Just Hold It

   There are days that I give myself ample time to look like a responsible mom, self assured, and going about my day tending to the daily duties of my home happily.  And then there is today.
   As I walk the streets the gusty wind takes a random chunk from my hair, pulled back into a tight bun, and makes it dance, but today I am not in the mood for creative expression, so I fight it back down and straiten my librarian glasses.
   My pocketbook is overweight, I curse, having forgotten to leave the sports bottle of Poland Springs in the car.  So between the water, my wallet, and my sinus cold, I am carrying around ten extra pounds.  Today I am not like all the other uber-models running their missions in leather and stilettos.  I am the dumpy nerd in the ripped black coat with a pocket full of soggy Kleenex.
   As horrible as I look today, it's never  reason to be rude, so walking in and out of the grocer, the dry cleaners, and Duane Reade, I hold the door open to others. The reactions I get from strangers and some who are just strange is confusing.  Some people fight to hold the door open, while others just play the bull charging at the sight of red-the open door.  The bulls don't bother me, but as they run me down, I think, would it be so horrible to say "thank you?"
   Bulls seldom do, they also don't smile much.
   Whenever my dad held the door opened at a restaurant, the movies, or a party, it seemed as if a conga line had formed, separating him from mom. "It's okay to hold it open and be polite, but every time we go out, you turn into a doorman."  My mom would joke.  Dad just shrugged, that's what he knew from.  That's how he was brought up.
     It can't even be blamed on Smart Phones. For years before the social faux pas of  cellular there were the drivers that zoomed past you to be the first one to sit at the next red light, the people who were polite enough to use blinkers, and the ones obnoxious enough to steal the parking space you were patiently waiting for.
     I think the main problem is that everyone is focused on their personal 'bubble' life, sometimes I don't even realize that I'm being spoken to because the 'to do list' part of me is on auto-pilot.  Each of us is walking around with our own set of life errands bouncing off other bubbles and oblivious to the little dances and scoots we do along the way. 
     It is so easy for me to become distracted by the silly, futile, insignificant when looking at the bigger picture.  The time I am able to see it best, is when I stop to hold the door for someone else and catch myself.  So my advice to anyone who wants to be in the moment is to stop-and just hold it.
    
    

Fat Baby

"Alan is going to teach me how to be skinny."  My six year old daughter chirped at the dinner table as she bit into a stuffed grape leaf.
"Huh?"  Joe and I respond with unanimous concern.
"You know, my belly is a little fat, and Alan is so skinny."  Joycee says patting her stomach.
   I am looking at my curly haired angel with the long golden curls streaming down her back and wonder what flaw it is that she sees.
   "You do always say that I'm bony mom."  Alan says as he wipes his face and pushes his untouched dinner plate away.
   I remember six.  I remember sitting on the couch in the sun room of Grandma Benun's house.  As Grandma ate her half a head of lettuce with french dressing she loved me up with any candy, ice cream, cake and fruit I could want.  When mom and dad came to pick me up was the first time  I heard the famous quote that would jump start a life of poor body image and dietary contempt.
   "Tomorrow we start a diet." Mom gave a disapproving smirk to grandma at my snack choices.
   Unlike an adolescent, I was thrilled I got to do something like my mom.  First I'd start to drink Tab (in retrospect, the worst excuse for diet soda ever), then eat lettuce like grandma, maybe the next step would be high heels.  The word 'diet' soon dissipated into something that adult women did.  Until I turned nine.
    At nine years old,  I was broad.  My eyes seemed pinched and my cheeks were chipmunk round.  I never really noticed until three boys in my fourth grade class brought it to my attention.  The girls in my class were all very nice, but the meanly honest boys made me miserable.  There was one girl in the grade who was heavier than me.  When they teased her it was my shield, I felt relieved and horrible at the same time. 
    In February, my father made me a bet.  I had until tax day to lose up to 10 pounds.  I learned by myself, through trial and error, healthy eating and exercise, portion control and occasional self denial that I could lose weight on my own.  By April 15th, I lost 16 pounds. That was the upside.
     The downside was I never found a way to gauge my eating when I wasn't restricted, so every part of life became a diet.  And I discovered that when you diet, everything in life is focused on food.  Weight watchers, Slim Time, Diet Center, E-diets, Slim Fast, and anything posted on the cover of a Fashion magazine became my Bible when the scales tipped in the wrong direction.  Through puberty I took on the shape of a pear, while my younger sister looked like a cute little stick figure used on bathroom signs to designate 'boys' or 'girls.'
      At twenty, after binging on pizza, Soft Batch chocolate chip cookies, and my regular meals, I went temporarily insane. The morning after I ran to an Opti-fast clinic to join their program.  I wore my favorite ripped jeans, a football jersey I cut into a crop top, cracking on a piece of sugar-free bubblegum asking to sign up for their liquid diet.  I saw the severity of my response to a day of overeating, highlighted by the receptionist's plea for me to talk to their in- house psychologist.
     It took me many years of loving and loathing myself based on the numbers between my big toes each morning.  What I finally learned in my late 20's was regardless of my size, my weight, or my girth, love was not about a reflection in the mirror.  Chances are if I waited to love what I saw-that day may never have come.  I absolutely don't want it to be that way for my daughter.
    My memory bubble is popped and I am back to the present upon hearing Joycee's sad voice.
    "He calls me fat baby, and it really hurts my feelings."  Joycee says looking down.
     I glare at Alan who insists he will stop using that word.
     "Joycee, you are a beautiful, funny, nice girl. You  have your own body.  Everyone is different, and different is something beautiful."  I smiled to her.  I envied the fact that she will  never have to look into the bottom of glass of Diet Pepsi to feel better about herself.

     I don't know what scares me most about kids.  The things they see on the outside, or the thoughts they're holding on the inside.

Ten Minutes that Don't Exist

   Today is the third day that I woke up with a stabbing lower back ache.  I've convinced myself that it's sciatica, but I can walk, so it's not as sever a case as I last remember having.  My two kids don't see that.  They see grumpy, they see slow moving, and overall unhappy mommy.
   I remember being 'the kid' not so long ago, and for the first time in 30 years, I can identify with how mom must have felt.
   ALL I NEED is ten minutes!!!  Ten minutes; to stretch, to slather myself in Icy Hot or some other atrocious smelling gel. Ten minutes to channel surf, eat with my fingers, try on a cocktail dress and pretend I'm speaking with the queen-just for the fun of it.  To do that nervous pick at my lips as I worry about everything that I have no control over.  To view my silhouette in a clear full length mirror, inspecting every fold, flap, and follicle until sheer disgust settles in.  Just 600 seconds to unwind, rejuvenate, invest in myself.

TRY saying no to this face!

   But then there comes that knock....
   "Yes?"
   "Mommy?  I just have one thing to tell you."
   My eyes do a severe roll to the innards of my brain.  It may just be one thing, but it's going to take an hour to explain just what it is to me.
   She moves into the room slowly, as if waiting stage right for her cue to enter.  I tap the side of the bed to where she jumps up and all I can see is her mass of tight blond curls and a full  set of Tiny Bite Size Chicklet teeth.
   "Is your back still broken?"  She says as she tries to pull her hair away from her face.
   I nod my head before slowly reclining in bed.
    "I can give you a massage."  Joycee smiles.
    "Not today honey."
     Her curved smile has turned into a strait line.
    As much as I'd like to try and stick with ten mommy minutes, I know that she's not going to be a kindergartner forever.  In the nearer than I 'd like to admit future, the one sixth of an hour that I try to steal away for myself will karmic-ly be given to me when she becomes a teen in need of her own private time.  Maybe we can meet somewhere in between.
   "I don't need a massage, but I'd love for you to brush my hair.  Can you do that for me?"  I suggest.
    The beam is back and she is gone, reappearing seconds later (only the way a 6 year old can) with the massive curling brush I use to blow my hair. Yes, it's going to pull the hair out by the root and friz the lucky strays that get away-
but in the long run, I call it an investment in time.
   

Mental State of Emergency

    I look out the front window as I watch the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy unfold.  We had it no differently than anyone else in the Midwood section of Brooklyn last night; Transformers popping like fireworks and the constant cry of fire trucks circling the streets looking for live wires.

It isn’t a full 24 hours later, house shingles and stray branches scatter the sidewalks as people pop their heads out from a crack in the front doors like shy turtles.  I stick my head out too, but not to see if my car is still intact or whether the witch down the block is buried under her house.   I need to come up for air!

  Sandy has turned most of us mom’s into short order cooks, recreational directors, peace keepers, law enforcers, mind readers, and housekeepers.  Yes, I realize these are tasks that are usually scattered throughout our week, but these last two days I’ve been immersed in the many definitions of what mommies are to their kids.

  One look at Instagram also has me squirming.  Mothers baking, filling their freezers, arts and crafts time, dressed from 8 am and all toothy smiles.  I was proud to have canned tuna and corn niblets in the pantry, but after seeing all the social media displaying works of the Rachel Rays and Martha Stewarts, my once prided Duncan Hines cupcakes have me feeling more like Betty Caca.

   The need to post a Happy Life has turned into more pressure than having both kids (and husband) hanging over my shoulder asking ‘what are we going to do next?’

   Some are even posting their exercise schedules! Go figure.  In two days’ time I am feeling larger than life and have done nothing but enriched the rump on which I sit.  I can barely sneak off to the bathroom for relief without the knock, knock, “What are you doing in there mom?”  while just a few short blocks away there are Super Moms who have added a ten mile run in the rubble to their lists of ‘to do'-post natural disaster?!

   As I stand by the front door taking in a full gust of Sandy, I feel rejuvenated.  Until I hear Mayor Bloomberg’s announcement, that the NYC public school system will be shut for a third glorious day.   My left eye begins to twitch.  “What are you doing out there mommy?!”  I bite my lip. My kids-and their play dates have found me... again.

   I walk to the kitchen to find all of my untouched ingredients for making challah on the counter…only counter productive.  This is my boring life at 3:38pm. 

   I take a seat in the den; with a few throw pillows, my kids, and their noisy iPod games burying me deep into the foundation of the couch.  I find my calm after the storm.

  Alan is narrating his every move while right in front of me, Joey is peeping out between the wooden shades and making excuses to go anywhere that is not home with the wife and kids, and Joycee is propping herself on my right hip like it’s an ottoman so she can watch SpongeBob.  It’s these annoying little thingies that have me smiling. 

   The sweet digital ting of my iPhone disrupts my flawed perfection. 

Email received:  Late school OPENING. 

   Never, have three words sounded soooo harmonious.  

   I repeat the sentence aloud, and when echoed…have created a chasm in the serene mood of the room.  Alan and Joycee are now howling about school.  Joey is turning the volume up on the remote while simultaneously shouting in a melodic outcry-“WHY CAN’T I HEAR ANYTHING!!!”

  Call me evil, but if there’s any REAL honesty out there, in the next 24 hours, I hope to see the many INSTAsmiles of Super Moms and FaceBook frowns of all the kiddies on their way back to the normalcy of an eight hour school day.   

A nutritious breakfast before school has EVERYONE smiling!