Those We Love

I've been dwelling on relationships alot lately. Not actively dwelling, more passively taking in the joys and pains of loving other people. This reverie started somewhat shallowly with my new found fascination for the Beales (big and little Edie of Grey Gardens fame). I haven't seen the documentary- nor for that matter the Drew Barrymore bio-pic on HBO- but I read Gail Sheehy's original article in New York magazine and subsequent takes on the relationship between big and little Edie and how big Edie's neediness preyed upon an already weak and unstable little Edie. Perhaps neither one was ever destined for any sense of normality but to essentially keep a person emotionally and physically locked up with you for 40 years seems so painful.

Next came a passing glance at an article on parenting.com which polled readers about marital relationships. Surprisingly or not, a plurality of female respondents reported being quite angry with their spouses for not shouldering equal responsibility of child rearing. The level of anger, disappointment, and general unhappiness of many of these women was sad to say the least. Sad directly and sad in a "get over yourself" kind of way.

Finally, my stepmother called the other day to let us know that a dear friend of hers had died of cancer. We knew this friend was very ill with only months to live but the fact that she went rather suddenly was heart-breaking all the same. In telling me about her friend's death, my stepmother tried to explain to me why she would miss her friend so much. There was a tremendous poignancy in listening to her. All of us can identify with her efforts to try to explain the role that friends play in our lives- secret keepers, advise dispensers, shoulders to lean on, faces and hearts to laugh with.

Over all of this, I've been editing a manuscript for someone that delves into these relationships- the joys, disappointments, the shared history, the misunderstandings, and hopefully the redemptions that accompany knowing and loving people. In a way, it all feels like a cause for celebration- of not being alone, of finding those connections which bring us closer not only to each other but to ourselves. But at the same time, it also feels like too much for one heart to capture. Maybe it's better to just dwell on these things in silence.

Oh those resolutions

It's that time of year again- I've found myself lingering in the magazine aisle, pouring over issues of Real Simple, Body & Soul, and Shape to come up with the latest fool proof way to fix all that ails me. My intention this year was to have only manageable resolutions- I would like to learn to sew, run 4 miles regularly (I am more or less a routine 5K'er so it's not that impressive), figure out a way to get the girls to eat more veggies, and volunteer. Banished to the back of the closet were the perpetual goals of weight loss and eating healthier. For better or for worse, resolutions past have lingered with me in some modified way over the years, and I would like to think that our diets and life styles are healthier already as a result. I never did lose those magic ten pounds, but I eat an awful lot of salad and drink a healthy amount of water. As noted above, I've actually begun to enjoy running 5K distances. No more half and half in my coffee and my usual breakfast is low-fat plain yogurt with granola. How sanctimonious, right?

Last night at dinner, though, Ryan, for the first time in our 11 years together, introduced the idea of a joint resolution. He wants to gain weight so he thought we could make a competition out of it- I lose while he gains. Before anyone is shocked and appalled that my husband suggested I lose weight (dangerous topic for most men), I admit here that EVERY January along with the "clean scented" candles, I publicly trot out my resolution to live better/lose weight. And I didn't brief him this year on my decision not to make this a goal. I've also been ragging on him for years to incorporate weight training into his exercise routine. Ryan is one of those magically blessed people who loses weight simply by waking up in the morning. It has made it difficult to be married to him at times. So not to agree to a friendly competition seemed a bit rude to me last night after dinner. Of course, I'm sure this is going to get my goat over the next few weeks since even the idea of actively dieting frankly scares the bejesus out of me. (As weird as it is to admit now, I had some massive self image problems in high school which led me to stop eating more or less my junior year.) Plus, I don't really believe in dieting and have spent the better part of today reading articles about how dieting doesn't work. For those with dieting resolutions, stay away from the Well blog on the NY Times website. For what it's worth, I don't find Oprah's struggle inspirational at all. Does that make me a bad person?

All in all, this makes for a fine way to start a resolution, huh? If by some miracle, I actually do lose the weight (and for now, I've only agreed to five pound increments), I'll certainly share my news. But, in the meantime, I am going to go back to running 4 miles at a pop. And maybe I'll cut out that diet coke and toffees...

Sister Margaret Mary and autumns past

Last week, my older daughter went on her first field trip with her preschool class. The destination: the local and insanely festive pumpkin patch/autumn wonderland. I've known about this place for ages, and in a move very unlike me, have avoided it like the plague. As far as I know, it's hands down the most popular destination for haybales, apple cider, and general Halloween weirdness in the Northern VA area. Therefore, it attracts droves of people. When we got the notice that Iz and her classmates were destined to go, I decided to bite the bullet and sign up as a parent chaperone.

I'm not sure what I had in mind when I signed up but I definitely harbored images of fieldtrips past- the bus, the stupid songs, the naughty kids getting smacked around by the nuns, and inevitably falling asleep on the ride home. When we got to the preschool last Thursday morning, the center director told me firmly, "No parents on the bus." I have to admit, I was a more than a little disappointed. Iz opted to ride to Cox Farms with me rather than experiencing the tainted joys of the bus. Given my NJ-trained driving habits, we arrived at the farm WAAAY early and ended up standing in a wet field looking at a bunch of goats who looked for all intense and purposes like they too would rather be doing something else. Not a particularly auspicious beginning. The bus and the other parents did eventually arrive and after getting our bracelets and taking the prerequisite pictures of Iz and her friends (aw look at them on their first field trip!), we headed over to the attractions. We had a dicey start- a slide whose launch point started in an "active" volcano- I told you this place was insanely festive- which of course caused Iz to freak out a little. Before she could stomp her feet twice and shriek a third time, I had her on my lap and down the slide. And, like some autumn miracle, from thereonin she and I both had a great time. We went down a ton of slides, including one at which I left my daughter holding the supply bag while I went down solo on my jute sack. We drank cider together, ate apples, went on a hay ride during which Iz almost wet herself in the haunted barn, and then, after four hours of exhausting fun, we both went home and took naps.

And, perhaps not surprisingly, I found myself getting really nostolgic and probably almost caused even my syrupy, lovely pink-loving daughter to get a bit ill. Suddenly, I was 6 yrs old again and not so happily entrenched in Sr. Margaret Mary's first grade class at Our Lady of the Valley grammar school. Sr. MM was in a rare good mood the day we took our autumn excursion across the field in front of the convent over to the little farmer next to the school. We walked in zig zags in a single file line behind Sr MM as her habit flapped in the breeze. We each shyly took a pumpkin from the farmer and walked back and wrote a little "story" about our adventures. A pretty pathetic little memory but one of my favorites from that fairly dreadful place. I told Iz that she may just remember her first time at Cox Farms for the rest of her life. Thank goodness it was a good day to remember for both of us!

Confessions of a Pinkerbelle in Training

Welcome to the latest somewhat pathetic attempt by a Gen X'er to get introspective about the rites and rituals of growing up.  That's right-another mommy blog.  I decided to start this blog in part for myself and in part as a way for family and friends to keep up with our lives.  The title of the blog is taken from "Pinkalicious"- a must read and probably have read for those with girls between the ages of 3 and 100.    It's the process of becoming Pinkerbelle that we'll focus on here.

Like a good chunk of the population of mommies blogging these days, I am a solid gen X'er.  Grew up with shrinky-dinks, Hawaiian punch, stew starter, the Dukes of Hazard (with Catherine Bach being the one and only Daisy Duke), Saturday morning cartoons, and Olivia Newton John on roller skates.  And like most of us (at least from what I can tell from the list of friends on my facebook page), I delayed motherhood until I hit that magic number 30.  I had a great time in my twenties- I traveled, went to school, drank too much, finally met a great guy, got married and bought a house with my dad's help.  Kids seemed like a good idea but I was honestly a little bit wigged out by the idea.  It took me a long time to learn to like myself and even then, it wasn't perfect.  I've always had an independent streak that ran distinctly on the nerd side of the line rather than the cool one.  I've never been into sporting badass tattoos or belly rings but didn't think twice about going to a hammam in Morocco to have a traditional bath done.  (Ok I did think twice when Fatima, our dorm maid, stripped me down naked in front of my "bath" companions.)  How on earth would I ever learn to be a role model?

I honestly almost died when the doctor doing the sonogram with our first child told my husband and I we were having a girl.  A girl was definitely dangerous.  I always thought perhaps I could fake it a bit with a boy but girls know.  They smell the weakness and are never afraid to express their unending disappointment.  And here I am at 35 now with two.

After my older daughter was born, I had many preconceived notions about what kind of kid she would be.  If she was lucky, she'd be much cooler than me, but not a prom queen.  She'd be hip but not a poser.  She'd be up on music, art, chunky knits, and "ugly dolls."  Instead, at about 18 months, Iz discovered the Disney Princesses and there's been no going back.  Anything that glitters, shines, or has a pinkish hue is sanctified in our house.  She even had the words "high heels" down before she was 2.  

And so, this closet nerd has had to discover how to be a girl and a kid I never was and try and make sure I don't disappoint my not-so-free-spirits.  Welcome to my journey.