still trying to decipher the “organic” in Paul Newman’s wonderful—and my personal favorite—organic chocolate or ginger cookies, each crème-filled and especially delicious. “Does he use organic cream to make the icing or is it the flour that’s organic?” he wonders out-loud every time I open a bag. Who cares? They’re a great alternative to the junk that’s out there being peddled as food.)
5)Recognize clear genetic differences in body style. While I subscribe to the fruit theory of women’s body shapes (you really are an apple or a pear), your DNA plays a huge role in body shape, weight, clothing size and in what you will eventually look like. Stop obsessing—and teach your daughter to do the same—about the body-type that you or she will never have. My daughter is built almost exactly like me; I can teach her about my trouble spots, as I know they will be hers, too. But I also need to teach her to treat her body respectfully, which means that she needs to give it the right fuel as well as daily aerobic workouts and regular strength training. And, given that you know your areas of weakness, try not to dissect your body. Try not to say: “I love my waist but I hate my thighs” or “I’d like my body so much better if my hips weren’t so wide.” You can’t change your basic bone structure so learn to live with the genetic hand you’ve been dealt.
6)Practice proper skin care. Teach your daughter how to take care of her skin, especially her face, so that when she’s older, the habits are well-formed and firmly in place. (And she needn’t resort to botox or chemical peels while young.) Using a high-quality olive oil soap with warm water is still the best cleaning technique possible; don’t succumb to all of the expensive glamour-puss products on the market. I confess to perking up my ears when I over-heard a friend talk about a foundation make-up she uses that she jokingly refers to as face spackle, as it apparently covers up all of one’s skin imperfections. I’ve yet to really check it out, but the word picture of spackling my face—sunspots and all—was tempting. Imagine how much more tempted your teen daughter is with the plethora of celebrity and rock star advertising for beauty products in magazines, MTV, movies and billboards everywhere.
7)Focus on shining eyes, hair, teeth and nails. You can’t hide good health. If you’ve got it, your body will show it. Your eyes will sparkle and your hair will shine in the sunlight. Your nails will be strong and your teeth will be white. These have always been hallmarks of radiant health…and they should be your family’s goals. Compliment your daughter when she exhibits these signs of glowing good health. Give these things your attention. Praise her for bouncing through the day with rosy cheeks and laughing eyes and always give priority to health and well-being rather than to weight or dieting or clothing size analysis.
Bathing suit season is upon us, whether we like it—or care—or not. Perhaps as we struggle through “the anorexic challenge” before our nation’s young girls—as well as our collective desires to be tan and thin and able to fit into a bikini (or one-piece or heck, even a pair of shorts), we can get a grip by getting our arms around the situation…and around our own daughter’s shoulders.
Until next week,
Carolina
* NOTES: All references to the article “Before Spring Break, The Anorexic Challenge” by Alex Williams are found in The New York Times, April 2, 2006. The online edition can be found for a limited time at: http://www.nytimes.com/2006/04/02/fashion/sundaystyles/02BREAK.html?_r=1&8hpib&oref=slogin
A Quick Note
While hoping to not sound like a shameless self-promoter, I want to make sure you know that I have devoted an entire chapter of my book, ROCKET MOM! 7 Strategies to Blast You Into Brilliance, to personal health and well-being. It is clearly a foundational block of parenting with excellence; you cannot give exceptional care to your children unless you are functioning at peak physical performance. And you cannot perform at peak unless you are in physical “fightin’ shape.” My seventh strategy takes up 40 pages in wrapping moms’ arms around this most important subject area. You can find my book extensively on the web, on amazon, or by calling my toll-free operators 24/7: 888-476-2493 (All credit cards accepted with same day shipping.)
The juxtaposition frightens me.
Apparently, anorexia and bulimia, advocated by teen girls throughout the northern western hemisphere and affectionately referred to as “pro-ana” and “pro-mia” respectively, have taken our daughters by storm. Thousands of teens are forcing themselves to 300-calories-a-day diets in order to fit into string bikinis for spring breaks in resorts all over the Caribbean…while millions of young girls on the other side of the world are sent to school in order to get just one half-way decent meal within any 24-hour period.
As my own daughter and I were lunching with the family on Sunday, she asked me how many pounds I thought she could reasonably lose before she went to Florida to celebrate spring break with a girlfriend and her family. We chatted about the need for daily exercise (and she spelled out their plan for daily visits to the gym as well as for long beach jogs) and the forsaking of sugary snacks (my husband at this point adding his own two-cents worth of the need to stop eating ice cream and cookies as well as to check fiber content in white vs. whole wheat bread and his estimate that she could, indeed, expect to lose seven-and-a-half-pounds in the next two weeks pre-bikini season.) With his tongue clearly in cheek, my daughter, frustrated and a little angry at his underestimation screamed: “But Mooommmm! You said I could lose ten?!?”
So what’s a mom to do when her teen daughter gets regularly bamboozled by peers who post photos of super-skinny models on their home page of Facebook.com (called “thinspiration” or “thinspo” according to the Times article) and by hosting dieting marathons of their own; by celebrity advertising using the skinniest and prettiest of human creation; and by her own mom who is desiring to get back into bathing suit season with stringent expectations of her own? (I confess to verbally, i.e. in front of my own teen daughter, dreading my need to shed the unwanted seven L.B.’s picked up post-Christmas and hidden underneath layers of New England polar fleece; my own visit to Florida in two weeks to visit my “adopted” mom brings internal freaking out about not fitting into my cutest Lilly Pulitzer skirt unless I move and re-sew the waist button.) This sounds so bizarre, even as I write it, and yet I know I am striking a nerve (or cellulite dimple) as many moms have confessed to me (and to friends whose friends have confessed to them) that we could all stand to lose at least ten ugly pounds apiece.
The New York Times article goes along to quote Dr. Margo Maine, a clinical psychologist specializing in eating disorders: “Every year spring break seems to get bigger and bigger,” adding that “body-image pressure also rises…(sic) with expectation that you have to ‘party like a rock star and be over the top” including ‘looking like a rock star, that is, fashionably, even dangerously skinny.’” (*)
Let’s face it: cultural expectations demand leanness. I read a quote two decades ago in a magazine article apparently earth-shattering as it has stayed in my long-term memory all this time, that “the ultimate status symbol is a fit and thin body.” So times haven’t changed all that much, except in the intensity and extremes with which we move toward that end.
That said, and given the enormity of the problem (which might be better understood by reading the fascinating yet deeply troubling article in its entirety…see NOTE at end of this article) here are 7 Ways in which we are weighing in on spring in our own household:
1)Continue to stress radiant health rather than compulsive weight-checking and clothing size comparisons. Granted, this is easier said than done on some days, like on Friday when I had my annual OBGYN check-up. I half-jokingly asked the doc what the deal was with the stuff around my middle, grabbing a couple inches of ugliness and looking up quizzically at my doctor’s face. He picked up my chart and reviewed my own weight trend during the past three years. “Let’s see,” he dead-panned. “The first year you saw me you refused to get on the scale, and last year you were ten pounds lighter.” While I explained to him that this was not exactly one of my lighter weeks—if you get what I mean—and that these heavier weeks consistently carry with them an extra five pounds of pure water weight, and that I just ate breakfast and was fully clothed so that the delta was more like two to three pounds, he did affirm that I looked “great.” While that was clearly code for “don’t feel like you need to lose weight but if you’re asking me about your middle, it’s called ‘fat,’ he did place a premium on being fit and strong over being super-skinny. The fact that I had my tennis skirt and shoes on along with a scheduled game immediately following my check-up was good enough for him. And it’s what I stress over and over with my daughter: just keep exercising and eating in a healthy manner and the rest will take care of itself…even if some weeks are “fat weeks” and some weeks are “thin weeks.” (I realize this is a foreign concept to rocket dads, but trust me on this one.)
2)Strive for a diet that is as natural as possible. Avoid processed foods, refined sugars, refined flours, excessive sodium, and chemical additives. While this might make packing the kids’ lunchboxes more challenging (those cereal bars, juice boxes and mini-bags of chips are awfully convenient) it’s far healthier to pack a piece of whole fruit, some raw nuts and a water bottle. Try to cook as many meals from scratch as is humanly possible, avoiding packaged and prepared entrees that are loaded with preservatives and artificial flavorings and coloring.
3)Drink lots of water. Forget sodas and fruit juices loaded with unnecessary refined sugars. Train your kids to drink that proverbial eight to ten glasses a day. And add a squeeze of lemon or lime whenever possible as the health benefits of doing so are tremendous.
4)Eat several small meals a day or three solid ones, never skipping breakfast or eating on the run. If it means getting up in the morning a half-hour earlier in order to get some healthy food on the table, it’s important that you put this practice into play with consistency and longevity. Just because your kids are old enough to make meals on their own does not mean that you should give up on the practice of seeing them out the door in the morning without this wonderful foundation. Sliced fresh fruit or a protein fruit smoothie is far better than a sugary doughnut or processed fruit roll-up. Make sure that when you pack snacks into lunchboxes, too, that they’re as healthy as manageable. I tend towards organic nuts, yogurt and fruit, or dark chocolate chips or whole-grain, organic cookies. (My husband is still trying to decipher the “organic” in Paul Newman’s wonderful—and my personal favorite—organic chocolate or ginger cookies, each crème-filled and especially delicious. “Does he use organic cream to make the icing or is it the flour that’s organic?” he wonders out-loud every time I open a bag. Who cares? They’re a great alternative to the junk that’s out there being peddled as food.)
5)Recognize clear genetic differences in body style. While I subscribe to the fruit theory of women’s body shapes (you really are an apple or a pear), your DNA plays a huge role in body shape, weight, clothing size and in what you will eventually look like. Stop obsessing—and teach your daughter to do the same—about the body-type that you or she will never have. My daughter is built almost exactly like me; I can teach her about my trouble spots, as I know they will be hers, too. But I also need to teach her to treat her body respectfully, which means that she needs to give it the right fuel as well as daily aerobic workouts and regular strength training. And, given that you know your areas of weakness, try not to dissect your body. Try not to say: “I love my waist but I hate my thighs” or “I’d like my body so much better if my hips weren’t so wide.” You can’t change your basic bone structure so learn to live with the genetic hand you’ve been dealt.
6)Practice proper skin care. Teach your daughter how to take care of her skin, especially her face, so that when she’s older, the habits are well-formed and firmly in place. (And she needn’t resort to botox or chemical peels while young.) Using a high-quality olive oil soap with warm water is still the best cleaning technique possible; don’t succumb to all of the expensive glamour-puss products on the market. I confess to perking up my ears when I over-heard a friend talk about a foundation make-up she uses that she jokingly refers to as face spackle, as it apparently covers up all of one’s skin imperfections. I’ve yet to really check it out, but the word picture of spackling my face—sunspots and all—was tempting. Imagine how much more tempted your teen daughter is with the plethora of celebrity and rock star advertising for beauty products in magazines, MTV, movies and billboards everywhere.
7)Focus on shining eyes, hair, teeth and nails. You can’t hide good health. If you’ve got it, your body will show it. Your eyes will sparkle and your hair will shine in the sunlight. Your nails will be strong and your teeth will be white. These have always been hallmarks of radiant health…and they should be your family’s goals. Compliment your daughter when she exhibits these signs of glowing good health. Give these things your attention. Praise her for bouncing through the day with rosy cheeks and laughing eyes and always give priority to health and well-being rather than to weight or dieting or clothing size analysis.
Bathing suit season is upon us, whether we like it—or care—or not. Perhaps as we struggle through “the anorexic challenge” before our nation’s young girls—as well as our collective desires to be tan and thin and able to fit into a bikini (or one-piece or heck, even a pair of shorts), we can get a grip by getting our arms around the situation…and around our own daughter’s shoulders.
Until next week,
Carolina
* NOTES: All references to the article “Before Spring Break, The Anorexic Challenge” by Alex Williams are found in The New York Times, April 2, 2006. The online edition can be found for a limited time at: http://www.nytimes.com/2006/04/02/fashion/sundaystyles/02BREAK.html?_r=1&8hpib&oref=slogin
A Quick Note
While hoping to not sound like a shameless self-promoter, I want to make sure you know that I have devoted an entire chapter of my book, ROCKET MOM! 7 Strategies to Blast You Into Brilliance, to personal health and well-being. It is clearly a foundational block of parenting with excellence; you cannot give exceptional care to your children unless you are functioning at peak physical performance. And you cannot perform at peak unless you are in physical “fightin’ shape.” My seventh strategy takes up 40 pages in wrapping moms’ arms around this most important subject area. You can find my book extensively on the web, on amazon, or by calling my toll-free operators 24/7: 888-476-2493 (All credit cards accepted with same day shipping.)
Monday, March 27, 2006
The Surprise Factor
Sometimes the weekend comes, and it’s time for me to write my weekly Newsletter, and I sit at my computer and have no idea what to write about. Some people call that writer’s block. But for me, it’s more than that. It’s the feeling that I have nothing of value to impart. No words of wisdom, no lesson-building anecdotes, no organizational break-throughs. No epiphanies.
So when my daughter bounced into my office—as I sat staring at my blank computer screen—I asked her if she could think of anything. Without a second’s hesitation, she said:”Tell everyone about my play.” (This is a child with little self-esteem issues.)
“What specifically about your play?” I countered.
“Tell them about how fleeting, but how special, it was.”
Still confused as to exactly what valuable lessons she had in mind, I asked again: “What about your play would anyone else care about?”
“Teach them the lesson that the play itself was so fleeting. That you practice and practice and then in two nights, it’s all over. But that it was such a blast.”
Now there’s a Newsletter.
Cristina went to school early for weeks ahead of the play, rehearsing at 7 AM when other classmates were barely rolling out of bed. Week after week of early-morning school drop-offs were followed by a solid week of three-hour after-school rehearsals. Mixed in with the various other extracurricular and sports activities that most of the kids in the cast are also involved in made for many road-weary moms and dads, too.
So many big life events require enormous prep times. Careful planning. Logistical hurdles. Financial and calendar challenges.
My own wedding required eight months worth of invitation-addressing, ring-shopping and reception-planning. Pregnancies involve nine months worth of dreaming and wondering. Of re-arranging rooms and furniture. Purchasing the layette and arranging it in closets and drawers. Painting and decorating the nursery.
I mentally reviewed the umpteen practice sessions for concerts and recitals of my own four kids. Of countless renderings of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” on pint-sized violins. Of counting out rhythms and reviewing key signatures.
Life is mostly all about process. But sometimes it’s about the actual performance. And the surprises that come with it.
In the case of my daughter’s play, opening night brought with it a nearly flawless performance by the entire cast. Cues were spoken on time, words were delivered with perfect memory and dance and vocal numbers went off without a hitch. But on the second night, the kid who was to have delivered my daughter’s cue forgot his line, my daughter ad-libbed, and giggles interrupted what was to have been a serious song at the end of the show. The bloopers gave rise to incessant chatter on the drive home; the surprise factor proved priceless.
Sometimes, because not all parties are involved in the process and because the law that “things that can go wrong sometimes do go wrong” is always at play, the end result—the big event—holds the most value. Sometimes the wedding ceremony is the much stronger memory than the months of preparation leading up to it. Sometimes the birthing experience erases those months of anxiety and preparation, because it is life-altering in and of itself. Sometimes the play or the recital or the concert is so marvelous that, when the music or the drama is heard or seen for the first time, the surprise factor takes over and all thoughts of carpooling, early-rising and practicing take backseat to the performers on stage and the actual spotlight. My husband and I never attended any of our daughter’s school play rehearsals, so sitting in the audience and seeing it for the first time was a fun-filled experience. Watching our daughter and her many friends perform—the event itself—was what it was all about for us. The surprise factor took center stage and we were perfectly happy that it did.
We were privileged to have taken part in a surprise birthday dinner party for a dear new friend this week. Not having had anything to do with any of the arrangements (her more-than capable husband took care of everything beautifully), we were able to simply sit back and thoroughly enjoy the surprise factor. We enjoyed watching the look on her face as she entered the room; we enjoyed the food and the drink and the cake and the conversation with dinner companions without any anxiety. The event in and of itself was enough. The surprise factor took center stage.
Saturday night, my husband and I attended a comedy club at our church. It was good, clean fun and, given that it was a weekend date night that was out of the ordinary—and that the headline act and every one of the participants was very, very funny—it had a wonderfully high surprise factor. Sunday night, my husband took the boys to a concert by the Navy Band at our local high school; they had no idea what to expect and wound up completely dazzled by the surprise factor. While they were at the concert, I took my daughter out for a quick movie…a rare treat on a school night. It wasn’t just that the movie was cute; it was the whole mom-takes-teen-daughter-on-a-movie-date thing. The drive over, the theater, the getting out on a rainy Sunday night.
Sometimes we get blessed by serendipity and by surprise. Of meeting an old friend for lunch because she happens to be in town visiting or housing a total stranger because the extra room in your house it is needed. It is that catching us off-guard quality that provides the best memory. That getting away or doing something off-beat…and laughing in a way that we don’t usually do. And we ignore the process because it wasn’t the main thing or because we simply had nothing to do with it. We realize that the main thing is to just enjoy the main thing.
I find myself sometimes taking myself—and life—too seriously. We are dealing with childhood cancer over here, after all. And other kids and a house and a dog and bills and cleaning and chauffering and conflicting calendars. Sometimes, it’s good to just let the surprise factor completely take over.
Here’s hoping that your week brings a wonderful surprise or two and some laughter-inducing serendipity your way!
Carolina
A Rocket Mom Society Note
Our final G.A. T. meeting will be held at the mother ship on Tuesday night, the 28th, at 7:30 PM. Our topic: “Getting your Act Together: The Papers of Your Life.” Find out the single secret for dealing with the daily mail…and how it revolutionized paper-handling in my own household. Discover tricks for getting calendars coded, bills paid, and personal notes written. If magazines, newspapers, journals and photo albums have ever bogged you down, you need to come and learn from fellow rocket moms! Questions? emomrx@yahoo.com.
Come and taste a meeting and see if you’d like to give the society a try.
So when my daughter bounced into my office—as I sat staring at my blank computer screen—I asked her if she could think of anything. Without a second’s hesitation, she said:”Tell everyone about my play.” (This is a child with little self-esteem issues.)
“What specifically about your play?” I countered.
“Tell them about how fleeting, but how special, it was.”
Still confused as to exactly what valuable lessons she had in mind, I asked again: “What about your play would anyone else care about?”
“Teach them the lesson that the play itself was so fleeting. That you practice and practice and then in two nights, it’s all over. But that it was such a blast.”
Now there’s a Newsletter.
Cristina went to school early for weeks ahead of the play, rehearsing at 7 AM when other classmates were barely rolling out of bed. Week after week of early-morning school drop-offs were followed by a solid week of three-hour after-school rehearsals. Mixed in with the various other extracurricular and sports activities that most of the kids in the cast are also involved in made for many road-weary moms and dads, too.
So many big life events require enormous prep times. Careful planning. Logistical hurdles. Financial and calendar challenges.
My own wedding required eight months worth of invitation-addressing, ring-shopping and reception-planning. Pregnancies involve nine months worth of dreaming and wondering. Of re-arranging rooms and furniture. Purchasing the layette and arranging it in closets and drawers. Painting and decorating the nursery.
I mentally reviewed the umpteen practice sessions for concerts and recitals of my own four kids. Of countless renderings of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” on pint-sized violins. Of counting out rhythms and reviewing key signatures.
Life is mostly all about process. But sometimes it’s about the actual performance. And the surprises that come with it.
In the case of my daughter’s play, opening night brought with it a nearly flawless performance by the entire cast. Cues were spoken on time, words were delivered with perfect memory and dance and vocal numbers went off without a hitch. But on the second night, the kid who was to have delivered my daughter’s cue forgot his line, my daughter ad-libbed, and giggles interrupted what was to have been a serious song at the end of the show. The bloopers gave rise to incessant chatter on the drive home; the surprise factor proved priceless.
Sometimes, because not all parties are involved in the process and because the law that “things that can go wrong sometimes do go wrong” is always at play, the end result—the big event—holds the most value. Sometimes the wedding ceremony is the much stronger memory than the months of preparation leading up to it. Sometimes the birthing experience erases those months of anxiety and preparation, because it is life-altering in and of itself. Sometimes the play or the recital or the concert is so marvelous that, when the music or the drama is heard or seen for the first time, the surprise factor takes over and all thoughts of carpooling, early-rising and practicing take backseat to the performers on stage and the actual spotlight. My husband and I never attended any of our daughter’s school play rehearsals, so sitting in the audience and seeing it for the first time was a fun-filled experience. Watching our daughter and her many friends perform—the event itself—was what it was all about for us. The surprise factor took center stage and we were perfectly happy that it did.
We were privileged to have taken part in a surprise birthday dinner party for a dear new friend this week. Not having had anything to do with any of the arrangements (her more-than capable husband took care of everything beautifully), we were able to simply sit back and thoroughly enjoy the surprise factor. We enjoyed watching the look on her face as she entered the room; we enjoyed the food and the drink and the cake and the conversation with dinner companions without any anxiety. The event in and of itself was enough. The surprise factor took center stage.
Saturday night, my husband and I attended a comedy club at our church. It was good, clean fun and, given that it was a weekend date night that was out of the ordinary—and that the headline act and every one of the participants was very, very funny—it had a wonderfully high surprise factor. Sunday night, my husband took the boys to a concert by the Navy Band at our local high school; they had no idea what to expect and wound up completely dazzled by the surprise factor. While they were at the concert, I took my daughter out for a quick movie…a rare treat on a school night. It wasn’t just that the movie was cute; it was the whole mom-takes-teen-daughter-on-a-movie-date thing. The drive over, the theater, the getting out on a rainy Sunday night.
Sometimes we get blessed by serendipity and by surprise. Of meeting an old friend for lunch because she happens to be in town visiting or housing a total stranger because the extra room in your house it is needed. It is that catching us off-guard quality that provides the best memory. That getting away or doing something off-beat…and laughing in a way that we don’t usually do. And we ignore the process because it wasn’t the main thing or because we simply had nothing to do with it. We realize that the main thing is to just enjoy the main thing.
I find myself sometimes taking myself—and life—too seriously. We are dealing with childhood cancer over here, after all. And other kids and a house and a dog and bills and cleaning and chauffering and conflicting calendars. Sometimes, it’s good to just let the surprise factor completely take over.
Here’s hoping that your week brings a wonderful surprise or two and some laughter-inducing serendipity your way!
Carolina
A Rocket Mom Society Note
Our final G.A. T. meeting will be held at the mother ship on Tuesday night, the 28th, at 7:30 PM. Our topic: “Getting your Act Together: The Papers of Your Life.” Find out the single secret for dealing with the daily mail…and how it revolutionized paper-handling in my own household. Discover tricks for getting calendars coded, bills paid, and personal notes written. If magazines, newspapers, journals and photo albums have ever bogged you down, you need to come and learn from fellow rocket moms! Questions? emomrx@yahoo.com.
Come and taste a meeting and see if you’d like to give the society a try.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Fighting March Madness Fully-Armed
"I hope that while so many people are out smelling the flowers, someone is taking the time to plant some." Herbert Rappaport
The first official day of spring doesn’t exactly bring with it the same anticipation as does, say, Christmas, or one of my kid’s birthdays. It’s not as though gifts need to arrive on time or one has cultural expectations or deadlines to meet. But a palpable angst about greeting it fully prepared meets me most every year. And this year was no different. I felt an overwhelming need to have all of my little duckies in a row before today. I wanted closets weeded, drawers re-organized, kitchen cabinets swiped. Winter stuff boxed up. And spring’s cheer to pervade each and every one of my living spaces.
I wanted fresh air, literally and metaphorically, to invade my mind, my family and my home. I longed to roll up my sleeves and wipe away cobwebs and crumbs. To donate outgrown clothing to a local charity. To go through my medicines and check expiration dates. Go though my business invoices and put them in chronological order. Clear out my files and discard un-interesting material. Delete months-old emails from my inbox, for crying out loud!
And all that my husband wanted was to see Kentucky beat UConn. He longed to lounge on the sofa in front of the tube—chips and salsa within immediate, easy reach—all weekend long, while I faced the daunting task of cleaning up my entire life.
Add to that the news that my mom was having some health concerns, and I felt particularly guided to drive the 150 mile trek to her home and spend all day Saturday visiting with her.
Motherhood brings with it a near-constant feeling of unsettled-ness. Of never really feeling like you’ve truly got it all together. Because just when you finally make it past one hurdle you’ve got another one staring you in the face. You watch your teen sail successfully through mid-terms only to sit through an unpleasant parent-teacher conference discussing her deficiencies. Or you get your whole family safely through flu season only to deal with each member contracting that dreaded stomach virus. You shovel out from underneath one last snowstorm only to get hit with high winds and hail. Or you finally breathe a sigh of relief that you’ve successfully battled the winter blahs only to find yourself emotionally unprepared for the perpetual cheerfulness of spring.
March madness.
I woke up Sunday morning feeling particularly unsettled. Having just returned home from a long day out-of-state visiting my mother and other family and friends, I looked around at my house and felt an overwhelming need to get my act together. Perhaps it was from dealing so personally with the realities of old age. Perhaps it was the lunchtime banter of aches and pains amongst the seventysomething set. Perhaps it was the long drive home giving me far too much time for introspection. But I returned feeling compelled to infuse a “Lysol moment” into my life. I craved cleanliness and orderliness. Freshness and vitality. Spring cheer.
Perhaps your circumstances are dissimilar to mine but your goal is the same. Perhaps you, too, desire to greet spring with enthusiasm. With a fresh start. With energized focus. Here, then, is my formula for fighting March Madness fully-armed:
Be well-rested. It’s hard to face organizational and creative challenges, not to mention a whole new season, deprived of sleep. Research tells us we need at least 6-7 hours a night. You should find yourself generally able to conquer the world if you get this one thing right.
Be strong. Get plenty of aerobic exercise and strength training. Gliding through spring requires you to be in fighting shape. You need to be sure that the endorphins are swirling through your body, so make sure that you’re moving, lifting and sweating. Whether you’re already biking and hiking, or you’re inside swimming or doing Pilates, keep at it. You want to shed those extra seven pounds that winter inevitably brings (I picked them up, too) and get down to your best shape. (And bathing suit season is just around the corner.)
Be disciplined. Be mindful of what you’re eating, what you’re reading and what you’re watching. Spring brings with it too many chores to allow sloppiness or laziness into your days. That can wait ‘til summer. There are gardens to tend, decorating projects to undertake and end-of-year school events to plan. Leave the self-indulgence for later, after spring’s demands are fully met head-on. Attack closets and cabinets with a vengeance now so that you might enjoy summer’s own rewards later.
Be helpful. The sure-fire way to settle any feelings of unsettled-ness is to do something nice for someone else. My own quick trip to visit my family this weekend brought me deep-seated feelings of satisfaction. It did my heart good to see my mother looking as well as she did; it calmed any anxieties I faced about possible health concerns for her. The fastest lift out of the doldrums is service to others. So look around and see where you might fit in community service. Or of simply providing a meal to a neighbor or friend in need.
Be optimistic. No other season spells optimism as does spring. New life bursts through both grass and eggs. The sun shines. Clouds disappear. Allow yourself to be liberated by its uplifting, energizing days. Take a walk around your neighborhood or a quick spin through your nearest mall. Enjoy the visual delights of spring: the yellows, purples, pinks and greens. Pick a flower. Grow wheatgrass for your kids’ Easter baskets. Plant some herbs. Think of ways in which you might introduce new life into this world.
I confess to not having met all of my goals for this first day of spring. There are still a few messy cabinets and sticky floors begging for attention. But I am focused on fighting this madness before the day is over. Fully-armed. And ever so thankful that spring is finally here!
Yahoo!
A Rocket Mom Society Note
Our final G.A.T. meeting to discuss “Getting Your Act Together: The Papers of Your Life” will be held at the Mother Ship on Tuesday night, March 28, from 7:300 until who knows when. If you can’t see your desktop, your kitchen table or the light of day, you need to come and learn strategies for coping. Call or email me: emomrx@yahoo.com Bring a friend and check it out! And check out our developing site while you’re at it: http://rms.clubexpress.com.
The first official day of spring doesn’t exactly bring with it the same anticipation as does, say, Christmas, or one of my kid’s birthdays. It’s not as though gifts need to arrive on time or one has cultural expectations or deadlines to meet. But a palpable angst about greeting it fully prepared meets me most every year. And this year was no different. I felt an overwhelming need to have all of my little duckies in a row before today. I wanted closets weeded, drawers re-organized, kitchen cabinets swiped. Winter stuff boxed up. And spring’s cheer to pervade each and every one of my living spaces.
I wanted fresh air, literally and metaphorically, to invade my mind, my family and my home. I longed to roll up my sleeves and wipe away cobwebs and crumbs. To donate outgrown clothing to a local charity. To go through my medicines and check expiration dates. Go though my business invoices and put them in chronological order. Clear out my files and discard un-interesting material. Delete months-old emails from my inbox, for crying out loud!
And all that my husband wanted was to see Kentucky beat UConn. He longed to lounge on the sofa in front of the tube—chips and salsa within immediate, easy reach—all weekend long, while I faced the daunting task of cleaning up my entire life.
Add to that the news that my mom was having some health concerns, and I felt particularly guided to drive the 150 mile trek to her home and spend all day Saturday visiting with her.
Motherhood brings with it a near-constant feeling of unsettled-ness. Of never really feeling like you’ve truly got it all together. Because just when you finally make it past one hurdle you’ve got another one staring you in the face. You watch your teen sail successfully through mid-terms only to sit through an unpleasant parent-teacher conference discussing her deficiencies. Or you get your whole family safely through flu season only to deal with each member contracting that dreaded stomach virus. You shovel out from underneath one last snowstorm only to get hit with high winds and hail. Or you finally breathe a sigh of relief that you’ve successfully battled the winter blahs only to find yourself emotionally unprepared for the perpetual cheerfulness of spring.
March madness.
I woke up Sunday morning feeling particularly unsettled. Having just returned home from a long day out-of-state visiting my mother and other family and friends, I looked around at my house and felt an overwhelming need to get my act together. Perhaps it was from dealing so personally with the realities of old age. Perhaps it was the lunchtime banter of aches and pains amongst the seventysomething set. Perhaps it was the long drive home giving me far too much time for introspection. But I returned feeling compelled to infuse a “Lysol moment” into my life. I craved cleanliness and orderliness. Freshness and vitality. Spring cheer.
Perhaps your circumstances are dissimilar to mine but your goal is the same. Perhaps you, too, desire to greet spring with enthusiasm. With a fresh start. With energized focus. Here, then, is my formula for fighting March Madness fully-armed:
Be well-rested. It’s hard to face organizational and creative challenges, not to mention a whole new season, deprived of sleep. Research tells us we need at least 6-7 hours a night. You should find yourself generally able to conquer the world if you get this one thing right.
Be strong. Get plenty of aerobic exercise and strength training. Gliding through spring requires you to be in fighting shape. You need to be sure that the endorphins are swirling through your body, so make sure that you’re moving, lifting and sweating. Whether you’re already biking and hiking, or you’re inside swimming or doing Pilates, keep at it. You want to shed those extra seven pounds that winter inevitably brings (I picked them up, too) and get down to your best shape. (And bathing suit season is just around the corner.)
Be disciplined. Be mindful of what you’re eating, what you’re reading and what you’re watching. Spring brings with it too many chores to allow sloppiness or laziness into your days. That can wait ‘til summer. There are gardens to tend, decorating projects to undertake and end-of-year school events to plan. Leave the self-indulgence for later, after spring’s demands are fully met head-on. Attack closets and cabinets with a vengeance now so that you might enjoy summer’s own rewards later.
Be helpful. The sure-fire way to settle any feelings of unsettled-ness is to do something nice for someone else. My own quick trip to visit my family this weekend brought me deep-seated feelings of satisfaction. It did my heart good to see my mother looking as well as she did; it calmed any anxieties I faced about possible health concerns for her. The fastest lift out of the doldrums is service to others. So look around and see where you might fit in community service. Or of simply providing a meal to a neighbor or friend in need.
Be optimistic. No other season spells optimism as does spring. New life bursts through both grass and eggs. The sun shines. Clouds disappear. Allow yourself to be liberated by its uplifting, energizing days. Take a walk around your neighborhood or a quick spin through your nearest mall. Enjoy the visual delights of spring: the yellows, purples, pinks and greens. Pick a flower. Grow wheatgrass for your kids’ Easter baskets. Plant some herbs. Think of ways in which you might introduce new life into this world.
I confess to not having met all of my goals for this first day of spring. There are still a few messy cabinets and sticky floors begging for attention. But I am focused on fighting this madness before the day is over. Fully-armed. And ever so thankful that spring is finally here!
Yahoo!
A Rocket Mom Society Note
Our final G.A.T. meeting to discuss “Getting Your Act Together: The Papers of Your Life” will be held at the Mother Ship on Tuesday night, March 28, from 7:300 until who knows when. If you can’t see your desktop, your kitchen table or the light of day, you need to come and learn strategies for coping. Call or email me: emomrx@yahoo.com Bring a friend and check it out! And check out our developing site while you’re at it: http://rms.clubexpress.com.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Wiping Out
Spring sprang this weekend in New England. We enjoyed temperatures in the low 60’s, a veritable heat wave considering that a mere seven days before we got clobbered with snow and ice that required school closings and road closures to boot. And with it came the requisite spring fever: that irrepressible itch to get outside along with the hope that someone—or something—might come along and scratch it.
I’m not complaining that winter lasts well, seemingly forever up here in the northeast. It starts in November and extends fully into April or May, with trees never budding before then. And kids require sweatshirts or the ubiquitous North Face zippered fleece until almost summertime. So come one weekend with sunshine and warmish weather and we all get rather feverish. Crazy for the outdoors. With several rituals of the season begging to get underway.
Ritual number one requires a general purging of junk from my house. Spring cleaning at its best. Closets, drawers and cabinets get a thorough going through. Outgrown kids’ clothing gets donated and outdated medicines get thrown out. The cleansing in and of itself makes me feel lighter…a good thing considering that winter always makes me carry several unwanted pounds around my middle. (Ugh!)
Ritual number two requires a decorating and window-staging effort. Out go the snowmen and the sleds. In come the bunnies and the butterflies. Indeed, few things energize me more than re-decorating corners of my home with seasonal visual delights.
Ritual number three requires a long walk around our garden. Or I should say our “yard,” as we do not yet have a “real” garden. When the weather warms up a bit and we finally get to go outside, my husband and I love walking around the yard in an effort to figure out what we shall eventually do there. With steaming mugs of coffee in hand, and perhaps the sound of birds chirping in ear (I heard my first one the other day), that first spring walk-through brings a comforting sense that hope really does spring eternal.
Ritual number four requires that I pull my mountain bike off the ceiling hook in the workroom. A fresh pumping of its tires and a good wiping of its seat get me all zoo-ed up for a good race down my street and an hour-long ride around a nearby lake.
Such was Saturday. I looked forward to the impending warm weather since I first learned of it on the TV news a few days before. I longed for the purging and the decorating. For the garden walk and the first bike ride. For going through, wholeheartedly, the rituals that signaled that spring was finally on its way.
The sunshine begged first for ritual number four. And so with newly-inflated tires, newly-wiped seat and a newly-cleaned helmet firmly planted on my head, I raced down my street for what was to have been that luscious first rite of spring. Oh, it felt good! Oh, to be in that seat again! The air was still crisp and my thighs were still flabby, but to be on my bike again was nothing short of glorious!
I got to the bottom of my street, just a few minutes from my house, and turned the corner as I had done a hundred times before. It was my familiar path. The one I had looked forward to for so long. I turned that familiar corner and I totally wiped out. I felt it coming along with that dreaded sense that I was going to have a serious accident and would be unable to do anything to prevent it. I felt my brain caught in slow-motion, knowing that I was about to be flattened. My bike flew out in front on me and I lay sprawled on the street, directly in the path of oncoming cars. Seems some snow had not yet disappeared and, mixed with gravel, provided just the right texture for a good wiping out.
Realizing that body parts both up and down, left and right, were throbbing in pain, forced me to pull myself up and figure out where—exactly—the pain was and how badly—or not—I was hurt. I wanted so much to just get up, wipe myself off and get back in the saddle. To carry on with this favorite spring ritual and enjoy the day as I had anticipated and planned. But one look at my aching, bloodied elbow and its many layers of missing skin, along with my throbbing knee and left thigh, and I knew that I was a mess.
A few minutes later, a woman drove by slowly in her car and, seeing my bike and me scattered across the street, offered to help pick me up and get me home. Too shaken up to fully understand exactly how bad things were, I at first declined, only to realize that the throbbing pain would most likely keep me from walking the ten minutes home. She helped me to the car and drove me there; I stumbled inside the front door a veritable basketcase, crying out from the pain that freshly-abrased skin always evokes. I was a messy sight, and a rather loud one, too, and my yelps brought my husband and kids running to my rescue.
Wiping out is the worst. It stinks. Having done it quite a few times in my day, I thought I was done with it for awhile. Thought I was immune for at least a few years, anyway. (We have had a time of it over here, after all!) As my husband cleaned me up and my kids gagged at the sight of my raw elbow area, I re-traced the many times I have wiped out on my bike. The couple times in Miami where wet sand caused me to spin out of control, or where protruding Banyan tree stumps caused me to flip over so fast I never knew what hit me. Or of when the driver of a car failed to look both ways and hit me while I was riding on the bike path. That one was the worst, requiring surgery as well as a year of physical therapy (and a permanent scar and ever-present achiness during our bitterly cold winters).
Yes. Wiping out is the pits. When I wipe out, I can never quite tell if I am angrier that I wiped out and got hurt…or that my perfect plans for the day got completely derailed. Certainly, on Saturday, I was thoroughly ticked off that I missed out on that glorious, long-planned hour-long bike ride. As I lay on the sofa watching too many hours of HGTV, I couldn’t stop thinking of the rituals of spring that just didn’t get done. No walking through the yard. No staging of the house. No cleaning of the closets.
And I kept thinking (but only because my husband kept reminding me) of how it could have been worse. Of how I could have broken bones or dislocated shoulders or permanently damaged my one and only brain. And my mind kept going to friends who had recently wiped out in far more serious ways. My friend wiped out skiing in Colorado last month and completely tore her ACL; she endured surgery last week. And others completely wiped out in the financial arena. Made bad decisions and are living with the consequences. Others wiped out in the personal arena. And are dealing with relationships in disrepair.
Truth is, we all wipe out at one time or another. We screw up a friendship or fail a test or don’t make it to the next interview or file for bankruptcy. It stinks and it hurts and it seems so unfair. And we try to clean it up or clear it out. And it hurts even more. When Ernie dumped hydrogen peroxide in my open wounds I thought I would go berserk. It stung and it bubbled and I screamed out for mercy.
Wiping out stinks. We think to ourselves: “Say it ain’t so.” And we look around and realize that this is our reality and we wonder how we got here and how we’re going to get out.
I hope this Newsletter doesn’t find you recently wiped out. But if it does, know that I am feeling it with you. My thigh hurts and my butt hurts, too. And my elbow is raw and my knee doesn’t feel too great either. It hurts to walk and I’m a little grumpy. So I’m eating way too much dark chocolate in an effort to feel better. But I’m forcing myself to get back in the saddle. I’m playing tennis in the morning. Playing hurt.
Wiping out is all part of the deal if you want to play at all. If you step into the arena, you’re going to wipe out sooner or later. It’s not wiping out that separates you from the rest of the world. It’s how you wipe yourself off after you wipe out.
Wiping yourself off slowly and retreating to the sofa might be a wonderful short-time fix (as it was mine almost all day Saturday), but you gotta get up and at ‘em at some point. Wiping yourself off angrily doesn’t help much either, although I confess to doing a lot of that, too. Wiping yourself off reflectively? Well, maybe there’s something to be said for that. Wiping yourself off gratefully? Now there you go.
I wish you smooth sailing all week long! No wiping out! But if you do, a wiping off that separates you from the rest of the pack.
Carolina
I’m not complaining that winter lasts well, seemingly forever up here in the northeast. It starts in November and extends fully into April or May, with trees never budding before then. And kids require sweatshirts or the ubiquitous North Face zippered fleece until almost summertime. So come one weekend with sunshine and warmish weather and we all get rather feverish. Crazy for the outdoors. With several rituals of the season begging to get underway.
Ritual number one requires a general purging of junk from my house. Spring cleaning at its best. Closets, drawers and cabinets get a thorough going through. Outgrown kids’ clothing gets donated and outdated medicines get thrown out. The cleansing in and of itself makes me feel lighter…a good thing considering that winter always makes me carry several unwanted pounds around my middle. (Ugh!)
Ritual number two requires a decorating and window-staging effort. Out go the snowmen and the sleds. In come the bunnies and the butterflies. Indeed, few things energize me more than re-decorating corners of my home with seasonal visual delights.
Ritual number three requires a long walk around our garden. Or I should say our “yard,” as we do not yet have a “real” garden. When the weather warms up a bit and we finally get to go outside, my husband and I love walking around the yard in an effort to figure out what we shall eventually do there. With steaming mugs of coffee in hand, and perhaps the sound of birds chirping in ear (I heard my first one the other day), that first spring walk-through brings a comforting sense that hope really does spring eternal.
Ritual number four requires that I pull my mountain bike off the ceiling hook in the workroom. A fresh pumping of its tires and a good wiping of its seat get me all zoo-ed up for a good race down my street and an hour-long ride around a nearby lake.
Such was Saturday. I looked forward to the impending warm weather since I first learned of it on the TV news a few days before. I longed for the purging and the decorating. For the garden walk and the first bike ride. For going through, wholeheartedly, the rituals that signaled that spring was finally on its way.
The sunshine begged first for ritual number four. And so with newly-inflated tires, newly-wiped seat and a newly-cleaned helmet firmly planted on my head, I raced down my street for what was to have been that luscious first rite of spring. Oh, it felt good! Oh, to be in that seat again! The air was still crisp and my thighs were still flabby, but to be on my bike again was nothing short of glorious!
I got to the bottom of my street, just a few minutes from my house, and turned the corner as I had done a hundred times before. It was my familiar path. The one I had looked forward to for so long. I turned that familiar corner and I totally wiped out. I felt it coming along with that dreaded sense that I was going to have a serious accident and would be unable to do anything to prevent it. I felt my brain caught in slow-motion, knowing that I was about to be flattened. My bike flew out in front on me and I lay sprawled on the street, directly in the path of oncoming cars. Seems some snow had not yet disappeared and, mixed with gravel, provided just the right texture for a good wiping out.
Realizing that body parts both up and down, left and right, were throbbing in pain, forced me to pull myself up and figure out where—exactly—the pain was and how badly—or not—I was hurt. I wanted so much to just get up, wipe myself off and get back in the saddle. To carry on with this favorite spring ritual and enjoy the day as I had anticipated and planned. But one look at my aching, bloodied elbow and its many layers of missing skin, along with my throbbing knee and left thigh, and I knew that I was a mess.
A few minutes later, a woman drove by slowly in her car and, seeing my bike and me scattered across the street, offered to help pick me up and get me home. Too shaken up to fully understand exactly how bad things were, I at first declined, only to realize that the throbbing pain would most likely keep me from walking the ten minutes home. She helped me to the car and drove me there; I stumbled inside the front door a veritable basketcase, crying out from the pain that freshly-abrased skin always evokes. I was a messy sight, and a rather loud one, too, and my yelps brought my husband and kids running to my rescue.
Wiping out is the worst. It stinks. Having done it quite a few times in my day, I thought I was done with it for awhile. Thought I was immune for at least a few years, anyway. (We have had a time of it over here, after all!) As my husband cleaned me up and my kids gagged at the sight of my raw elbow area, I re-traced the many times I have wiped out on my bike. The couple times in Miami where wet sand caused me to spin out of control, or where protruding Banyan tree stumps caused me to flip over so fast I never knew what hit me. Or of when the driver of a car failed to look both ways and hit me while I was riding on the bike path. That one was the worst, requiring surgery as well as a year of physical therapy (and a permanent scar and ever-present achiness during our bitterly cold winters).
Yes. Wiping out is the pits. When I wipe out, I can never quite tell if I am angrier that I wiped out and got hurt…or that my perfect plans for the day got completely derailed. Certainly, on Saturday, I was thoroughly ticked off that I missed out on that glorious, long-planned hour-long bike ride. As I lay on the sofa watching too many hours of HGTV, I couldn’t stop thinking of the rituals of spring that just didn’t get done. No walking through the yard. No staging of the house. No cleaning of the closets.
And I kept thinking (but only because my husband kept reminding me) of how it could have been worse. Of how I could have broken bones or dislocated shoulders or permanently damaged my one and only brain. And my mind kept going to friends who had recently wiped out in far more serious ways. My friend wiped out skiing in Colorado last month and completely tore her ACL; she endured surgery last week. And others completely wiped out in the financial arena. Made bad decisions and are living with the consequences. Others wiped out in the personal arena. And are dealing with relationships in disrepair.
Truth is, we all wipe out at one time or another. We screw up a friendship or fail a test or don’t make it to the next interview or file for bankruptcy. It stinks and it hurts and it seems so unfair. And we try to clean it up or clear it out. And it hurts even more. When Ernie dumped hydrogen peroxide in my open wounds I thought I would go berserk. It stung and it bubbled and I screamed out for mercy.
Wiping out stinks. We think to ourselves: “Say it ain’t so.” And we look around and realize that this is our reality and we wonder how we got here and how we’re going to get out.
I hope this Newsletter doesn’t find you recently wiped out. But if it does, know that I am feeling it with you. My thigh hurts and my butt hurts, too. And my elbow is raw and my knee doesn’t feel too great either. It hurts to walk and I’m a little grumpy. So I’m eating way too much dark chocolate in an effort to feel better. But I’m forcing myself to get back in the saddle. I’m playing tennis in the morning. Playing hurt.
Wiping out is all part of the deal if you want to play at all. If you step into the arena, you’re going to wipe out sooner or later. It’s not wiping out that separates you from the rest of the world. It’s how you wipe yourself off after you wipe out.
Wiping yourself off slowly and retreating to the sofa might be a wonderful short-time fix (as it was mine almost all day Saturday), but you gotta get up and at ‘em at some point. Wiping yourself off angrily doesn’t help much either, although I confess to doing a lot of that, too. Wiping yourself off reflectively? Well, maybe there’s something to be said for that. Wiping yourself off gratefully? Now there you go.
I wish you smooth sailing all week long! No wiping out! But if you do, a wiping off that separates you from the rest of the pack.
Carolina
Monday, March 06, 2006
7 Lessons I Learned from Bunny
It’s officially time to spring clean. Not because it’s officially spring. Heck. We got another four inches of snow dumped on us last week. And temperatures still hover in the teens. But last week’s Newsletter raised the issue and prompted an onslaught of emails in response. Moms out there who are rolling up their sleeves and attacking cabinets, closets and drawers with fury. And it was the topic of discussion at our Rocket Mom Society meeting Tuesday night…and those moms are holding each one of us accountable. I even got a phone call with a request for where to send all of that cleaned-out “fluff”! (See details below). So strategies for slaying Fluff the Magic Dragon were addressed head-on. And lively discussion followed.
Three days later, I received Bunny Williams’s new best-selling book “An Affair with a House” as a birthday gift. Talk about juxtaposition! Just when I was walking through every room of my house pondering how, exactly, I could pare down, Bunny’s two-hundred-plus page tome stared at me in the face, begging for a good read. This beautifully-illustrated book chronicles the thirty-year journey of Bunny and her antiques-dealer husband’s conversion of a century-old house into a home. Pretty incredible. Not only is every single room in “Manor House” filled with stuff, but buildings scattered though-out the compound are literally loaded to the gills, too.
Now, I certainly can’t knock Bunny. She’s obviously struck a chord with readers, as her book has catapulted to the top of best-seller lists and book clubs everywhere. Who am I to argue with success? And I can’t knock her vision or her passion, either. I love the whole vision meets passion meets courage meets energy thing in any person. But I admit to almost not buying it because of its title alone. Any book named an affair with any ‘thing’ is a fairly good clue that the value system of the author might be different than my own. And while I admit that it’s certainly better than “An Affair with a Neighbor,” for example, it’s obvious from the first word that this is someone who takes her “stuff” very seriously.
Bunny certainly has a beautiful life. She has built a beautiful world with beautiful taste and beautiful things. The fact that she has seemingly unlimited funds at her disposal as well as a head gardener (“head” implies team) as well as the absence of the pitter-pattering of little feet prompts a knee-jerk reaction of “As if….”
But there are some lessons from Bunny, and because it’s the “spring-cleaning season” and because some of us are still struggling with getting our acts together, and because you may very well hear about her book, here are seven points to ponder on “creating a beautiful life” that I gleaned from her book:
1) Take time to entertain friends and family. Seems like Bunny has this well under control. Easier said than done when one doesn’t have small kids running underfoot. But my hat is off to anyone who is willing to open up home and hearth as freely and generously as does she. She has been blessed with abundance, filling houses and barns to overflowing, and she shares it graciously with others.
2) Take time to garden. Even if the only space you have allocated for such is a sunny spot outside your window for container gardening, allow yourself this small indulgence. We’ve lived on our new home for two years, and have yet to design the garden of my dreams. Bunny has several carefully-planned gardens and she took her time with each one, first allowing the land to speak for itself before she settled into a grand plan for it. Give yourself the luxury of time, if that’s what you need, as I certainly do.
3) Take time to sit. Seems like Bunny does a lot of this, too. Lemonade on the patio. Coffee on her balcony. Iced tea in the garden while listening to the birds. I admit to being a lousy sitter. And I imagine that if you’re chasing toddlers or working full-time while running a household, you may have a hard time with this, too. But I’m really going to try doing a little more of that.
4) Take time to cook. Few things are more difficult for me than getting dinner on the table. (Stay tuned for a Rocket Mom Society meeting when Chef Silvia will share her secrets on this one!) And Bunny admits to doing none of the cooking; it’s an area taken over by her husband. So, OK, this is a dream world. But preparing meals on the weekend, especially during the spring and summer months when al fresco dining is possible, seems much more do-able, and she includes a few recipes for doing just that. Look through some of your favorite cookbooks and find a few menus that suit you and your family well, and stick to those. Or experiment freely if you prefer living a more spontaneous lifestyle.
5) Take time to edit. Only bring those things into your home that you really like. If it doesn’t “speak to you,” sell it or give it away. Chances are, it’ll mean something to someone else and the world will be better for you having shared it.
6) Take time to grow some of your own food. Whether it’s tomatoes or lettuce—or fresh organic eggs from your own chickens (Bunny has a chicken coop and aviary, too)—there is nothing quite like home-grown produce. A friend of mine built a chicken house for his wife; their young son tends it. They love the idea of teaching their family the cycle of life…that eggs come from chickens rather than cardboard boxes from the grocery store. Granted, this elevates conviction to a level unclaimed by most of us, but it’s an idea worth exploring. And it has certainly inspired me to at least set out some basil and tomatoes this year.
7) Take time to reflect. While Bunny’s twelve-acre Connecticut compound is over-the-top by anyone’s description, she has certainly done a fine job of deliberating on her lifestyle. She proceeds with confidence on everything from entertaining houseguests to decorating the barn to stocking the pantry to lining up her table linens. She has taken time to reflect on the way in which she wants to infuse beauty into her everyday life, and I applaud her for that. Like creating happy childhoods for your children, beauty doesn’t just happen by chance. You have to think about it and plan for it. Granted, sometimes serendipity sneaks in. And thankfully so. But reflection is a good thing.
The success and elevation of the likes of Bunny Williams’s (and Martha Stewart’s, Rachel Ray’s and others’ for that matter) work on the homefront certainly seals the fact that women everywhere are yearning for domestic direction. Given that none of these famous folks are dealing with young children— or obvious budgetary constraints—makes it difficult for most of us rocket moms to relate. The challenge—and quite frankly, the fun!—is figuring out how to take the best ideas and translate them into realistic ones for your home and your family. A life-long process, to be sure.
And be ever-mindful that materialism is a relative concept. Remember that you are blessed beyond measure with what you have: health, family, friends, food, clothing and shelter. And that becoming your best and making the best of what has been entrusted to you should be your focus.
Wishing all blessings on your week!
Carolina
Three days later, I received Bunny Williams’s new best-selling book “An Affair with a House” as a birthday gift. Talk about juxtaposition! Just when I was walking through every room of my house pondering how, exactly, I could pare down, Bunny’s two-hundred-plus page tome stared at me in the face, begging for a good read. This beautifully-illustrated book chronicles the thirty-year journey of Bunny and her antiques-dealer husband’s conversion of a century-old house into a home. Pretty incredible. Not only is every single room in “Manor House” filled with stuff, but buildings scattered though-out the compound are literally loaded to the gills, too.
Now, I certainly can’t knock Bunny. She’s obviously struck a chord with readers, as her book has catapulted to the top of best-seller lists and book clubs everywhere. Who am I to argue with success? And I can’t knock her vision or her passion, either. I love the whole vision meets passion meets courage meets energy thing in any person. But I admit to almost not buying it because of its title alone. Any book named an affair with any ‘thing’ is a fairly good clue that the value system of the author might be different than my own. And while I admit that it’s certainly better than “An Affair with a Neighbor,” for example, it’s obvious from the first word that this is someone who takes her “stuff” very seriously.
Bunny certainly has a beautiful life. She has built a beautiful world with beautiful taste and beautiful things. The fact that she has seemingly unlimited funds at her disposal as well as a head gardener (“head” implies team) as well as the absence of the pitter-pattering of little feet prompts a knee-jerk reaction of “As if….”
But there are some lessons from Bunny, and because it’s the “spring-cleaning season” and because some of us are still struggling with getting our acts together, and because you may very well hear about her book, here are seven points to ponder on “creating a beautiful life” that I gleaned from her book:
1) Take time to entertain friends and family. Seems like Bunny has this well under control. Easier said than done when one doesn’t have small kids running underfoot. But my hat is off to anyone who is willing to open up home and hearth as freely and generously as does she. She has been blessed with abundance, filling houses and barns to overflowing, and she shares it graciously with others.
2) Take time to garden. Even if the only space you have allocated for such is a sunny spot outside your window for container gardening, allow yourself this small indulgence. We’ve lived on our new home for two years, and have yet to design the garden of my dreams. Bunny has several carefully-planned gardens and she took her time with each one, first allowing the land to speak for itself before she settled into a grand plan for it. Give yourself the luxury of time, if that’s what you need, as I certainly do.
3) Take time to sit. Seems like Bunny does a lot of this, too. Lemonade on the patio. Coffee on her balcony. Iced tea in the garden while listening to the birds. I admit to being a lousy sitter. And I imagine that if you’re chasing toddlers or working full-time while running a household, you may have a hard time with this, too. But I’m really going to try doing a little more of that.
4) Take time to cook. Few things are more difficult for me than getting dinner on the table. (Stay tuned for a Rocket Mom Society meeting when Chef Silvia will share her secrets on this one!) And Bunny admits to doing none of the cooking; it’s an area taken over by her husband. So, OK, this is a dream world. But preparing meals on the weekend, especially during the spring and summer months when al fresco dining is possible, seems much more do-able, and she includes a few recipes for doing just that. Look through some of your favorite cookbooks and find a few menus that suit you and your family well, and stick to those. Or experiment freely if you prefer living a more spontaneous lifestyle.
5) Take time to edit. Only bring those things into your home that you really like. If it doesn’t “speak to you,” sell it or give it away. Chances are, it’ll mean something to someone else and the world will be better for you having shared it.
6) Take time to grow some of your own food. Whether it’s tomatoes or lettuce—or fresh organic eggs from your own chickens (Bunny has a chicken coop and aviary, too)—there is nothing quite like home-grown produce. A friend of mine built a chicken house for his wife; their young son tends it. They love the idea of teaching their family the cycle of life…that eggs come from chickens rather than cardboard boxes from the grocery store. Granted, this elevates conviction to a level unclaimed by most of us, but it’s an idea worth exploring. And it has certainly inspired me to at least set out some basil and tomatoes this year.
7) Take time to reflect. While Bunny’s twelve-acre Connecticut compound is over-the-top by anyone’s description, she has certainly done a fine job of deliberating on her lifestyle. She proceeds with confidence on everything from entertaining houseguests to decorating the barn to stocking the pantry to lining up her table linens. She has taken time to reflect on the way in which she wants to infuse beauty into her everyday life, and I applaud her for that. Like creating happy childhoods for your children, beauty doesn’t just happen by chance. You have to think about it and plan for it. Granted, sometimes serendipity sneaks in. And thankfully so. But reflection is a good thing.
The success and elevation of the likes of Bunny Williams’s (and Martha Stewart’s, Rachel Ray’s and others’ for that matter) work on the homefront certainly seals the fact that women everywhere are yearning for domestic direction. Given that none of these famous folks are dealing with young children— or obvious budgetary constraints—makes it difficult for most of us rocket moms to relate. The challenge—and quite frankly, the fun!—is figuring out how to take the best ideas and translate them into realistic ones for your home and your family. A life-long process, to be sure.
And be ever-mindful that materialism is a relative concept. Remember that you are blessed beyond measure with what you have: health, family, friends, food, clothing and shelter. And that becoming your best and making the best of what has been entrusted to you should be your focus.
Wishing all blessings on your week!
Carolina
Monday, February 27, 2006
Fluff the Magic Dragon
A significant date in the secular world will converge with a significant date in the religious world to give me significant pause. April 15th stamps the due date for tax collection and March 1 will mark—literally—those of us who honor Ash Wednesday.
As my husband and I completed our tax returns over the winter break (believe me, it was not because we couldn’t think of anything funner to do…), we were forced to examine—in the absolute light of day—where exactly, the resources with which we’ve been entrusted went. The process is not a particularly appealing one to us creative types; pulling out receipts and lining up invoices in perfect little piles pales in comparison to putting oil to canvas, needle to linen or voice to song.
My left-brained hubby, by contrast, gets a veritable kick out of creating Excel sheets, affixing percentages to line items and developing beautifully-colored pie charts in an effort to show me visually where every single penny is spent.
Amazing that these two types of people can happily co-exist, huh?
But as it usually turns out, the experience of examining one’s stewardship over financial resources provides valuable clues into the very essence of how well—or not—one’s life is lived. When one can clearly see the percentage going to charity versus entertainment, for example, or for increased lifestyle, one grasps a fuller understanding of where priorities really lie.
Combined with the significant upcoming event of Ash Wednesday, where Christians around the world grapple with the mystery of sacrifice, I have been forced to squarely deal with the stuff of our family. With how much we earn and how much we spend, versus how much we save and donate to those facing less prosperous life circumstances. Throw on top of that this week’s Rocket Mom Society meeting in my home where our topic will be “Getting Your Act Together: The Stuff of Your Life” and the recipe cooking up in my kitchen casts a heavily scented aroma of introspection.
So how do you grapple with stewardship and sacrifice?
I have come to this understanding through years working in investments, as a former stockbroker married to a former stockbroker, as well as teaching and counsel from people in my life whose input I value. You may profoundly disagree with my perspective, and of course I respect the fact that yours may be quite different from mine. But as I look at the stuff of life: how to acquire it, manage it, share it and leave it, I grapple with a few basic principles. Sensing the timeliness of these matters, given that March 1 and April 15 are just around the corner, perhaps you are grappling with them, too.
1) We do not own resources; we merely exert stewardship over them. We did not create the beauty of the universe; our Creator did. He can do with it whatever He chooses. He has entrusted our universe to us in the best hopes that we will take care of it wisely. Our financial resources are not really ours, either. They have been provided to us through God’s grace with the hopes that we will use them wisely, too. So I don’t think of the things in my life as “my stuff.” It’s certainly stuff—and it may reside in my home—but I merely exert stewardship over it while I’m on this earth. I will leave it exactly as I entered it: utterly naked.
2) Resources come and resources go; we need to be content with both much and with little. My family has had much at some points in our lives and we have had little at other times. I like it better when we have more. I’m human. But there are always lessons to be learned in leanness. And our family has made a concerted decision to become leaner. It will have its own rewards.
3) At some point, stuff simply becomes fluff. It’s no longer a needed pair of shoes; it’s a luxury pair added to the other luxury pairs lining our closet floors. How much do we really need, after all? I read that tennis great Serena Williams owns at least fifty tank tops. She has an affinity for them. Obviously. I admit to having an affinity for certain things, too. And I have made a conscious decision to stop my affinity. How much do I really need? At some point, we need to rationalize a freeze to spending. To freeze lifestyle. Your freezing point may have a different degree than mine. But it’s a question worth asking.
4) Sacrifice always feels better than self-indulgence. While indulging in occasional whims is gratifying and permissible on almost all counts, it never provides long-lasting satisfaction. Sacrifice, on the other hand, requires personal denial, and leaves one feeling like a positive legacy has been cast as a direct result. I highly encourage everyone to sacrifice one tenth of their resources to those less fortunate, whether you believe you are able to do so or not. Begin slowly, if you must. And work up to any amount over and above a ten percent benchmark. When we sought counsel from one of our ministers at to a “before- tax” or “after-tax” ten percent, his response was simple: “Do you want before-tax or after-tax blessings?”
5) Give thanks for each and every blessing and count them often. Take nothing for granted. Not your health nor your strength nor your relationships nor your home nor your job nor your leisure. It all comes from above and needs to be acknowledged as such.
As you sift and sort through the receipts and bank statements that in many ways define how you are living your life, I hope that you take some time to think of how you can become an even better steward…and of ways in which personal sacrifice will lead you to a more saint-like existence.
Stuff really does become fluff when too much stuff occupies your everyday spaces, your everyday finances and your everyday thoughts. That’s when it’s truly Fluff the Magic Dragon. Don’t let its fire breathe too heavily down your neck.
Blessings on your week,
Carolina
As my husband and I completed our tax returns over the winter break (believe me, it was not because we couldn’t think of anything funner to do…), we were forced to examine—in the absolute light of day—where exactly, the resources with which we’ve been entrusted went. The process is not a particularly appealing one to us creative types; pulling out receipts and lining up invoices in perfect little piles pales in comparison to putting oil to canvas, needle to linen or voice to song.
My left-brained hubby, by contrast, gets a veritable kick out of creating Excel sheets, affixing percentages to line items and developing beautifully-colored pie charts in an effort to show me visually where every single penny is spent.
Amazing that these two types of people can happily co-exist, huh?
But as it usually turns out, the experience of examining one’s stewardship over financial resources provides valuable clues into the very essence of how well—or not—one’s life is lived. When one can clearly see the percentage going to charity versus entertainment, for example, or for increased lifestyle, one grasps a fuller understanding of where priorities really lie.
Combined with the significant upcoming event of Ash Wednesday, where Christians around the world grapple with the mystery of sacrifice, I have been forced to squarely deal with the stuff of our family. With how much we earn and how much we spend, versus how much we save and donate to those facing less prosperous life circumstances. Throw on top of that this week’s Rocket Mom Society meeting in my home where our topic will be “Getting Your Act Together: The Stuff of Your Life” and the recipe cooking up in my kitchen casts a heavily scented aroma of introspection.
So how do you grapple with stewardship and sacrifice?
I have come to this understanding through years working in investments, as a former stockbroker married to a former stockbroker, as well as teaching and counsel from people in my life whose input I value. You may profoundly disagree with my perspective, and of course I respect the fact that yours may be quite different from mine. But as I look at the stuff of life: how to acquire it, manage it, share it and leave it, I grapple with a few basic principles. Sensing the timeliness of these matters, given that March 1 and April 15 are just around the corner, perhaps you are grappling with them, too.
1) We do not own resources; we merely exert stewardship over them. We did not create the beauty of the universe; our Creator did. He can do with it whatever He chooses. He has entrusted our universe to us in the best hopes that we will take care of it wisely. Our financial resources are not really ours, either. They have been provided to us through God’s grace with the hopes that we will use them wisely, too. So I don’t think of the things in my life as “my stuff.” It’s certainly stuff—and it may reside in my home—but I merely exert stewardship over it while I’m on this earth. I will leave it exactly as I entered it: utterly naked.
2) Resources come and resources go; we need to be content with both much and with little. My family has had much at some points in our lives and we have had little at other times. I like it better when we have more. I’m human. But there are always lessons to be learned in leanness. And our family has made a concerted decision to become leaner. It will have its own rewards.
3) At some point, stuff simply becomes fluff. It’s no longer a needed pair of shoes; it’s a luxury pair added to the other luxury pairs lining our closet floors. How much do we really need, after all? I read that tennis great Serena Williams owns at least fifty tank tops. She has an affinity for them. Obviously. I admit to having an affinity for certain things, too. And I have made a conscious decision to stop my affinity. How much do I really need? At some point, we need to rationalize a freeze to spending. To freeze lifestyle. Your freezing point may have a different degree than mine. But it’s a question worth asking.
4) Sacrifice always feels better than self-indulgence. While indulging in occasional whims is gratifying and permissible on almost all counts, it never provides long-lasting satisfaction. Sacrifice, on the other hand, requires personal denial, and leaves one feeling like a positive legacy has been cast as a direct result. I highly encourage everyone to sacrifice one tenth of their resources to those less fortunate, whether you believe you are able to do so or not. Begin slowly, if you must. And work up to any amount over and above a ten percent benchmark. When we sought counsel from one of our ministers at to a “before- tax” or “after-tax” ten percent, his response was simple: “Do you want before-tax or after-tax blessings?”
5) Give thanks for each and every blessing and count them often. Take nothing for granted. Not your health nor your strength nor your relationships nor your home nor your job nor your leisure. It all comes from above and needs to be acknowledged as such.
As you sift and sort through the receipts and bank statements that in many ways define how you are living your life, I hope that you take some time to think of how you can become an even better steward…and of ways in which personal sacrifice will lead you to a more saint-like existence.
Stuff really does become fluff when too much stuff occupies your everyday spaces, your everyday finances and your everyday thoughts. That’s when it’s truly Fluff the Magic Dragon. Don’t let its fire breathe too heavily down your neck.
Blessings on your week,
Carolina
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