My date with Alexander McQueen...

As I attempted to watch a bit of CBS Sunday Morning yesterday, in between trying to feed my daughter breakfast and keep her from tripping over her own feet for the fourteenth time in as many minutes, I caught a glimpse of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the banner for the Alexander McQueen exhibit. Suddenly, my kid's clumsiness and short-attention span were not at all amusing. I imagined a Sunday free from work, free from parental responsibilities, just...free. I missed the days when I could see a reminder for a museum exhibit and not have to think of the list of reasons why that exhibit is off-limits. Child care and grocery lists would be someone else's Sunday problem.

When people mull over the do-we-or-don't-we-want-kids quandary, the fear of lack of freedom almost always rears its head. We won't be able to take that trip to Rome, the motorcycle will have to go on Craigslist, how will I ever find time to write my novel? All of our dreams and possibilities will get thrown out with the baby's dirty diapers. But if we dig a little deeper, maybe we'd see that the motorcycle was getting a little rusty anyway. Maybe our hopes and dreams aren't always things we literally aim to fulfill. Maybe they are just hopes and dreams of who we want to be: someone who could write a novel or be adventurous enough to hop on a plane and see Rome the way the locals do. But, to quote When Harry Met Sally, "the thing is, Joe, we never do fly to Rome on a moment's notice"...

And the thing is, I wouldn't go see that exhibit before I had my Bean. I would talk about going, and maybe even see who else wanted to go. And it would leave the museum without me having been there, and I would shrug it off. But gone is the possibility of that girl who could afford to dream of going, who could add it to the endless options on the "what to do on Sunday" list. Once I realized this, I felt both foolish and hopeful. Foolish for being so cranky over something so small (forgive me, Mr. McQueen...but really, in the scheme of things in my life, your fabulous creations have to be placed far down on the list) and hopeful because why do I have to let that girl go? If anything, I should be resurrecting her for my Bean. She should see me as I see me, and that's impossible if that "me" stays in my head.

When I returned home from my solo trip to the grocery store, my girl's eyes lit up and she gave me her usual "Mommy! You came back!" Yep, little one, I sure did.
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My husband and I have made plans for a date to go see the works of the late, great Alexander McQueen. But in the meantime I did what I could. I went to that exhibit...on the Met's website. And it was amazing.

Family is my favorite word right now...

You can't choose your family. This, for me, is a good thing. I am a poor judge of character and almost always make the wrong assumption after a first impression. So to say I have been richly blessed and fortunate to have received the family of which I am a part is an understatement. I have had to spend more time than usual with my relatives these days, and although the circumstances for these gatherings have been most heartbreaking, it has been time well spent. It has reminded me of who I am, where I come from, and my good fortune in this family lottery.

My Aunt Colleen was more than just my aunt. It's hard for me to write about her, because I don't want this to get too mushy to the point of incredibility. We tend to over-romanticize our loved ones when they leave us, but she was a sweet place for me to feel comfortable and loved. She was family, the one person (second only to my Nana) that I would mentally picture if I was talking about relatives or family reunions. She was a witness to most of my life's happiest moments, from vacations and holidays to my wedding and my daughter's birthday. She always looked at me with love, and always greeted me with a warm hug and soft laughter. She was my mother's constant closest friend, despite their age difference-a relationship that continues in their daughters, as my cousin, who is a decade older, is like a sister to me. She was an artist who probably would never have called herself one, despite much evidence to the contrary. She fretted too much, but giggled more. She was quietly strong, brave. She deserved to be looked up to, and I obliged.

There are so many physical reminders of my aunt, from old Hollywood musicals to used books found for a quarter in a thrift store, vintage tablecloths and handkerchiefs to a tin pail filled with seashells. These were things she loved and collected, and her apartment was her treasure chest. But the real reminders are in her children and her grandchildren, who have managed to absorb all the best of her character into their own. They are all confident and funny, strong and respectful. I seldom heard my aunt call attention to her accomplishments, but I hope she was able to take a minute or two and appreciate what an influence she has been and will continue to be. She'll be missed, but she will never be far.
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This is one of my favorite pictures of my Aunt Colleen, and she would maybe hate me for showing it off. She had just finished chemo, and was enduring its nasty side effects. But her spirit is all over this moment, from her flip flops and her scarf to her smile. I hope she is at the beach now, and I hope she leaves us some sea glass...

Life is like a box of crayons.

An hour ago, I organized a box of 96 Crayola crayons in ROYGBIV order. For those of you unfamiliar with that acronym, it's like putting colors in alphabetical order. The colors of the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Earlier in the evening, as I played "Bad Mommy" and let the Wonder Pets babysit my daughter while I vacuumed and gathered laundry, she dumped the full crayon carton all over the coffee table. When my husband started to clean them up, I yelled at him to stop...as I did when my girl attempted to put them away. What kind of person tells a two-year-old who's voluntarily cleaning up her mess to stop? A control freak whose life has been completely out of her control, that's who. Apparently I needed to be in control of something, and those crayons were going to be it.

Out of control. Things this year so far have been crazytown, as they say. Bad news after bad news keeps finding my doorstep, as well as those around me. I believe it's all in how you handle it--that if you accentuate the positive then you'll eliminate the negative or whatever other Pollyanna cliche about turning that frown upside down you can think of--well, the hope is that it will all even out in the end. And I am trying. Really. I've been in self-preservation mode, hunkering down like a beaten puppy and trying to just wag my tail in hopes of getting that next treat. I know it's coming...someday. Tired of hearing me whining? Me, too. It's why I haven't had much to say lately. If you can't blog about anything good, don't blog at all...is that how it goes?

Those crayons didn't know what hit them. I had them all sorted by reds and blues, purples and oranges, laser lemons and burnt siennas. I could put them where I wanted them and they wouldn't give me any trouble. No Oscar-winning tantrums about socks that are falling down or the wrong kind of breakfast. No flat tires on Easter or dead car batteries in a downpour. No unexpected financial obligations, no missing loved ones. And, above all, no illness threatening to take them away from me. I could fix them, and so I did. I know tomorrow or the next day my girl will dump them again. I'm just going to look forward to putting together another rainbow.
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Speaking of rainbows and my girl, she graduated from pre-preschool this week. Yes, you graduate from pre-preschool...and yes, there is pre-preschool. Here she is with her "diploma". Now if I could just get her to stop dumping crayons, maybe Harvard will take her.

Butterflies and landslides...

It's been a week since my last post, and what a long, trying week it was. I could make a list of all the trials and tribulations that happened, the bits of bad news received, and the battles with my daughter (of which there were many) and I'm tempted to dump it all out here and let you have it. Apparently April showers don't just mean the weather; we've been rained on all over with a black cloud of bad news and bad behavior since this month began. But today the sun is actually out and I'm going to put all that away. I was blessed enough to have a good venting session with a friend the other night and I'm going to let that be the end of the discussion. What's done is done; some of it will continue and will have to be dealt with but I'm looking a fresh start today.

So far, so good.

Whenever things start going downhill, it seems like an avalanche. It all happens at once, and it's a trap to start taking inventory of the components of the disaster. If there was any good in the mix, it gets lost in the rubble and buried under the boulders of bad news. And then comes the search and rescue mission--the looking for answers so we can figure out why we deserved it all in the first place and save ourselves from more of the same. We vow to be better, to do more good and save ourselves from another landslide of bad. If it's a you-get-what-you-give system, what to do when the getting is all bad while the giving is all good?

You do nothing. You keep giving because it's the Golden Rule and you get what you get. And that's that. Handle it all to the best of your ability and move along. If you stand on the hillside, yelling about all the injustices of being dumped on, the rocks are going to start coming loose again and knock you right down on your arse. Quiet and calm is the way to go. This is what I'm telling myself these days.

So amidst all the rubble this week, I did have some flowers peeking through the cracks. I bribed my daughter into behaving at Old Navy by buying her some butterfly wings. She adores them, and her best moments were when she was wearing them. Maybe they are angel wings in disguise? They work wonders. The sight of her sitting in her wagon as her dad was gearing up to take her for a walk, wearing those wings over her coat and grinning from ear-to-ear, will be my go-to memory of the week. It is the bulldozer that clears the remains of this latest landslide. Maybe I should see if those wings come in my size...

There's no use crying over no milk...

It all started with a stupid song. A stupid song that I happen to like and wanted to just enjoy, on our way to do a hundred errands I was in no mood to do. So my family of three piled in the car and as I started to drive I pressed play on my iPod. The song's not very long and was over before I knew it. I missed most of it because of all the chatter going on in the backseat between my husband and daughter. No worries, I pressed play again, only to hear my husband complain that it was on again. And then give his ten-second review of the song, telling me how awful he thought it was. Well, thank you very much. I slammed my hand on the power button, shutting it off, and that set the mood for the rest of the day. Oh, did I mention that when I came downstairs this morning to the smell of coffee I was told that, after my daughter's cereal and my husband's cup o' joe, there was no more milk for me to enjoy a cup of my own?

If I sound like my two-year-old crying because things didn't go my way, I apologize. I'm aware that there are bigger problems in the world. I am also aware that I shouldn't let such trivial things ruin my day, that I am in control of my happiness. But it's been a rough week, with drama and chores and a steady migraine all around me. There's been a whole lotta give and not a lotta take, and guess who's the one giving? Yep. That would be me. And I guess today was the end of the my rope.

On my last birthday I visited a psychic on a whim. I'm not saying I believe in those things (after all, why isn't she rich from winning the lottery if she's so smart?) but she said one thing that rang true: I treat people good and they don't treat me so good back. (Pardon the grammar; it's what she said.) I never really gave that much thought before she said it and I almost wish she hadn't. I don't want to know that people don't want to return any kindness, to me or to anyone. And when I spend a week trying to be all things to all the people I love, I don't want to be aware of how little I get in return. Mind you, I'm not always that deserving of getting much of anything. But after shopping, laundry, diapers, school, dishes, more laundry, listening, reading, cheering, consoling, working, more laundry, chauffering, mopping, dusting, sweeping...did I say laundry?...I guess I was hoping for some milk for my coffee.

I do count my blessings. My family is generous with their love and laughter, as are my friends. But sometimes I get lost in the shuffle of daily life and forget to ask for a helping hand when I'm overloaded or when I'm slipping. When I wonder why help or support wasn't just offered without my asking, I get resentful. I'll figure out how to stop doing this someday. Until then, please forgive me if you are on the receiving end of my frustration or if you have to suffer through my ranting about it.

Tomorrow is a new day. We bought a fresh gallon of milk and I will have my cup of coffee. I will have forgotten my grievances and gripes; they will be gone in the morning. Which, coincidentally, is the name of the stupid song that started all of this in the first place.

Home, sweet home...

It's Sunday. For a retail worker bee, a work-free Sunday is a blessing. (If I were to ever be elected president, I would mandate that everything be closed on Sundays and we will all be forced to come up with ways to entertain ourselves that don't involve purchasing things. Of course, the economy would fall apart and people would panic in the streets...which is why I should never be elected to anything.) And a sunny, slightly warmer Sunday off is even more of a gift. So today I am thankful. We did our obligatory errands but we are making a real effort to keep it unscheduled and choreless. It's usually a good day when this is what you find when you finish in the shower and look for the rest of your family:




It's naptime, which is why I am on the computer, in case you were wondering. I've just read the Sunday paper with my cup of coffee, and now is the calm before the Beanstorm returns. The Beanstorm is my daughter's never-ending chatter and energy, which I love more than anything but breaks are much-appreciated. (You have never heard a girl talk so much. EVER. She even rehearses aloud what she is going to say, so we hear everything at least twice. Yes, really.) We will let the little one hatch from her nap for a few minutes, then it's out into the sunshine for a walk to her great-grandmother's house a few blocks away in our little neighborhood. She will narrate the entire journey, from the color of the birds in the yards to the shapes of the melting snow. And we will listen intently, but we will also be admiring our neighbors' houses, wishing for one of our own someday.

My husband and I are always window-shopping for a house. We are not ready to buy anything, but we hope that we'll find the one that makes us be ready. The perfect price, the perfect size and condition, and the perfect location. We each installed an app on our phones that gives us all of the real estate listings surrounding us wherever we are at a given moment, but we find ourselves always checking them right here in our neck of the woods. I think our subconsciouses are telling us something. They're saying, "Stay put."

I grew up here. I was born in the hospital across the bridge over the creek, and was brought home to a house a few blocks away. I found my independence in an apartment even closer. My mother was raised a couple of streets in the other direction, and my husband's father spent his youth in a house another few blocks to our east. This place is in our genes. Of course there was a period when all I could do was storm around saying how much I couldn't wait to get out of this boring, stupid town...but we can't be held responsible for what we say when we're teenagers. (Ummm...right?) But I'm still here. I'm not saying if someone offered me a free house in Hawaii I wouldn't be on a plane faster than my cat runs when he sees my kid coming, but I'm over trying to "escape". Us locals get some ribbing for being born and raised here, but I can take it.

We went to a local pizza place for lunch this afternoon, and as we walked outside to get a cup of coffee and dessert next door, my husband said to our daughter, "This is your town, little girl." And I realized how important that is to me. The guy making our pizza commented on how big our girl is getting. We recognized half of the people in the coffee shop. My husband knew whose car was parked next to ours in the lot. How fortunate we are to live in a place where a large part of the population is familiar and friendly, where we can give our daughter a sense of place, no matter where she may go in the world. She can always come home to her town...even if her parents have taken off for Hawaii...
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The only things I've managed to get rid of this week are 11 magazines and catalogs. And since today is supposed to remain chore-free, I don't think the list will grow before bedtime. So here's to more progress later in the week and getting closer to that 1,000 things...total so far: 684

Motivationally speaking...

Okay, so I have writer's block. (Or some kind of block, since I don't know if I could call myself a writer.) It's been over a week since my last post and I still really don't have much to type about. So I'm here out of obligation, since I started this thing and should at least try to maintain it, right? So here goes...

The other day, a blog post (http://www.kellehampton.com/2011/03/patty-whack.html) challenged the reader to come up with a name for their "inner badass", the alter ego that makes us get up off the couch when all we want to do is sit. The one who forces us to get the to-do list done, or gets us out of the comfort box we've been stuck in. Some readers posted their "badass" names, like Sasha or Carla or Betty. So I gave it a brief try and came up with nothing. My inner badass was apparently not in the mood to introduce herself.

I went downstairs and let my daughter entertain me. She has taken to making up songs about anything and everything that moves her at that moment and, of course, I could listen to this creative brilliance all day. (Go ahead, roll your eyes.) Her greatest hit is "You Can Do Anything". That is the lyric: "You can DO! ANY! THING!", repeated over and over. Sometimes she will improvise, and list things you can DO!, like JUMP! and FLY! and PAINT! Nothing makes me happier than to hear my toddler sing these words. And then I realized...she is my inner badass.

She is my motivation. She is my coach. She knows how to get it done, she sits around for no one. If she has toys to play with, she will play. If she has a floor to sweep with her toy broom, she will sweep. If she has a naked doll, she will dress her. There is no laziness, no hesitation. She bounces from task to task at lightning speed and makes me tired just watching. If we all attacked life with the determination of a two-year-old, who knows what we could accomplish? We can DO! ANY! THING!

So my inner badass is named after my daughter. I will call on her daily to get me up and running. Now if only I could just arrange for her to get a midday nap like her namesake...
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That inner badass has kept me motivated to keep cleaning and discarding, moving up into the attic where I found another craft supply box and random junk. So here's a new list of things I've gotten rid of:

2 pairs of earmuffs
4 pairs of gloves
6 hats
1 headband
3 maternity shirts
1 maternity dress
1 travel cosmetic bag
2 vases
6 purses
11 pairs of shoes
6 tee shirts
1 sweatshirt
13 handkerchiefs
4 cans of Playdoh
1 package of envelopes
2 desk calendars (from 1998 and 1999...really?!)
1 blank journal
1 package of stickers
2 packs of confetti
1 tube of crazy glue
2 glue sticks
1 rubber stamp
1 inkpad
18 pens
13 pencils
1 pack of markers
1 White Out pen
5 tubes of glitter glue = 111 + previous 562 = 673 things...