Category: small moments

Strawberry Picking

Posted on June 15, 2009 in family fun, food and nutrition, go green, small moments

Last Saturday, we hopped in the big bad Subaru and headed out to the “country” for some strawberry pickin’. It started out like this: Daddy lead the way to an untouched patch of ripe, juicy strawberries. Two little feet followed close behind.

Then, we parked ourselves in a section of one aisle (notice the overalls are blue and white). We squatted down and inspected the berries, plucking the bright juicy fruits from their vines and plopping them into our basket. Well, sort of.

Note to self: Ripe strawberries are unwrapped candies to a toddler. Delayed gratification has no place in a field of fresh fruit.

The brim of her hat says, “Life is Good.” I mean, really, does it get any better than this?

Click HERE for a pick-your-own farm near you! Some even follow organic farming methods.

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Celebrating an Anniversary: Quality Time

Posted on June 12, 2009 in life lessons, relationships, small moments

Just the other day, I opened the fridge to find an anniversary card curiously propped up against the milk. The front of the envelope read, “My Girl.” After eight years, my heart still flutters when I read that, especially now that I have to compete with an irresistibly cute toddler.

When it comes to celebrating anniversaries, my husband and I don’t buy each other extravagant gifts. Instead, we do two things: spend quality time together over a delicious meal (that someone else has prepared) and support Hallmark.

Last Tuesday night we celebrated at an Italian restaurant. We nestled into a corner table and gorged ourselves with antipasto, spinach salad with bacon and mushrooms (and you know how I feel about bacon), homemade pasta with ricotta and bechamel, and chicken parmigiana smothered in cheese. Italians know how to do it right! And they always send me home with leftovers.

The conversation during our date was light and fun, even superficial at times. But all the while, I felt a deep sense of connectedness. It’s easy after eight years to say, “Oh, we don’t need to go on a date. We know that we love each other. Been there, done that.” But for me, it matters that we spend this quality time together, even if there are moments where we sit in silence, stuffing our faces.

A few years ago, someone offered me this simple advice on marriage: “Nurture your love like you would a baby.” It stuck with me. Babies need nourishment and attention to survive and thrive. So do our marriages. I’m no expert on relationships, but it makes sense to me that we need to “feed” our marriages and take care of them, especially when we feel pulled in so many different directions.

After eight years, Tim and I laugh about each other’s quirks and finish each other’s sentences. We still fail miserably when it comes to managing household tasks, but at least that means we’re lucky enough to have a roof over our heads. Our marriage isn’t perfect, but it’s ours. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

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The Smell of Fun

Posted on June 11, 2009 in family fun, small moments

Every now and then my husband will say, “That smell reminds me of Grandma’s house up in the country.” It’s amazing that sometimes even mothballs elicit a nostalgia. But studies show that smell is strongly linked to memory, and thus to our emotional responses to life experiences.

Have you ever thought about the smell of FUN? Revisit your childhood for a moment. What smells, fragrant or foul, instantly take you back? Ah, those were the days:

a charcoal grill with a splash of lighter fluid
fresh-cut grass
the ashes from fireworks
a mixture of seaweed and saltwater
Big League Chew bubble gum
plastic inflatable inner tubes
a middle school locker room
cheap, movie theater popcorn
a new can of tennis balls
a homemade ice cream shop

Wouldn’t it be great if we could just bottle up some of these and take a whiff when we get bogged down in the trenches of parenthood? Or better yet, why not head off to the park, the movie theater, or the beach? And oh, don’t forget to stop for ice cream on the way!

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Enter Sandman

Posted on June 5, 2009 in life lessons, mind and body, small moments

Here is how it all started- the story behind “turnitupmom.”

It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, or so I thought. My three-month-old daughter, Liza, and I were still in our pajamas, bouncing to Steve Miller Band’s Jungle Love. Somehow the lyrics “drivin’ me mad, makin’ me crazy” seemed all too appropriate. Liza had been awake for seven hours straight, and I was running out of silly Mary Poppins-like antics to keep her content. She’d resisted the traditional methods of settling down, and I needed to come up with something, and fast. Clearly, she needed a nap. Clearly, I needed one too.

While I’m not a voracious reader of parenting manuals and how-to guides (Let’s face it, there is no manual.), I did expect that my daughter would respond well to the recipe for a happy baby: swaddle, sway, and shush. I envisioned her nestling into the crook of my arm and drifting off to sleep, lulled by classical melodies. Quite to the contrary, she squirmed free of my futile attempts to cuddle close with a warm, cozy blanket. I spent days grasping for straws until I realized that she required something a bit more edgy than “The Muffin Man.” That’s when I turned to my husband’s eclectic music collection.

That afternoon, we ripped up the dance floor (Okay, the linoleum kitchen tiles.), bouncing and grooving to the music. And the louder, the better. Liza closed her tiny fingers around my shirtsleeve, and we clung to each other. We whirled past kitchen counters strewn with bottles and dirty dishes, and we twirled in circles, dizzying ourselves. We weren’t waltzing to a Brahms lullaby, and yet I felt a deep sense of comfort separate from the rest of the world. It was an unmistakable bond with my daughter, as I gave myself permission to dance with a childlike abandon and wonder.

Despite my utter exhaustion, an untapped stream of energy rose from deep within and gave way to flirtation with a light, carefree me. I wasn’t going to need a Richard Simmons video to get this body back in shape. I was sweatin’ to everything from Michael Jackson to Metallica. Before long, that room was filled with laughter, singing, and a curiously content baby. But God, did I need a shower.

I couldn’t wrap my head around it; my husband and I were quiet babies, content to sit and gaze and bat our hands at colorful rattles. I half-expected our daughter to be the same. It was in this moment that I made a conscious effort to shift my thinking. Instead of wishing her to be otherwise, I began to embrace all that she was- a curious, wide-eyed, active baby who made me laugh- instead of all that she wasn’t. And we danced. What emerged from this moment was the opportunity for me to know my child and to rediscover myself.

Did she fall asleep? Of course she did. After a few minutes, Liza nestled her head into the space under my chin and tucked her knees up into my chest. Her eyelids grew heavy and her body, limp. Although the couch was enticing, my heart told me to savor this moment. I pressed my lips against her forehead and continued to rock. Here I was, mommy-gone-mad, with a sense of calm falling around me. I, too, closed my eyes and let go, knowing that in a matter of months, her little tushy wouldn’t fit in the palm of my hand. My nap could wait. I didn’t ever want to wish that we had danced more.

I often ask myself, why does my daughter love to dance? Maybe it’s the rocking motion that simulates the womb or the liveliness of the music, but I have to believe that it’s more than that. Perhaps Liza is giving me exactly what I need- the chance to stop, to breathe, and to be fully present. Somewhere along the line, between juggling work and the inability to say “no,” I had suppressed my most basic need to be and to honor all that I am.

Liza had her own agenda from the moment of conception. What I didn’t know was that it would come in the form of a gift, one that transcended my expectations.

The serendipity of it all is that one week later, I slipped on a pair of brand new jazz shoes and headed off to dance, this time with a group of women who love to sweat. Every week I do this for myself- for my body, my spirit, and a guilt-free break. Who do I have to thank for this? My little Liza who, literally, doesn’t miss a beat. Thanks to her, I’ve been reacquainted with the happy-go-lucky girl who could pirouette, slide into a split, and steal the show. (Although, I must admit that after delivering a baby, the thought of a split makes me cringe and contract my pelvic muscles.) Because of dance, we have a few more funky songs on our playlist and a few new moves for our kitchen repertoire. Because of dance, I have reconnected with a freer side of myself that I’d lost in the trenches of life. Liza gave me the push I needed to step out onto the dance floor again and to linger in moments of sheer fun.

I have since plunged into this new role, at times wacky and wild, and while it differs from the challenges of classroom instruction, it demands a similar creativity and freshness. Every day Liza cracks me up, and some days I wonder where she came from. Although, in truth, I’ve come to believe that while our children are of us, they are not us.

My husband and I joke that someday our daughter will be the last child to conk out at her first slumber party. But for now, I have come to appreciate the fact that I can “sway” my daughter to sleep, even if it means cranking up a little classic Metallica. And maybe- just maybe- the Sandman will pay us a visit.

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Chocolate Cake . . .for Breakfast?

Posted on May 24, 2009 in parenting, small moments

Yesterday, we were invited to a BBQ, so I decided to make homemade brownies from The Bride and Groom’s First Cookbook. (Eight years later, and I’m just getting around to using it.) The recipe sounded heavenly. Chocolate, LOTS of chocolate. Walnuts. Sugar. More chocolate.

But Martha is not my middle name.

When I tried to remove them from the pan, they started to crumble. Not gooey enough? Who knows. I was so annoyed. I should have stuck with Betty Crocker. But Noooo . . .I needed to be all fancy.

About an hour later, while slumped in the car with my brownie debacle, I started cracking up. Until I was virtually incoherent.

“Do you remember that Cosby Show episode (gasp) where Cliff (gasp) makes the kids chocolate cake (gasp) for breakfast?”

“No. I don’t remember that one.”

“You know, the one where the dad gives the kids chocolate cake and tries to justify it by saying that it has eggs, milk, and wheat.”

You can’t force someone to remember something they haven’t experienced. Here’s the stand-up routine that gave rise to the hysterical Season 3 episode:

I love that he says “we had a ball until SHE came.” Notice how we moms are always the bad guy, the SHE, the one having the “conniption.” Remember all of the hairy conniptions your mom had in the 80’s?

This memory came at the perfect time. I needed something to lighten up my pity party. I came to the conclusion that if my brownies didn’t go over well, we could eat them for breakfast. My husband and me. Don’t tell my daughter; I am one of those SHE moms. I don’t want to meddle with this honorable title.

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Best Buddies

Posted on May 14, 2009 in small moments

“A dog naps so much because it loves so hard.”

-anonymous

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Dear Nina

Posted on April 28, 2009 in small moments

A couple of months ago, my brother-in-law’s mother, Nina, passed away. I got the horrifying phone call late one evening. They said she was dead. They said it was a massive heart attack. They said she didn’t suffer. I was shocked, numb to the bone. She was way too young. And although I didn’t have the privilege of knowing her for long, I miss her. We had a simple, special bond; we are moms.

Nina touched so many lives as a nurse, educator, and mentor at Rochester General Hospital. Today, on her birthday, the ViaHealth community gathered for a memorial service in her honor. Although I couldn’t be present to celebrate her life, I chose to remember Nina in a way that honored who she was, her legacy as a loving, generous, whole-lotta-fun MOM.

In a nutshell, Nina was the kind of mom who made snow angels in the winter and snuggled inside cardboard forts on rainy afternoons. She was there, for everything. So, on this brilliant April morning, with record-breaking temperatures, I knew exactly how to celebrate Nina’s life . . .at the park.

Dear Nina,

On this warm, gorgeous April morning, Liza and I went to the park. We wanted to remember you. That’s what you would have done. I pushed Liza on the swings. She flew high, a smile splayed across her face as if to say, “More, Mommy!” We giggled and reached for the sun. We crawled through tunnels, and scooted our little tushies down the slide. We strolled around the lake and quacked at the ducks, our voices leaping when they waddled closer. We lingered and laughed. We smiled. We hugged. We laughed some more. We wanted to remember you. That’s what you would have done. They say moms are angels in disguise. But you, Nina, are an angel with wings. Until we meet again, I’ll miss you.

Love,

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The Lonely Chalker

Posted on April 23, 2009 in life lessons, small moments

As many of you know from my Staycation Report, my family recently spent a memorable afternoon on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I failed to mention, however, that right before heading home, I saw something etched onto the blacktop of a school playground, something glaring, scribbled in stark white chalk:

“I am the most sadust won of all.”

My heart sank. What causes a child to write that? Does she have a mommy? Does someone tuck her in at night and scare the monsters away? Or has someone punctured her optimism and hope? I wanted to show this child a glorious afternoon (in part to alleviate my own guilt). To explore shapes and colors in the museum. To point to pigeons in the park. To hold her and tell her that there is no one else in the world just like her, that God doesn’t make carbon copies.

Things are not always as they seem. The Upper West Side is known as a wealthy section of Manhattan. People have money. Nanny money. Memberships to the museum money. Bugaboo stroller money. It’s not my place to assume or judge what this child does or does not have; that’s irrelevant. She is sad. Clearly, something is missing.

That day, I was overcome with a range of emotions: joy, discomfort, awe, serenity, confusion. But when I passed that playground, I felt a sense of loss, the same loss that I felt when I noticed many children accompanied by nannies in the museum. I felt for all those children who are missing a connection with someone, anyone. And I felt for all of those parents who aren’t present to witness their child’s curiosity, amazement, and imaginative play at work.

Me? I felt lucky. Damn lucky. As I pushed my sensible stroller down the block, my cup runneth over with gratitude, for the opportunity to be a mom and the opportunity to witness the boundless joy and wonder radiating from my child.

This experience didn’t ruin my day; it was a reality check and a call to acknowledge the millions of children around the world who are craving love and affection. And so, that night, as I tucked my daughter into bed, I hugged her just a little bit tighter, an extra squeeze for the “sadust won.”

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Fight or Flight: Dealing with Negative Feelings

Posted on April 4, 2009 in life lessons, parenting, small moments

For the past couple of months, I have been taking a memoir writing class, instructed by award-winning author of Writing Motherhood, Lisa Garrigues. For our final class meeting, we were invited to select a few pages from our writer’s notebook to read aloud in class. No editing permitted. I debated whether or not to show up. As a self-proclaimed perfectionist, the very thought of sharing something unedited made me uneasy. Okay, that’s a lie. It freaked me out.

I sat down with my notebook, flipped through pages of crap, and settled on a piece inspired by Hemingway in a letter he wrote to John dos Passos: “Remember to get the weather in your god damned book– weather is very important.” So I decided to pick the time it was too hot to sleep. Fine, it was something. I typed up my entry, made a few irresistible changes, and reluctantly headed off to class.

I took a seat amongst my peers, and thus commenced the readings- rich, deep, powerful, thought-provoking readings. One woman read about surviving a bombing in Cuba, another about the nanny who was her last lifeline in a failing marriage, another about how the birthing process is like riding a giant wave. These were readings about loss, love, and spiritual growth. And I had written about the god-damned weather.

Holy crap. Get me outta here.

I wanted to jump out the second floor window. A broken arm or leg wouldn’t be all that bad. At least I wouldn’t have to read. There must be a way I could gracefully bow out. I began praying for an emergency call on my cell phone.

I needed a lifeline. This was supposed to be a celebration of our writing, and yet, dread and anxiety roiled about in the pit of my stomach. Maybe what I really needed was to share these negative feelings with somebody, somebody who would look into my eyes, listen, and then admit, “me too.”

As a kid, I can remember the classic response to my fear of trying something new: “There’s no reason to be afraid.” Bullshit. Try telling that to a six-year-old’s nervous system, which is now flashing hazard lights. What I needed was someone to validate my fear, to help me understand that it’s okay to experience a range of emotions; it’s what makes us human, and real. The problem is that we often dismiss our feelings, judging them as silly. In turn, we never learn how to be with them and stare them down.

At some point, my daughter is going to tell me that she’s afraid. And when she does, I am going to stroke her head, hold her hand and whisper, “It’s okay to feel afraid. Let me tell you about a time when I wanted to jump out the window.”

P.S. I did survive the reading. Thanks a lot, Hemingway.

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Sh—Happens. The Cleanup Matters.

Posted on March 25, 2009 in life lessons, parenting, small moments

Last fall, my husband and I drove to a historic town about two hours from our home, hoping to spend the day strolling down quaint little streets, flanked by shops with perfect holiday finds for people who have everything. During our drive, I asked my husband, “So what’s your perfect afternoon look like?”

He replied, “First we do some shopping (He always knows what to say). Then we find this little gourmet deli, like the one in Nantucket, and order sandwiches with a dill or horseradish mayonnaise. And we find a nice little park bench to sit on and eat lunch. Just me and my girls. That’s all I want.” It seemed so simple.

Well, we never did find that deli, or the park bench. After scoping out a few empty restaurants (never a good sign), we decided to leave early and head towards our favorite ice cream shop, Thomas’s Sweets. If nothing else, we would end up eating some really yummy ice cream; I could live with that.

To make a long story short, a few u-turns later, we settled on a small town pizzeria in I-don’t-know-where. I guess the ice cream wasn’t meant to be. We were both tired and hungry, trying to remain upbeat for our one-year-old daughter, who hadn’t even made a fuss; bless her soul.

On our way out the door, I lifted my daughter for the ‘ol sniff test, and something wasn’t quite right. As strange as this may sound, you learn your child’s smells. In a room full of kids, I know if she’s the pooper. But this one was different. “Smell her,” I said, holding her bottom up to my husband.

That’s when I saw it. The leak. “Oh, God. Get her outside.”

In the middle of downtown who-knows-where, I needed to get my daughter out of those pants fast; it would have been nice to do it without creating an all-out scene. This is no exaggeration: it was a mudslide. Clearly, a two-man operation. In the middle of the sidewalk, my daughter arched her back and giggled as I, frazzled, tried to wiggle her pants down her legs, now entirely painted in poop. And all the while, she had the audacity to laugh!

We bid farewell to those brand-new pink pants, and my child went sans pants for the drive home. She was as happy as a pig in sh–.

I share this story, because as moms, we need to develop and nurture our sense of humor. It’s easy to get bogged down in the muck (not too far from the truth!) These days, I’m trying not to take myself too seriously. Sh– happens. How you clean it up matters- with empathy, understanding, and a little bit of humor. It’s that simple.

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