Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

A Bad Day

Friday, October 3, 2014
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There are hard days and there are bad days. Some days are both. The first weeks of AJ’s life held many hard days, but not bad days. But this week, I had a bad day.

Now, if you are like pre-baby me, you might be thinking, “How could she have a bad day when she just spent it hanging out with her baby?”

Moms, I give you permission to stop right now and laugh at (or virtually smack) pre-baby me. Oh how little I knew…

The day started out normal. There were chores to be done, bills to be paid and a few calls to make, but nothing out of the ordinary. It quickly turned into one of those days where nothing goes as planned and everything seems to culminate into a mess at the same time.

The bad day started when I set out for our mid-morning run. I ended up dealing with several issues on the phone and the run never happened, but I did almost shed tears at the park. When we got home, I was frustrated and upset, and AJ quickly became the same. A crying baby meant no shower and a half-par lunch for me.

AJ continued to cry. Screaming cries. It could have been her reflux, or maybe she was just tired of looking at my face. Nothing I tried could soothe her. Even after eating she would go back to crying.

Several household items and appliances have managed to break in the last few days, and of course something broke on this bad day, which required more calls to check on warranties or at least adding making the calls to the mounting to-do list.

I was on the phone and online trying to get through red tape for various issues all afternoon, all the while trying to keep a pacifier in AJ’s mouth. Not giving my full attention to her wasn’t helping the situation either.

I then had to run a few errands that couldn’t wait (and errands are never quick with a child) and when I finally finished the day’s tasks I was exhausted. But AJ was not. She was still crying on and off. Chris had an after-hours work event and wasn’t home. The house was a mess. I was not able to eat anything for dinner because I was back to soothing the baby. When Chris finally came home, I was a mess.

It was official; I had had a bad day.

We all have bad days, whether we are two or twenty-two, a stay-at-home mom or a working mom, a mom, dad, grandma, grandpa or none of the above. They come unexpectedly, usually right when we think everything is going well. Some bad days are for silly, superficial reasons; some are not. Some are because of our kids, some because of work, some because of quarrels with family or friends, and some are because of sickness, loss or heartbreak.

That evening, as I finally got into bed, I thought about the day’s events. Sure, things did not go as planned. I wasn’t able to shower or eat dinner, I was frustrated with a lot of things, including myself, and had not been able to soothe our baby. I felt like a bad mom.

I then did a small reality check – I had many things for which to be thankful, one being that I was with my husband and baby at the end of the day and we were safe and healthy.

Sometimes we let the little things get to us, at least I do, but I hope I can always remember everything that is good at the end of the day and be thankful for it. I hope I can teach AJ that it’s okay to have bad days, even if the reasons may seem silly to someone else, but to remember to put things in perspective. Often, we’ll realize what we thought was a bad day was actually a pretty good one.

A Messy Situation

Wednesday, September 24, 2014
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I absolutely despise the phrase “I told you so.”

But then, I can’t imagine anyone actually likes hearing words that generally follow a bad decision, a poor choice or some unfortunate situation.

Sometimes, even when they remain unspoken, I know I deserve to hear them.

And sometimes, I am saying them to myself.

Now that I have two teenagers living under my roof, I find myself saying those words to myself over and over again, just as a friend warned me years ago.

At the time, one of my many job responsibilities was teaching adolescent development and parenting. I thought I was an expert as I spouted facts about concrete versus abstract thinking, risky behavior and setting boundaries.

In reality, all I knew was what I had read and what I had been taught, neither of which can replace genuine experience when it comes to human behavior or raising kids.

A friend tried to point this out to me when my son was just a toddler. I had been quoted in a newspaper article about carefully picking battles with teenagers. I specifically told parents not to waste time and energy fighting over messy bedrooms as teenagers should be allowed to be in control of some parts of their lives, including personal space.

“You are going to look back at that article some day and laugh at yourself,” my friend said.

I told her I wouldn’t.

I was wrong.

When my son turned 13 and his bedroom began to resemble destruction left in wake of a tornado, he came up with his own solution to my constant griping. He asked if he could move into the bedroom in the basement, which we already called the kid cave. His dad and I agreed, and I thought the bedroom battle was resolved.

I was wrong again.

My daughter, who once took pride in keeping her room neat and organized, has apparently been taking notes from her brother. As her room grows messier and more chaotic by the day and the contents of her room are now spilling out into the hallway, my complaints have grown louder and more frequent. They’ve also fallen on deaf ears.

Even as I tell myself I am fortunate to be battling with my daughter over such a minor issue, I am also aware that I’m not following my own naive yet somehow sensible advice: pick your battles so you have the time and energy to deal with the major issues.

Since I haven’t listened,  the battle is starting to wear me down. I have also become convinced that my daughter is simply laying the groundwork to take over the basement as soon as her brother graduates from high school.

I’m telling myself that will never happen, but something tells me I may also be wrong.

Which means I will once again be telling myself “I told you so.”

A Nursing Experience

Friday, September 19, 2014
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Before I had AJ, I read posts and heard stories on the difficulty of breastfeeding. But I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why people said it was so hard. Nothing I read really explained what was hard about it. Now that I am breastfeeding, I know why it is hard. I’m sharing my experience, what I think is probably a typical one, to hopefully help other soon-to-be moms know what it’s like to learn to breastfeed, and to see if any new moms have had similar experiences.

Before I continue, I feel I need to say that this is not a post advocating one way of feeding your child over another, touting the benefits of various types of infant nutrition, or saying one form of feeding is more difficult than another. A mom has to feed her child in the way that works best for her baby, herself and her family. How she chooses to do so is a decision that is up to her and her child’s pediatrician, and may depend on various circumstances. Every way of feeding a baby comes with its advantages and difficulties; I am breastfeeding and so that’s the experience I can share.

I knew I wanted to breastfeed, but I was apprehensive about it. I didn’t think I would like it at all. And at first, I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way it made me feel and I didn’t like the burden I felt it placed on me.

The first 48 hours were by far the hardest. Despite what I expected, a baby is not like a magnet, they don’t immediately latch on and know what to do. It takes a lot of guidance, patience and stamina to get a newborn to latch. Babies have to learn how to eat and suck and it can take a toll on mom while they do so. I was already exhausted from the experience of childbirth, and then I had to try to get AJ to eat properly again and again and again. I got stressed out and panicky if she wouldn’t latch or if the nurse told me I was doing it the wrong way. I received conflicting instructions from people. I thought nursing was something that should come naturally to me and to my baby, but it doesn’t. It is definitely a learned process for both.

Sometimes, babies just aren’t able to latch. There are many reasons why. When AJ was born, she was “tongue-tied,” which means her tongue was connected to the bottom of her mouth all the way to the tip. Because of this, she was not able to latch correctly. She could still breastfeed, but it was very painful for me. If she hadn’t had a procedure to fix her tongue-tie I don’t think I would have been able to continue to breastfeed. It would have been too painful for me and too frustrating for her.

I would not have been successful breastfeeding if not for the help of the lactation specialist at the hospital. I saw her twice and she is the reason I kept going. Without her instructions, I would not have known what to do and would not have been able to teach AJ.

The first few days, AJ was eating every one to two hours. And that timing is from the beginning of one feeding to the beginning of another. With each feeding taking about twenty to thirty minutes, that’s basically all I was doing. Talk about no sleep! It was draining physically, mentally and emotionally. Every time she ate it felt like she was sucking life out of me. Because of the hormones, it also made me feel sad and depressed. Not exactly an enjoyable experience.

When we got home, things got a little better, but not much. She was getting better at eating, so I was only feeding her every two to two and a half hours and the duration of each feeding got shorter. It was still physically and mentally painful for me. After a feeding, I would need to lie down for a while to recuperate.

The stress of it all took a toll on me too. I worried about if she was getting enough to eat and I felt like there was a huge weight on my shoulders as I was the only one who could feed her. While my husband could take a break and sleep for a few hours, I could not. I was always on call (and still am).

About a week and a half in, things took a significant turn for the better. Nursing was not painful anymore. AJ learned to latch and I didn’t have to constantly stop nursing to reposition her mouth. I gained more energy and didn’t have to lie down after a feeding. My hormones started to balance out and I didn’t feel like she was sucking out my soul every time she ate. I learned she was healthily gaining weight at her two-week checkup.

Now, after five weeks in, it’s become (almost) a breeze. Last week, I started to pump; I’m still nursing, but we introduced the bottle so that I can have a break when I need it, and I’m eventually going to have to go back to work. But instead of feeling relieved that she took the bottle, I felt sad that something had taken a piece of our special bond. It took a lot of hard work to get here, but I’ve come to really enjoy nursing. I know when it comes time to wean her I will be a sad momma.

A Bit of Attitude

Wednesday, September 10, 2014
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As I write this, I am extremely exhausted.

Just saying I’ve had a great deal on my plate lately would be an understatement.

I’ve had a great deal on multiple plates, and, since I’m not very coordinated, juggling them has been a challenge.attitude

I was finally able to put one of  the largest and heaviest plates down when the last guest left  an annual fundraising event Monday night.  Instead of feeling a sense of relief, however, I started noticing all the other plates that were still at risk of being dropped. I was even starting to fret about all that I’d left undone in my scramble to ensure the fundraiser was a success.

And then the event chairperson gave me a compliment that put my to do list in perspective. Amid the discussion about logistics and guests and dollars raised, he said, “I really appreciated your attitude.”

I don’t think anyone has complimented me in such a way before.

Maybe that’s because attitude isn’t about a skill set or even about a behavior. It’s certainly not about recruiting great volunteers, putting together a good program or selling enough tickets. Attitude is about how we face both challenges and successes, and I don’t think it is easily taught.

No matter how many times I’ve told my children that they need to improve their attitude, my words don’t have any effect. My kids don’t suddenly go from sullen to excited because I, or anyone else, told them they should.

But then again, I never did either.

Understanding and learning to adopt a better attitude came from one place: my role models.

I’m not talking about great leaders or adults that had a long-lasting impact on me as a child.

I’m talking about ordinary people who have shown me that we can’t always change our circumstances, but we can certainly change how we react to them and therefore how others around us react.

Just the other day, a homeless woman  said “thank you”  and “I understand”  when I told her I needed to call another agency to verify her story. I wanted to help her so much more than the person who accuses me of calling them a liar.

Just the other day at the grocery store, I stood in the express lane with five items in my hand while the clerk said nothing to the woman with a full cart ahead of me. I bit my tongue and silently fumed until the older gentleman behind me joked that we’d need to talk to each other while we waited. His smile and attempt at humor made me realize that a few extra minutes at the grocery store wasn’t going to ruin my day.

And just the other day, I witnessed  friend who is struggling with multiple issues  smile widely and hug others with no mention of her own problems. She isn’t pretending her problems don’t exist, but she isn’t letting them interfere with her positive relationships.

All of these people have taught me something that words never could.

Telling my children to change their attitude may not work, but paying attention to my own attitude just might.

That’s why I’m not just adding “monitoring my attitude” to my growing to-do list. I’m putting it at the very top.

The Bright Side of Sibling Struggles

Wednesday, September 3, 2014
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If I were a great parent, I would have taken appropriate action when my son told my daughter to shut up. I didn’t take any action, which means I’m not a great parent or a very good referee.

The problem is that my ability to see shades of grey is magnified when it comes to my children.siblings

I didn’t like my son saying “shut up,” but I also knew that “please be quiet,” wouldn’t have gotten him anywhere. And where he wanted to go was away from his sister’s loud and persistent singing.

Don’t get me wrong.

My daughter is a wonderful singer. She was born singing. When she started daycare, the teachers said they always knew where Kendall was because they simply followed her song.

Not much has changed over the past decade, which is exactly why Shep reached his limit and  yelled “shut up.”

His sister, on the other hand, had every reason to be belting songs at the top of her lungs. She  has an audition for a musical  on Saturday and she was trying out every piece of music she thought would be appropriate.

Since I understood both of them,  I couldn’t take sides. What I could do was  sympathize with both of them, and that’s the path I chose to take.

It may not have been the direction for which parenting experts advocate, and it certainly didn’t do much for creating peace in my house. But I like to think it provided my children with a glimpse of the real world.

In the real world, people have different priorities, and sometimes those priorities conflict. We have to figure out a way to live together anyway.

In the real world, we know that music  may touch the soul, but the same tune affects everyone differently. We have to let others dance to their own beat just as we dance to ours.

And in the real world, maintaining general happiness in life requires deciding when to fight for what you want and when to walk away. The best decisions are the ones that take into account the perspective of others.

I may not have given my children the gift of having the world’s most wise or  patient mother, but I did give my kids what I consider one of the world’s greatest gifts.  I gave them a sibling with whom they have many of the same conflicts they will soon have to face with roommates, co-workers, spouses and maybe even their own children.

And I also like to think that someday, in the distant future, they might  actually appreciate that gift.

Social Caterpillar

Monday, July 21, 2014
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Emma Watson (via Pinterest).

Emma Watson (via Pinterest).

Rachel “Bunny” Lowe Lambert Lloyd Mellon, the horticulturalist and art collector turned second wife of philanthropist and horse breeder, Paul Mellon, became famous for her best friendship with First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy. (Lord, what a mouthful.)

In the time she spent with Jackie redesigning the White House Rose Garden, she shared her secrets for staying out of the public eye while maintaining an influential role in society.  In her old-fashioned correctness, she told friends that “a woman’s name should appear in print exactly three times: when she makes her debut, when she marries, and when she dies.”

The rest, darling, isn’t to be shared.

I read about “Bunny” in an article in the July issue of Town & Country magazine, which questioned whether people can maintain any sort of solitude in the glare of social media.  If you can Google your own name and not find any information, then you have achieved the nearly impossible dream.

In this day, most (if not all) girls make their “debuts” via Facebook. And once they’re out, there’s no going back.

I talked about this with Ava, who is 11 years old and doesn’t have a social media presence (other than what I publish). Most of the girls she knows already have Instagram sites, and a few have Facebook pages or Twitter accounts.  She’s never asked for anything other than access to Pinterest so she can surf pictures of her favorite musicians. We agreed in order to save our bedroom walls from hideous posters of British boy bands.

Ava sees how much I’m online, posting comments and uploading pictures, and fiddling with different filters to make shots look their best.  She also knows that I landed assignments from USA TODAY simply by maintaining a LinkedIn profile, and she’s aware that I blog about our family every week in the Daily Mail’s online edition. It doesn’t bother Ava — in fact, she’s proud of her old mom — but she doesn’t want to call attention to herself. Like her father, she just doesn’t care to share.

And there’s something to be said for the girl who says nothing at all.

“I think those sites can cause trouble,” she said to me one night when we were up late talking.

“How so?” I asked.

“It just seems like girls get into a lot of fights over things that are posted.”

True, I admitted.  Girls and boys have to be very careful about what they put out there.

“I just like being quiet.”

I wish I had that skill.  Some people have described my writing as “brave” and “gutsy” and “always honest”, but it’s also risky to reveal so much. It’s a call for reaction — and criticism.

We talked about the concept of privacy for a long time, and I realized that she’s entering a stage of life that is full of sensitive matters.  As a writer who observes everyday life and analyzes its oddities, it’s very hard not to turn motherhood into material. As playwright Nora Ephron said so expertly, “Everything in life is copy.”  And she’s absolutely correct.

But maybe it shouldn’t be.

After a few sleepless nights, I’ve decided to end my run writing for The Mommyhood.  It has been a difficult decision that makes me sad, but I feel like I need to let our rising sixth grader have some breathing room. She and her younger sister have belonged to the world for nearly four years, and while I have enjoyed every second of sharing this cherished life with you, I think it’s time to bring it back home.

Giving up this blog is a lot like giving a baby up for adoption.  For a journalist, an essayist or a diarist, a column in any form is a coveted space.  I am very grateful that a friend pitched one of my pieces to Brad McElhinny and encouraged him to give my work a closer look, and I am so appreciative of the Daily Mail staffers who made me feel like one of them.

Of course, I have to give thanks to my girls, who provided more than a half-million words under my fingers. In return, I plan to print every post and have two copies bound, which will be saved for when they become mothers. This blog has chronicled a large part of their childhood, but also the phases of motherhood that I hope they’ll refer to one day.

Finally, I thank you, dear readers, who have clicked my links every Monday, “liked” them, favorited them, forwarded them, and provided tremendous support through comments and replies. Parenting is a lonely job at times, but I rarely felt that way. Each time I signed on, there was always someone there to give me a much-needed thumbs up.

Bright and early this morning, I was waiting for the “pop” of sealed jars containing homemade strawberry jam.  I sat at the computer and scrolled through shots on Pinterest  – everything from Kate Middleton and baby George to sweet George Harrison. Then, I stumbled upon a quote attributed to Emma Watson, most famously known as Hermione Granger of the Harry Potter series. It’s hard to tell if she actually mouthed the following words, but I sent the pin to Ava anyway.  It said:

THE LESS YOU REVEAL, THE MORE PEOPLE CAN WONDER.

And as my girls enter the reality show of adolescence, I pray they’ll choose to remain a bit of a mystery.

Note:  Katy Brown may be leaving her regular spot in The Mommyhood, but you can continue to follow her lifestyle blog, House Kat.  It’s a peach!

http://thehousekatblog.wordpress.com

 

The Great Indoors

Monday, July 7, 2014
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Maybe next year she can go someplace that lets her catch things.

Maybe next year she can go someplace that lets her catch things.

When I think back to my childhood, I realize that I didn’t do a lot in the summer.  I rode my bike through the Kanawha City streets (but never across MacCorkle Avenue), bought Slush Puppies at a  7-11 convenient store, ran through a sprinkler hooked to the garden hose in the front yard, and I watched HBO after my parents went to bed. One day rolled into the next, set to the labored hum of a large window-unit air conditioner that was bought from Sears and Roebuck (yes, both of them).

Some years, we took a vacation to Wrightsville Beach, N.C. or Williamsburg, Va.  Some years we couldn’t.

But never, ever did I go to camp.

And I sort of wish I had.

Last summer, as I lounged by the pool half-watching my girls cannonball off the diving board, I became engrossed in an article in Town & Country magazine.  The writer reflected on his summers at camp — an exclusive, preppy, hard-to-get-into-and-even-harder-to-pay-for place tucked away in the forests of “old” New England.  This sleep-away camp was the place where mosquitoes bit but fish didn’t, canoes capsized but nobody drowned, and hearts ached for home.  For a little while, that is.

The writer still believes that camp is a rite of passage in childhood; a necessary “roughing it” that removes some of the shelter in kids’ lives — physically and emotionally. Back then, going off to camp (for at least three weeks) was a way to connect with the world.  Today, it’s a way of making kids unplug from it.

The article romanticized camp in a way that made me actually look into places for my daughters, ages 11 and 8.  I follow a few camps for girls on Facebook and through images posted on Instagram and Pinterest — all of which make the experience look downright enchanting.

Ava doesn’t see it that way.

“WHAT? No walls?!” she exclaimed, as she leaned over my shoulder to study a large tent with its flaps peeled back to reveal giggly girls sitting on cots.

“What if it rains?!” she exclaimed.

You pull the flaps down, I guess.

“And bugs! Bears! No, Mama. NO,” Ava declared, stepping back from the computer as if it had malaria.  Her idea of camping is a cottage overlooking The Old White golf course at The Greenbrier.

Maryn, our youngest, took her sister’s spot over my shoulder.

“Cool!” she said.  “You get to sleep outside?”

Yes. For a month.

“Hmmm…” she pondered.  “How far away is it?”

You’d go to camp? I asked, shocked.  Maryn is our explorer, but she’s also the one who will sit and hold my hand when I’m bedridden in a nursing home.

It’s about two hours from here. You’d like to do that? 

“Maybe….” she said.

Well, let’s throw this little fish back in the water, I thought to myself.

Tomorrow (which will be “this morning” once the blog is published), Maryn will attend Fun With Words: A Young Writers Camp sponsored by the Central West Virginia Writing Project, a program overseen by Marshall University.  No, she won’t sleep in a tent (or a dorm), and no, she won’t be in the next state.  But, she will be gone during the day and she won’t have her sister sitting right next to her. She’s going off by herself, and I have to admit, I’m a little nervous.

Before I get ahead of myself, Maryn asked to attend camp. I didn’t sign her up for the sake of doing so.  She loves the arts, so this seemed like a good fit for her.  But, I’d be wrong if I hid an underlying motive for paying the rather steep tuition fee.

I wanted Ava, who will be starting middle school in about a month, to watch her little sister walk into a new environment without any familiar faces for comfort. It also takes some motivation to try new things, especially when they aren’t necessary or required.

My girl isn’t going to be sitting at the edge of Walden Pond penning the next great American novel.  Or, maybe she will — just not beside a bubbling brook.  And, she won’t be writing letters home detailing songs sung in unison around a fire, or merit badges won during archery contests or at the conclusion of wilderness survival tests (thank God).  But, she might write a story about meeting new friends and having new types of fun.  It may not be Lake Ossippe backdropped by the White Mountains of New Hampshire, but it will be an adventure … for all of us.

 

Womb with a view

Monday, June 30, 2014
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nibbles

A step up from bunnies.

I am blessed beyond words to have two daughters who don’t ask for anything. I mean nothing. They don’t ask for clothes, shoes, toys, gadgets…anything.  I have to beg them to go shopping with me, and I have to beg them to tell me what they like when we’re in stores.  I know, this too shall pass.

A typical conversation with our tweenager goes a little something like this:

“Ava, you need some new jeans.  Yours are too short.”

“Okay.”

“What kind do you like?”

“I don’t care.”

“You have to care. Gap? Target?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Oh, but it will.

Our eight-year-old is as easy going, if not more.

“Maryn, your shoes are filthy.  You need a new pair.”

“Hmmm….they’re fine. They still fit.”

“Yes, but they’re awful.”

“It’s okay.”

And I suppose it is okay, but I can’t have my children wearing high waters and tennies the color of red mulch.

Then, there’s the issue of their bedroom, which they still share.  We live in a traditional Cape Cod home with closets built into the eaves. This means we have storage fit for a toddler.  You have to stoop down to enter the “walk-in closets”, and there’s no place to hang anything unless dresses and pants are to dust the floor.  Items have to be folded if they’re to remain clean (but not wrinkle-free).

Before long, the tweenager will demand a better closet and better clothes to put in it.

She’ll also notice that pink and blue polka dots are too young for middle schoolers, despite the rising third grader who occupies that space with her. Pastels and shapes are still acceptable.  The pictures of Peter Rabbit are still charming.  Or, they’ve been on the walls so long they’ve become ignored.

Yes. Beatrix Potter.

I know…I know…it’s time to free the rabbits Watership Down-style. It’s time to upgrade the bedroom into a big girl’s haven (that a little sister can tolerate).  A recent conversation went a little something like this:

“Girls, your dad and I want to give your room a facelift.  Redecorate. Turn the playroom into a real closet.  What do you think?”

They looked up from YouTube (Crafty Friday) long enough to force smiles.

“Okay…” they said in unison.

“What look do you want? Purples? Pinks? Flowers?”

“Sure,” Ava said.

“All of it or none of it?” I asked.

“That’s fine,” Maryn shrugged.

I felt anger building up.  “NO! You have to take an interest. Something has to appeal to you two. This is your space. You own it.  NOW WHAT KIND OF BEDROOM DO YOU WANT?!”

Maryn sat frozen-faced.  Ava began to bob her extra-long foot against the couch, a sign that she was thinking.  Plotting.  After a minute, she spoke.

“Lilly Pulitzer.”

Whaaaaaaat?

“Lilly. I love it.”

I looked at Maryn, who was still too afraid to move or speak.

“Do you know how much that stuff costs?!”

Ava smiled.  Of course she did.

Fine. I accept the challenge. Lilly it is.

I went online and typed in the name of the famous fashion designer from Palm Springs, Florida. The Queen of Prep died in 2012, but her style lives on through Garnet Hill catalogs and in coastal community boutiques and outdoor malls in Southern cities.  The cost of one twin comforter? $238.

Nervously, I searched Ebay.  The prices were higher.  And I needed TWO of everything.

I decided there had to be a better way of creating a space with bright colors and whimsical designs (of rabbits, I bet) without losing the whole house. I turned to Etsy, my new obsession, for help.  I found it. Lord love, I found it!

It turns out that you can do just about anything with a bolt of fabric.  Pillows, curtains, lamp shades and artwork can be made out of a few yards of the loudest designs you can imagine. Instead of buying actual Lilly pictures (worth thousands), I could frame a 12×12 square of fabric for wallhangings.  Instead of a $75 neckroll pillow sold in stores, I could have one made for $25.  Rather than going broke on two comforters, I could buy two solid white bed-in-a-bag sets and add a splash of Pulitzer by covering the headboard in a clashing (I mean, contrasting) print for $30 each.

AND — for that added touch — a sassy girl from the University of South Carolina could cut out the shape of West Virginia in a Lilly print and frame it for me…for a bargain price of $6.

Gotta pay those Delta Zeta dues, I guess.

I’m still in the process of transforming the girls’ room from Peter Rabbit to Lilly Pulitzer, but the process has been a lot of fun — for me, that is.  Ava and Maryn have enjoyed watching me squeal when a package arrives, a box containing a print of jellyfish, sea turtles and gigantic peonies the color of pink elephants.  But once the room is finished, I have to be prepared never to see the girls again.  If it turns out to be as festive as Pinterest entices and Etsy delivers, they’ll come out only for food and water.

And that’ll have to be “okay.”

 

 

Oh, Deer/Me.

Monday, June 23, 2014
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I have a soft spot for animals that gets the best of me.  This soft spot clouds my judgment, drains my bank account and sometimes threatens my health. I guess it’s a desire to help things that can’t express themselves — creatures that want to be loved and need to be cared for — as if I don’t have children at home requiring the same.

But I’m wrong about something: Animals can express themselves. Sure they bark, meow, hiss, chirp and whistle. Sure they’re depressed when we’re on vacation and they’re glad to see us when we come home. It’s more than that.  They worry.

This past Thursday, I let our Golden Retriever and Beagle out for a run and other morning rituals.  Within five minutes, both of them starting carrying on as if someone had invaded their territory.  I ran to the window to look over our backyard, and that’s when I saw a mother deer cleaning her new fawn.  She stopped what she was doing to study the dogs, which were making so much noise I was afraid they’d wake the entire neighborhood.  It was a chaotic scene as I chased, tackled and wrestled them to hook leashes on their collars to pull them inside.  I kept reassuring “Mama” that everything was OK, as if she could interpret the words I called out in panic.

When I made it upstairs, I looked out and noticed the fawn, heaped on the ground behind our fence, appeared stillborn.  Its eyes were open and its head rested out from its body instead of coiled up in a fetal position.  Mama kept working on her baby, unruffled by what had happened on my side of the fence.

I woke the girls and told them to peek out their bedroom window to see the baby deer. Our youngest daughter is as addicted to animals as I am, and she becomes easily attached to anything with paws or claws.  We watched Mama and Baby for an hour, but the fawn never responded.  Soon, the mother ran off and I tiptoed around the side of the house to snap a few pictures from a safe distance.  Baby lifted its head finally, but then put it back down.

Perhaps it’s shocked; disoriented.  After all, it’s less than two hours old.

I waited for Mama and noticed that she was standing over the hillside looking up at the mound of tan fur and white dots.  Only her ears twitched.  The baby’s did not.

Perhaps it’s just scared.  I hope Mama comes back…

After a dental appointment and a visit to Capitol Market for ingredients to make BLT sandwiches for lunch, we checked on Baby from the kitchen. This time, it was huddled in the ivy behind a tree that had fallen some time ago.  It never moved.  Mama remained over the hill, looking up at her little one but never getting as close again.

By noon it was clear that the fawn had died.

I had to tell Maryn that Baby didn’t survive. Instinctively, she sensed something was wrong. The fawn never moved in a rain shower and it didn’t move when the hot sun broke through the clouds.  It didn’t move when our dogs barked at the UPS truck, and it didn’t move when trash collectors tossed bins back into the driveway.

My little one cried off and on for the remainder of the afternoon.  Down below, Mama began to pace.  She hiked the hill slowly and carefully, looking around each bush and tree limb to check her surroundings.  When she spotted our dogs in the yard, she charged the side of the garden shed and kicked over pots and containers.  She rammed her head into the fence panel and stood up to try to jump over into the area that held the two beasts she held responsible.

I ran outside with a broom in case I needed protection while pulling my dogs back to the porch.  She looked at me and snorted. She huffed and puffed and had the ability to kick our house down.  I kept reassuring her that she was all right — but she was not.

And she wasn’t all right that evening when she circled the area behind our neighbor’s yard, and she wasn’t that night when she charged the fence again.

The fawn had to be moved because of 90-degree heat, rain and the threat of pests that roam the woods at night.  A neighbor disposed of Baby in a humane manner according to DNR recommendations.  Mama was waiting on all of us when we opened the shutters this morning.  There she stood, over the hill, still looking up at the patch of ivy that remained empty.

She was in agony and she was angry.  Heartbroken.

I watched her hunt and stoop and search and smell and stop and stare. There was something very human about her pain, and it made me realize that a mama-baby bond is an awesome thing.  And I don’t use that word very often because it’s been ruined in a modern vocabulary.  But this was one of the most fascinating things I had ever watched — or experienced since I was one of her targets.

A few minutes ago, I looked out during another cloudburst to see how the trees were holding up with saturated roots. Off to the side stood Mama in pounding white rain, staring at me without any reaction to the storm.  As I finished typing this last paragraph, I checked on her again.  She wouldn’t move an inch and neither would I…as if to prove to a fellow mama that I understood.

 

 

 

 

First Word

Monday, June 16, 2014
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“Say Mama.  You can do it.  Ma-ma.  Mama.”

“Da-da.”

Over and over again.  “Da-da.”

Eventually, both of our girls blended the sounds that formed a name that would be called at least 100 times a day, every single day.  But when they were younger, “Da-da” — promoted to “Da-dee” when they were about three — was the only name that mattered. The most heinous household crime could be forgiven with the artful delivery of two sweet syllables.

Daddy?

And he’d melt into a puddle on the floor (which I’d have to clean up).

Last night, we returned from an 8-day vacation on the Brunswick Islands of North Carolina. Aside from the freshly-hatched sea turtles fighting their way into the great Atlantic, Daddy was the star of the trip. He always is the most important person in our girls’ eyes, and with good reason.  Whereas I’m mostly work and conversation, he’s mostly play and protection. When the girls are sick, they usually stagger toward me.  But when they’re hurt or they’re in need of unconditional support, Daddy is the one they seek.

Apparently, they’re not alone.  If you missed the Dove for Men commercial leading up to Father’s Day, you were left out of one impressive sob fest. As creative mastermind Don Draper explained to young copywriter Peggy Olson in the drama, Mad Men, advertising has one rule:  Make it simple…but significant.

What could be more simple or significant than a three letter word that’s made up of so much strength? As parents, we hear “Mom?!” and “Dad!?” so often that it becomes more of a false alarm than a loaded question.  But in that introductory phrase is a paragraph of wants and needs that only a certain person can decipher and resolve.  And for that, this Ma-ma thanks them.

Dove for Men Commercial