This bowl filled with amazingly delicious strawberries is another example of why I will live in California forever. Things like this are plentiful at the grocery stores. Even in February. We ate them outside where the sun was shining and the temperature was a delightful 70-some degrees. Again, in February. I love California.
Friday, February 29, 2008
A reason to love...
This bowl filled with amazingly delicious strawberries is another example of why I will live in California forever. Things like this are plentiful at the grocery stores. Even in February. We ate them outside where the sun was shining and the temperature was a delightful 70-some degrees. Again, in February. I love California.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
The miserable downside of my fabulous new neighborhood
I never considered the downside of our fabulous new neighborhood with lots of fabulous neighbors. It never occurred to me that all of those neighbors would be able to hear what a terrible mom I am or how miserable, loud, and obnoxious my children are. But now that we spend a lot of time outside and the lot sizes are small and tightly packed, they can easily hear my children screaming, crying, and throwing temper tantrums, which are frequent and long-lasting.
Then between screeches, you can hear me trying to stop them from crying and screaming. At first, my voice is even-tempered and soft-spoken as I try to redirect them to something less frustrating. But as my attempts backfire and the crying escalates and shouting persists, I get annoyed and my even-tempered voice escalates into an annoyed boom. I cannot figure out how we went from happily swinging in the hammock to hair-pulling, kicking, and sobs alternated with screeches in just two minutes flat.
As this all-too-common scenario unwinds, I immediately think of the neighbors that I've met a couple of times and who I wave at whenever I see them. I think of their one child who is only 16 months old. I think of how at 16 months, she can't cause much havoc. And then--as they hear all of us shouting and crying and screeching--they must cringe and wonder what kind of terrible mom and terrible children and terrible family moved in right next door to them, not 15 feet away from them, and their nice, quiet, single-child household.
Then, I imagine, as they have a moment to consider the situation, they must certainly think: there goes the neighborhood. Sure this crying and shouting happened at the old house, but our lot was bigger, the house was bigger, and the neighbors were camped out in their own expansive house, far away from our loud sounds. Well, hopefully these new neighbors will be fabulous enough to overlook these flaws.
Then between screeches, you can hear me trying to stop them from crying and screaming. At first, my voice is even-tempered and soft-spoken as I try to redirect them to something less frustrating. But as my attempts backfire and the crying escalates and shouting persists, I get annoyed and my even-tempered voice escalates into an annoyed boom. I cannot figure out how we went from happily swinging in the hammock to hair-pulling, kicking, and sobs alternated with screeches in just two minutes flat.
As this all-too-common scenario unwinds, I immediately think of the neighbors that I've met a couple of times and who I wave at whenever I see them. I think of their one child who is only 16 months old. I think of how at 16 months, she can't cause much havoc. And then--as they hear all of us shouting and crying and screeching--they must cringe and wonder what kind of terrible mom and terrible children and terrible family moved in right next door to them, not 15 feet away from them, and their nice, quiet, single-child household.
Then, I imagine, as they have a moment to consider the situation, they must certainly think: there goes the neighborhood. Sure this crying and shouting happened at the old house, but our lot was bigger, the house was bigger, and the neighbors were camped out in their own expansive house, far away from our loud sounds. Well, hopefully these new neighbors will be fabulous enough to overlook these flaws.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Someone gave the clutter our new address
It's been two weeks and we're getting settled in the new house. It's fabulous and I don't really miss the old house at all. Well, maybe I miss the views. Preschooler in Chief told me that he misses the kitchen. I honestly can't give that comment all that much credence. When we asked him what he likes most about the new house, he told us he likes the dining room table. But that table was at the old house too. Then again, perhaps he likes it because it's familiar.
There are still boxes everywhere. That is expected. But I'm have to admit that I'm a little bit surprised that all the of clutter from the old house ended up in the new house. It's a bit depressing. We got rid of furniture. We got rid of old clothes we don't wear. We got rid of toys and exercise equipment and outdated electronics. But somehow, even though we got rid of so much stuff, there is still clutter everywhere.
There are still stacks of paper to sort.
Toys are still scattered everywhere.
There are still baskets of laundry.
There are still dishes in the sink.
I guess I sort of thought once we moved away and left all of our clutter behind, it would not appear at the new house. Silly me. Oh well. We may have clutter, but at least we can walk to downtown, the park, and the elementary school.
There are still boxes everywhere. That is expected. But I'm have to admit that I'm a little bit surprised that all the of clutter from the old house ended up in the new house. It's a bit depressing. We got rid of furniture. We got rid of old clothes we don't wear. We got rid of toys and exercise equipment and outdated electronics. But somehow, even though we got rid of so much stuff, there is still clutter everywhere.
There are still stacks of paper to sort.
Toys are still scattered everywhere.
There are still baskets of laundry.
There are still dishes in the sink.
I guess I sort of thought once we moved away and left all of our clutter behind, it would not appear at the new house. Silly me. Oh well. We may have clutter, but at least we can walk to downtown, the park, and the elementary school.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Hoping for a hospital-free 2008
Many of you know that my son was born with severe heart defects and that he has had five heart operations. As a result, February 14 means more to me than just flowers and candy and the warm goodness that surrounds people when they love each other. That's because February 14 is also Congenital Heart Defect Awareness Day. Heart defects are the number one birth defect, affecting one out of every hundred babies born. That's more than 40,000 in the United States every year.
All wrapped up with hearts and flowers and candy, February has become difficult. For the past two years, February was just a couple of weeks from extended (and sometimes unexpected) hospital stays and surgeries. I'm keeping my fingers that we won't be there again in a couple of weeks. Right now R seems to be doing great. Still, because there are so many unknowns that sort of linger the way the smell of antiseptic lingers in the hospital's air, it's hard to not believe that we'll be there again. It feels sort of like we have a standing appointment in the Pediatric Cardiac Intensive Care Unit this time of year. It's like I'm waiting for that one thing to go wrong that sends us there again. That rips Riley from his routine at preschool. That disrupts our immediate family's lives. That affects our extended family's lives as they fly in to support us.
See Father in Chief's blog for suggestions on how you can make a difference in the lives of kids affected with a congenial heart defect.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Off the radar
A recent move has left me without a telephone or the Internet, and much to my surprise, it's been a little refreshing. Usually I sprint to the computer between toddler squeals and dumped over bowls of Cherrios at least 26 times a day because I can't stand the idea of getting behind on email and the latest headlines. But knowing that I cannot connect except for a rare moment at my gym--which offers free Internet access--has freed me to focus. I'm still need to finish packing up miscellaneous items at the old place, and I'm buried with boxes at the new place. And without Internet access, there is nothing to distract me... Well, except for my two kids and all their needs. But without the computer calling my name, there it seems as if there is at least a few more productive minutes in my day. Still, it has been a little bit hard to put my work on hold. For now, it is waiting patiently in the background.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Accomplishing more in less time
Because I have a limited amount of child-free work time each week, I want to maximize the ratio of butt-to-chair and finger-to-keyboard efforts. As a result, I barely leave my desk when I am home alone.
This effort to maximize my work time is reminiscent of an old habit from when I was employed full-time in an office that was not attached to my living room: I've started eating at my desk. I microwave leftovers and eat behind my keyboard, barely conscious of the fact that I've lifted and lowered my spoon 17 times before my bowl of lentil stew is empty. Pangs of hunger are gone, but my palate barely remembers the taste. This is a very important reason as to why I NEVER bring a bag of anything to my desk.
I mentioned my working-through-lunch habit to Photographer Friend a couple of weeks back, and she told me that she always takes a full-hour lunch break. My initial thought was that seemed decadent when there is so much to accomplish in such a short amount of time. But the reality is that taking a break boosts productivity.
As a result, I will give this a try. It won't be this week (since I'm trying to pack the house for our move). And it won't be next week (since I'll be trying to get us unpacked in the new house). But I like the idea of a mandatory break. A few minutes to reflect on what I've accomplished. Or maybe I'll use the time to read a book. Or flip through a magazine. Or maybe I'll just stare off into space as I savor my leftovers.
This effort to maximize my work time is reminiscent of an old habit from when I was employed full-time in an office that was not attached to my living room: I've started eating at my desk. I microwave leftovers and eat behind my keyboard, barely conscious of the fact that I've lifted and lowered my spoon 17 times before my bowl of lentil stew is empty. Pangs of hunger are gone, but my palate barely remembers the taste. This is a very important reason as to why I NEVER bring a bag of anything to my desk.
I mentioned my working-through-lunch habit to Photographer Friend a couple of weeks back, and she told me that she always takes a full-hour lunch break. My initial thought was that seemed decadent when there is so much to accomplish in such a short amount of time. But the reality is that taking a break boosts productivity.
As a result, I will give this a try. It won't be this week (since I'm trying to pack the house for our move). And it won't be next week (since I'll be trying to get us unpacked in the new house). But I like the idea of a mandatory break. A few minutes to reflect on what I've accomplished. Or maybe I'll use the time to read a book. Or flip through a magazine. Or maybe I'll just stare off into space as I savor my leftovers.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Shedding a piece of me
A journal and a pen were my constant companions as I meandered through junior high school, as I recovered from the boy who crushed my spirit in college, as I felt unsure of myself at my first professional writing job. Eventually my personal prose were traded for tales of chief executives and corporate earnings. When my son was born, the tales were traded for the struggles of motherhood.
My tattered collection of journals serves as proof that I was a writer long before I took any class or received any degree that affirmed my talents. I will always keep those journals. They can instantly transport me to a dorm room, my first apartment, a concert, an exact moment. The words let me relive my first kiss, the subsequent heartbreak, the dramas of college life, and the struggles of being a daughter, a teenager, a woman, a person, a friend, a lover, a fiance, a wife, a mother.
I also have other, less-personal proof that I'm a writer. They too are books filled with stories, emotions, and tales--none of which are my stories, my emotions, or my tales. I have a mountain of journalism textbooks. They contain bits of my past as I think of the professors who taught me, the classrooms I sat it, the assignments I typed. And they have followed me over the years. From Stetson Hall, to Symphony Road, and Queensbury Street in Boston, to someone's basement while I studied in London, to Kelton Street in Allston, to a storage closet while I was in Boulder, to Laguna Street and Lincoln Avenue in San Francisco, to Mill Valley, to San Carlos. Along the way, those textbooks were packed and unpacked. Packed and unpacked. Stored and displayed. Thumbed through or ignored. They have followed me through school, my career, my travels, my life.
As I prepare to move again, I am torn over those textbooks. Do I pack them and unpack them yet again? Those books certainly contributed to where I've come, but they aren't the reason for my accomplishments. I was a writer long before I ever read them, and I will still be a writer even if they aren't stacked on the shelves around my desk.
Mostly, I'm tired of packing them and unpacking them. So I think it's time to let them go, even though it feels like I'd be losing a part of myself.
My tattered collection of journals serves as proof that I was a writer long before I took any class or received any degree that affirmed my talents. I will always keep those journals. They can instantly transport me to a dorm room, my first apartment, a concert, an exact moment. The words let me relive my first kiss, the subsequent heartbreak, the dramas of college life, and the struggles of being a daughter, a teenager, a woman, a person, a friend, a lover, a fiance, a wife, a mother.
I also have other, less-personal proof that I'm a writer. They too are books filled with stories, emotions, and tales--none of which are my stories, my emotions, or my tales. I have a mountain of journalism textbooks. They contain bits of my past as I think of the professors who taught me, the classrooms I sat it, the assignments I typed. And they have followed me over the years. From Stetson Hall, to Symphony Road, and Queensbury Street in Boston, to someone's basement while I studied in London, to Kelton Street in Allston, to a storage closet while I was in Boulder, to Laguna Street and Lincoln Avenue in San Francisco, to Mill Valley, to San Carlos. Along the way, those textbooks were packed and unpacked. Packed and unpacked. Stored and displayed. Thumbed through or ignored. They have followed me through school, my career, my travels, my life.
As I prepare to move again, I am torn over those textbooks. Do I pack them and unpack them yet again? Those books certainly contributed to where I've come, but they aren't the reason for my accomplishments. I was a writer long before I ever read them, and I will still be a writer even if they aren't stacked on the shelves around my desk.
Mostly, I'm tired of packing them and unpacking them. So I think it's time to let them go, even though it feels like I'd be losing a part of myself.
Monday, January 14, 2008
I think I'm a little jaded
An increasing number of men are taking time off from their careers to care for their kids. When these dads decide it is time to reenter the workforce, they will face many of the same challenges that millions of women have been struggling with for decades--how to you overcome that several-year resume gap?
I can't help but wonder if overcoming resume gaps will become easier for men and women as more men need to accomplish the same thing that has been a longstanding, prickly challenge for women. Or will it eventually become easier for men to get back in? Sort of a knock, knock, wink, wink re-entry? An old-boys network kind of re-entry? As I wonder about this, I start thinking about the same sort of questions that I think about when I am perplexed as to why Viagra is covered by many insurance plans when birth control pills are often not covered. Or why men continue to make more money than women for the same job. Inequities are everywhere. As a result, I guess I would not be all the surprised if men one day had an easier time overcoming those years away from desks, meetings, and conference calls.
While this phenomenon of more men staying home is in its infancy as fathers trail-blaze their way to playgroup and Mommy and Me classes, we won't know for years if my theory is right. For now, some men who are ready to go back to work are taking advantage of programs that were designed to help women "on ramp" back to work, according to Maggie Jackson's article in Sunday's Boston Globe, called "On-ramping' not just for women anymore."
While women are the primary participants in these kinds of refresher courses, more men are joining in. Dartmouth, for example, debuted a "Back in Business" program in 2006. Of the 72 participants in the program's first two years, 16 percent were men, according to the article. Lehman Brothers has also seen a jump in the number of men interested in its "Encore on-ramping program," the article said.
Perhaps I should spend less time wondering if, how, or why and focus instead on the fact that there are more programs helping people--mothers and fathers--successfully move back into the work-world.
I can't help but wonder if overcoming resume gaps will become easier for men and women as more men need to accomplish the same thing that has been a longstanding, prickly challenge for women. Or will it eventually become easier for men to get back in? Sort of a knock, knock, wink, wink re-entry? An old-boys network kind of re-entry? As I wonder about this, I start thinking about the same sort of questions that I think about when I am perplexed as to why Viagra is covered by many insurance plans when birth control pills are often not covered. Or why men continue to make more money than women for the same job. Inequities are everywhere. As a result, I guess I would not be all the surprised if men one day had an easier time overcoming those years away from desks, meetings, and conference calls.
While this phenomenon of more men staying home is in its infancy as fathers trail-blaze their way to playgroup and Mommy and Me classes, we won't know for years if my theory is right. For now, some men who are ready to go back to work are taking advantage of programs that were designed to help women "on ramp" back to work, according to Maggie Jackson's article in Sunday's Boston Globe, called "On-ramping' not just for women anymore."
While women are the primary participants in these kinds of refresher courses, more men are joining in. Dartmouth, for example, debuted a "Back in Business" program in 2006. Of the 72 participants in the program's first two years, 16 percent were men, according to the article. Lehman Brothers has also seen a jump in the number of men interested in its "Encore on-ramping program," the article said.
Perhaps I should spend less time wondering if, how, or why and focus instead on the fact that there are more programs helping people--mothers and fathers--successfully move back into the work-world.
Friday, January 04, 2008
My search for pleasure
I'm not really sure what gives me pleasure anymore. But I'm not the only one who has this problem. I'm in the middle of reading Eat, Pray, Love, and Elizabeth Gilbert writes about her inability to "relax into sheer pleasure." When she is in Italy, she eventually comes to the realization that all she wants to do in Italy is "to eat beautiful good food and to speak as much beautiful Italian as possible."
At this point in my life, I don't have the luxury of going to on a trip by myself to figure out what I really want to do, to find out what makes me happy and gives me pleasure. I take yoga because it makes my mind and body feel good, but I'm not sure I'd describe all the stretching and all those shaking muscles as pleasurable. Any other free time I have is filled with tasks or chores. If it's not, I feel like I'm wasting time. That is probably why I have such a hard time just sitting in a comfortable chair and reading. Waste. Of. Time.
I used to gain pleasure out of walking in the Marin Headlands every morning with my dogs. It was my favorite part of the day. But I don't have dogs anymore. I don't have mornings to myself either. I used to gain pleasure out of backpacking with my spouse and sleeping in a tent. I don't have the luxury of going out of town sans children. I enjoy writing. Or I should say, I like the finished product, of feeling that I accomplished something. But I'm not sure I would describe the whole process as pleasurable.
Really pleasurable things probably don't have a purpose outside of being pleasurable. Eating chocolate. Sipping lattes. Soaking up the warm sun from a hammock. Sleeping late. I think I'll start brainstorming on how I can take more trips without kids, to explore pleasant things, and to do things for no other reason than they might be enjoyable.
At this point in my life, I don't have the luxury of going to on a trip by myself to figure out what I really want to do, to find out what makes me happy and gives me pleasure. I take yoga because it makes my mind and body feel good, but I'm not sure I'd describe all the stretching and all those shaking muscles as pleasurable. Any other free time I have is filled with tasks or chores. If it's not, I feel like I'm wasting time. That is probably why I have such a hard time just sitting in a comfortable chair and reading. Waste. Of. Time.
I used to gain pleasure out of walking in the Marin Headlands every morning with my dogs. It was my favorite part of the day. But I don't have dogs anymore. I don't have mornings to myself either. I used to gain pleasure out of backpacking with my spouse and sleeping in a tent. I don't have the luxury of going out of town sans children. I enjoy writing. Or I should say, I like the finished product, of feeling that I accomplished something. But I'm not sure I would describe the whole process as pleasurable.
Really pleasurable things probably don't have a purpose outside of being pleasurable. Eating chocolate. Sipping lattes. Soaking up the warm sun from a hammock. Sleeping late. I think I'll start brainstorming on how I can take more trips without kids, to explore pleasant things, and to do things for no other reason than they might be enjoyable.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Important life lessons learned by watching Flashdance
As 2008 begins, it is important to consider some very important life lessons from the movie Flashdance. I watched the movie for the first time recently with some of my fabulous friends during one of our nights in. Considering I'm such a huge dance fan, I'm honestly not sure I how made it this far in life without ever actually seeing this movie. Perhaps I was too young--I was only 10 when it was released. Or perhaps I was too busy to watch the movie because I was so busy cutting the necks off of all of my sweatshirts. Without further adieu:
1) At least you put yourself out there.
Getting over the fear of rejection is difficult. I know I'm guilty of this for sure. But if I never try anything because I'm afraid of being rejected or not succeeding, then I will never get anywhere. And I imagine rejection is sort of like playing a guitar: at first it really hurts, but eventually you get all calloused and you don't feel it anymore. And along the way, you learn to play guitar.
2) When you give up your dream, you die.
If we aren't constantly striving for something, what is the point? We should all look forward to achieving something, or going somewhere, or doing something. I believe in my book and my writing. If I didn't, I'd only have piles of laundry, muddy footprints on the carpet, and the whines of wee folk to fill my days. I know there is so much more to me and to life than chores and plugging my ears when my kids are annoying. Even when I'm discouraged or feeling bummed or overwhelmed, deep down I still believe in me. I know I have my husband and my family and friends cheering me on, but when it comes down to it, I need to be the one picking myself up and driving myself forward. That other stuff is hugely important, but I need to be the person who is most clearly looking out for me.
3) Not a quote, but still an important lesson learned: How to take my bra off without removing my shirt.
A timeless skill. Happy 2008!
1) At least you put yourself out there.
Getting over the fear of rejection is difficult. I know I'm guilty of this for sure. But if I never try anything because I'm afraid of being rejected or not succeeding, then I will never get anywhere. And I imagine rejection is sort of like playing a guitar: at first it really hurts, but eventually you get all calloused and you don't feel it anymore. And along the way, you learn to play guitar.
2) When you give up your dream, you die.
If we aren't constantly striving for something, what is the point? We should all look forward to achieving something, or going somewhere, or doing something. I believe in my book and my writing. If I didn't, I'd only have piles of laundry, muddy footprints on the carpet, and the whines of wee folk to fill my days. I know there is so much more to me and to life than chores and plugging my ears when my kids are annoying. Even when I'm discouraged or feeling bummed or overwhelmed, deep down I still believe in me. I know I have my husband and my family and friends cheering me on, but when it comes down to it, I need to be the one picking myself up and driving myself forward. That other stuff is hugely important, but I need to be the person who is most clearly looking out for me.
3) Not a quote, but still an important lesson learned: How to take my bra off without removing my shirt.
A timeless skill. Happy 2008!
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