Archives for 2011

You were born a daughter.
You looked up to your mother.
You looked up to your father.
You looked up at everyone.

You wanted to be a princess.
You thought you were a princess.

You wanted to own a horse.
You wanted to be a horse.
You wanted your brother to be a horse.

You wanted to wear pink.
You never wanted to wear pink.

You wanted to be a Veterinarian.
You wanted to be President.
You wanted to be the President’s Veterinarian.

You were picked last for the team.
You were the best one on the team.
You refused to be on the team.

You wanted to be good in algebra.
You hid during algebra.

You wanted the boys to notice you.
You were afraid the boys would notice you.

You started to get acne.
You started to get breasts.
You started to get acne that was bigger than your breasts.
You wouldn’t wear a bra.
You couldn’t wait to wear a bra.
You couldn’t fit into a bra.

You didn’t like the way you looked.
You didn’t like the way your parents looked.

You didn’t want to grow up.

You had your first best friend.
You had your first date.
You had your second best friend.
You had your second first date.

You spent hours on the telephone.

You got kissed.
You got to kiss back.

You went to the prom.
You didn’t go to the prom.
You went to the prom with the wrong person.

You spent hours on the telephone.

You fell in love.
You fell in love.
You fell in love.

You lost your best friend.
You lost your other best friend.

You really fell in love.
You became a steady girlfriend.
You became a significant other.

YOU BECAME SIGNIFICANT TO YOURSELF.

Sooner or later, you start taking yourself seriously. You know when you need a break. You know when you need a rest. You know what to get worked up about and what to get rid of. And you know when it’s time to take care of yourself, for yourself. To do something that makes you stronger, faster, more complete.

Because you know it’s never too late to have a life. And never too late to change one.

JUST DO IT.

-Nike

I first read this Nike advertisement some twenty plus years ago. And tucked it away. It went through many, many moves with me, becoming more and more tattered along the way. It spoke volumes to me. Even then. About the trials and tribulations of being a girl. About the bad stuff. The good stuff. The stuff that only other girls will get. It encouraged. It rallied. It buoyed. It comforted. And, this is for Beth, it rocked.

Now, years later, being the Mom of a girl, that very rocky yet wonderful terrain lies ahead. Training bras. Boys. Crushes. Kisses. Puberty. Angst. Fights with best friends. Spin the bottle. Hours of homework. After-school jobs. SATs. Yikes.

But the one thing I am most conscious of, especially in terms of the responsibility when it comes to raising a daughter, is body image. I constantly tell her how adorable she is. Commend her on a smart choice. Encourage forgiveness. Thank her for making a kind gesture. Reward sharing. Hug and kiss her. Body image is heaps more than just how she feels about her physical body, but it’s the whole entire package. Mind, body, spirit. We highlight all the wonderful characteristics, not just a pretty girl in a pretty outfit. This is a child that spills over with confidence and self-esteem. But she even she has her moments…

Madeline and I and food are a trifecta in terms of battlegrounds. She eats to live. That’s it. I have never been a strong proponent of the Clean Plate Club. In fact, stuff like that drives me crazy. But she *does* need to eat to sustain, to grow, to thrive. And that’s where her and I differ. Most days, she has little to no interest in food. While I believe that kids largely eat when they need to, sometimes with her I’m not so sure. She goes through phases where she’ll wolf down a plate of food, or a phase where she’ll skip two meals (and eat only a yogurt and a glass of milk in between).

She wants to be a Mommy and a Doctor when she grows up. A combination I adore.

“But Madeline, if you want to be a Mommy, you need to make sure to eat so you’re strong enough to hold your babies.”

I want to be a small Mommy.

It all came to a bit of a head Tuesday night.

We pulled into the driveway after running a quick errand. I turned off the car and started to gather my things before getting out.

“Mommy, am I fat?”

The question came out of nowhere.

It honestly took my breath away for a moment.

My mind raced at all the things I could say to make her revel in her little body. Her adorably perfect shape. And to not start the whole vicious body cycle image at such a tender young age.

“Madeline, honey, why would you even ask that?”

Silence.

“You absolutely positively are not fat. And even if you were, you would still be perfect. If you were super tall or as tiny as a mouse. Purple. With pink polka dots. With no arms or six. Fat. Skinny. With glasses. Curly hair. Yellow hair. You are absolutely perfect just the way you are. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Madeline, eating is really important. You need to eat so you can run and play on the playground. So your brain can be ready when you’re learning your letters in school and when you’re practicing to write your name. So you can help me with Maxwell. So you can play with Nick. Eating is how you feed your body. It gives you vitamins and all sorts of special things so you can grow.”

It honestly broke my heart that she would even ask that. I started indexing everything in my mind, trying to figure out why she would even ask.  Where the notion would even come from.

Mystic and I talked about it for a bit last night after the kids went to bed.  When I first mentioned it to him, he sat quietly on the couch for a moment.  Mind blown.  Appreciating the gravity of her question.  There are a few or twenty words on my imaginary checklist that we don’t say in this house, and fat and diet are certainly amongst the top of the list. While I occasionally have my own days where I battle with image, I honestly bend over backwards to not let it go past the recesses of my own mind. When we talk about exercise, it’s in terms of being good to our body, giving us more energy, being healthy, and having fun. Never about losing weight.

I encourage. I cheer. I applaud. I comfort. The little stuff. The big stuff. But everything. So that no matter what demons are outside our home, the kids walk out the front door feeling loved, cherished, and happy.

I love being a girl.  And being the mom to a girl, although anyone who knows me will tell you I always wanted a boy first.  For a variety of reasons, but I think Madeline is pretty lucky to have an older brother to look out for her.  But raising a girl?  It’s a pressure all of its own.  Not that raising a boy is any picnic.  But the challenge across the sexes is in raising children to be confident in themselves, in what they look like, in their abilities and talents, in their place not only in our family but in the world at large.  To be content.  And gracious.  And polite.  To be kind.  To do unto others.  Time and time again.  And to do for others.  And for themselves.  Far too often, are we kind to others but not as kind to ourselves.

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“Are you kidding me?” I heard Mystic say from the other room.

“Did you already post for tonight?” he asked me, as he came into the office.

Not yet, but I’m three lines away.

“Good.  I think you should add this,” he said, showing me his Chinese fortune cookie.  Nick was cleaning up in the dining room and found a few fortune cookies leftover from take-out last week.  And between the two of them, they were gone in minutes.

Which was, surprisingly, immediately followed by this:

(They will, of course, be added to our Chinese fortune wall)

This was exactly what we needed after this weekend.  Or after the past couple of weeks.

Dude, life is hard sometimes.  This is not a news flash, I know.  Whatever your lot is in life, it is filled with the good, the bad and the downright ugly.

Juggling single parenting along with work, maintaining a home, cooking good-for-you meals, freelancing, a new pet … well, folks, you know as well as I do, it’s all hard.

We’re all in the trenches.  Slogging away.  Day after day.  Night after night.

There are moments when I need to catch my breath.  And can’t.

When I need thirty seconds of peace to think a complete thought.  And can’t.

When I need to be able to finish a conversation (heck, even a sentence!).  And can’t.

But at the end of every day, I fall into bed exhausted, slightly stressed, but happy.

And it is because I know the real value of the day.

I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  Not anything.

Because in all that stuff that we have to slog through, there are these bits of magic.

When Nick grabs my hand to hold it.  In public.

Or when he turns to give me a kiss before leaving.  Which is not always, mind you, but sometimes.

Or when he finally understands a lecture I’ve been preaching since the dawn of time.

When Madeline brushes the hair from my eyes and tells me I’m “the best ever.”

When she offers to massage my feet, along with half a bottle of lotion, because she knows my ankle is sore.

When Mystic’s son, a teenager, throws his arms around his waist and whispers that he loves him.

When his youngest son turns in an essay for school on his hero, and the person he chose was Mystic.

Those are the moments of real value.  The reward for a job well done.  Or a day well spent.  Or a connection well made.

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Do you see what I see? I bet Sarah, who knows my penchant for such things, does. And I know Joanne does, since she was with me.  But what about you?

September 21, 2011 – Bonus Photo

Madeline picked these for me yesterday when she was outside finding our yard weeding.

“Where did you put the flowers I picked for you?”

They’re in a glass jar on the window sill.  Do you see them?

“Yes.  Do you love the flowers I picked for you?”

I do.  They’re gorgeous – thank you so much!

“You’re welcome.”

She must have asked me at least three more times before bedtime if I loved the flowers.  I love that she was bursting with pride on her little did-it-all-by-herself heartfelt gesture.

I think it’s a good balance with the fact that when she and I (and Nick, of course) met Mystic’s parents and sister for the first time this weekend, she introduced them to her new word of the day: Poopalicious.

“Oh, she’s so adorable!  What did she say?”

Um, it’s not exactly appropriate to repeat.

It took them a moment and then I think they figured out what she said.  They laughed and luckily still thought she was adorable.

I certainly don’t blame them.

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