Tonight I went back to yoga class for the first time in three months or so, the laptop is open to something other than Word, and there's something just a bit footloose and fancy free in the air here at Parkview House. Another semester is over. Nine more credits down. I find myself in what feels like a vacuum between what was easily the most challenging end of semester to date, and my upcoming May term. One relatively unscheduled week has arrived in my calendar and it feels positively luxurious. Last night, I browsed on Ebay for hours like a crazy yard sale addict sneaking a fix. The night before that, I put away winter clothes and pulled out the baby's 18 month bin, (where, to my surprise was my Super Mom cape and tiara I though I'd lost.) Tonight, I'm blogging. Tomorrow, I'm planning to put all of 2011's photos into a giant photo book online. For months, projects have been rattling around in my brain and sitting on detailed to-do lists. I'm a list maker- somehow, in my brain, if it's written down, it's halfway done. Let's just say, there's been a lot of unfulfilled lists in my recycling bin lately. But this week, the evening hours are again my own, and I'm getting shit done. I feel like Rosie the Riveter.
This past month was somewhat less pretty though. I had a come-to-Jesus moment about the state of my home. It was messy. Messy and dirty too. Grimy windows, smeary walls, cobwebby corners, dusty ceiling fans, cat hair on the curtains, new civilizations rising to power behind the oven- you get the picture. Spring cleaning was looming. Usually, this ritual, accompanied by a donation purge and comprehensive storage re-org is one that gives me great gratification. This year I felt like David with out a sling shot and my Goliath filth and clutter was about to eat me whole. After a few weeks of stewing, scheming, and feeling generally inadequate (where did I leave that damn cape?) I ran to the back yard and shook the money tree and had the whole house cleaned top to bottom- windows, walls, trim, oven, fridge, floors, kitchen cupboards and bathrooms. (If you've never tried this.....) The way I felt each Thursday when I got home was worth double what I paid. The house looked so lovely, and I no longer bared the responsibility of making it that way. What a weight lifted. (Seriously, if you've never tried it...) It was difficult for me to accept that I was just too busy to tackle a project like spring cleaning this year. I could've put it off until I had more time, but the mess was bothering me. Mom's blog all the time about how we should empower and support one another rather than make comparisons and criticize, and we all know it's true. So, here's my message of empowerment to all mother's- at least once, hire a damn cleaning lady. (If it happens to also be your mother, still pay her.)
Next week, the May term begins and I'll be taking a math class every day for three hours for three weeks. Yes, I am a glutton for punishment. Life at Parkview house will be back to crazy for a little while longer as we attempt to balance everyone's needs. It's likely I'll be compulsively writing to-do lists, and feeling as though each day I must simply put out the biggest fire in order to move on to the next. What I've learned though, is that it is okay to compromise. (Cue philosophical insight...) We make choices about where our energy goes each day, and how we fill the hours we have. When energy and hours are exhausted, well, things get left out. There just isn't any choice. I'll make peace with that to-do list. Super Mom status will not be threatened by putting off painting the kitchen cupboards and re-seeding the back yard for a few weeks. I'm going to plan ahead and cook meals as best I can, but, I'm also going to buy a ton of convenience food. I'll get the vacuuming done, but, I'm also going to keep paying for housecleaning. Everyone reading this may not be a working, student, mom, but I'll assume everyone does have their own personal version of my spring cleaning/ identity crisis story. I've figured out that letting go, is sometimes more graceful than trying to do everything, and that I can still wear my cape- even in sneakers while eating frozen pizza.
Thanks for reading.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Friday, January 20, 2012
Mother's Resume
If I was interviewing for a job at Super-Moms Will Rule the World Inc., I would have an impressive resume, polished to last detail, describing my many, many attributes of superness with respect to mothering and it would surely include, along with sections on harried multi-tasking, the speed shower, functioning on caffeine, and schlepping, a detailed list of all the things I can do one-handed. It would look something like this:
*I have advanced abilities utilizing coordination, balance and agility as demonstrated by the following list of tasks I can perform with mediocrity using only one of my hands. Things I can get done while holding my kid include, but are not limited to:
vacuuming
slicing cheese
peeing
emptying out a french press
making a bottle
taking a shower
making the bed
filling up a humidifier
folding laundry (no, not really this one, just kidding)
putting on and taking off my winter boots, the ones with zippers
loading and unloading the dishwasher
making mac and cheese
feeding the cats
putting away groceries
sweeping and mopping (engage the hips)
putting on socks
texting
pushing a shopping cart
applying mascara, and finally,
typing a blog post
Thank you for your consideration.
*I have advanced abilities utilizing coordination, balance and agility as demonstrated by the following list of tasks I can perform with mediocrity using only one of my hands. Things I can get done while holding my kid include, but are not limited to:
vacuuming
slicing cheese
peeing
emptying out a french press
making a bottle
taking a shower
making the bed
filling up a humidifier
folding laundry (no, not really this one, just kidding)
putting on and taking off my winter boots, the ones with zippers
loading and unloading the dishwasher
making mac and cheese
feeding the cats
putting away groceries
sweeping and mopping (engage the hips)
putting on socks
texting
pushing a shopping cart
applying mascara, and finally,
typing a blog post
Thank you for your consideration.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The Mother and the Child- First
The Mother and the Child- An Installment Series
When the baby was born, and for a few weeks prior to that the mother had, by necessity began to distance herself in small ways from the child. For example, she taught the child to nap independantly in her crib in the afternoons, and stopped driving or cuddling the child to sleep. The mother considered herself fortunate to be blessed with a husband who was involved in raising the child, and she knew that he would have to assume more responsibilities in doing so when the baby was born. The father rose brilliantly to the occasion, taking on the role of point person for the child in areas such as bath time, bed time, and daytime outings. Meantime, the mother nursed the baby loyally in two hour intervals, wore the baby nearly continuously as she went about her domestic routine preparing meals, tidying, even studying. The mother, the baby and the child all spent many hours every day together and learned quickly how to be a unit of three. They shared hundreds of stories, trips to the library and park, drives around town, bowls of macaroni and cheese. Adjusting to the new baby had been a fairly smooth transition for the child who seemed to genuinely love her.
There were times though, sometimes several in a single day when the mother ached to hold the child when her arms were busy already cradling the baby. She'd hoist the child onto her hip and hug her with one arm as tightly and sweetly as she could, and it usually seemed to do the trick for the child, but always, the mother was left feeling a little sorry. There would be other times when the mother was nursing the baby that the child would call to the mother, or ask the mother to play a character in a pretend scenario she'd invented, or the child would suffer some minescule yet seemingly earthshattering injury, and the mother would be unable to respond with the quickness that she so desired to. And so often the moment of need had simply passed by when the mother was again able to be present for the child who had already forgotten. When these instances ocurred in the evening or on the weekend days when the father was home, he was able to fill in with out interruption from the baby. This attention was special to the child and watching the bond between the child and her husband strengthen gave some comfort to the mother's heart which ached from the separation she felt from the child.
As the weeks and months passed by the mother struggled to handle the child's developmental changes as she sought independence. Many difficult days were spent negotiating the roller coaster that is the second year of life. The mother read books and asked her friends for advice and cried to her mother when she felt overwhelmed, which was often. Less and less, it seemed, were the simple sweet moments shared between the mother and the child. The mother's despair, fueled by conflict with her strong willed child, grew steadily as she mourned what she felt to be the loss of her docile, affectionate first born baby. The child coped with the loss of her mother's undivided regard by turning squarely to her father. Her preference for her father was constant and ongoing for months, even as she continued to spend the majority of her time at home with her mother. Finally the mother, feeling desperate enrolled the child in a half day preschool twice a week. The mother was the only one feeling any separation anxiety the first day she dropped off the child, but the preschool was aptly timed and very well recieved by the child. The mother felt encouraged by the positive change.
As time passed, and the baby grew the mother slowly began to work a little more. She began to notice signs that the child, after all, did still love her. The child learned to brush her own teeth, put on her own clothing, make her own toast, wash her own hands and her relentless oppostition to the mother slowly began to decline. The mother, in turn, learned how to harness God like quantities of patience from the universe, choose her battles judiciously, and incorporated one on one time with the child into their daily routine while the baby napped, independently in her crib. The mother and child had come to some unspoken reckoning, each giving the other a little more room to be imperfect.
For months and months the child had been putting herself to sleep in her big girl bed with little or no fuss, and the mother and father would take turns tucking her in, leaving her surrounded by stuffed animals and books, content to spend a little alone time before drifting off. One night though, when there had been no nap, the child was upset when the mother tried to leave her room after tucking her in. She cried loudly and woke up the baby. The father poked a stern face into the room, telling her to quiet down. The child wailed as the mother switched off her star lamp, and then wailed in the irrational hysteria of an overtired three year old for the tree lamp nightlight to be turned off, and then again because her hip itched. The mother stroked her head and shushed her as she writhed and sobbed, and then said to her, "can mama rock you?" The child nodded silently, and climbed into the mother's lap, curling her head down to her tucked in knees. As she sniffled the mother wrapped both arms around the child and began to rock her side to side slowly as she sang,
"Tell me why the stars do shine, tell me why the ivy twines, tell me why the sky's so blue, and then I'll tell you just why I love you. Because God made the stars to shine, because God made the ivy twine, because God made the sky so blue, because God made you, that's why I love you."
The child's breathing slowed after a few minutes, and her tensed body relaxed and grew heavy in the mother's arms. A few minutes more the mother swayed with the child before she placed her, sound asleep in her bed. She spent a moment studying her face, suddenly filled with gratitiude, realizing it had been over a year since she had last rocked the child to sleep.
The next morning the child grimaced as the mother planted a kiss which she felt to be entirely too wet on her forehead. She refused to change out of her nighty or share toys with the baby. The mother didn't mind that day though because she knew that no matter how independent the child insisted on being, she still needed her mama, every once in a while, to rock her to sleep.
When the baby was born, and for a few weeks prior to that the mother had, by necessity began to distance herself in small ways from the child. For example, she taught the child to nap independantly in her crib in the afternoons, and stopped driving or cuddling the child to sleep. The mother considered herself fortunate to be blessed with a husband who was involved in raising the child, and she knew that he would have to assume more responsibilities in doing so when the baby was born. The father rose brilliantly to the occasion, taking on the role of point person for the child in areas such as bath time, bed time, and daytime outings. Meantime, the mother nursed the baby loyally in two hour intervals, wore the baby nearly continuously as she went about her domestic routine preparing meals, tidying, even studying. The mother, the baby and the child all spent many hours every day together and learned quickly how to be a unit of three. They shared hundreds of stories, trips to the library and park, drives around town, bowls of macaroni and cheese. Adjusting to the new baby had been a fairly smooth transition for the child who seemed to genuinely love her.
There were times though, sometimes several in a single day when the mother ached to hold the child when her arms were busy already cradling the baby. She'd hoist the child onto her hip and hug her with one arm as tightly and sweetly as she could, and it usually seemed to do the trick for the child, but always, the mother was left feeling a little sorry. There would be other times when the mother was nursing the baby that the child would call to the mother, or ask the mother to play a character in a pretend scenario she'd invented, or the child would suffer some minescule yet seemingly earthshattering injury, and the mother would be unable to respond with the quickness that she so desired to. And so often the moment of need had simply passed by when the mother was again able to be present for the child who had already forgotten. When these instances ocurred in the evening or on the weekend days when the father was home, he was able to fill in with out interruption from the baby. This attention was special to the child and watching the bond between the child and her husband strengthen gave some comfort to the mother's heart which ached from the separation she felt from the child.
As the weeks and months passed by the mother struggled to handle the child's developmental changes as she sought independence. Many difficult days were spent negotiating the roller coaster that is the second year of life. The mother read books and asked her friends for advice and cried to her mother when she felt overwhelmed, which was often. Less and less, it seemed, were the simple sweet moments shared between the mother and the child. The mother's despair, fueled by conflict with her strong willed child, grew steadily as she mourned what she felt to be the loss of her docile, affectionate first born baby. The child coped with the loss of her mother's undivided regard by turning squarely to her father. Her preference for her father was constant and ongoing for months, even as she continued to spend the majority of her time at home with her mother. Finally the mother, feeling desperate enrolled the child in a half day preschool twice a week. The mother was the only one feeling any separation anxiety the first day she dropped off the child, but the preschool was aptly timed and very well recieved by the child. The mother felt encouraged by the positive change.
As time passed, and the baby grew the mother slowly began to work a little more. She began to notice signs that the child, after all, did still love her. The child learned to brush her own teeth, put on her own clothing, make her own toast, wash her own hands and her relentless oppostition to the mother slowly began to decline. The mother, in turn, learned how to harness God like quantities of patience from the universe, choose her battles judiciously, and incorporated one on one time with the child into their daily routine while the baby napped, independently in her crib. The mother and child had come to some unspoken reckoning, each giving the other a little more room to be imperfect.
For months and months the child had been putting herself to sleep in her big girl bed with little or no fuss, and the mother and father would take turns tucking her in, leaving her surrounded by stuffed animals and books, content to spend a little alone time before drifting off. One night though, when there had been no nap, the child was upset when the mother tried to leave her room after tucking her in. She cried loudly and woke up the baby. The father poked a stern face into the room, telling her to quiet down. The child wailed as the mother switched off her star lamp, and then wailed in the irrational hysteria of an overtired three year old for the tree lamp nightlight to be turned off, and then again because her hip itched. The mother stroked her head and shushed her as she writhed and sobbed, and then said to her, "can mama rock you?" The child nodded silently, and climbed into the mother's lap, curling her head down to her tucked in knees. As she sniffled the mother wrapped both arms around the child and began to rock her side to side slowly as she sang,
"Tell me why the stars do shine, tell me why the ivy twines, tell me why the sky's so blue, and then I'll tell you just why I love you. Because God made the stars to shine, because God made the ivy twine, because God made the sky so blue, because God made you, that's why I love you."
The child's breathing slowed after a few minutes, and her tensed body relaxed and grew heavy in the mother's arms. A few minutes more the mother swayed with the child before she placed her, sound asleep in her bed. She spent a moment studying her face, suddenly filled with gratitiude, realizing it had been over a year since she had last rocked the child to sleep.
The next morning the child grimaced as the mother planted a kiss which she felt to be entirely too wet on her forehead. She refused to change out of her nighty or share toys with the baby. The mother didn't mind that day though because she knew that no matter how independent the child insisted on being, she still needed her mama, every once in a while, to rock her to sleep.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Holiday Reflections
The holidays, though fun, are as hectic and over scheduled for my family as they are for everyone else. I'll tell you about it: We did a Santa's Village trip with one branch of my family early in December, which we decided to substitute for our traditional get together and present exchange. I was in total favor of swapping the gifts and squeezed in gathering for the opportunity to create new traditions with my children and their grandparents, but the four hour drive and two overnights between our work schedules made the trip a hefty undertaking. The following weekend, we threw our three year old her first real birthday bash at the Maine Jump. She loved it. I justified the party's high price tag by playing on any apparatus I could fit on. That same morning I was at church attempting to rehearse a pared down version of the Christmas story with ten or so kids ranging in age from 3 to 13. I came in late because I had volunteered to sing in the service and left early to get to big D's party on time. I arrived ten minutes late with a store bought peanut butter cake with writing on top that had gone smooshy from sitting in the fridge overnight.
The next two weeks brought lots of Charlie Brown Christmas and Rudolph watching, and finals which included speed reading an uplifting two inch thick novel about a paranoid schizophrenic Native American serial killer complete with graphic murder scenes, and a few papers. As well as the complete demolition and reconstruction of our interior staircase which leads to both girls' bedrooms and our only bathroom. I also had a wall built smack dab down the center of our living room to create a third bedroom on the first floor. Ongoing throughout the weeks was the shopping. A bit online, a ball popper for little D, digital frame for Mom. A bit at Target at the eleventh hour, "Oh crap the tree looks bare" gifts for my girls and husband, after vowing to myself and Jesus not to over commercialize our family's Christmas. Mostly though, I shopped locally, dropping a goodly sum at Briar Patch bookstore and the Natural Living Center. The Christmas cards squeaked out, in typical week-of fashion, and I wrapped gifts with a bottle of wine on the 23rd. About half way through (the bottle,) a girl friend who I hadn't seen in months invited me out for a bite. Frowning at my saggy kneed sweatpants, wine glass, and pile o presents still yet to be wrapped, I regretfully declined. That same night big D came home from Grammy's with the flu. Then, my husband decided to resign from his job.
My mother came home from Florida to spend the holidays with my sister and I and our families. She offered to come over Christmas night to spend a couple of days with us. She ended up nursing me through a particularly nasty run of stomach flu. When I could finally stand again, we took down the tree and every last bit of red and green, and sent it back to the attic for another year. I was Christmased out. I could tolerate no consideration of New Year's Eve plans, and so, made none accept for an impromptu trip to the kids party at the library. We popped a cheap bottle of bubbly at 8 and I was in bed after three flutes at 11. The last few days have felt so quiet and restful I've even found myself in the evenings wondering what to do. Hence my (much anticipated, I'm sure,) return to Life By the Beans.
Pausing to reflect on the craziness of the last month has given me an awareness of the craziness of the last month. I know many people live like this during the holidays. We get run down, and get sick. We over plan and forget to enjoy the simple moments. We set sky high expectations that leave us disappointed. Then, we get the aptly timed chance to resolve to change our ways for the upcoming year. Another fresh start. It feels good to shed the excess of the holiday season, in favor of a calmer, quieter, more pared down version of our selves, and our routines as we head in to January. It's like running on a treadmill that suddenly stops. Outside my house, next to the trash can, lays the naked Christmas tree, tossed out, like a disgraced politician, having enjoyed it's bedazzled moment in the living room. I've made a few resolutions, subconsciously, I suppose, over the last few weeks that have helped me to get from one moment to the next. "When things slow down, I'll start a designated laundry day," "Next semester I'm definitely not going to attempt to read every single assignment," "I'm reducing my battles with big D strictly, to ones regarding hygiene and safety." When I really stop to consider what I'd like to resolve for the upcoming year, I'm humbled by what my heart truly tells me, and I'd be willing to bet that I'm not alone in my wish to be a more patient and playful mother, a kinder and more appreciative wife, a more frequent good samaratin, and a better steward of my own body, mind and soul.
January holds the start of yet another semester for me, a daughter's first birthday, a bathroom remodel, a changing career path for my husband and who knows what else. I am so thankful for this brief time of relative calm and opportunity for reflection, for another year gone by, and a new one laid out before me.
Happy New Year.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
To The Non Trad Mother
Oh goodness, it has been almost three weeks since my last post. I anticipated this would happen with the onset of the new semester. Sadly, my blogging time has been eaten up by another online time consumer- my classes. Native American Lit, and Maine in the Revolutionary War. Two classes that I wouldnt have chosen had I been free to enroll in whatever sparked my fancy (and fulfilled requirments, of course.) Alas, my options were seriously limited due to the fact that I wasnt ready to schlep back up to the University quite yet, as I'd need to find a place, or person for my littlest one. So, although I've lost the time in the evenings where I could sit and ponder life as a young mom trying to pursue her educational and occupational dreams, and muse about it on my own personal platform, now I'm spending most of that time (should be doing it as now,) actually doing the aforementioned. Thanks to the advent of online classes, I'm creeeeping a little closer to that elusive degree.
Here's to all the non trad moms out there, I know a couple of you that read this blog from time to time. I hope you can still find time to do so now that the semester has commenced once again. I want to tell you a few things that I want to hear myself. First, whether you're working on your first degree, or doing graduate work, or changing careers, or learning a new trade- YOU ARE WORTH IT. You're worth the money it costs, worth the time you're spending- yes, away from your kids. Going to school after having children, even if they're in school, or out of the house altogether, can never be quite the same as your first post secondary go-round was becuase back then, there was only number one to consider. Finding time to take classes and do the homework as a mom is one hundred times harder, and comes complete with guilt, which leads me to my next point:
Has someone, your mom, the elderly lady in the grocery store perhaps, told you, "they're only little once, just enjoy it," or something to that effect. We know this, don't we? Our children are gifts from God, precious, amazing, fun, hilarious, little miracles that we know inside and out, would dive in front of a UPS truck for. We can feel how they slip a bit futher away from us each day they get older. Are we then, supposed to do nothing but care for them, stare at them, follow them around relentlessly soaking up their littleness? No, it makes no sense to forsake our identities as people, women becuase we love our kids. Many of us stay home with them and devote the majority of our waking moments to them, and sacrifice many of what would otherwise have been non waking moments for their care. We all know that maternal sanity is a good thing for children. I'd like to go a little further and suggest that all moms have something of their "own" going at all times even during pregnancy and their children's babyhood. Maybe that means a beloved career. Maybe it's yoga. For some of us, it's going back to school. It's not self centered, and it CAN'T wait until "the kids are in school." Even if it's one stinkin' class at a stinkin' time. It's our own, and it's important. Our babies will learn that they are worth striving for their goals by our examples.
Finally, fellow non trad Mommas, cut yourself a break on the A complex. Going to school on one's own terms is such a different experience than being forced into it. We're making huge sacrifices, right? We want engaging classes, caring and dedicated professors. This crap's not cheap! It IS okay, however, to maintain less than a 4.0 from time to time. It's a one of those priority juggling games, just like a day at home with the kids. If the housework slips a little, bah, your dust will keep. If you fudge a few assignments in order to keep up with the workload, and momload, don't feel discouraged. Keep the big picture in mind. If your baby wakes and cries while you're doing homework, go to her if you can, and if you must send your husband, don't beat yourself up.
Week by week, class by class, year by year. Don't give up. Be gentle with yourself. Your educational goals are no less important than the perpetual goal of being the best mother you can be. Thanks for reading.
Here's to all the non trad moms out there, I know a couple of you that read this blog from time to time. I hope you can still find time to do so now that the semester has commenced once again. I want to tell you a few things that I want to hear myself. First, whether you're working on your first degree, or doing graduate work, or changing careers, or learning a new trade- YOU ARE WORTH IT. You're worth the money it costs, worth the time you're spending- yes, away from your kids. Going to school after having children, even if they're in school, or out of the house altogether, can never be quite the same as your first post secondary go-round was becuase back then, there was only number one to consider. Finding time to take classes and do the homework as a mom is one hundred times harder, and comes complete with guilt, which leads me to my next point:
Has someone, your mom, the elderly lady in the grocery store perhaps, told you, "they're only little once, just enjoy it," or something to that effect. We know this, don't we? Our children are gifts from God, precious, amazing, fun, hilarious, little miracles that we know inside and out, would dive in front of a UPS truck for. We can feel how they slip a bit futher away from us each day they get older. Are we then, supposed to do nothing but care for them, stare at them, follow them around relentlessly soaking up their littleness? No, it makes no sense to forsake our identities as people, women becuase we love our kids. Many of us stay home with them and devote the majority of our waking moments to them, and sacrifice many of what would otherwise have been non waking moments for their care. We all know that maternal sanity is a good thing for children. I'd like to go a little further and suggest that all moms have something of their "own" going at all times even during pregnancy and their children's babyhood. Maybe that means a beloved career. Maybe it's yoga. For some of us, it's going back to school. It's not self centered, and it CAN'T wait until "the kids are in school." Even if it's one stinkin' class at a stinkin' time. It's our own, and it's important. Our babies will learn that they are worth striving for their goals by our examples.
Finally, fellow non trad Mommas, cut yourself a break on the A complex. Going to school on one's own terms is such a different experience than being forced into it. We're making huge sacrifices, right? We want engaging classes, caring and dedicated professors. This crap's not cheap! It IS okay, however, to maintain less than a 4.0 from time to time. It's a one of those priority juggling games, just like a day at home with the kids. If the housework slips a little, bah, your dust will keep. If you fudge a few assignments in order to keep up with the workload, and momload, don't feel discouraged. Keep the big picture in mind. If your baby wakes and cries while you're doing homework, go to her if you can, and if you must send your husband, don't beat yourself up.
Week by week, class by class, year by year. Don't give up. Be gentle with yourself. Your educational goals are no less important than the perpetual goal of being the best mother you can be. Thanks for reading.
Friday, September 2, 2011
You Are What You Say You Are
I've been thinking about labels lately. Clicking my way farther into this rabbit hole that is blogging, I've been joining blogging or writing networking sites like Blogher, and Shewrites, and WOW Women on Writing. To become a part of these sites, as with everything else associated with the internet, one must first create a user profile. They want pictures, links to Facebook pages and twitter feeds and blog websites. Date of birth, gender, shoe size, bra size, anything relevant, or completely irrelevant to the website's context. These profiles are just a bare bones outline of a person, cold and statistical, so to personalize it a bit, there's usually a text box at the bottom for any other information a person feels they'd like to share with the masses. Here's where people get philosophical and simply enter a good one liner quote, or perhaps ramble aimlessly, using poor grammar, about their six goldendoodles. Those approaches are both lost on me. I can't stand my cats and I don't know any good quotes. I keep wanting to share with the potential millions all about myself, my real self. I'm not sure why I've been so honest, and frankly, not very creative in those little text boxes about who I am- aspiring writer, closet hairstylist, pregnant when I got married- but for some reason, boiling my whole life, and self down to a few words, a few labels, has helped me to solidify who I feel I am, who I want to be, and how I wish others to perceive me. It is not unlike creating or updating a resume. We want to present our best, most accomplished and focused selves to potential employers, so we write down only the things (presumably true) which serve that purpose. Only, I'm not hoping to be hired or paid by anyone, just hoping to be liked, to sound interesting, and real and relatable and genuine. For some people pinpointing interests is difficult, choosing a career path is ambiguous, and finding a sense of self is ever elusive. When you feel like the plastic bag blowing in the wind, it is hard to commit to only a few words to encapsulate yourself. But words are funny, and can be as empowering as they are limiting.
Motherhood was the first real thing, other than being human, American, female etc., that offered me a solid foothold in any particular category. This label is one I'm most proud of, most terrified by, most embroiled in and most changed by. But what makes me a mother? The fact that I gave birth to my daughters? Any woman who has adopted children would say no. Then, am I a mother because I care for my children all day long instead of working? Or is it because I understand the type of love that says I must put another's needs ahead of my own hopes and desires? Becoming a mom was the first thing that grounded me, gave me an identity, and a purpose. It is the first thing that I enter into that little text box.
The next thing I write is non-traditional student. I guess this is because I want people to surmise that I am older than age nineteen, as a mother of two, and therefore, a person who bears more credibility and writes things worth reading. And it's tough to admit, but I think I want people to know that I am pursuing (still) my college degree because I am smart enough, and motivated enough to do so. Those are the reasons I'm less than proud of, but I also put my non trad status near the top because I am proud to be prioritizing my education amongst raising children, providing an example thusly.
After these two, lately, I've been writing aspiring writer. This one is interesting, in our age of social media promotion and networking, and viral web videos. There are slews of people calling themselves photographers who may not have any formal training or education, but have an amazing talent for taking captivating photographs. They are making money doing sessions, taking pictures-therefore, I suppose, they are photographers. So why am I an aspiring writer? No, I am a writer. And someone who loves to sing? Well, then, they are a singer. What about someone who says they are an artist? A Runner? A teacher? Is money the piece that determines one's authenticity within a given label? Or do labels more often originate from how a person is perceived by the rest of the world? Perhaps is it the belief a person holds about herself that makes the label authentic. What if the the world label, and the self label do not match- which one is true?
The power of words is immeasurable on many levels. Words that we say to others and to ourselves, can hurt us, or build us up. Words can be heavy with layers of meaning, or empty and superficial. Labels we give ourselves help us to define ourselves and present an image to the world. Labels we give others, or that others give to us are often judgmental and inaccurate based on first impressions, appearances and lack of information. The exact meaning of a label is slippery and depends entirely on perspective as to whether it is a phony, or authentic one. Although, for example, I do not wish to present a falsehood to the world that I am a published, six (or even five, or four,) figure earning author, when I choose to put "writer" in my list of labels, I do feel it is important to identify myself as such if I am going to be pursuing a writing career. Who is to say the woman who went to a fancy art school is any more artist than her stay at home mom counterpart who's paintings can take your breath away?
So let's be careful and kind with the labels we all hand out, in our heads, or aloud, but let's all be as bold as we dare when we begin to label ourselves. Call it out to the world what ever it is you want to be. If you did not give birth, but raise(d) children- you are a mother! If it takes you 13 minutes to run a mile, but you're consistent, then, dammit, you're a runner! Let's remember to be proud of who we know we are, and who we hope to become, and in doing so, empower others to do the same.
Motherhood was the first real thing, other than being human, American, female etc., that offered me a solid foothold in any particular category. This label is one I'm most proud of, most terrified by, most embroiled in and most changed by. But what makes me a mother? The fact that I gave birth to my daughters? Any woman who has adopted children would say no. Then, am I a mother because I care for my children all day long instead of working? Or is it because I understand the type of love that says I must put another's needs ahead of my own hopes and desires? Becoming a mom was the first thing that grounded me, gave me an identity, and a purpose. It is the first thing that I enter into that little text box.
The next thing I write is non-traditional student. I guess this is because I want people to surmise that I am older than age nineteen, as a mother of two, and therefore, a person who bears more credibility and writes things worth reading. And it's tough to admit, but I think I want people to know that I am pursuing (still) my college degree because I am smart enough, and motivated enough to do so. Those are the reasons I'm less than proud of, but I also put my non trad status near the top because I am proud to be prioritizing my education amongst raising children, providing an example thusly.
After these two, lately, I've been writing aspiring writer. This one is interesting, in our age of social media promotion and networking, and viral web videos. There are slews of people calling themselves photographers who may not have any formal training or education, but have an amazing talent for taking captivating photographs. They are making money doing sessions, taking pictures-therefore, I suppose, they are photographers. So why am I an aspiring writer? No, I am a writer. And someone who loves to sing? Well, then, they are a singer. What about someone who says they are an artist? A Runner? A teacher? Is money the piece that determines one's authenticity within a given label? Or do labels more often originate from how a person is perceived by the rest of the world? Perhaps is it the belief a person holds about herself that makes the label authentic. What if the the world label, and the self label do not match- which one is true?
The power of words is immeasurable on many levels. Words that we say to others and to ourselves, can hurt us, or build us up. Words can be heavy with layers of meaning, or empty and superficial. Labels we give ourselves help us to define ourselves and present an image to the world. Labels we give others, or that others give to us are often judgmental and inaccurate based on first impressions, appearances and lack of information. The exact meaning of a label is slippery and depends entirely on perspective as to whether it is a phony, or authentic one. Although, for example, I do not wish to present a falsehood to the world that I am a published, six (or even five, or four,) figure earning author, when I choose to put "writer" in my list of labels, I do feel it is important to identify myself as such if I am going to be pursuing a writing career. Who is to say the woman who went to a fancy art school is any more artist than her stay at home mom counterpart who's paintings can take your breath away?
So let's be careful and kind with the labels we all hand out, in our heads, or aloud, but let's all be as bold as we dare when we begin to label ourselves. Call it out to the world what ever it is you want to be. If you did not give birth, but raise(d) children- you are a mother! If it takes you 13 minutes to run a mile, but you're consistent, then, dammit, you're a runner! Let's remember to be proud of who we know we are, and who we hope to become, and in doing so, empower others to do the same.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Girl Meets Yoga
Who can fall off the couch potato wagon? I can. Actually, I jumped off. "Couch potato to 5k" is a popular beginner running schedule that guides running novices from a level zero fitness level to being able to jog about three miles, over the span of nine weeks. It is an easy program that alternates running and walking, gradually increasing the length of the running intervals, until a three mile jog can be completed continuously. I posted a facebook status that I was embarking on my own personal couch potato-no more journey, that was met with enthusiasm and encouragement from all sorts of random acquaintances and friends alike. I began researching 5ks to sign up for at the end of the summer. I located my running sneakers and sports bras. I downloaded the couch potato app. There was never any doubt in my mind that I would lose the last 15-ish pounds of pregnancy weight through jogging, just as I had after the first pregnancy. Training for a 10k, outside of breastfeeding, had been the most effective, not to mention emotionally beneficial, method of finding my way back into those skinny jeans. Running was, after I broke through the "I'm going to die" threshold, so amazing for my body, mind and spirit- as any runner would tell you. This time around, I was looking forward to finding my stride again (yes, pun,) starting slowly with the couch potato schedule.
For a few weeks I made it out consistently, following the instructions carefully, checking off the days until I'd be running three effortless miles. From there, the world of running would again open up to me and take me in as one of it's own, and I'd be off to the half marathons. But, it didn't work out like I had fantasized. I found it harder to find motivation to get my ass (not off the couch, because it's only there for a few minutes during the morning coffee grogs, and perhaps again at night if I watch a little TV, or tool around online for an hour or so,) but simply out the door to go walk/jogging. I wasn't finding any of the relief or release that my new life as mom of two demanded. I was, instead, finding that I was out of breath, side-pained, poorly under garmented, and feeling altogether inadequate. Where was the head clearing, high inducing, body sculpting, calorie burning, wonder woman, running experience that I remembered from two years earlier? Turns out, it wasn't on the path from the couch to the 5k. I quit the running program, didn't excercise at all for a couple of months, and felt crappy about it.
One day, seemingly spontaneously, I picked up my phone and found the webpage to our lovely local yoga studio. I can't tell you how many times I've thought about checking the place out, or how many people I've heard testify to its zen-nes. Yoga isn't something that I had ever really delved in to, only dabbling a bit here and there with the likes of Denise Austin et al. I'm not sure why I didn't try to find a yoga class previously. Maybe I'd thought little of trying to become a yoga "type," a yogi, whatever that means. Or maybe we were just broke enough that I couldn't justify spending money to exercise. In any event, for some reason, I decided to call the studio to inquire and ended up at my first class a couple days later. The place was beautiful with tons of plants, and flowing draperies, and gleaming hardwood floors. Patchouli incense burned, and people sat quietly with far off looks waiting for class to begin. I of course, stumbled in, all apologies for not being "yoga enough" to participate in the challenging Ashtanga class I'd chosen, and trying to explain about my two little ones, pointing out the baby slobber on my shoulder, and how I needed something just for myself, that running hadn't worked out. I must have looked like a crazy woman. The teacher was kind and welcomed me right in, not an ounce of yoga snobbery lurking in her face. It was a phenomenal experience. I was pushed to the very limits of my body's ability-yet I never felt tomato faced, or like I could collapse for lack of breath. My heart rate came up, and my muscles shook with work as we shifted from pose to pose in rapid sequence, all the while maintaining a calming, breathing, lengthening flow. I left the building smitten. It was like kissing a crush for the very first time. When and how can I get more of that? Smiling, walking to my car, knowing I would ache like crazy in the morning, yet feeling so revitalized and centered, I vowed to begin a yoga practice.
So it's been a few weeks, I purchased a membership to the studio and have been able to go to classes about twice a week in the evenings. As soon as I feel confident, I'll incorporate the practice at home, but I really think the classes are essential for two reasons. First, a class requires leaving the house and doing something alone. Second, in a class, someone else is in charge, making all the decisions, telling me exactly what to do right down to when to breath, where to look, and even what thoughts to think. After spending most days with a toddler and a baby, having someone else boss me around for a bit is refreshing. Breathing, flow of breath, is integral to yoga. Inhales and exhales dictate when to move, and how to move. This emphasis on breathing has translated into my daily SAHM life during all the many moments where I must shut my eyes, breath deeply, and carry on to the next thing. Anyone else ever had a moment where they realize they haven't been breathing for 10 seconds or so?
The other thing I realized was that yoga provides a complete physical experience. The more vigorous classes elevate my heart rate. They all incorporate total body strength and stretching. Doing plank and chaturanga are keeping my chest and shoulders strong enough to schlep that 100 pound car seat over my elbow, a 30 pound toddler on my hip, my enormous purse over my shoulder, and then do a squat to retrieve a fallen binky. All of which I could previously do, but now, I take note of where my shoulders are, and press them firmly down. I keep my spine long when bent over to do the thousand things mothers spend all day bending over to do. I breath, breath and breath some more.
I've often heard of yoga described as a personal journey. There are "yoga memoirs" written by people who've had transformative experiences through their practice. Even if you're not looking for enlightenment, there is a long physical journey in finding the strength and flexibility to accomplish many poses. I was certainly not an ace walking in there to my first class. I took the modifications of many of the more advanced poses, and there were others that I could do more fully than most of the other people in the class. It was something I could enter, a complete novice, without having to get through an excruciating "break in" period, as in running, and feel that I'd worked my body and replenished my spirit at the same time. If that sounds a little too cheesy, just try it. If you're a mom, stay at home or otherwise, or just someone who tends to feel harried, pulled in opposite directions much of the time, give yoga a good college try. I may eventually, attempt to get back into jogging a bit, or I may not. That you must enjoy your exercise is an unshakable truism and right now, after having lost the motivation to run, it feels utterly wonderful to have found yoga so completely appropriate.
Namaste. :)
For a few weeks I made it out consistently, following the instructions carefully, checking off the days until I'd be running three effortless miles. From there, the world of running would again open up to me and take me in as one of it's own, and I'd be off to the half marathons. But, it didn't work out like I had fantasized. I found it harder to find motivation to get my ass (not off the couch, because it's only there for a few minutes during the morning coffee grogs, and perhaps again at night if I watch a little TV, or tool around online for an hour or so,) but simply out the door to go walk/jogging. I wasn't finding any of the relief or release that my new life as mom of two demanded. I was, instead, finding that I was out of breath, side-pained, poorly under garmented, and feeling altogether inadequate. Where was the head clearing, high inducing, body sculpting, calorie burning, wonder woman, running experience that I remembered from two years earlier? Turns out, it wasn't on the path from the couch to the 5k. I quit the running program, didn't excercise at all for a couple of months, and felt crappy about it.
One day, seemingly spontaneously, I picked up my phone and found the webpage to our lovely local yoga studio. I can't tell you how many times I've thought about checking the place out, or how many people I've heard testify to its zen-nes. Yoga isn't something that I had ever really delved in to, only dabbling a bit here and there with the likes of Denise Austin et al. I'm not sure why I didn't try to find a yoga class previously. Maybe I'd thought little of trying to become a yoga "type," a yogi, whatever that means. Or maybe we were just broke enough that I couldn't justify spending money to exercise. In any event, for some reason, I decided to call the studio to inquire and ended up at my first class a couple days later. The place was beautiful with tons of plants, and flowing draperies, and gleaming hardwood floors. Patchouli incense burned, and people sat quietly with far off looks waiting for class to begin. I of course, stumbled in, all apologies for not being "yoga enough" to participate in the challenging Ashtanga class I'd chosen, and trying to explain about my two little ones, pointing out the baby slobber on my shoulder, and how I needed something just for myself, that running hadn't worked out. I must have looked like a crazy woman. The teacher was kind and welcomed me right in, not an ounce of yoga snobbery lurking in her face. It was a phenomenal experience. I was pushed to the very limits of my body's ability-yet I never felt tomato faced, or like I could collapse for lack of breath. My heart rate came up, and my muscles shook with work as we shifted from pose to pose in rapid sequence, all the while maintaining a calming, breathing, lengthening flow. I left the building smitten. It was like kissing a crush for the very first time. When and how can I get more of that? Smiling, walking to my car, knowing I would ache like crazy in the morning, yet feeling so revitalized and centered, I vowed to begin a yoga practice.
So it's been a few weeks, I purchased a membership to the studio and have been able to go to classes about twice a week in the evenings. As soon as I feel confident, I'll incorporate the practice at home, but I really think the classes are essential for two reasons. First, a class requires leaving the house and doing something alone. Second, in a class, someone else is in charge, making all the decisions, telling me exactly what to do right down to when to breath, where to look, and even what thoughts to think. After spending most days with a toddler and a baby, having someone else boss me around for a bit is refreshing. Breathing, flow of breath, is integral to yoga. Inhales and exhales dictate when to move, and how to move. This emphasis on breathing has translated into my daily SAHM life during all the many moments where I must shut my eyes, breath deeply, and carry on to the next thing. Anyone else ever had a moment where they realize they haven't been breathing for 10 seconds or so?
The other thing I realized was that yoga provides a complete physical experience. The more vigorous classes elevate my heart rate. They all incorporate total body strength and stretching. Doing plank and chaturanga are keeping my chest and shoulders strong enough to schlep that 100 pound car seat over my elbow, a 30 pound toddler on my hip, my enormous purse over my shoulder, and then do a squat to retrieve a fallen binky. All of which I could previously do, but now, I take note of where my shoulders are, and press them firmly down. I keep my spine long when bent over to do the thousand things mothers spend all day bending over to do. I breath, breath and breath some more.
I've often heard of yoga described as a personal journey. There are "yoga memoirs" written by people who've had transformative experiences through their practice. Even if you're not looking for enlightenment, there is a long physical journey in finding the strength and flexibility to accomplish many poses. I was certainly not an ace walking in there to my first class. I took the modifications of many of the more advanced poses, and there were others that I could do more fully than most of the other people in the class. It was something I could enter, a complete novice, without having to get through an excruciating "break in" period, as in running, and feel that I'd worked my body and replenished my spirit at the same time. If that sounds a little too cheesy, just try it. If you're a mom, stay at home or otherwise, or just someone who tends to feel harried, pulled in opposite directions much of the time, give yoga a good college try. I may eventually, attempt to get back into jogging a bit, or I may not. That you must enjoy your exercise is an unshakable truism and right now, after having lost the motivation to run, it feels utterly wonderful to have found yoga so completely appropriate.
Namaste. :)
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