Dance Night

My little girls have been taking dance lessons for over a year now. I try not to let my own prejudices and insecurities influence my children—they have the right to make their own mistakes and learn their own lessons about the cruelties and joys of genetics, body type, and natural inclinations. I, too, had sparkly dreams of dance stardom in spite of the fact that I towered over every other child (girl and boy) in my age group more or less from birth. Ballerinas aren’t built like linebackers, but my parents never crushed my dreams and I won’t crush those of my girls. And, really, they are beautiful and perfect in their tiaras and fairy wings right now. I can deal with body glitter and eye makeup on my preschoolers if that makes them happy. It doesn’t mean it makes me happy. It has taken nearly 40 years for me to feel comfortable in my own skin. At almost 6 feet tall, I’ve always felt gangly and awkward and unfeminine. At the core of my most secret, girly heart, I admit a secret affinity for pink and sparkles and I never watch an episode of Dancing with the Stars without tiny bubbles of “what if”, and “maybe when’s” popping into my consciousness. But the reality is I found sports (or sports found me) at a young age, I lack courage when it comes to make up, I lack interest when it comes to hairstyling (ponytails drift in and out of style, but they will always be my go-to style of choice), and I really hate shopping. I’ll never be a true girly girl. So when I take my girls into dance and I encounter the perfect pedicures and dangly earrings and poufy hair dance mom crowd, I turn into my gangliest, most awkward tomboy self. It doesn’t help that my girls HATE having their hair combed, so more often than not they are uncombed, smudge faced (dance class is right after supper), and barefoot (they are SUPPOSED to come barefoot. Well, they are supposed to DANCE barefoot. I guess most of the girls actually wear shoes into the studio. As it has gotten colder, I've tried to be more diligent about making them where something on their feet into the studio. But it hasn't snowed yet, I'm so TIRED by the time dance class rolls around and, seriously, if they don't think their feet are cold, why should I worry about it?). We don’t fit in. I never blogged about the recital last year, though I could have filled a half dozen posts with my rants about how sort of obscene it felt to smear dark foundation make up on their perfect, glowy skin, and how uncomfortable I was applying my brightest red lipstick on their perfect pink lips. Or how when the instructions said “pigtails with a pouf” I completely missed that the “pouf” was meant for their bangs (“Mo-om—it doesn’t LOOK RIGHT!”) and not their tails. Whatever. By the time dance class (or any evening activity) rolls around, I’m tired. I do wear make up every day, but I certainly don’t reapply it (or have any knowledge of how to keep it from wearing off after a 10 hour day) just for activity drop offs. Last spring I was training for my half marathon, so often I would roll in in my sweaty running clothes, all of my remaining eye make up smeared on the sleeves and shoulders of the t-shirt I inevitably used as a sweat towel. Not to mention the fact that I didn’t smell all that great. Dance moms are just different. They are prettier and more put together. They are small and made up and fashionable. I don’t fit in. I’ve never fit in that crowd. Cut to one of their first lessons, earlier this fall. I was in my summer “uniform” (Eddie Bauer ribbed tank top, Old Navy shorts, flip flops) and we dashed in for the girls’ first lesson of the new school year. The dance moms (and some of the dads—most in their work clothes) were waiting outside, peeking in the little curtained window to the studio and making small talk. As I was walking in, I had noticed that my 2 year old was emanating “that” smell, so I vowed to stay away from the others just until the girls came out and I could dash out (making no eye contact, gaze fixed on my very ragged 4 week old toenail polish). But of course (of course) I ran into someone I knew—-a guy I work with. At that point, I remembered that my tank top became racy and revealing when I was lugging a giant, smelly two year old on my hip. I was wearing my pretty, lacy pink VS bra, but I had NO desire for anyone I worked with to catch a glimpse of it. As I was making small talk, and desperately trying to casually keep the weight of my son from completely pulling my shirt below my pretty bra, Clayton decided it would be a good time to show an interest in my breasts. This is the child who clamped his lips together and turned his head away shrieking during most of my attempts at breast feeding. And he decided RIGHT THEN to become fascinated by my completely dry milkers. Seriously. We engaged in a very entertaining (to him) game of tug-o-war on my shirt strap. He would drag it down, I would frantically pull it up (laughing, trying to keep conversing smoothly), he pulled it down, I yanked it up. Down. Up. Great fun. At some point I also realized that not only was his diaper full and stinky, it was also LEAKING all over my not-very-concealing tank top. So now, to add to the fact that my flip flops didn’t match my earrings, my nails hadn’t been painted since last Christmas, I had almost no make up on, and I was 6 inches bigger than every other woman in the room, I had shown EVERYONE IN THE VICINITY INCLUDING 2 MALE CO-WORKERS (yeah, another one showed up) my lacy pink bra AND I smelled like shit. Literally. Clearly TLC won’t be calling me for the next episode of dance moms anytime soon. Or maybe they will. Did you hear about the episode featuring the giant, half-naked ex-jock who smelled like poop?

Here we go again

I have gained about 20 pounds since this spring. What can I say? I had a REALLY fun summer. And also, for most of the summer, I was running an insane (for me) number of miles and what that means (for me) is also an insane number of hours every week. I’m not very fast. And I love eating, especially when I’m nearly constantly run-gry and can indulge (I thought) without guilt. I ran a half marathon at the end of June. I have a fantastic blog post written (in my head) about the experience (more to come) but suffice it to say, after the completion of that bucket list item, I slowed down. A lot. For the last few months (the race was June 30), I have been dabbling in new work out plans, even researching fall half marathons in the area, but nothing really stuck. Prior to the marathon, Chad and I completed 2 rounds of the intense DVD series “Insanity” and I really felt like it was time to give my body a break. I have really been pounding it hard for the last 6 months or so, and, like it or not, my knees and my back are not 16 anymore. Trouble is I have clearly failed to adjust my eating habits back to my more sedentary lifestyle. When I stepped on the scale yesterday I nearly cried and all day today, even though I wore a pair of pants and a bra I have been wearing at least once a week for over a year, I felt like everything was too snug. I spent most of the day alternating between considering insanely arduous workout and diet regimens, and berating myself for “letting myself go”. If I’ve learned anything over the last month, it’s this: My appreciation for my body is almost entirely mental. What I mean is, to the casual observer, the changes in my body (good and bad) over the last year have been pretty miniscule. At 6 feet tall, 20 pounds is like 5 on a shorter girl. I notice it. My pants get tight and I feel fat and ugly. (My boobs also plump up, which is a bonus, but thanks to Victoria’s worst kept Secret and the miracle of push ups and padding, the only person who really notices that is my husband). I can’t wear some of my skinniest jeans (at least in public). But I feel wretched about my lazy self. When I was running, I started to gain weight. I told myself it was muscle (I mean, seriously. I was logging 15-20 miles during the week and another 6-12 on the weekends—literally hours at a time). My legs were pretty rockin’, but I never really lost my muffin top. Nevertheless, during that time, I felt amazing about my body. I wore shorts and tank tops every day. I even wore a 2 piece swimsuit (in public! In front of my inlaws!) But, looking back, the changes were less than dramatic. I spent some time on runners’ message boards and some people actually said they plumped up when they were training the hardest. It was their body’s way of protecting itself—sort of bulking up in order to overcome a perceived risk to survival. So naturally that would be my body’s response to intense exercise. Weight GAIN. (I imagine this is also the reason I made and birthed babies so effortlessly—I’m built for survival at all costs. Put another way, a friend of mine once said, “If Armageddon ever comes, I hope you or some of your relatives are left on earth to repopulate it. I think you are up to it.”) So I’m coming to the conclusion that I am destined to be big. There’s nothing I can do about the height part, and only some things I can do about the width. The reality is that after 5 children and nearly 40 years, I’m wearing the size I wore in high school (most of the time). If 2 hours of intense sports work outs every day coupled with the metabolism of a 15 year old and a nutrition nazi of a mother failed to give me a substantially different figure then, it’s unlikely that crazy long runs and starvation diets are going to make a difference now (assuming, of course, I were to seriously try either one). So it comes down to this—my body image issues are all in my head. I am healthy and strong. I need to work out for my health—so I can carry a load of laundry upstairs without getting winded, so I can keep playing games of pick up basketball in the driveway with my big kids now, and my 2 year old several years from now. I need to eat right for my longevity and so I feel good and so I set a good example for my family. That’s it. I’ve learned 2 things about myself and my body in this last year. One: I am what I am. It is unlikely that I will make a substantial difference in my appearance for the better (though my pregnancies demonstrated that there is absolutely a tipping point whereby I get heavy enough to begin bearing an uncanny resemblance to a water buffalo). Two: my perception and therefore my satisfaction with my body are dramatically different based on how I am eating and exercising. I hate running, hated nearly every minute of every mile this summer—but the euphoria of completing a long run and the pride I felt in accomplishing such a goal made my silly laments over the size of my hips fade into the background. For that reason alone, I’m back on the wagon. This time of year, I can’t guarantee I’ll stay on every day, but my mental health (as well, obviously, as my physical health) depends upon workouts and vegetables. So I’m vowing (again) to consistently and abundantly partake in both. Because, as arduous as they might feel, extended wrestling matches with guilt don’t burn enough calories to keep me in my skinny jeans.

Chicken gum lotion garden

I have a black thumb.  Every now and then, I have visions of grandeur involving me surrounded by growing things (of the green and leafy variety, not the noisy and chocolate smeared kind).  But, inevitably, despite plants' remarkable self sufficiency in most regards, I kill every herbaceous thing I try to grow in fairly short order. 

Still, I have been enamored for the last few summers of cultivating a modest herb garden.  I've read enough about the clean eating/whole foods trend to commit myself to about 80% adherence to the philosophy (my fudgesicle issues notwithstanding).  And I've fallen in love with a simple basil vinaigrette homemade salad dressing.  The recipe calls for fresh basil, and while I've learned that the dried stuff is an adequate substitute, it is simply divine with the fresh stuff.  But fresh herbs at the grocery store are e-x-p-e-n-s-i-v-e. 

So, a few weeks ago, Chad found an ad in the paper for an herb planting/cooking tips class at the local grocery store.  That rainy Tuesday night found me and two of my kids (I rarely get to undertake such adventures alone) huddled under the lawn and garden tent at the store, planting the included fresh herbs and hearing how to use them in our cooking (I quote "roll them like a doobie to cut them").  It was no more messy and frustrating than most of our activities, and we came home dirty and optimistic about our little pot of herbs.

Today, I am happy to report that our little garden is flourishing.  I'm not ready to take my victory lap yet, but at least 4 of the varieties are growing fairly lavishly (unfortunately, the basil is struggling bravely, but remains sparse).  The little girls and I stroll out and check on them every day or two.  Today, I realized once again, how many life lessons they pick up from random things I say and, more often, from the things they see me do.

In case you are wondering, among our herbs we have "chicken" (sage), "gum" (mint), and "lotion" (lavender).  Not yet nicknamed are dill, cilantro, basil, oregano, and chives.  Chad also planted a couple of tomato and pepper plants, and Claire brought home a pumpkin in a Dixie cup that is happily flourishing tucked between a couple of ornamental bushes in the backyard.  The summer is still young, of course, but we are giving it our best shot.  By August, I expect we'll be serving the best chicken gum lotion salsa in the neighborhood.

Lessons from Mama Duck

Me:  This is how you make cookies.  You open the container.
(Context:  from the package you buy out of the cooler at the "take it bake" it pizza place)
Claire:  Is it only chocolate chip?
Me:  Well, that's the only kind worth buying.
Claire: Oh
Me:  Then you get a spoon. 
Claire:  Do you have to have a spoon?
Me:  Well, not really.  But it's nicer if you do.  And then you eat some.
Claire:  You HAVE to eat some?
Me:  Yes.  I think it's a law or something.
Claire:  Really?
Me:  Absolutely.  And we don't want to break the law, right?

I think it is pretty clear that I have this mentoring motherhood thing down.

Milestones

Grace finished her last day at Our Lady of Guadalupe today. And Claire “graduated” from kindergarten. All over facebook people are commemorating the last day of school with pictures and platitudes about time racing by and how big kids are getting and, though I’m loath to be too trite, I must admit to feeling the same way myself.


But only over those who truly reached a milestone. Lucy finished 3 year old preschool. Sam finished 3rd grade. Not to underestimate their contributions—preschool and mid-gradeschool completion are great. But they are just as much about showing up as anything else. I know Sam would say the same thing. And Lucy, well, Lucy could have RUN that preschool if they had let her. Prancing through the centers and finger painting and trying new vegetables every week didn’t require extensive preparation or skill on the part of my queen. It’s a little sad to see them finish another year, a year they (thankfully) will never repeat. Lucy won’t have another first day EVER of shrugging on a backpack and dancing into the hallowed “big kid” school. Sam won’t, well, start 3rd grade again (he’ll still have 4th and 5th—sorry, I’m struggling to muster much emotion about Sam finishing third grade. Sorry dude).

But there is something poignant and sort of bittersweet about sending my big girl off to middle school. I remember so many details about Grace’s first 10 years—mainly because she was my first and moms are better at the memorization and commemoration on the first—but also because she was always such a sweet, gentle, wise, wonderful little being we felt always blessed to have in our lives. The other night I stopped in her room to kiss her goodnight and pray with her. I don’t do that every night. The others are so demanding at bedtime, requesting endless drinks and kisses and prayers and under-bed monster checks. Grace is so grown up and so undemanding. And so. Darn. Big. Her long foot poked out from under the covers and I wrapped my hand around it, remembering a pudgy baby girl on a cool fall morning many years ago. I had pulled off her little puff of pink sock and reached for her diaper. She looked up at me—all blonde curls and dimples and said, “Doe doe doe?” It was her first word—“toe”—spoken one early morning when I was tired and didn’t bother with my usual tickling banter “toes! Toes! Toes! Ten kisses for ten toes”. It was such a Gracie thing to do—such a sweet, touching request—so tuned into me and my moods, craving routine, needing validation and endless affection. And here I was, her long, size 7 foot in my hand (big feet run in my family) looking into the pretty face of a young woman, knowing she was about to take another major life step. Really? Middle school??

I took a photo of her today, another grainy, out of focus shot of her in a line of other children, unaware she is being photographed, mouth open in song. And I admit I teared up a bit. What is there to say? It’s all been said. She’s growing up. She’s growing away from me. She’s beautiful and poised and smart and kind. She is all the things I always hoped she would be. (Well, I guess she’s not a basketball player. She told me years ago that she “didn’t like the outfits” and we left it at that). But she is better than all the things I wanted her to be. She is more, different, and perfect. I couldn’t have defined the classy young lady she is becoming. I couldn’t have predicted the incredible tapestry and layers of her personality and her appearance—the bright ribbons of character traits and talents and features taken from my family and Chad’s—woven into the unique and wonderful being that she is. Oh! I gush. I’ll stop. Having Grace was a dream come true for me. The only thing I ever knew I wanted to be was a mom and she’s the one who made that come true the first time. And she’ll be a 6th grader next year. I’ll never go to school Mass and have her tuck that sweet blonde head under my arm, or wave to me across the pews (because it’s been a few years since she wanted to sit by me during school Masses even though they are allowed to do so). I’ll never race out of a meeting to get her by 3 o’clock (because she has always hated after-care) because next year she’ll take the bus. She’ll take a bus until she can drive herself until I am dropping her off at college. Ugh. I need to stop there.

And then there is CC Guken—my firecracker little almost-first grader. Looking over this blog I realized that practically the last time I posted, it was about taking Claire to her first day of kindergarten. And now she has “graduated”. My lively little Claire with the bright blue eyes and the beaming smile that make me assure her I can SEE the sparkles shooting out of her. She’ll be a first grader next year. She’s made so many friends (not a surprise) and proven she may just be the brightest of our bunch of smarty pants (maybe a little bit of a surprise. But, in our defense, this is the girl who ran before she could walk, loved to dash about on table tops and counters, potty trained herself at 22 months, and rarely talked. We had her pegged as our star athlete—which we haven’t yet given up on—not our scholar. Turns out she might just be the whole package. That’s my girl!)

So a lot of my ruminations on Claire happened at the beginning of the year—when she started her grade school journey. Next year she’s graduated to the classroom next door to kindergarten, but not a lot will change for her. Of course she’ll keep growing and changing, perfecting that jump shot (she IS my basketball player) and that knack for math facts and Spanish vocabulary. But, even though she’ll finally have a number instead of a letter behind her name denoting her grade, not so much will change for her next year--same music class, same gym teacher, same cafeteria. The way time is flying, though, before I know it I’ll be sending her off to middle school and Grace—nope. I’ll really stop there.

Congratulations, little ducks. Mama’s proud as proud can be.

3 sizes

Dear Clayton,


This is how I commemorated your second birthday on facebook: “Happy 2nd birthday to my beloved Clayton McQueen. My feet grew a whole size the year I was pregnant with you. And my heart grew 3.” I’ve been reflecting on this statement since I wrote it, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it couldn’t be more true.

If you haven’t figured it out by now (and maybe you haven’t, since you are only 2 and your vocabulary is mostly limited to one word: i.e. “Clayton, how old are you?”, “Car”, “Whose birthday is it?” “Car”, “Do you like cake?” “Car” etc.), you were a bit of a surprise to us. I don’t mean to overstate this, but, really, your appearance in my world was excruciatingly unexpected. It may have taken until now for me to resolve myself to being your mom, the mother of five, the mother of two sons and three daughters, a mother after 35—I mean, little man—you kind of broke a lot of my rules.

And yet... and yet... that forced me to really learn to love. Really. To open my heart to life, to breaking all of my plans, to embracing the moment and giving up control once and for all. And that was not a lesson I was likely to take lightly. Or gracefully. But here I am, reflecting on 2 years of surrender.

Motherhood changed me a lot. It stripped me down to my skeleton and made me vulnerable. In case you haven’t noticed (to which, I expect, you would respond: “Car”), I like to be in control. And I’m pretty proud. And everything about mothering you has taught me humility and acceptance. Your conception was a shock. Your gestation was completely unfamiliar (no morning sickness). Your birth was overwhelming (dude—you were huge—a pound bigger than your largest sister and nearly 3 pounds bigger than your brother). Nursing you was impossible and quite nearly a failure. You wouldn’t cuddle. You preferred your dad. You were as fair as the sun. I mean—who are you, Clayton?

I’ll tell you who you are. You’re mine. And you made my heart grow up, once and for all. It took me nearly 40 years (most people figure it out much quicker than that), but I get it now. Shut up and listen. Let people (especially your babies and your husband) be who they are. Be flexible (no really). Know what you want. Be in the now. Clayton—how can I tell you all you have meant to who I am?

To say I love you seems silly, trite, and completely inadequate. I love what you’ve made me become, but, more, I love YOU. You are exactly the person I prayed for. A rough and tumble wild man—boy who loves wrestling and things that go, the boy who is the image (face and spirit) of the man I love. I didn’t realize when I prayed for you what I was asking for. But it resulted in a person I couldn’t love more, a person foreign to me in many ways (Clay—did you take anything from my gene pool?), but a person that complements me completely.

You aren’t much of a snuggler. But sometimes when you are sleepy, you rest that little blonde head just there—between my shoulder and my neck—and sigh softly. I like to peek in the mirror, in those moments, and glimpse your thick, round limbs and rough blonde maleness against my big, dark length. You don’t look like you belong to me, really.  And yet you do. You belong to me in a way that goes beyond similarity and stretches to symbiosis. You belong to me because, like the man who fathered you, you are light to my dark, soft to my rigid, calm to my storm. Something about that image in the mirror speaks to the core of who I am and always hope to be.

Little man, this is deep for a 2 year old tribute. You just rode by on your new Harley bigwheel and I can hear rumblings of distress over the delay of supper. Life intervenes. It always does. I am thinking right now how--had there never been you--our family would have had an aching uneasiness that meant something was missing.  This weekend, we celebrate 2 years of completion.

Always know you are loved,

Mommy (Car)

Back in the saddle

Dear poor neglected blog,

I'm sorry you have been so ignored.  I go back and forth in my desire to capture the stories of my life on your pages.  At times I have felt eager and prolific, others deflated (or, worse) indifferent.  I spent the last 20 minutes trying to figure out what should be your background when, in the end, I could care less.  Colors and pictures and styles don't give shape to my world.  Words do.  So, I'm trying to buckle down and do what my college writing professors always said.  Writers write.  They stare at the blank page until drops of blood form on their foreheads.  Their pencils long outlast their erasers.  And they write.

I'm itching to pen my goals and promises.  How many minutes I'll spend writing.  How many words I will write. How I will write.  How I will use my writing to remember.  Because life is flashing by my eyes and I will forget.  I have forgotten.  I am forgetting.

My smallest baby sleeps through the night and hasn't nursed in nearly a year.  My biggest baby needs deodorant and razors.  The ones in between are learning to ride bikes, to tie shoes, to speak Spanish.  They are losing teeth and reading books.  And I'm forgetting.

So I tell you I will try.  I have stories.  I want to remember.  I will try.

I will write.