The Hip Mom's Guide

The Collegiate Years.

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 03:19:00 +0000

graduating from Bucknell

More years ago than I can fathom, my parents drove me to little Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, where I would spend the next four years becoming myself.

I remember driving onto the Bucknell campus, and coming to a stop in front of Veddar Hall. I remember feeling grown up and childish at the very same time. I remember that I couldn’t wait to climb those stairs.

My parents and I didn’t have to haul my worldly possessions up four long flights. Instead, the fraternity boys—assigned as stevedores for the incoming freshman—did us that favor. As you no doubt have already guessed (but I didn’t discover until later) the fraternity boys were also there to check out the new girls. I was too excited to notice.

My roommates and I were assigned to 4th Vedder East. I was nervous and filled with anticipation. I was definitely ready.

I remember unpacking my precious possessions carefully—my stuff!—and trying to respect the boundaries of my two roommates. We’d been assigned to the one triple on the hall and space was tight. In the pre-Facebook era, we’d sent letters to one another that summer, and spoken with each other once or twice on the landlines from our parents’ homes. Our mix was this: Elaine hailed from New Jersey; Diane, from Long Island, NY; I was most recently from North Carolina, but had called Virginia, Florida, and Pennsylvania home at various times through the years. In that respect I was alone at this school, surrounded by girls and boys who’d lived all their lives in lovely homes with sprawling lawns in New Canaan, CT, Madison, NJ and Brookline, MA.

I remember gathering with the entire class that first week, to hear President Sojka speak. I remember him telling us, essentially, how lucky we were. But I didn’t need to be told.

I remember bid day, standing on the porch of the sorority dorm, looking over the balcony with 39 of my new best friends. I remember singing the songs as loudly as we could, our arms wrapped tightly around each others’ shoulders, linking us together like one long caterpillar, as we swayed back and forth and sang along with the music blasting from the windows.

To this day I smile at the words Bungle in the Jungle, as I recall the fun frenzy of the party my sorority threw my sophomore year. I hear those words and I see my sorority sisters, all of us dressed in jungle-y attire, laughing and dancing and flirting with fraternity boys on the dark dance floor.

I remember the note pads the RA of our freshman hall put on all of our doors (pre-texting). I remember the notes left there by the boy I liked “Stopped by to say, hi,” he’d write, or “Sorry I missed you.” I squealed and showed my roommates. And I saved those notes—every one—for all of these years. Sometimes, now, I pull them out and show them to my husband. “Do you remember leaving these on my door?” I ask. He smiles.

I remember retreating to the beautiful academic quad to be alone with my sophomoric thoughts. I filled page after page in my flower-covered journals as I wrote down words to sort out my life. It was there, in the refuge of the quad, that I cried hard, bitter tears when my boyfriend broke up with me, where I later breathed in the fresh, sunny, hopeful air of spring, and, always, where I went to contemplate life’s big decisions.

I remember the sectional couch in our sorority suite. I remember snuggling in, pajama-clad, with girls who cared about me. We felt safe there, as we shared our hopes and dreams and, sometimes, fears. I can close my eyes and feel it, even now.

I loved the academic rigor. I’d never been in a classroom where people said what they thought with such force and feeling. I’d never met so many other eager students, desperate for knowledge and validation. I loved the conversations, the thoughts, the arguments. I especially loved seeing something, hearing it, and understanding it in a new way for the first time.

I write these memories because Aidan Donnelley Rowley did so on her blog, and asked readers to share ours, too. So many of Aidan’s memories rang true for me, too, but especially this thought:

"They say you can’t go back, but the really amazing thing is that you can. You can sit in a Starbucks at 6:34am on a Friday morning in February with your cup of coffee and computer and your mind and you can go back."

It’s 9:44pm here, on a Saturday night and I’m at home. I’m not drinking coffee, but Nut Brown Ale, and still, she’s right. I can close my eyes and remember it so clearly. I can go right back.

What about you? You can read Aidan's memories, and join her conversation, here.

Ski Adventure

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 00:52:00 +0000

two of my boys, ready to go

So, snow skiing isn’t really my thing.

Let’s face it, I grew up in the south. The closest I came to being a good snow skier was when I dated a guy who was a great skier. He was born in Switzerland, took ski trips to Vermont and Utah, blah, blah, blah. Water skiing is more my thing.

But here I am, raising kids in the land of cold and snow, so from time to time you’ll find me on the slopes. I cheer them on as they brave the steep hills then slowly make my way towards the ones for smaller children. They're more my speed, you know?

So it was that yesterday morning, I dragged myself out of bed way too early—and the kids, too—and headed north. (My husband, Starbucks in hand, was his usual, chipper, early-morning self.)

Me? I was a grumpy bear.

I was grumpy because I was awake, grumpy because it’s a complete hassle getting everyone into gear, and grumpy because I’m just not that good.

When we finally got out there, it took a good hour for me to shake off the grumpies. And then? Then it was awesome! Around 5:00 my husband suggested that maybe we should pack up for the day. But I wasn’t ready. Back out we went, the kids flying down hills I’ll never ski, and me feeling braver, and more relaxed, on the easier hills.

Maybe an old dog can learn new tricks.

Small Gestures

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 16:27:00 +0000

Winter finally arrived!

The boys slept the entire additional two hours of the snow delay this morning, and our dog, Finn, had more fun playing while I shoveled than a dog should have in one hour. Watching Finn dart in and out of the snowdrifts made shoveling more fun, and was a lovely start to a cold wintery day.

Thinking about Finn made me think about the seemingly insignificant things that can bring us joy. A baby’s laugh. A friend’s well-timed hug. A stranger’s kindness.

That got me thinking about all of the small gestures we do for one another that can lighten our spirits.

A few weeks ago, for example, I ran into Costco for milk. I was in a hurry and didn’t have time to grab one other thing. As I waited in line, the woman in front of me took one glance at my pathetically small purchase and let me go ahead of her overflowing cart. She probably waited an extra 3 minutes for that kindness. On top of winning the Costco Miracle Prize for leaving with no unplanned items, I also left with a smile.

What about you? Are there small gestures that make you smile? Do you think we’re more likely to show a kind gesture when we’ve recently been the recipient?

Lighten Up

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 13:49:00 +0000

photo by Calgary Reviews

Thank you, Gretchen.

Why, you wonder? Why am I thanking a woman I’ve never met?

I could thank her for writing a book that’s reached millions and isn’t drivel. For writing a book that’s so well researched it made me want to run to the library and read Tolstoy and Virginia Woolf and Ann Patchett. All at once.

I could thank her for being a kindred spirit, a fellow list keeper and seeker of gold stars. For writing a book that made me feel like I had climbed inside and was speaking from its very pages. For her age-old but still sage advice to Be Yourself.

But this isn’t a book review post. And that’s not why I’m thanking her.

This morning, I’m thanking her for helping me keep in check that irascible pest who lurks around the corner of my bleary-eyed mornings: my temper. Her words were fresh in my mind as I held my tongue and tone. They came back to me as I resisted the urge to allow a massive frown to overtake my forehead. I’d risen early to get ready before the older boys (for anyone who knows me, this tidbit—rising early—is a flaming red flag), then my youngest son and I left home twenty minutes early so I could take him for a treat of hot chocolate before school. Before long, the aforementioned hot chocolate was all over his jeans and winter jacket. Seven minutes before school started.

But he felt bad enough. He was worried about his jeans. Heaping my frustration on top of his feelings wasn’t necessary, wouldn’t help, could only hurt.

In her book The Happiness Project, Gretchen Rubin’s dedicates an entire chapter, and month of her life, to a topic it would do me good to emulate: Lighten Up.

And so this morning I tried. I really tried. Who could imagine that a little hot chocolate could be so frustrating? Although I must admit, in my experience anything can be frustrating that early in the morning!

So my son’s off to start his day. His jeans are a bit damp but his spirit seemed fine.

Thanks, Gretchen.

Snippets from My Week

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 16:43:00 +0000

Will 30 Rock just start, already? That insipid Whitney is ruining my Thursday nights.

***

I was at lunch with my girlfriend, and she said “I was so embarrassed when I took off my boots and the masseuse saw my patheticure.” How can you not love a friend who makes us words like that?

***

Youngest son’s latest project: “building” a volcano, then shooting vinegar and baking soda tinted with red food coloring out of it. Thanks for the Christmas, gift, Grandma!

***

I was sitting at the kitchen island on Wednesday, hard at work on a magazine article. My cleaning lady interrupted to ask if she should mop, since she was just there and we haven’t been home. “No,” I said, “but you should probably vacuum in here.” She paused and looked at me quizzically. “I just vacuumed,” she said. “I vacuumed the whole kitchen, right up to your chair.” What? Really? Good news: I am apparently very focused while working.

The End and The Beginning

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 14:30:00 +0000

My littlest son came stumbling into the kitchen this morning, giving me a cheery “Good Morning” hours before his big brothers will roll out of bed. I was already downstairs because I snuck down early this morning to get some work done. I figured it was my best chance for productivity today. Despite the fact that it’s New Year’s Eve, our weather is lovely so the rest of the day will involved hiking the trails and heading to the park—not the best place for my laptop! So I rose early and tiptoed downstairs to write. And to enjoy a peaceful morning, drink hot tea, and listen to birds sing in the background (presumably about this wonderful weather). What could be nicer?

***

It’s also the day for those pesky resolutions. I haven’t put any on paper yet, but the ideas are tumbling around in my head. If I have extra time today, I’ll be checking in with my favorite bloggers to see what they’re saying. I love a little sisterly inspiration! How about you? Do you resolve? Or eschew the very idea?

***

Thinking forward prompts me to look back. As I do, I know that one of the best moves I made this year was joining Meagan Francis’ writing class, not only because Meagan had lots of wisdom to share—although she does—but also because my classmates are such smart, interesting women. Our interests and life experiences are diverse which gives a depth and breadth to our class that I cherish. Here’s a shout out to some wonderful women bloggers and writers—check them out this year:

Aubergine

Crunchy VT Mommy

Expatria Baby

Hoobing Family Adventures

Sticky Feet: Part Deux

Velveteen Mama

***

My 2012 wish for them: all they can imagine. Plus, a little luck and lots of joy.

Happy New Year!

Does Facebook tether us to the past?

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 17:07:00 +0000

After the rush-rush of the morning, with two boys off to the bus stop and one delivered to school, I enjoyed a peaceful moment alone. I listened to the radio, sipped my early gray, and drove towards my Pilates class.

On NPR, Diablo Cody was being interviewed about the new movie Young Adult, which stars Charlize Theron and for which Ms. Cody wrote the screenplay. It’s Ms. Cody’s second screenplay to make it to the big screen; the breathtaking and award-winning Juno was her first.

Ms. Cody talked about writing the screenplay and developing the character Mavis Gary, played by Theron. It was a fairly typical interview, and then, as they were about to wrap up, she added a short commentary that stopped me cold. Having arrived at the gym, I stayed in my car for an extra minute and listened, transfixed. In a few simple sentences Ms. Cody was able to articulate something I’ve been wrestling with, something that’s been on the outer fringe of my consciousness, but blurry and indistinct for some time. Here’s are her clarifying words:

"I feel like I'm part of a generation of people who are stuck in the past and are really self-absorbed. I mean, we're actually taking pictures of ourselves and posting them on Facebook, and keeping in touch with people that should have been out of our lives 15 years ago. Obsessing over who's getting married, who's having kids, who's more successful. It's like we're recreating high school every single day using social media. And it's weird.

Sentence by sentence her points resonated with me.

1. “…stuck in the past…” This makes me think: Can we linger in the past and fully embrace the present?

2. “…taking pictures of ourselves and posting them…” She’s right. It’s weird.

3. “people that should have been out of our lives 15 years ago...” We grow up, we move away, we move on. Sure, some friendships last a lifetime, but how many of your cherished lifetime friendships came about because you reconnected on Facebook or Twitter? See also points 1, 4 & 5.

4. “Obsessing over who’s [got what].” Enough said.

5. “…recreating high school...” Lord help us all.

At the heart of why her words affected me so deeply, I think, is that I like seeing old friends on Facebook. I like knowing where people live and how many kids they have, if any. It’s fun to see that we all turned out okay—we grew up and got our acts together and no one ended up in a ditch by the side of the road. In high school, I mean, who could know? Even more, as a military brat my high school friends and their parents are scattered across the globe. We don't have a common hometown where we bump into one another at the grocery store when we’re visiting our parents for Christmas.

But all the while that I’m posting and connecting and stalking old friends’ family photos, I find something disconcerting about the whole thing. I haven’t been able to pinpoint it—I’ve danced around all of the things Ms. Cody articulated—but I didn’t let myself look in the mirror quite so closely until she held it up in front of me.

What do you think? Does social media encourage us to become more self-focused, to concentrate on putting our shiniest, best self forward, to the detriment of authenticity with others? Does it drag us into envy and tether us to the past with consequences for our current social and emotional growth?

I think I’ll go ask my friends on Facebook.

My Favorite Christmas Letter

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 18:21:00 +0000

photo by haley 7

Fewer friends send them every year, but I relish the envelopes that are a little thicker, the ones that promise news in addition to a beautiful photo of your clan

I enjoy your tales from far away, your moving sagas, your job transition stories, and especially hearing about your precious offspring and their myriad talents. No really, I do.

But one letter wins, every year. These friends of ours have four children, as quirky and individual as all kids should hope to be. Our friend has a true gift, as his letter paints an appealing picture of family life without once describing his children’s accomplishments. There isn’t a hint that his kids might be smarter than mine (and they’re smart!) nor that they’ve achieved that coveted parenting status most of us can only dream of—raising a teenager whose uniform doesn’t consist of a hoodie and earbuds.

Instead, their letter includes a list of 12 sure-fire ways to embarrass your teenager and the confession that their 2^nd grader doesn’t know how to tie her own shoes.

How can you not love friends like this?

And yet, I don’t wait for their letter with anticipation simply because they share more than their successes. I wait for its arrival, I wait for the day it fills my mailbox with its beauty, because they tell their story with significant grace and humor. Behind every word I read, every year, there is a palpable sense of love for their family.

And that, my friends, makes for a lovely start to my Christmas season.

Let the letter writing begin!

A Dog's Life

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 19:41:00 +0000

This pretty, pampered dog is staring at me right now. He’s peering at me from his princely perch on my sofa and waiting for me to pet him. Or serve him. Or whatever it is that princely dogs expect.

And this dog? He’s tired. He just wants to sleep. Will you people cut out the racket, please? He said that, he did, I swear.

Wait. You didn’t know my house was a kennel?

Ah, well. This week it smells like one, but the truth is that out here in suburbia we are limiting the pack. These lovely dogs are just visiting for the holidays.

We do have one sweet pup of our own, one year-and-a-half bundle of energy and goodness who’s feeling a bit down right now. Here he is, hiding in his kennel.

Why the dog reclusiveness, you ask? No one can be sure, of course. But I'm going to venture a guess, an I've-had-dogs-for-years guess: He’s pouting. Look at him. It’s a classic puppy pout: the big dog won’t play (too old, too tired) and the little dog is allowed on the couch (spoiled pretty-boy). No fair.

Life’s tough sometimes, isn’t it?

I have so much more to learn.

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 14:56:00 +0000

photo by armatoj

How can it be? How can I be this many years into life, and marriage, and friendship, and parenthood, how did I make it all the way through high school biology, trigonometry, and AP English to the hallowed halls of my lovely university, and still come out on the other side just beginning to learn?

If you glanced around my house right now, here’s some of what you’d see: Buy-ology, from the library, on my kitchen counter; dog-eared copies of Blue Nights and Unaccustomed Earth proudly taking the top spot on the pile of books beside my bed; Sunday’s paper, still unread, resting on edge of the kitchen table. So there’s that. The book learning.

But there’s so much more. There’s the thinking, the wondering, the understanding—or wanting to. There’s the nuance and the subtlety that I sometimes miss, and sometimes can’t avoid. It’s the whys and the hows that trip me up, that call to me, that keep me coming back, reaching, grasping for more.

I could’ve stayed in school forever, maybe. For the book learning, yes. But more for the thinking, the lengthy discussions with others, the swirling of ideas, the ‘discovering’ ancient ideas that are new again, the contemplation: why are these ideas back again, or not.

I have so much more to learn.

I'm linking up with Heather: check it out to find lots of writers thoughtfully writing in the moment.

In That Yard

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 17:47:00 +0000

photo by AForestFrolic

The tree in our front yard seemed incredibly high to a pair of fifth graders, but we climbed it every day after school anyway. My mom, a glass of iced tea with mint by her side, sat out front and chatted with her friends as she watched the daredevil girls scale ever higher. It was in that tree, in that yard, that I watched, helpless and horrified, when my partner-in-crime fell all the way down and snapped the bone in her arm.

Her arm healed quickly and we played on. Beyond the tree a large swath of grass gave us plenty of room to run. On sweltering, humid summer nights we gathered our siblings and played monkey in the middle in that yard, until the streetlights finally came on and our mothers called us home.

It was there, in that yard, that I watched sunflowers grow as tall as my dad, by the side of the house. It was in those woods that my friends and I celebrated our inner explorers. We traipsed and tromped. We walked all the way through to the other side. We played in the heaping piles of pebbles used for construction or landscaping or who knows what. Those piles were like snow mounds for kids in the south and for as much as we knew, they existed for our playing pleasure.

That yard was mine for six whole years, longer than any other yard of my childhood. As the daughter of a Marine, I found myself in a new home every three years but this time my dad was assigned back-to-back tours and so we stayed in Quantico, VA for six. I ended elementary school and began high school there. Big years.

After we moved I returned to Quantico occasionally, weaving my car in and out of the streets and memories of my childhood. Right there! That’s where I played under the streetlight with Jessica, that night I snuck out the window. (And got into big trouble with my parents later.) And—there! That’s the hill where I split my knee open when I tried to ride my bike with no hands. There—that’s the swimming pool where I morphed, before my own eyes, from a fun-loving kid who played Marco Polo with her brother to a self-conscious teen, worried about what the cool kids thought.

These days I live halfway across the country and I haven’t had the chance to return as often as I’d like. On a recent visit, though, we had some extra time and my mom drove me through the old neighborhood.

As we rounded the bend, my stomach dropped.

Gone were the woods where we ran through the creek and climbed tree houses and pretended we were Lewis and Clark. Gone were the yards and the duplexes and the trees. No morning glories. No sunflowers. Instead, shiny new townhouses rose in their place.

My childhood, I thought. What happened to my childhood?

The houses were old, I know. I found out later that more than 1,200 homes were demolished to make way for the new. The homes we lived in were outdated and quarters were tight. I’m sure the current servicemen and their families appreciate the fresh new townhouses with their Pottery Barn colors. I don’t begrudge them their new digs one bit. Life in the military is hard enough—no need to add housing trouble to the list.

But I am left alone with my memories, now. There’s nothing concrete to validate what I knew, what I know—nothing I can point to and say, There, That’s where it happened.

I wonder if there are other events that leave us with this feeling—this dangling in space. Have you been there?

Front Foyer on Halloween...boys in the house!

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 03:18:00 +0000

No girls here, clearly. The shoes I could do without, but check out the boys'

awesome pumpkin carvings:

Can you tell what they are? Here they are in the dark:

I didn't know what that one on the left was, but every boy from age 3 up who

trick-or-treated here knew. Do you?

Words, Glorious Words

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 15:57:00 +0000

My kids hate vocabulary homework.

More specifically, they detest my insistence that they occasionally—and I mean occasionally—use an actual dictionary rather than their favored online version. “That is so dumb, Mom,” my oldest will complain. “No one uses that kind of dictionary anymore, “he insists. “What’s the point, anyway?”

It’s at moments like these that I love to share the wisdom of experience.

First of all, my dear child, plenty of people still use a paper dictionary. Why only yesterday I heard Steve Kleinedler, executive editor of the American Heritage Dictionary (one of several I own, by the way) being interviewed on NPR. Enough of the 300 million people in America use a paper dictionary to justify new 7+ pound version, ten years in the making.

This is not to say I don’t use an online version myself. I do. I use both, depending on the day and what I’m looking for. And I don’t mind if you use an online dictionary, too. But I want you to be able to search through a print dictionary; I want you to use it some of the time.

Second, son, there is a point. There are several reasons, in fact, that I’d like you to occasionally peruse the pages of American Heritage or Webster instead of click-click-clicking your way to a definition. A few worth mentioning:

· Memories. Although you don’t realize it now, when the gray begins to sneak into your hairline and you're parenting children of your own, there will be times when you suddenly recall something from long ago. This memory will seem to come out of nowhere, but its genesis is really a scent or a tune or a phrase that instantly morphs you into a younger version of yourself. When that happens your lips will turn up at the corners as you remember something you’d long forgotten. Turning the pages of a dictionary is one of those things. It’s a tactile experience. The feel of the page and the smell of the ink will stay with you and one day, you will open the hard, heavy cover and smile as you think of these days.

· New words. As I sat down to write this post, I grabbed the closest dictionary and looked to see what was near where the skateboarding term “ollie” will be in the new edition. There, I found “olla,” which I have never heard before, but is a noun that refers to an “earthenware pot or jar with a wide mouth.” What I’ve found, over time is that once I see one of these words, one I’ve never heard before, I begin to notice it. I see it in print or hear it on the radio. Huh, I think. Maybe I did hear it before, but I didn’t recognize it, so my brain just skipped right over. I’m not suggesting you need to read the dictionary every day, but learning a new vocab word now and then never hurts.

· Pictures, Ideas, Thoughts. I am here to tell you that an online dictionary will not draw your attention to a new word or usage of a word with its non-existent pictures. When looking for “ollie” I thumbed through the “P” section and saw a picture of Prometheus, which got me thinking about mythology. One thought led to another and soon I was thinking about schools teaching mythology, then about schools pushing for more rigor at every age, and then about whether all of this supposed rigor really helps kids develop the critical thinking skills that will help them be agents of change in the future.

So, you see, son, thumbing through the dictionary is about a lot more than how to spell words. You’re welcome.

In Praise of Tree Pose

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 14:39:00 +0000

photo by lululemonathletica

Picture this: A woman who practices yoga, who’s drawn to both its difficulty and peacefulness, someone who carves out precious time several days a week to do sun salutations and hold tree pose.

Now this: A woman sprinting up and down the basketball court, looking for a good pass, taking a shot, boxing out as if there were no tomorrow.

Put them together and you’ll find me there: it’s an odd mix of interests, even to me. The morning after we play basketball, some of my teammates come back to the gym to take an intense cardio class, which runs at the same time as a class of mine. They tease me about my yoga mat, we laugh about my “stretching." And to be sure, in the other room they are running hard, and doing sit-ups and other old school exercises that remind me of high school basketball practice. It's a workout.

So why don’t I join them?

For starters, I’ve never been a fan of classes at the gym. Back in the day I tried, believe me. Step aerobics was nearly the death of me—there isn’t a single thing about those types of classes that motivates me. Sure, I can sign up and show up but it will be short lived. There’s no pull there.

Yoga pulls me. The dim room and the personal challenge and the depth of concentration whisper my name. I’m stronger now. My mind is focused. I’m present.

I’ve been an athlete all my life and I know my days on the court are limited. But the mat? I think we’ll be well acquainted for a very long time.

Sorting God's Laundry

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 16:35:00 +0000

photo by Beth Rankin

I’ve always been attracted to trouble.

My quandary is that I often see both sides of the story. This propensity manifests in many ways. One is that it’s hard for me to be an activist. Even if I feel strongly about an issue, I can often understand—even if I don’t agree with—the other side. Not always, but often. Another is that my heart goes out to the troublemakers.

Countless hours of my teenage years were spent listening to friends’ tales of angst: an emotionally absent father, a drug-addled mom, boy troubles, girl troubles, thoughts of suicide—I heard a lot. My friends talked and I listened. I kept their worries in my heart.

When mistakes were made and police were called and parents’ hearts broken, I still saw the good. I wasn’t naïve—the good was there. Sometimes it was buried beneath anger and sadness and general teenage drama, but it was there. The boy who stole liquor from his friend’s parents? He was kind and thoughtful. The one who had her stomach pumped? Heart of gold.

Maybe it’s precisely because of these experiences that I see both sides. Maybe it’s why I understand that good people sometimes make bad choices.

As a parent, this gets tricky.

Empathy = good. Hanging out with trouble = bad. Right? My mother must’ve been a nervous wreck.

Our tendency, I think, is to grab the label. He’s the One who stole the liquor. She’s the One the ambulance came for. It’s easier that way. Labels help us navigate life’s choppy waters. They help us identify the people we can play with; they help us identify the children we want our kids to play with. Labels are a convenient basket into which we can sort God’s laundry: That One belongs in the Good basket; wait, toss That One in with the Troublemakers.

We haven’t crossed that bridge yet in our house. Perhaps none of my children will inherit my affinity for listening to others’ tribulations.

But if they do, I want them to know this:

· There are two sides to every story. Sometimes one side is awful. Sometimes not.
· There isn’t a perfect person among us.
· There are a lot of opportunities for redemption between yesterday and tomorrow.
· Try to listen, to really listen.

What about you? Are you drawn to difficult stories or do you shy away from them? Do you share the complexities of your own story with friends? Do you sort the children that surround your kids?

Brotherly Love

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 18:08:00 +0000

Re: my socks & brother's whole outfit.
Please note that this was the 70s.

My little brother and I haven’t always gotten along.

There was the time, for instance, in elementary school, when someone ripped a whole in the fabric below the top bunk bed. My mother, having had enough of our antics of late, confronted us at breakfast.

Who did this? she demanded. No one leaves for school until one of you fesses up.

We scurried off to solve this fresh dilemma. Sequestered in his bedroom, we debated what to do. I was furious and desperate not to be late. “Tell her,” I hissed. “Tell her you did it or we’ll be late for school.”

We tromped back into the kitchen, slowly, one after the other, and my 8-year old brother confessed.

But why, asked my mom. Why did you do it?

I didn’t really do it, he claimed, head down. I just don’t want to be late for school.

His recant didn’t help. And naturally, I didn’t forgive the grievance for quite some time.

But, more often than not, we were friends. When the movers came, as they did every three years, and packed up the boxes with our treasured belongings, it was my brother who stayed by my side. When we climbed into the old Honda or Lincoln Convertible (sweet ride, I know!), and pointed the car north, or south, to the next military base, it was my brother giggling with me in the backseat, speculating whether the new base would have a nice swimming pool, and wondering how we’d find new friends.

The smell of the wrapping materials and cardboard boxes stays with me; if I close my eyes, I can conjure it in seconds. In a new place, the empty rooms echo for awhile, until bit by bit you fill them with tiny pieces of your soul, little slivers of you that say I live here now, this is my home. The room softens. In the midst of the Madonna posters, piles of clothes, and algebra homework I made my way towards new friends and new memories, until we moved again.

And always, my brother was with me.

He lives 1,200 miles away now, but it doesn’t really matter. The threads are woven, the bonds are strong. If I need him, I can count on him to be there.

What about my own boys? If they live far away—or even nearby one another—I wonder if they will share this type of bond. How about you? Do you share a bond with a sibling? Do you think your kids will?

Fall Wins.

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 17:18:00 +0000

It happens every year.

After a blissful summer of friends, cocktails, and sand, we wrap up summer and round the corner towards cooler weather. Fall calls to me, it whispers beguilingly, with its distinct smell of turning leaves and the delicious promise of hot cider. Through the crisp, cool air, I swear I can hear the cheering in the football stadium; I feel the wool of my fisherman’s sweater. I’m flooded with memories again and again.

As a child I looked forward to these memories, even though I didn’t have them yet. Back then, tempura paint pumpkins in the school windows and sugar cookies with orange frosting comprised my autumn life experiences. And I loved those, too. But I was wide-eyed and forward-looking and I knew that my fall collegiate days would be filled with good things.

College didn’t disappoint. The hills in central Pennsylvania are covered with brilliant foliage; the football games and tailgate parties were just as I imagined; the fisherman’s sweaters and conviviality, even better. These things come flying back to me, year after year, as I look forward to another fresh start—even more than I do at the turn of the New Year.

Hope. Renewal. Home.

As a mother, I wonder if fall will hold the same enchantment for my boys when they are grown and on their own.

How about you--what's your favorite season? What does it mean to you?

Escaping False Prisons

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 18:38:00 +0000

Momalom wrote a post today about life with 3 kids, and Kristen @ Motherese responded with these beautiful words:

"To me, the most powerful sentence in your post was this: “Because this was exactly what I wanted.” So often, when overwhelmed by chaos and crying and so much touching, I forget that this is the life that I always wanted."

It’s funny how easy it is for us to forget that sometimes.

When I’m balancing the teeter totter that is life with kids I can get bogged down in the details: buying groceries, cooking thankless meals; doing another load of laundry; driving to umpteen practices; attending school book fairs and conferences and PTO meetings; sorting stacks of mail; staring at unread magazines; fitting in blogging, twittering and writing; losing myself; finding myself; and figuring out how to get up and do it all over again tomorrow.

When I get lost in the details it's easy for me to glamorize the other path, the people who live where I thought I’d live, or do what I thought I’d do, or are who I thought I’d be.

But then I stop.

I stop because I understand that I have the power to change these things—where I live and what I do and who I am. And I choose not to. Trivialities are not what comprise a life.

The fabric of my life is rich and woven from colorful strands of family, friends, and community. Yes, my children can be exhausting and yes, there are days I dream of coconuts and palm trees. But if I decide it’s palm trees that I really want, well, then, I can move to where the palm trees grow.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? We stay where we are until we decide to move elsewhere—and I mean this both figuratively and literally. Our pantries get organized when we organize them. Our careers progress when we take actions steps. Often, we’re only trapped by ideas of our own construct. In her book, Steering by Starlight, Martha Beck describes this notion with her favorite cartoon. She says:

"It shows two haggard captives staring through the bars of a prison window. The odd thing is that there are no walls on the prison; the two men are simply standing in the open, holding bars to their faces with their own hands.”

I know what she means. A few years into this Midwest gig, when I still longed to move back east with my preppy little tribe, I used to think, “We’re stuck here. We can’t move because my husband started a business,” but that’s wasn’t exactly true. We weren’t stuck. That vision was my own cartoon prison. We could’ve left the business. I could’ve moved east ahead of him. These weren’t ideal solutions, to be sure. But they existed—there were options—and I was painting myself into a jail that wasn’t there. Examining those options meant examining what I really wanted, which is an entirely different deal than feeling stuck. When I finally sat down with my list of pros and cons (because ya’ll know that’s how I roll), the grass wasn’t much greener back east after all. But getting out of prison? That was fantastic.

How about you? Are there times you’ve felt stuck? Were there options you weren’t seeing?

Turmoil

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 18:38:00 +0000

Amanda Knox came home today.

Twenty-two years ago as I saw Venice and Florence and Rome for the first time, I clutched my Eurail pass and followed my wanderlust as far as my lira would take me.

Three years ago, my husband and I watched our kids frolic in the afternoon sunshine as we savored red wine and hors’ devours on the deck of our rented Tuscan villa, less than an hour from the now infamous Perugia.

Like probably every single girl who ever studied abroad, I’ve followed the Amanda Knox case with curiosity, horror, and a small ache in the pit of my belly.

The case is a mess of confusion and accusation and no real answers. I’ve never been sure—how can I be—about what happened that night. And I don’t know enough about the Italian justice system to know whether “innocent until proven guilty” is a thing by which they also abide. I held my breath yesterday as I watched the verdict live, hoping for her freedom, because the evidence just doesn’t seem to be there, and hoping beyond hope she deserves it. The outcome is terrible either way. If she’s innocent, as the courts held yesterday, the murder is a horrible tragedy for Meredith Kercher and an abhorrent miscarriage of justice for Amanda Knox who lost four years of her live in a cell she never should have entered. If, God help her, she was involved in this gruesomeness, it’s a horror that will never end.

But that ache in the pit of my belly? It’s not for Amanda. And it’s not there because of some sophomoric idea that, “There, but for the grace…” I’ve got hindsight and age on my side: it’s fairly easy to look back and know that although my study-abroad crowd had fun, we didn’t run wild—or much at all, really—with locals.

No, that ache exists for the sake of my children, for my boys who I want to experience adventure and travel and life in the wide, wide world. The boys who I know aren’t perfect, no more than I was or am, and who will make their share of mistakes and missteps as they find their way. Of course I can’t imagine any of them involved in a tragedy like this—to even suggest such a thing makes me queasy. But this case squares its shoulders and stares at me, and other parents who love to travel, and forces us to ask: should we let them go when we can’t go with them?

I think we have to. And in the meantime, my fingers are crossed and my prayers are lifted that the seedy underside of life never calls my kids’ names, that what they learn about heroin and meth they’ll learn the same way I did: from books like Nic Sheff’s Tweak and his father’s Beautiful Boy. When I read their words, tears rolled down my face as I sobbed and grasped at every reason this could not happen to my own beautiful boys. I feel the same way when I watch Amanda Knox.

The ache is for my children.

Rainy Day Activities for Kids

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 14:31:00 +0000

So it’s gray and rainy today. It was gray and rainy yesterday. And it’s supposed to be gray and rainy tomorrow.

Needless to say, we’re going a bit stir crazy here in the house-of-boys. You can only last so long outside in the rain. At least 2 of my 3 boys can read chapter books in a cozy chair on days like this. I love that. My youngest? Not so much. And I remember the days, very recently, when all three of them were standing there, looking up at me with those big expectations, asking, “What's next, Mom?”

My opinion? The best way to survive these days with a smile in your face is to throw in the towel. Yes, that’s right. My great parenting nugget for the day is….drumroll please…throw in the towel. Fine words of wisdom, don’t you think? What I mean by this is that a rainy day is a day for us to forget our Very Important List of Things to Do, get down on the floor with our kids, and remember what it’s like to simply play.

Rainy Day Activities:

Make a Fort. The old stand-by is as good as ever. Kids in every state and every town love nothing better than building an Awesome Fort out of couch pillows, blankets, and sheets. But the real giddiness kicks in when they see that mom is actually going to join them in the Fort. The smiles you’ll receive are worth every single thing you didn’t get done today that you will absolutely pay for tomorrow.

Break out the Perler Beads. As I’ve mentioned before, Perler Beads are a fantastic activity for kids to do on their own. But they’re fun to work on together, too. Your kids can create beautiful designs to give to Grandma and Grandpa for the upcoming Mother’s and Father’s Day celebrations. After you’ve ironed their masterpiece, simply stick a magnet strip on the back & your gift is ready to go.

Break the Rules. No running in the house? No hiding in the pantry? Take a half an hour today, ditch the rules, and play indoor hide-and-seek. That thing that breaks? It’s just part of the deal. Plan on it, and it won’t seem so tragic.

Break Bread Together. Eat your snack the floor! Another ageless old-timer, the picnic-on-the-living-room-floor is a sure crowd pleaser. Feed the baby first and have your picnic with the older kids during naptime. (Babies tend to be a little messy for the living room.) I have a huge piece of canvas fabric that we put down to spare the carpet. The kids shriek with joy when I pull it out. The mayhem that ensues, in anticipation of peanut butter and jelly that they don't have to eat at the table, is a bit unbelievable.

Rediscover Rubber Ducky. On a rainy day (no, not one with lightening), the bathtub can serve as a small pool. Don’t worry about the clean-factor. This bathtime is just for fun. Bubbles, toys, bath paints, splashing: it’s all included. The bonus? You don’t have to get in…you’re just the lifeguard for this one.

Special Box of Toys. What? You don’t have one? Oh, you gotta get one! All the cool kids have 'em. Okay, here’s the deal: our children have too many toys. Can we agree on this one? We buy, our parents buy, our friends buy. Too much buying. When I realized our windows were on the verge of popping out because of all the excess, I just wanted to chuck it. Goodwill, here we come. But my friend intervened. “Buy a large plastic bin,” she suggested. “Fill it with lots of these toys, then put it away for a rainy day. When the rainy day comes, pull out the bin. The kids will be so excited to play with these “special” toys.” Hmmm… And she was right. Thank you, friend! Goodwill still received a donation, but we save some for the Special Box that creates Special Fun on rainy days.

Make a Movie. These are some of my most treasured keepsakes, and I didn’t have a thing to do with them. My husband, bless his heart, spends hours with the boys creating movies. They've “gone” to Africa, flown into outer space, and even fought aliens. I watch these movies and I can’t believe how little they once were! Those voices! I promise you, moms, their voices will change, their annunciation will improve, and to be able to hear them, to see them in action at those tiny little ages, is a precious gift. The movies are a bit of a pain to make, with props and all, and they’re definitely time consuming. In other words, it’s the perfect activity for an otherwise boring, rainy day.

Make Play-Doh. Play-Doh is such a kid-pleaser, but no one likes it when they peel off the lid and instead of easy to mold clay-like material, they find the hard, gross substance formerly known as Play Doh. My neighbor, Pam, gave me a recipe about years ago (see below) and this stuff lasts forever. It’s kind of weird how long it lasts, actually. Sometimes it gets a little sticky – just add a touch more flour, and you’re ready to shape and mold.

Or, Make Dough Figures. During the holidays, my kids make something for their teacher’s, grandparents, and other lucky souls. One of the things they’ve created is dough ornaments. (Yep, I like the oldies. What gave it away?) This dough is easy to work with – just don’t over bake it! If you’re feeling extra crafty, the kids can paint their designs once they’re dry.

Keep a Few Tricks Up Your Sleeve. Under no circumstances, no matter how gray and rainy it is, are you, the parent, to use all of these tricks in the same day. Pace yourself, people. Pick a few, and maybe a back-up, and go for it. Trying to make play-doh, build a fort, and have a living-room picnic on the same day is just asking for trouble. There's always tomorrow.

Homemade Play-Doh Recipe:

2 c flour 2 c water

1 c salt 2 T oil

4 t cream of tartar food coloring

(This makes a ton. Sometimes I just make half.)

Mix all ingredients in a saucepan. Cook for 2-3 minutes, stirring constantly. Stir in food coloring. Remove from heat. Put mixture onto waxed paper and knead. Add extra flour, if sticky.

Dough Figures/Ornaments Recipe

1 c salt 1 c water

2 c flour food coloring (optional)

Mix salt and flour, then add water a little at a time. If you’re using food coloring, separate dough into different bowls, add color, and mix. Knead for 7-10 minutes until dough is putty-like.

Create people, animals, or other figures with dough. For ornaments, roll dough to ¼” thick (I go a little thicker). Use cookie cutters for basic shapes, like snowflakes, Christmas balls, or snowmen.

Bake on cookies sheet at 325 until very light brown.

Enjoy the rain!

This updated re-post is here today courtesy of the weather!

Bewildered

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 20:18:00 +0000

Last week I was writing a list of my strengths, the life experiences and traits I possess that are assets to me as a writer. (People, please. This wasn’t just for fun and hubris, it was an assignment for a class I’m taking.)

No problem. It took some time to think this through, but I have a fairly solid grasp of my strengths and weaknesses so it wasn’t a stressful assignment. Public speaking: strength. Getting clothes into the hamper: weakness. (Ooh, essay idea, right there!)

When I checked in with my classmates, an absolutely fantastic bunch by the way, here’s what I found: their strengths were really strong. Life as an expat with baby-in-tow, and illegal home births (Hello, Kentucky, really? Illegal?) are just a couple of things this talented group brings to the table. As I read through their ideas I was excited to get to know these women.

Fast forward one day: Time to get busy. I whipped through a query letter and felt good about it. Solid idea, probable market, all good. Then I tried to pitch the same idea from a different angle. Tremendous thud.

And suddenly, out of left field, the insults came flying. You’re ideas aren’t good, you’re not good at spinning stories, Listen up, Little Miss I’ve Had a Happy Life: you have a lot less to work with and write about than your friends who’ve been through the ringer.

This astonishing lack of confidence came from within, of course. I was taken aback; lack of confidence is not my modus operandi. I don’t have time to wallow in that kind of nonsense and so I don’t. But this time? This time it snuck in the backdoor, tiptoed around, and smacked me with such a stunning display of uncertainty that I was unnerved. So brazen!

I was tired the day of the assault, having played Let’s Pretend We’re Still In College the night before with one of my closest friends. To be fair, we solved most of the world’s problems after midnight so you can rest assured we’ll play again. But peeling my body out of bed the next morning wasn’t easy. And after three hours of work and at least as many Diet Pepsis, I was still a little groggy. When another friend showed up for lunch, I lamented my newfound uncertainty. With a sage smile my friend replied, “But you’re tired today. I always doubt myself when I’m tired.”

I’m quite sure I’ve never heard a better argument for getting a good night’s sleep!

Suggestions from a Seasoned Science Fair Mom

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 17:55:00 +0000

With two boys who’ve finished elementary school, and a third who appears to be on his way, I’ve attended my fair share of Science Fairs. If you’re at the front end of this grand adventure, allow me to offer a few tips:

1. Add some levity. When your precious pumpkin is designing his first science project, likely some sort of clay-and-Lego creation let him design away. Resist the urge to cut, paste, and suggest. Mmm, hmmm. I am proposing that you keep your mouth shut and stay out of it. Yes, the project will look like he made it out of clay and Legos. And, yes, he will be competing against the kids whose parents spent 3 weeks crafting something to demonstrate the Laws of Thermodynamics. No one likes these parents, especially the teachers. So go ahead and add a little levity—and reality—to the event by letting your child’s design look like what it’s meant to be: a child’s design. Trust me on this one. Your child will be much better off in the long run, and so very proud of himself, for doing this on his own.

2. Independent means independent already! A few years ago one of our boys entered a fancy Statistics Poster contests. There are all sorts of requirements and rules the kids have to follow to ensure that the thing is statistically accurate. Our son wanted to test whether a football would go farther when he threw it and punted it depending on its weight. “Too many variables,” we said. “You can’t make sure you kick it with the same strength every time. It’s not statistically accurate,” we moaned. The persistent bugger insisted, however, and away he went. He recorded the regular weight throw & kick distance. He let some air out and recorded the lighter weight throw & kick distance. Then, using an obviously kid-devised method, he duct taped a bag of rice to the football to see how adding weight would affect the kick and throw distance. (He also covered our entire cul-de-sac with rice, thanks to the broken bags, but hey, he got his data.) “Good luck,” we said, knowing how this would end. But we were wrong. Instead of getting tossed out for bad data, he was one of three winners of cold, hard cash. As for us, his statistically savvy parents? We learned an incredibly valuable lesson that day. It seems those professors know just what kids are capable of, and my guess is that they were thrilled to see duct tape put to such a fine, scientific use.

3. Let them have fun. Face it, moms. Science can be interesting and engaging, but how often do kids see it that way? For that matter, how often do we see it that way? To encourage your blossoming scientist, let her choose a project that has an element of fun and messiness. Miscible liquids and exploding volcanoes are two perennial favorites, volcanoes leading the pack by a mile. As you clean up the trial run, keep in mind that there are at least two goals with a Science Fair. One, of course, is for the kids to learn something about science. But the more important piece, at least for younger kids, is for them to enjoy the process. So let them get down and dirty, and foster the thought, if ever so brief, that science can be fun.

Bittersweet

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 17:58:00 +0000

In a meeting the other day, several moms of young children were, well, complaining about the things mothers of young children tend to complain about: the sometimes excruciating boredom of playing dollies, the difficulty of potty-training, the trials at bedtime. I commented that before long, they’d miss these days.

Even as the words left my mouth, I knew they were pointless. What I really meant to say was, “Moms, hear me! I implore you to slow down and enjoy the present.” But I understand that when your child is small and you’re the center of their world that can be a tall order. Freedom feels like a memory from another life. It’s hard to imagine your little people growing big. It’s hard to comprehend that the day will come, swiftly, when they get their own lives and you’re not the center of their world anymore. You’re nowhere close. And the young moms, the ones who received my words, probably did a silent eye roll. They could hear me, these friends, but they couldn’t hear me.

I know because I have a hard time hearing this kind of counsel, too. When my oldest son was just entering middle school, I began hearing, “Oh, wait until he gets to high school. Those year just fly.” Since then, I’ve heard some variation of that refrain at least—at least!—a hundred times. Because I’ve been a parent for 15 years now I understand that these helpful souls are telling me the truth. But we’re at the beginning of the high school journey. Right now, it seems long and arduous. So although I hear them, these well-meaning moms of older kids, I don’t really hear them. I can’t. I’m too busy surviving and enjoying the day-to-day homework, soccer practice, soccer games, football practice, football games, social events (Powder Puff football!), groceries, writing, laundry, and friends that compose my world. My life.

When that same, now 15-year-old, son was born and they placed his tiny little self in my arms, the weight of parenting bore down upon me like the weight of the world. “It’s our responsibility,” I thought, “all of it.” The learning, the growing, the playing, the teaching; I was overwhelmed by the bigness of it all.

I struggled through those early months and when my baby could finally sit and splash in the tub, there was no greater joy. His smile, his laughter, his curiosity: I couldn’t get enough of him.

He grew bigger, and in the afternoons we’d sit in his room and read book after book, his small frame on my pregnant lap. Complete bliss.

“It goes so fast!” everyone warned. But it didn’t, then. The days were long and I was tired. I heard, but I didn’t hear.

He turned 6. Big brother to two, now, he was a classic first-born: helpful, bossy, and pretty darn sure he was right.

As he grew older, he tried all kinds of sports and liked soccer best of all. He read, early and often, and we spent more time in the library and more money buying books than I ever imagined. He fell in love with the Harry Potter books and read them so often that the bindings broke. He’s on his third set.

He’s also on his way to a Homecoming dance this weekend, with a girl. He bought a corsage and made sure his tie would coordinate with her dress.

A few days ago, a wise friend said to me, “Is there nothing in life that isn’t bittersweet?” And I heard her.

I heard her loud and clear.

Hang on moms, and try to hear her, too.

The Healing Field

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 18:56:00 +0000

3,200 flags, one for each of the 3,200 people who died in tragedy 10 years ago today. Every flag represents a story, a life, that ended too soon. I'm incredibly grateful to live in a place that honored and remembered each man, woman and child in this beautiful display.

I'm here at my blog today

noreply@blogger.com (Hip Mom's Guide) — Thu, 08 Sep 2011 19:50:00 +0000

William Safire, hear my cry!

I've received two messages today--one letter, one e-mail--both using the word "here" in the following manner:

"I've been teaching here at XXX since..." and

"I work for X and X here at church..."

Do either of those sentences need the word "here"? Isn't it superfluous? Could they not simply have said, "I've been teaching at XXX since..." and "I work for X and X at church..." Why add "here"? How does it help clarify the thought?

This bothers me not because I'm the grammar police (although I've considered applying) but because they were professional, not personal notes. It also concerns me because it happened twice in one day, and that's how these things go. Pretty soon, if we're not careful, we'll hit the tipping point and we'll see it everywhere, just like that bugger "journaling."

To be clear: If you are texting me, e-mailing me about dinner plans, or sending me a quick note to say how much you miss me, I will not bother to be bothered by your grammar. Text away! These are personal notes between friends. I couldn't care less about your grammar.

But when grammatical errors are made in professional correspondence it bothers me. I remember several years ago when I received a letter from the Reading Dept at my son's school with "comprise" misused. Granted, that can be a tough one, but if you're not sure about it, don't use it. There are lots of other words to choose from.

Okay, I'm climbing down from my high horse now. The air is rather stuffy up there! I'm going to check my email for a nice personal note, which I will love, grammar errors and all.