Womb with a view

June 30, 2014 by Katy Brown
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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.”

 

 

The Nesting Phase

June 27, 2014 by Kelly Weikle
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Watch out world – my nesting phase is here. I’ve heard it described by many: the time in your pregnancy when you want to clean and organize everything possible in your home. I didn’t know if I would go through this phase. While I’ve always liked to keep things neat, I really hate cleaning.

But now, my whole outlook has changed. Where I once saw a neat and (mostly) clean house, I now only see dust and animal hair. When I walk into a room, my first thoughts are on what needs cleaned and organized. I’ve started to notice places and items I want to clean that I didn’t even know could get dirty.

One of my first nesting accomplishments was cleaning out and organizing our closets. I also cleaned out my office at work. I have a huge “to-do before baby” list that includes everything from “clean carpets” to “print pictures and put in photo albums.” Nothing is off limits.

I’ve been the most focused on getting the nursery and other baby items ready. Even though I still have up to two months to go, I get panicky when I think of things we don’t have ready. It’s taking strong willpower not to go ahead and install the car seat – you know, just in case. I’ve washed all the baby clothes, blankets and towels, opened and put all my shower presents away, cleaned out a shelf in the kitchen for baby items and more. These have been the most rewarding nesting tasks but also the most surreal. I’ll be putting away baby shampoo and like a brick, it hits me that another living person will be moving in with us soon.

My husband and I are making room in our lives for someone new. It’s going to be a wonderful but overwhelming experience. Even though our new person will be small, she will demand that we change everything from our daily schedules to what movies we watch to what vacations we take. My nesting phase is helping me prepare our home, and my mind, for our new, tiny roommate. Or maybe the phase is just meant to keep me from going crazy in the home stretch of pregnancy. It’s helping with both.

This weekend, my plan is to deep clean our entire house, from top to bottom. My pre-pregnancy self would have dreaded this task, but I’m so excited I might even start tonight.

Pregnancy does some crazy things to your mind and body…nesting is definitely one of them.

Unforgettable Fun

June 25, 2014 by Trina Bartlett
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I made a huge mistake last Friday. I asked my daughter if she wanted to do something fun with me on Saturday.

I had forgotten that, in Kendall’s almost 13-year-old mind, there is only one situation that involves both mom and fun: shopping.

But she didn’t just want to go to the nearby mall where we usually shop. She requested we go to a much larger mall in the D.C. suburbs, and she only wanted to shop in stores that have clothes fashionable enough for nearly 13-year old girls. For the record, these are the exact same stores where she shops at the nearby mall and, from what I could tell, the clothes were exactly the same too.

The day was hard on pocketbook, hard on my feet and hard on my patience.

But I tolerated the shopping trip knowing that the next day we would be having real fun.

We were going hiking.hiking - Copy

But in Kendall’s almost 13-year-old mind, there is absolutely no situation that involves fun and hiking.

At first, I think she forgot that. As we were getting ready to go, she asked what she should wear. (For some reason, she asks me this every day. When I make a suggestion, she rolls her eyes and tells me what she thinks of my suggestion. Then, she wears what she wants and we repeat the routine the next day.)

I advised her to wear a t-shirt and sturdy shoes.  Per usual, she ignored my advice and wore  a newly purchased floral top, matching shoes and new prescription glasses she wears to see long distances. She asked if I liked the look.

This time, I rolled my eyes.

By the time we actually arrived in Harper’s Ferry, she was already complaining that she didn’t want to waste her whole day on a trail.

While my son forged ahead, she was demanding an explanation about the purpose of the hike. When my husband told her that someday she would appreciate it, she scoffed at the idea. IMG_3502When we joined up with a large pack of Boy Scouts at the overlook, she stopped complaining and seemed to enjoy the view and the company.

Then I made the mistake of suggesting we complete the hike along the ridge, which added additional hours to our time  in the woods and on the mountain. While I enjoyed the challenge, nobody else in the family did, especially my daughter. The only solace I could provide was the promise of a hot dog and ice cream at the end of the trail.

The hike, and subsequent meal out, were hard on my pocketbook, hard on my feet and hard on my patience.

But despite my daughter’s complaints, I thoroughly enjoyed the day and the memories we made. Something tells me my daughter will also remember the hike long after she forgets the trip to the mall. I’m also fairly confident that those memories will be good ones.

That’s how life works.

Despite our disagreements and dislikes, stepping outside our comfort zones and testing our endurance always builds our confidence. When we do it with people we love, it’s even more meaningful.

And when we do it together with family, it’s unforgettable.

Oh, Deer/Me.

June 23, 2014 by Katy Brown
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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.

 

 

 

 

Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

June 20, 2014 by Kelly Weikle
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Sitting, Waiting, Wishing – the title of a Jack Johnson song and an accurate description of the third trimester of pregnancy. Here’s a peek into what’s going on at this point in the journey to have a child:

You’ve come so far in the past seven months. You’ve made it through the emotional and physical rollercoaster that is the first trimester. You waited weeks and finally got to see an ultrasound of your baby, and if you chose to, find out the sex. You’ve looked at baby names, registered, and maybe even had a baby shower. If it’s your first (like me), you’ve probably been planning, preparing, researching, painting, purchasing and more. Most of your to-do-before-baby items are completed, except for the ones that you need to do in the couple weeks leading up to your due date.

So now, in weeks 30-35, the first half of your third trimester, your life pretty much boils down to sitting, waiting and wishing.

Sitting often, because you get out of breath from just walking to the bathroom. More than likely you are actually lying down, because even sitting can be pretty uncomfortable. Not to mention you need to keep your feet raised as much as possible to keep down the swelling. Sitting because your legs are not used to your additional load and they wear out easily. Sitting, then standing, then lying down, then sitting up again, because it’s impossible to find a comfortable position.

Waiting for baby. At this point, you’re probably going to the doctor every two weeks, but not every week. You count down the days until your next doctor appointment because it means the progression of time. But nothing really happens at the doctor visits – which is a GOOD thing, but leaves you feeling like nothing has changed. You can see the finish line, but it’s still in the horizon. Even though you try not to, you look at the calendar every day.

Wishing for so many things. Wishing for time to pass faster, while at the same time wishing you could simply live in the moment and enjoy this time. Wishing that your baby will be healthy. Wishing that your delivery will go smoothly and quickly. Wishing you could eat sushi. Wishing you could distract yourself. Maybe wishing that something was going differently in your pregnancy. Wishing that you will be a good parent to your child.

The baby will be here before you know it. But for now, it seems like even further away than when you found out you were pregnant. Yes, you could find something productive to do, but getting through a normal day is exhausting enough, and at the end of the day you can’t muster the energy to do anything but sit, wait and wish.

I’ll be sitting, waiting and wishing for a few more long weeks. When I’m at week 39, I’m sure I’ll look back and wonder how time passed so quickly. But for now, I’ll just try to enjoy the calm before the storm.

The Puzzle Piece

June 18, 2014 by Trina Bartlett
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I’ve started feeling guilty about a cardboard puzzle piece.

I’ve been passing it for more than a week during my early morning bike rides as I pedal across an interstate overpass.IMG_3440

The puzzle piece is lying on the shoulder of that overpass. The first time I saw it, I simply wondered how one puzzle piece can be lost on the side of the road. I’ve asked the same question about abandoned shoes, socks and other random items.

But the more times I’ve passed that puzzle piece, the more I’ve thought about it. It has simply stayed on the side of the road to endure heavy rainstorms and traffic, and it is getting more and more worn down.

To me, it is not  just a piece of cardboard. It is a piece of a  picture that will never be complete again. It once belonged to something bigger than itself, but now it is all alone. It has been ignored and discarded, and as a result is now broken down. And it reminds me of people I encounter every day:

  • Children who have been abused or neglected but know other families are healthy and happy. They wonder why their family is broken;
  • People who struggle with physical or emotional pain that leaves them isolated from others and afraid to reach out;
  • The single mother who lost her job and is now living in her van with her five children. So far, everyone has told her she doesn’t fit  anywhere.

Yet even though I’ve had these thoughts, I haven’t picked up the puzzle piece. I continue to ride by and think how sad and isolated it seems  just  as so many people pass by the children who are hurting,  the people who are lonely and the homeless.

The people who do take the time to stop, listen and offer some type of support are my heroes. Often, they can do little more than provide momentary comfort, but sometimes they are able to provide assistance that can make a significant difference.

They are the reason I am going to pick up that puzzle piece tomorrow. I’m going to bring it home and hang it on my bathroom mirror.

And when my children ask why I have a broken puzzle piece hanging on my mirror, I’m going to tell them that things that have been broken still have a great deal to give. I’m going to tell that being kind is more powerful than being a millionaire, and everyone has the ability to be kind. Most importantly, I will tell them that when our circumstances change and we feel that we no longer fit in, we can always find somewhere else where we can make a difference. That puzzle piece certainly has.

First Word

June 16, 2014 by Katy Brown
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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

I fed my baby a Big Mac

June 13, 2014 by Kelly Weikle
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I haven’t eaten a hamburger in five years. That is, until a recent late-night craving. It was one of those days where I’d been busy, and at the end of the day I realized I hadn’t eaten any meat. I felt a little light-headed, but thought I could get by with a light snack.

Come 10:30 p.m., the craving hit. I needed MEAT. RED MEAT. God bless my husband, who is always willing to make a late-night food run for me. The only fast place to get a hamburger at this hour was McDonalds, so a Big Mac I ate.

At 4:00 a.m., the upset tummy and feelings of guilt kicked in. As I lie awake in upset-stomach misery, I started to think about the junk I put into my body, and therefore my baby’s body, that night. This did not help me feel better.

Before I became pregnant, I told myself when the time came, I would be the epitome of a healthy eater. I would choose organic all the time, limit my sweets, say no to fast food and eat mountains of fruits and vegetables. That did not exactly happen. I’ve tried to make sure I am getting the right nutrients and I am eating the right amount at the right times. But being pregnant also means sometimes you are too tired to cook or go to the grocery store; and there is a reason they call them “cravings.” For me, they are almost impossible to ignore. And my cravings mostly have been bread and ice cream (and recently, meat).

My goal is to foster a nutritious, healthy diet for my child when she starts eating. Same as what I thought I would be doing in my pregnancy – plenty of fruits and vegetables, limited sweets (grandparents, I’m looking at you), no fast food or fried food, etc. I realize when we are eating out of the house the rules will bend, but at home I want to help her form healthy eating habits.

I’m beginning to think this is going to be a lot harder than I imagined. I’m sure I will run into the same problems I have now (too tired to cook, no time for the store) but magnified.

I will try my hardest to make sure my daughter gets the right nutrition in the right forms, but will have to realize I haven’t failed if I sometimes decide to order a pizza for dinner. We strive to be the best parents we can be, but occasionally need to realize we aren’t perfect nor ever will be.

So, here’s to hoping my late-night cravings don’t lead to my baby girl arriving with an affinity for Big Macs, but if she does…everything in moderation.

The Empty Lot

June 10, 2014 by Trina Bartlett
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The small house was torn down only a few weeks ago, and already there are few signs it ever existed. Grass and clover cover the empty lotare growing where the foundation once was, and there is no indication of the fence that bordered the small yard.

Now, it is just an empty lot.

Maybe someday the area will be used for  a garden or a new structure, but the space will never be the same again.

The destroyed house shouldn’t even be on my radar. When it was standing, it meant no more to me than a random stop where my dogs sometimes greeted the dog on the other side of the fence. Soon, I won’t even notice the changed landscape during my short, daily commute to work. I will accept the space for what it is: the status quo.

Yet, the destruction of the house has been weighing on my mind like the rapid progress of time, the growing independence of my children and the aging of my parents.

Maybe that’s because its destruction was timed perfectly with my son attending his first real graduation party – not one for a family friend but one for a friend no one else in our family knows.

Dropping him off at the party reminded me of dropping him off for his first day of kindergarten almost eleven years ago.

For months, people had been asking me if I was ready, and I blew off their concerns. I didn’t understand why they thought kindergarten was so significant. Both of my children had been in day care since they were toddlers, and I thought kindergarten was no different from day care.

Only it wasn’t.

On that first day of kindergarten, his teacher didn’t know my name. The school personnel didn’t know my son’s unique issues or about his contagious sense of humor. He was just another little boy who needed to be taken out of his car seat, encouraged to wave goodbye to his mother and walked into his classroom.

And I, his mother, couldn’t even watch him walk away. The woman working the carpool line frantically waved me to move on as the tears trickled down my cheek .

Now, my son’s public school education is quickly coming to a close. This coming school year, he will be a junior, which is considered an upperclassman. He is already talking about colleges and moving out of our house – which is exactly what I want him to do. I have no desire to have a 30 year-old son still living in my basement and depending on me to do his laundry.

And yet, there is a part of me that is sitting in my car watching my 5  year-old son take a teacher’s hand and walk into doors which lead to a world over which I have no control. And I can still feel the tears trickling down my cheek as I realize that my children, like time, grow, change and move on without me.

I can’t control my children’s growth or the rapid flip of the calendar any more than I can control the landscape I pass every day on my way to and from work.

What I can do is appreciate the potential.

Roses might bloom in that now empty lot. Or a  young couple might build a house and start a family there. Or the lot might remain one of few empty green spaces where people can walk their dogs while enjoying fresh air.

But I have no doubt that the space is destined for something meaningful that will make the world a better place.

Just as I believe my children are destined to make a positive  mark on this ever-changing world.  And like the empty lot, their quickly fading childhood needs to be appreciated rather than mourned, celebrated instead of regretted and, most of all, serve as the foundation for something even greater.

 

Ugly Betty

June 9, 2014 by Katy Brown
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glamour-guide-for-teensOn the day my mother gave birth to her one and only child, she weighed 118 pounds.  On the day I gave birth to my first of two daughters, I weighed 181.

My mother also held me in her arms as she rode in the front seat of a sedan from Charleston Memorial Hospital to our Kanawha City home. A seat belt would’ve wrinkled her pre-pregnancy clothes, and she needed the freedom to move her arm to and from the ashtray so she could enjoy a familiar cigarette.

Somehow, I grew up without too many illnesses and injuries as a result of roiling around in the backseat of a station wagon and inhaling second hand Viceroys.  But my mother’s 1950s influence crept back into my life when I became a teenager, from the size of my waist to the condition of my skin.  There was no excuse for letting myself go.  A “foundation” was to cover the face and a “foundation” was to flatten the midriff. Imperfections required immediate attention.

There were many of them.  I didn’t inherit my mother’s (or my aunt’s) size 4 “figure”, and I didn’t inherit their alabaster skin.  Luckily, most of the girls in my junior high were “built” like I was, so I didn’t notice the mess I was becoming due to erratic hormones.  But those chemicals didn’t exist back in the day.  No, ma’am.  If you were fat and your skin was dry (or oily), it was because you ate the wrong foods and you had poor hygiene habits.  Yes, ma’am.  It was ALL YOUR FAULT.

Why am I reverting to such a painful time? Because those days are making a comeback. You can thank a woman named Betty Cornell for this return to old-fashioned adolescence. Or, you can hate her.  But an ugly attitude won’t make you the most popular girl in your set, she says.

In Cornell’s updated Teen-Age Popularity Guide, the former model shares her secrets for knowing what to do and how to act in any situation at any time.  “When you’re on parade all day, you learn pretty fast,” she writes. “You smooth off your rough edges in a hurry.”

Cornell believed in 1953 (and still preaches in 2014) that a teenage girl’s social success is all about poise. You don’t have to be the prettiest girl in school, but to be the most popular, you do have to be the most polished.

Polished? You may ask. Like your mother’s silver.  Here are a few tips:

Weight: “If you are sensible, you won’t have any figure problems. You’ll watch yourself and catch any bulges or depressions before they have a chance to multiply.”

Skin problems:  “Acne, of course, must be treated by a doctor since it involves more knowledge than any layman has. No teen-ager should take it upon herself to fool around with acne.”

Hair: “Beautiful hair is the most important thing a girl has. It can always overcome the handicap of a not-so-pretty face. Your hair can make or break you.”

Makeup: “Work under a strong light so you can see what you’re doing. That way, you can make sure you powder well up into the hairline and down into the area of the neck and ears.  Don’t leave any high-water marks.”

Modeling tricks: “Above all, do not change your style before your photography appointment — such experiments may turn out too disastrously, and you don’t want to go down in history looking like a freak.”

Good grooming: “I am firmly of the opinion that almost every teen needs a girdle – not a whaleboned ironclad trap, but some sort of lightweight affair to the control the curves.”

Clothes: “You are wiser to buy clothes that fit the biggest part of you (probably your hips) than to fit your smallest part (probably your waist). Never buy clothes that fit like sausage skins with the intention of losing weight.”

What to wear where: “For Heaven’s sake: Have a little pity on others and a lot of pride in yourself. Put on a skirt when you’re shopping.”

Look pretty, be pretty: “Don’t think that you need to turn into a teacher’s pet. Nothing is farther from the truth. Polishing the apple never turned anybody into a better person.”

It’s a date: “Always remember that public display of affection (even to a fiancé) is never, never done.”

Personality: “If you want to be a popular human being, then you have to stop being an oyster and come out of your shell.”

So what do all of these rules and regulations have to do with becoming a popular girl? Cornell writes that it all comes down to a teen’s ability to get along with people, and that requires having her own life well in hand. And if nothing else, when the bread basket is passed, look the other way.

For most middle and high school girls, carbs are the least of their problems. In a day and age of an “I’ll try anything” insecurity,  some teens actually believe model-turned-writer Betty Cornell is their last hope.  At least, that’s how 15-year-old Maya Van Wagenen felt when she tried every one of Cornell’s tips in an attempt to reverse her status at school. Now a published author (and much better known, if not envied by the movers and shakers), Van Wagenen described herself as among “the lowest level of people at school who aren’t paid to be here.”

Citing Cornell’s book as “vintage wisdom”, the teen commented that she wrote the book Popular to change her own life and to save her little sister from a middle school world of hurt.

After all, no one said pin curls were easy.