When Your Best Friend is a Bully

When Your Best Friend is a Bully

This week Danielle did something that would be hard for most adults - she broke up with her best friend.

I had seen this child hitting her with a plastic sword and forcing her to sit in the hall outside of his room. When I mentioned it to his mother (we could both see it happening) she said "that's how he treats his sister." She clearly considered it acceptable behavior.

When we got home I talked to Danielle about it. She told me that he had been shutting her in his closet and not letting her out. Kevin & I asked how she felt about that. She said that it made her sad.

We explained that no one should ever treat her like that - good friends don't put their friends in closets. She took a day to come to terms with it. Then she crossed her arms defiantly across her chest and announced that she "never, ever, ever wanted to play with him again."  I'm so proud of her for coming to that decision on her own and being able to walk away.

When I tried to talk to the mother about it her response was "oh, kids will be kids" and "its just a game."

NO -it's not. It's not a game when one person feels bad. It's bullying.

I had a bully for a best friend when I was a child. The difference is that I never told my parents. My best friend from 2nd grade through 8th grade insulted me, hit me and kicked me. She made me feel like I deserved to be treated that way. As we got older she told me that I was ugly and stupid. To this day I am ashamed to admit that it happened. I'm ashamed that I never told anyone. I'm even ashamed to be admitting it now - 35 years later.

Looking back I realize that my friend grew up in a tempestuous household. Chances are very good that she was being abused and taking her aggression out on me. It makes me wonder what is happening at Danielle's friend's house. I'm so glad that this didn't get out of hand and damage her self-esteem for years.

I grew up in an era where we chanted "sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me." Bullying was a fact of childhood life in the 1970s. I know my brother was bullied. I doubt my parents realized that I was, too because I never told them.

That's why I'm so proud of Danielle. The courage it takes to stand up to a bully is phenomenal. Now I know that she is strong enough to handle almost anything that comes her way - and smart enough to tell us when she can't handle it alone. My brave girl.

http://www.eyesonbullying.org/childcare.html

The Way to Wash An American Girl Doll...

Washing An American Girl Doll...

I am not a doll lover. Frankly, they give me the creeps. Barbies and fashion dolls are okay if a little trashy, but large dolls bother me. I hate their eyes - always staring at me.  I was a little scared of dolls even before I saw Trilogy of Terror or any of the Chuckie movies.

I've avoided buying the girls any baby dolls or the very popular 18" dolls. It was easy with Amanda - she preferred other toys. It's more of a challenge with Danielle. She clearly prefers playing with her stuffed animals to the one baby doll that she has so I've never had to confront my irrational fear head on.

However two of her very best friends received American Girl dolls for Christmas this year. I'm not a huge fan of "keeping up" so under normal circumstances this wouldn't be a concern. So what if Danielle doesn't have one?

Then one of the moms mentioned that she was considering having her daughter's January birthday party at our local American Girl Bistro.  Being who I am, I looked it up online. The site said "for girls and their dolls to enjoy a special day together!" So I called the store and asked about whether or not the doll had to be an American Girl doll. While they didn't exactly say "yes" they didn't say no either. The response was that any girl who brought an American Girl doll would get the special treatment for her doll. Anyone who didn't bring an American Girl doll would be welcome to borrow a doll for the duration of the party. Okay, not ideal, but not so horrible. What's wrong with a loaner doll for the day?

Then I remembered meeting friends at a "fancy dress" restaurant. The man hadn't realized that a jacket and tie were required. He spent the evening uncomfortably wearing an over-sized yellow jacket that the restaurant kept for just such occasions. We all felt awkward and out of place. The yellow jacket was as glaring in a room full of dark coats as a Scarlet A. I didn't want Danielle to feel that way if I could prevent it.

Luckily, one of her cousins had saved her American Girl doll from the mid-1990s. Her mother generously boxed it up - along with several outfits!- and mailed it to Danielle. She was lovely and Danielle was thrilled to get the package.

Then I noticed that the doll smelled...off. Musty. I tried Lysol. I tried Febreeze. I looked up American Girl cleaning instructions online. Following them I tried a gentle sponge bath. Then I tried soaking it in the sink... It still smelled weird.

I looked up the American Girl "doll hospital". Basic cleaning costs $24 (plus shipping). I even checked into the cost of a replacement body -$39! More than the price of the knock off doll sold at Target.  Finally, I put it in the washing machine, cringing the entire time at the thought of putting a $100+ doll in the washing machine. Here is what I did:

Step 1: Remove the head. Turns out it's only tied on to the cloth body. Brush hair. Sprinkle baking soda inside head, place in a sealed plastic bag with a small cloth bag full of activated charcoal. Creepy decapitated doll head.. yuck! at least the eyes are closed.

Step 2: Soak the body in the sink using mild detergent (Woolite) and baking soda.

 Step 3: Wrap and tie her in 2 clean pillow cases then into the washer for another rinse and a spin. Somehow I feel a little like I'm drowning a bag of kittens...


Step 4: She survived the washing machine! Now to dry her.
I've moved from the morbid to the vaguely obscene...

I'm drying her upside down to get any water out of the hollow vinyl arms and legs. I figure 24 hours in front of the fan and then a week in a bag with activated charcoal. If that doesn't get rid of the smell... well, I guess that's what perfume is for.

Wallpapering War Stories

or as a friend subtitled it, "The Glue always wins."

When we were looking for a house I kept describing this as "the house with the palm tree wallpaper." The owners were from Savannah and apparently quite homesick. Maybe plastering the house with palm trees made them feel more at home. There were palm trees in the master bathroom, palm trees in the hall bathroom, lots and lots of palm trees in the dining room...

And there still are.

I am the least girly of girls. My mother reupholstered furniture and sewed new pillows for each season. The decorating (and the do-it-yourself) gene skipped a generation. I don't decorate rooms; I inhabit them. I am more interested in comfort than style.

However, I hate wallpaper in general and the red palm tree wallpaper in the hall bathroom in particular. I've heard so many horror stories about wallpaper over the years that here I am, seven years later, still living in a house with wallpaper in 3 bathrooms, 2 bedrooms and the dining room.

Amanda is about to turn 13. I've decided that it is unfair to keep a teenage girl (in a wheelchair) in a room where roller skates, baseballs and footballs circle the ceiling. So, the other day I grabbed a corner of the hideous border and pulled. Ooh! Success.  A long, ugly strip of wall paper curled away from the wall. I pulled again... an even longer strip ripped off this time. I was in paper stripping Heaven. I pulled and ripped for half an hour until all of the ugly stuff was down.

Well, almost all.

I was so proud that I dragged one of Danielle's friend's mothers into the room to show off my handiwork. I didn't realize that I had to get the white paper backing off as well until she calmly offered me her steamer to remove the rest. Oh crud.

I made a pilgrimage to local Lowe's where the clerk cheerfully informed me that I would need a scoring tool, Piranha wallpaper remover spray, a wallpaper shaver and a special sponge with a paste scrubber.  Total cost: approximately $25.00.  Okay, I had the tools. Time to go attack that ugly off-white paper.

It was fun. I made a few mistakes the first time (note to self: next time start in a corner that you can't see from the rest of the room.) Rolling the scoring tool around made a wonderful noise. I felt empowered as I watched it punch rows and swirls of tiny holes in that persistent paper backing. I sprayed the spray until the paper turned brown and the liquid ran down the walls. Then, my personal favorite, I shaved it off. It peeled off in pieces like wet felt. They fell to the floor in clumps at the base of my 6 foot ladder. I was back in Heaven.

Four hours and a few gouges later the silly white paper was lying in damp piles on the floor. Next horrifying revelation: the paint under the border doesn't  match the rest of the walls.

Crap. Now I'm going to have to paint.

If the Shoe Fits...

I saw my first pair of Manolo Blahniks yesterday. They were casually tossed just inside the door of my sister-in-law's million dollar home. And they were lovely. I should have taken a picture. Hell, I should have put them on and danced around her foyer just to say I'd worn a pair.

Until that moment I thought they were only something Carrie on Sex in the City would buy. I've never seen a $715 pair of shoes in real life. Or, if I have I never knew it. When you're wearing them your foot covers the label. As far as I could tell they might as well have come from Payless.

I have seen articles about shoes that cost $100,000. My first house cost only a little bit more than that! I'd like to think that even if I had millions of dollars I wouldn't waste it that way. There are so many places and people in the world in dire need. Given the choice I'd still buy cheap shoes and donate the surplus to charity. Of course, that's easy to say when its strictly hypothetical. Maybe if I had that much money I'd feel as if I deserved to keep it all for myself. However, I still doubt that I would spend it on shoes. I'm a girl for whom shoes are a necessity not a luxury. Given the choice I'd go barefoot or wear sneakers.

Fashion was a subject of great concern yesterday. The unspoken pressure to keep up with, or at least not be looked down on by, the wealthiest family members permeates the atmosphere when the female members of the family are together. Talk turns to who gets their hair styled weekly, who gets a regular mani/pedi and where the best stores are. Even the directions to the house used Talbots as a major landmark instead of say, the Wompatuck State Park, which has such a funny name you can't mistake it.

In the face of this pervasive peer pressure I bought new outfit which ironically didn't fit due to my recent dieting success. I shrugged and succumbed to my ubiquitous summer wardrobe staples - shorts and a tank top with a pair of Croc sandals. Notice how I mentioned the brand? For me, Crocs are relatively high-end. I have shoes from Target. I'm not ashamed.

Crocs can be cute. They have a nice line of sandals that look better than the standard plastic clogs. They even have sexy ankel strap styles. And, my highest priority, they are comfortable. I like them because I can wear them to the beach or the pool. If they get wet, whether its from the sprinkler or a red wine spill, they wipe clean. They don't stain or stretch. They are, for a stay at home mom, a great compromise between fashion and function. And for less than $40 they are a bargain.

Still, I feel the pressure. I would have worn the new, brand name clothes if they had fit. The pressure was most noticeable with my youngest niece. Her mother had insisted that she wear a fancy dress since it was a family party. When they arrived her other cousins were wearing cute, stylish shorts outfits. My heart went out to her, having been forced to wear ugly itchy dresses to family events when I was a child. Her parents took pity on her and her father took her on a mission of mercy to Old Navy. She returned, happily wearing a logo- emblazoned T-shirt, madras shorts and a pair of leopard flip flops. She looked adorable - more, she looked self-confident.

It's funny how clothes can impact our self-esteem. She looked very pretty in the dress her mother had chosen, but she didn't look right. The dress made her the odd one out which is always uncomfortable. At my age I can (almost) ignore peer pressure, but at twelve its impossible. My parents would have made me suck it up and stay in the dress.

I know that her parents are financially conservative. They don't spend money without consideration. Still, most of us remember feeling awkward or left out because we didn't have whatever "the" trendy item was. We all want our children to be happy.  How do you balance your values with your child's happiness? Parenting is full of tough choices and every single one comes with consequences.

I was happy that her parents sensed her discomfort and bailed her out. I think they handled it perfectly. They didn't rush right out to the high end Abercrombie & Fitch down the street so she could have the same clothes that her cousins were wearing. Old Navy was a cost effective compromise given the stores in the area. Not that I'm an advocate of buying things to solve problems or enhance self-esteem. I think in the future the cousins should text or email each other so they dress similarly, not identically, but so that they can all play volleyball if that's on the agenda.

Maybe my parents' uncompromising stand on trends helped me develop my devil my care attitude toward fashion. And maybe that attitude has helped with my sense of self-esteem. Since I was rarely dressed "right" I developed the ability to ignore fashion. I learned to feel pretty regardless of what I was wearing. However, if that was completely true my feet wouldn't have itched to get into those Manolos...

"Take the course opposite to custom and you will almost always do well. ” — Jean Jacques Rousseau.  If only that were true of fashion as well!

Pick up the Pieces and Go Home

Parenting philosophies can be extremely divisive. I once had neighbors who had opposing stands on parenting and, consequently, detested each other. You could almost see their claws when they got too close to one another.

Now, I really hate being backed into a corner. It truly brings out the worst in me. I don’t understand why people demand details when I’m trying to get out of a situation gracefully. I try so hard to avoid confrontation with my white lies and evasions.

If I say “I think the kids have had enough of each other today” - please just leave it at that. Don’t go digging for details. Preschool kids are still young. They lose their tempers. They argue. They might even cry. After a while they get to a point where the best of friends can’t work things out at this age.

This is not the time to start expounding your personal philosophy for perfect parenting. It’s the time to pick up your kid, say “thanks for the play date” and go home. Don’t second guess the host parent’s motives for asking you to come get your child. I try to respect other people’s parenting choices, but there are times when I just can’t go with the flow.

It may be that when I say “the kids have had enough of each other,” I’m thinking, “I want a glass of wine after mediating between two four year olds for the past 3 hours.” Or I may really be thinking, “Your kid is a brat with no boundaries.”

Suddenly, I understand those two women from my old neighborhood. If you pressure me for the real answer about why I’ve asked you to come pick up your child, you may just get it. And then, chances are, we’ll both regret it.

Yup, those are my claws coming out...

I Hate to Iron

The First installment of My Saga of Domestic Ineptitude

Some of my friends grew up at the knees of domestic divas, the unsung Martha Stewarts of their generation. I did not. Other moms baked their own bread and sewed their own clothes before anyone realized that being a homemaker could be marketed.  My mother routinely burned food and passed it off as our “Minimum Daily Requirement of Charcoal”, just like we had a MDR for vitamins. My brother once wrote a school essay entitled, “Morning at My House.” Apparently it started with “I come downstairs and smell the burnt toast…”

Mom didn’t wash dirty dishes immediately; she hid them in the oven. Needless to say, she didn’t bake. She hated to vacuum. When we were in preschool she paid me or my brother 5 cents to vacuum the entire downstairs.  When I complained about the poor wages later in life she said “I got what I paid for.” I never saw her dust. I was 14 before I realized that other people dusted their homes.

My mother, however, DID do laundry. She was almost compulsive about it. When we were very young we had a washing machine but no dryer. I remember laundry hanging out on a square clothes line in the summer and from the rafters in the basement in the winter. And, she loved to iron. She ironed everything from our sheets to my father’s boxers.  She had a frosted glass spray bottled filled with scented water. She would spray the clothes and then roll them carefully. One by one she would unroll the damp item and iron it, then carefully fold or hang it with all of the buttons buttoned, the zippers zipped and the snaps snapped.

I toss clean laundry on the floor of the laundry room. Dirty laundry is typically on the bedroom floors, so we can tell it apart from the clean stuff.  One of the flaws with this “system” is that our clothes are always wrinkled. I once had a neighbor tell me that she’d rather send her kids to school without breakfast than wearing wrinkled clothes. I guess we all have different ideas of good parenting…

I own an iron and even an ironing board. I bought them for my mother when she came to visit.  Kevin gave up on the possibility of me actually ironing a long time ago and takes anything he wears to work to the drycleaners. As for me and the girls, well… I have a few tricks. Like my mother, I own a bottle of scented water. Unlike my mother I just spray the clothes and toss them a back into the dryer. If there isn’t time for that I spray them with Downy Wrinkle Releaser and hope. In really extreme situations I’ve been known to straighten hems using my flat iron. (Finally, a use for the beauty products I buy and never use!)

Sometimes I feel a tiny pang of guilt when I drop the girls off at school and see all of the other children neatly pressed.  And then I think smugly, “at least mine have had a good breakfast…”

Compliments I could have lived without...

"You look good for your age."  Were those last three words really necessary?

"That shirt  looks nice - have you lost weight?" Implying -either that all of my other shirts don't look nice or that I typically look fat.

"Were your teeth always that white?" No, yesterday they were green...

"Your gray hairs look just like highlights."  You might as well hand me my walker and buy me a box of Depends...

My mother, on the other hand, was a master of the thinly veiled insult.  Let me see... there was the time she left me an etiquette book after staying with us.

Or my personal favorite - the time she said she thought my "decorating with body fluid colors was an interesting choice."

In any of these instances was I supposed to smile and say "thank you"? Typically, I cringe and laugh and move on. Life is too short to dwell on this stuff. I have, however, finally formulated a suitable response that I would like to share with you now:

"I always appreciate hearing from someone who's opinion I value." (That's sarcasm...)

Twinkie, Twinkie, little cake...

I confess that since purchasing the skirted bathing suit I have embarked on the first diet of my life. I am not a dieter by nature. Self-deprivation isn't in me. I like my little indulgences - going out for ice cream with the girls or having a glass of wine with Kevin on the deck. I'm not about to eat rice cakes and cottage cheese for four months. That's why the Twinkie Diet fascinates me.

In short, "For 10 weeks, Mark Haub, a professor of human nutrition at Kansas State University, ate one of these sugary cakelets every three hours, instead of meals."* During that time he lost 27 pounds and reduced his bad cholesterol. In addition to the Twinkies and other junk food he took a multivitamin and drank a protein shake daily.

I'm not about to eat Twinkies every day - chocolate cupcakes, maybe... This wasn't a highly scientific, controlled medical study. It was just one man's project. What it demonstrated is that the key to weight loss is calorie reduction rather than food content. I'm not advocating a lifestyle of eating nutritionally deficient foods, but what this seems to suggest is that reducing calories will result in weight loss regardless of what you eat.

That explains why there are so many diet programs out there. I'm reasonably sure that if you researched any "fad" diet you'll discover that to lose weight a typical women needs to restrict her caloric intake to about 1600 calories a day; a man needs to limit it to about 1800 calories. I checked Jenny Craig's website. They state "Your personal consultant will help you determine your optimal calorie level based on your age, height, current weight, gender and your activity level. Our lowest calorie level is 1200 calories per day, based on the latest Dietary Guideline recommendations."

My personal diet plan is simple and cost about $25. First,  I had to acknowledge that if I couldn't lose weight by burning more calories I was going to have to lose weight by not consuming as many calories. Heading into the summer with two kids and my crazy life  I wasn't going to start going to the gym every day. I knew I didn't have a fortune to spend on prepackaged foods like Jenny Craig or MediFast. After a little online research I chose the Flat Belly Diet.

Why? Well, partly because my mother had a stroke and ultimately died from a heart attack. There is some connection between abdominal fat and increased risk for these diseases. A Wall Street Journal article dated May 3, 2011 stated, "In the study, which pooled data from nearly 16,000 patients with heart disease, the researchers found that the bigger your waistline, the higher your chances of dying in the months and years after a heart attack or major heart procedure."
(http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704569404576299440848946156.html)

I thought a flatter belly might not only improve my health, but allow me to buy a bathing suit with out a "tummy minimizer". I ordered "Flat Belly Diet! Pocket Guide" ($8) and "Flat Belly Diet!Family Cookbook"($17) from Amazon.com. I added a dollar sticker book for Danielle so that I could get Free Super Saver Shipping.  I skipped the "Four Day Anti-Bloat" portion of the diet and jumped right in. I also downloaded a free app for my Iphone, My Net Diary.

In essence, this is a 1600 calorie a day plan, based on a Mediterranean diet. It includes olive oil and nuts over foods containing saturated fats like butter and bacon. Having read a lot before embarking on this I understood that the MUFA (monounsaturated fatty acid) component of the diet plan wasn't a magic bullet. However, as my Mom used a pound of butter a week I also thought it might overall be a healthier way to eat.

First, the food is delicious and easy to prepare. Kevin says these are some of the best tasting meals I've ever made.  I like it because it doesn't involve deprivation. I can still go out for ice cream (frozen yogurt) or have a glass of wine if it fits within my 1600 calories. There is chocolate on this diet, but not Twinkies.

I have lost 8 pounds since May 24th and I've eaten well. I hope that I have managed to maintain a healthy cholesterol level as well as other important health markers. In this instance I think I may have struck a balance that works for me - reducing calories without sacrificing flavor or spending a fortune.

* http://www.cnn.com/2010/HEALTH/11/08/twinkie.diet.professor/index.html

Evasions, Fabrications and Polite Fictions

"Can you do me a favor?" 

My mother taught me to answer, "Probably - what do you need?" Her theory was that you didn't want to immediately say "yes" in case they asked you for a kidney or to be a bone marrow donor. Unlikely, I know, but what if they asked for $1,000 or to borrow your car for a month? Would you have already wanted to say "yes" before you knew what the request was? Some questions require consideration or even a little clever evasion rather than an immediate response.

For instance the "can you believe..." questions. You probably can believe whatever it is, but you know better than to say yes. For instance, if I ask you "can you believe she thinks I'm hot tempered?" Well, you & I both know that I am. We also both know if you say,"Yes, actually I've been thinking of suggesting that you get some anger management counseling" you're going to see more of that hot temper.

The same goes for questions like "Can you believe she said that I dress badly?" or "Can you believe I ate an entire pizza by myself last night?" It doesn't matter if the questioner dresses like a street-walker from the 1970s or if she tips that scales at 250 pounds. Trust me, you do not want to be the one who tells your 50 year old friend she looks ridiculous in thigh high boots and leggings. If you are a friend you feign amazement and say, "Really!?!?"

That single word is an effective evasion. It's tempting to add to this simple response -but  try not to! Don't go overboard and tell your friend that she is one of the best dressed people you've ever seen.

Not that there aren't times when a little fabrication is helpful. We've all reassured a friend that that she is just big boned or that no one really looks good if they are too thin. When we care about some one we care about their feelings and that leads to the little white lies we tell.

I've got a few more evasive responses in my arsenal. "That's interesting" is very useful. It avoids having to agree or disagree with a statement. Very few people are going to argue with you if you say that their religious or political views are "interesting" and then politely change the topic. However, if you tell someone that that their beliefs are foolish or short-sighted you can pretty much guarantee you're in for a lengthy justification of exactly why they think or feel the way they do.

If a friend tells you that pranic healing closed an open wound before her eyes or she saw the face of Jesus in her french toast, simply respond "that's interesting." Unless of course, you don't like her, in which case tell her what you really think.  It's a surefire way to get wackos out of your life.

Another stock phrase that I learned from Kevin is "I hear you." Say someone tells you a story about how angry they are that they got a reckless driving ticket for talking on their cell phone while going 70 miles an hour down the highway. You can of course tell her that you've always thought she was a speed demon and can't believe this is the first time she's been caught. Or, you can say, "I hear you." Would telling her change anything ? Would it elminate the ticket or get her to slow down? Probably not. Sometimes its better to keep your thoughts to yourself.

The same goes for the urge to provide "constructive criticism." Face it, folks, this is a complete oxymoron - "a figure of speech that combines contradictory terms". No criticism is constructive. Feedback may be constructive; a critique may be constructive. Criticism is just... critical.  People are going to get defensive. Feelings are going to get hurt. And, in the end, they are not going to follow your suggestions. So, why go there? Remember what your mother told you, "if you can't say something nice don't say anything at all."

Included in this is the natural desire to "correct" people.  If your friend is devastated about a medical condition, don't pull out your copy of the Merck Manual and tell her that all will be well. Shut up and listen. She's not asking for your medical advice, she's asking for your compassion.  A friend will give her what she needs. These are the polite fictions that prevent the fabric of our friendships from unraveling.

The Tale of Two Lasagnas

This week Amanda had her eighth surgery. It wasn't planned, but we took it in stride, being experienced.

I've noticed that people aren't comfortable visiting sick or injured children in the hospital. I used to think it was odd that people would come to a hospital to see a newborn baby, but not to visit a sick child. Now I understand. Most people can't bear to see a child suffering or in pain. And they shouldn't have to. Everything in us cries out when a child is in pain. We are practically hard wired to protect them.

So people offer to cook. It satisfies the need to DO something without exposing them to the suffering. That brings me to the lasagnas. Over the years we've had lasagna in every shape and size imaginable. We've had vegetarian lasagna, Alfredo lasagna, tofu lasagna (ick) and many, many variations on regular lasagna. I think I may still have two in the freezer left over from Amanda's last surgery - two years ago.

Every now and then an intrepid soul decides to veer off the lasagna path. I appreciate the thought but it has resulted in some weird foods being delivered to our door. There was the tuna casserole which, due to my seafood allergy, landed in the trash the moment the unwitting chef left.

One friend delivered an entire roast turkey. When I cut into it, the breast meat was reddish pink. Apparently she didn't know that you had to defrost the turkey prior to roasting it - or that it needs 5-6 hours if put in the oven frozen. The neck and giblets were still tucked inside the cavity, frozen solid.

And then there was the "diarrhea loaf". A neighbor kindly brought over a meatloaf she'd made. I don't know if she had old hamburger that she thought she'd just use up or if she forgot to wash her hands before she made it. Either way, it made us incredibly sick, forcing us to spend the night in separate bathrooms.

Now I ask friends NOT to cook for us. If they really want to bring something I usually ask for fresh fruit or some breakfast foods or snacks. It's easy to order a pizza at 8 PM, but much harder to get breakfast delivered.

The moral of my little tale is simply this, "Please give your friends food, not food poisoning."

I am a self-confessed mall rat. I love strolling along, looking at things I'll never buy, sampling free tea and hand lotion. By the time I was twelve I was begging my mother to drive me and my friends to the mall every weekend. The nearest mall was 45 minutes away so it was a serious trek for a non-shopper like my Mom. Still, about once a month she gave in and gamely drove a carload of giggling girls to the Westfarms Mall in Farmington, CT.

My Mom typically sat in the car, listening to NPR and reading a book while we roamed the two levels of the mall with its exotic glass elevator. I think the big anchor stores were local chains Sage Allen and G Fox & Co. (both of which no longer exist). The "boutique" shops were places like 5-7-9 and Merry Go Round Clothing.

Every now and then my Mom and I would go to the mall alone. I loved those trips. She'd wander around with me, looking at costume jewelry and clothes. There was a Walden Books and an Orange Julius. Sometimes we'd have lunch at the Chinese restaurant in the strip mall across the street.

A day at the mall is a mother/daughter thing -  a bonding experience like no other. So, yesterday, on Amanda's last day home alone with me before she started summer school we went to the mall. It's the kind of thing moms with typical children take for granted, or, like my mother, even dread a bit.

Going shopping with Amanda isn't like going with a typical teen. I had to pack the wheelchair because it is too much walking for her. She is non-verbal so I keep a running one sided dialogue while we shop, even though it draws stares from other shoppers. Kevin has joked that I should get a blue tooth so people will just think I'm talking on the phone. When we stop for a snack it has to be a place that serves semi-soft food with no soy so we can manage her dietary restrictions. Still, we had a great morning together.

Amanda likes the same stores any pre-teen girl would, although possibly for different reasons. We go to Build A Bear because she likes to play on the computers. We go to the Disney Store so she can watch movies on the big screen at the back of the store. We shop at Justice for Girls because they have a TV with music videos playing at all times.  

Amanda played with my iPhone while I tried on dresses, rolled her eyes when I showed her clothes and chose pizza for lunch over healthier alternatives. All in all, very typical for her age.

Justice for Girls $38, Sbarro $13, a day at the mall with my daughter, priceless...

The Dreaded Skirted Bathing Suit

Today I considered joining our neighborhood "country club". It's not large or prestigious, but it has a pool and a small fitness area. More importantly, it is essentially in my backyard. No excuse not to work out!

Danielle and I went over this morning to check it out. The pool was pleasant although, like the club itself, not large. There were a dozen families with young children playing in or around the pool. To my surprise, a lot of the mothers were in bikinis.

I know that there are women who have never harbored a malicious thought about women who are richer, thinner or prettier than they are. I'm not one of them. 

My first uncensored, uncharitable thoughts included, "Trophy wife....those can't be her NATURAL breasts (or even her children...)" 

Even when I was young I was never extremely thin. Some people are naturally ectomorphs with small frames and lean muscle mass; some of us are endomorphs with softer, rounder bodies. I was over 120 pounds at my lightest adult weight. "Size zero" didn't exist in the 1980s. I think the smallest size was a 4/6 or 5/7. Of course, sizes- like styles- change.

The current "size zero" in the US system is equivalent to a UK size 4 -- with a waist measurement of 23 inches, the average girth of an 8-year-old girl. Depending on height, being a "size zero" may linked to anorexia nervosa and bulimia.  A healthy body mass index (BMI) for an adult woman is between 18.5 and 25. An index of less than 18.5 is considered underweight.

I know that my BMI is 23.5 - within normal range for a woman. Still, the vision of those 20-something, skinny moms, bouncing playfully in the pool leaves me a bit sad.  I'm not in love with my mature body. No matter how many tummy minimizers I try on or how hard I suck in my stomach I am a middle-aged woman.

I have to accept everything that life has brought me as the years that have gone by, even a little paunch and some sagging skin. As one friend pointed out, the paunch is from having babies and I don't regret my kids for a minute. In fact, Danielle tells me that she loves to snuggle on my "squishy tummy." And sagging... well, that's gravity. Can't fight that.

I think it is more important to feel good about yourself and your body -- and dress to suit yourself -- than to try to attain an artificial ideal. If we can embrace beauty in all colors of skin, why can't we embrace beauty in all sizes and ages as well? I intend to march confidently, beautifully onto that pool deck and make friends with the bikini mommies. After all, they might benefit from a Mother Figure.

Which brings me to the dreaded, skirted bathing suit. This summer I officially became a matron. I  purchased the hideous bathing suit with a "tummy minimizer" and a skirt designed to mask the flaws of my aging body. Or, at least, not gross anyone out. I'm pretty sure that my father threw out several just like it after my Mom passed away.

Summer... Ice cream on the front steps and the scent of gardenias in the night air. Right now, for this moment, I am completely content.

Sweet sleep, Happy dreams...

My friend took a picture of her daughter sleeping in the car the other day. We'd been at the Zoo for hours. It was hot. We were all tired and a little sticky from cotton candy, but happy. The baby looked so completely at peace, sprawled in her car seat with her arms over her head.

Babies are cute sleepers. I've taken pictures of both of my girls sleeping. As an infant often the only way Danielle would sleep was curled up on Kevin's chest like a roast chicken. Now she sleeps with our cat. I have a silly picture of Amanda sleeping with her bottom in the air. You can't even see her face, just a mass of blond curls.

When I was a child my friend's mother painted her while she was sleeping. I remember my Mom asking her why she'd painted her daughter asleep. The reponse was, "Its the only time she holds still." Having tried to sit while my father painted me I know there is a great deal of truth to that, but there was also much more behind her motivation to paint her sleeping child.

Watching someone sleep evokes a deep protective response. The sleeper is so vulnerable and trusting. You don't want to let anything disrupt that serenity; you want to preserve it. Painting or photographing it makes sense from that perspective.

Years ago my friend posted a picture of his wife asleep on the couch with their two dogs sprawled over her legs. (She looked fine, by the way - not snoring or drooling.) While she may or may not have appreciated it I understood the love that motivated it. He didn't just want to capture the memory, he wanted to preserve her contentment in some manner. 



Make Way for Goslings

A flock of geese made us late to school today. Okay, we chose to stop and watch a flock of geese and consequently were late to school.

I love seeing the world through my children's eyes. This morning we were running a bit late. Getting two kids out the door, dressed and mostly clean can be a challenge some days. I was driving along, one eye on the road and one of the dashboard clock when a large Canada Goose calmly stepped onto the road in front of me. Several adults and a flock of maturing goslings followed his lead.

There were claps and shouts of "Oh, cool!" from the back seat. The girls periodically remind me of where my focus should be.

Instead of cursing because the geese were crossing the road in front of the car we pulled over and watched a creche of Canada Geese cross the road, waddle down the bank and swim off across a small pond. All Spring we've been waiting to see the goslings up close. We knew they'd hatched but the adult geese had been keeping them well clear of the road. We'd only been able to see them at a distance.

Danielle climbed on to my lap and yelled "honk honk" out the window. She looked back at me, "What? I speak Goose," she said. Of course she does. I opened the side door of the minivan so Amanda could get a better look.

Once the geese were safely in the water Danielle hopped out and retrieved a long grey wing feather. She held it up to me and then ran back to find a feather for Amanda.

The geese glided off and we resumed our trip to school, happy and relaxed even though we were half an hour late.