Let's Get Physical

I don’t remember how much I weighed before the boys. I don’t remember what size I was. But I do remember caring about those things a lot more. Even in between Henry and Sullivan. When clothes didn’t fit right and my body felt less than half mine. But having more of a life, an identity, outside of them reminds me I am a separate person. And I’m able to see my body as the thing that created them and held them and feeds them.

Pregnancy was life-changing for me. Not in the ways it is for everyone - the whole, duh, now you have a child and of course life changes ways. But for someone who was insanely skinny and tall and felt out of place and not particularly attractive and disconnected from the body I didn’t fully understand - pregnancy grounded me. It renewed my awe and trust of nature. Being a part of something so much bigger than myself (which, if you’ve seen my pregnancy photos, I was not small :)). That I didn’t have to read books or take classes or even totally understand what was happening in there, but my body knew. And it would go on autopilot if I spazzed out. If I didn’t eat perfectly for breastfeeding, it would still take what the baby needs. That was and continues to be comforting for me. I try to take myself and my body a little less seriously.

So, my body and I have reached a peace.

My exercise consists of

• living in a three-story house where bed, food and tv are on different floors
• working in a building on a downtown street where I park half a block away and walk to eat
• walking down the dirt road with my parents, dogs and sons listening to Henry name the birds
• nursing Sullivan in bed and the living room and pumping twice a day in my office
• picking up Henry in a near primal hug when I get home from work and he looks like such a grown boy, often only wearing underwear
• chasing after Sullivan as he realizes, although he can't get his knees to crawl with him, he can drag his body to any exposed cord or dog or coveted toy of Henry's that will cause a brother battle
  
• dancing to the radio with Henry and Sullivan on the weekends after pancakes with my family around me, all in pajamas.

My dressing consists of

• finding shades and shapes and patterns that remind me I’m creative and colorful
• nursing bras underneath sweaters with zippers, shirts with buttons or dresses that can be peeled back for easy access
• dangly earrings that tinkle or jangle to a subtle soundtrack when I walk
• scarves with sequins or stripes or polka dots or bold, loud colors that peek out of jackets or hang on sweaters like adult equivalents of twirly straws
• wackadoodle socks hidden under winter boots which are eagerly transitioning to bare feet in comfortable, red sandals and tweed, brown flats.

My eating consists of

• finally enjoying broccoli
• keeping a snack drawer at work which I replenish on weekly visits to the Trader Joe’s in Portland, typing while chewing ½ salt almonds, fruit strips, Cuties tangerines, and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies
• frozen Stouffer's’ lasagna and Trader Joes’ macaroni & cheese lunches which my coworkers make fun of me for loving Stouffers best even after living in Italy
• salad bar salads from Hannaford’s that mimic the one item I like from Wendy’s menu with cranberries, nuts, bleu cheese and chicken
• delicious dinners made by my husband and shared with my family at the table every night: tacos and stews and pasta and chicken parm and conversations about our days.

Girls Rock! Weekend

I wrote this for the Hardy Girls Blog, but figured I'd post it here, too.

Ban/Say Action Spot

The past week and a half at Hardy Girls has been an exciting (and full) time. It was my first Girls Rock! Weekend and, while I loved my job before that, the weekend solidified my passion. On Friday, I watched 200 girls and their allies flow into a Colby college building, bursting with energy and adventure. They started with the Action Spots - creating Feminism flags, stepping on the YAY scale, framing themselves as activists, banning words and advocating for others, and talking back to the media.

Then we all gathered in the auditorium, the crowd already buzzing. I had the privilege of introducing our GAB girls and watching the 4th-8th grade eyes light up as their high school presenters talked about topics they probably wondered if other people think about: girls playing sports, girls from other countries, archetypes in literature. I could tell everything meant more coming from girls than anything we could have said on stage. The younger girls were soaking it up.

They went off to the workshops, eager in their matching t-shirts. They learned about self expression, sexualization in the media, being your own SHEro, and more. Meanwhile the adults came together to talk about what our girls are up against. The unhealthy soil they are planted in and how we can nourish their growth.

The day ended with a slideshow, the girls cheering when they saw themselves and their friends and allies projected onto the big screen.

Girls Rock! Award winners

After this energizing, but already long day, the staff of Hardy Girls packed, unpacked, and re-packed our cars, high on the power of girls. We met up in Augusta for the 5th Annual Girls Rock! Awards to honor five girls who are making Maine a better place to live and grow. They are the first Somali female to win a cross-country meet in the state of Maine; transgender activist who has walked the halls of the Maine legislature; a fashion designer and business owner who found her niche designing fashionable and modest clothing for young Muslim women; a performer and fundraiser who started her own nonprofit at age eight after her mother beat cancer for the third time; and an enthusiastic freshman with Down Syndrome who joined the cheer squad, not only redefining "able," but redefining team. We also honored Betsy Parsons with our Co-Creator Award for her decades of work supporting Gay-Straight-Transgender-Alliances in Maine high schools and co-founding GLSEN Southern Maine. Each winner accepted the awards with speeches sharing their stories of conviction, activism, and leadership. I was humbled by their stories and even more determined to continue the work we do.

Self-expression workshop

We headed home for some sleep only to reconvene in Portland early the next day to do it all over again. More bright faces, more confident hands shooting up in the air, more words to ban and better choices given. Over both conferences, we had over 350 girls and their allies! Our goal for Portland was 50 registrations (based on our 35 from last year) and we had 150! I went home so pumped that instead of going to sleep, I sat reading conference evaluations until way past my bedtime.

As a staff, we felt inspired, ecstatic, motivated… and tired. :)

So when my Board told me we were extending our mini-retreat this immediate past weekend to be a Friday overnight and work session on Saturday, I met that with mixed feelings. We talked about finances, collaboration, planning. There were times when differences of opinions elevated the volume of the conversation and definitely felt a little heated. This, even this, was exhilarating. After spending the previous weekend seeing the energy and power of girls, I spent this weekend with passionate, hardy women. We discussed, we voiced and we modeled. Being a team doesn’t mean always agreeing or pretending you’re fine with decisions when you aren’t. It was invigorating to be apart of big conversations that were treated with the gravity they deserve, but sense of humor, empathy and strength of conviction were not lost. These women are committed to the equality, independence and safety for girls and women in Maine and I’m lucky to have them on the Hardy Girls team.

Awesome HGHW staff!

I’m beyond proud of the Hardy Girls staff, honored to have the incredible Board and inspired by girls of Maine. Thank you to everyone who volunteered, donated, or attended. Girls Rock!!

Life is good so I'll rant...

At the beginning of March, Jared, Sullivan and I went to San Diego for some friends’ wedding. The wedding was gorgeous and special and filled with love. Seeing friends was awesome and filling, too. And eating Mexican food was divine.

Even though we had a wonderful time, the most poignant part for me was the lack of dread I felt about going home. Usually (okay, always), when I go on vacation, especially a short one, the ugh feeling of having to go back to real life taints the last day or hours. Certainly the traveling. This time, I felt none of the negative. Which tells me I’m in a good place.

I’m still loving my job. Challenges have come up lately, some pretty huge, but I haven’t wavered on knowing it’s the right organization for me and I’m the right leader for it. Jared and I are both really enjoying living with my parents (and really hoping they feel the same). Even being cooped up this winter and all battling illness. Jared loves to cook (and is really good at it!) and we’ve been sitting down to eat all together most nights. Sullivan remains a love bug, with his hilarious personality growing daily and his ever-present smile now polkadotted with teeth. Henry remains Henry: infuriating, lovable, wicked smart, caring and expressing a new fascination with Russia. The weather hasn’t even deflated me too much. All in all, I feel really lucky.

Not to say I don’t start twitching when the woman in line in front of me at Joanne’s made THREE separate transactions for five items so she could use all her coupons today. Or that I don’t almost fall asleep on drives back from Portland, which forces me to stop in Freeport to get a drink to stay awake and oh, while I’m there, hit up some outlet stores. Or that pumping breastmilk  in front of my office computer 2-3 times a day for two+ months hasn’t gotten a little old (although, it ebbs and flows in bothersomeness). Or when I snap at Henry for spitting toothpaste on the front of his just-put-on-clean pajamas.

But those are small things. Infinitesimale. Most days I feel like I’ve climbed up a rung or two on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

And then I watch Paycheck to Paycheck and I feel so angry. Here I am, with a good job, a good husband, smart kids, caring parents, supportive in-laws, two cars, education, yadda yadda yadda… and life feels hard sometimes. But there are SO many women struggling SO much just to wake up, work their asses off for nothing and do it again the next day. I don’t understand our country sometimes. I don’t understand the Christian right. If I believed in God, I’m picturing him pissed off. If people invoked my name to speak hate and disdain for others on my behalf, I would be livid. I would flood this place. Or bring back leprosy.

I’m very tired of the smokescreens. And the curtains blocking the fake wizard. This isn’t about religion. Or politics. Or land. Or racism. Or education. This is all greed. Those things are methods of distraction. If we tell you poor people are lazy and sucking away your resources, you won’t notice we’re screwing you over with tax breaks, loopholes and paying people less an hour than it costs to go to a movie. I know I’m not the first to think this. Or even the millionth, but it doesn’t make it less depressing. We’ve got so much of America (and the world) so far down on the hierarchy of needs mountain, the next three steps are so obscured by pollution, that people don’t even (can’t even) lift their heads to see something more.

And we all watch John Stewart and live with our online slacktivism (I wish I’d made that word up) posts of selfies and mustaches for cancer. But why aren’t we marching? Where are our signs? I work with activists every day - real ones - who are blogging against the media’s sexulization of women, fighting for transgender rights, SPARKing change, teaching new fathers how to be role models for their sons by not “manning up,” and planning conferences for younger girls to learn about feminism. They push me to show my boys what “use your words” really means.

I remember marching with my father through Balboa Park, protesting wars, and shaking our arms. I remember writing to my president to preserve our national parks and wildlife. I remember the first time I handed in a ballot, taking a picture with my dad, with the sticker on my forehead, goofy on the responsibility of a vote. When I’m too busy asking Henry if he’s wiped and washed his hands or telling him to stay in his chair and eat his blueberry yogurt, I miss the opportunities to tell him about what we can do for each other. To demonstrate compassion through words and actions, so when he votes, he’ll know what taking care of people can look like.

A Few of My Favorite Things... About Henry

Every night, Henry forgets he's expected to go to bed. We haven't figured out if it's a "I don't want to miss out on anything" issue or something else, but every adult in the household has at least one night of pain-in-the-assness each week. This process can become so consuming and embittering. In an effort to celebrate all wonderful, quirky, hilarious, amazing parts of my first-born, I thought it would be good to spend some time on... 

A Few of My Favorite Things About Henry

• The phrases he's picked up and uses often in hilarious ways:
• "Check this out." Often used after the creation of new Mega Bloks vehicle, train track, crayon drawing, or preceding a spastic new gymnastic move. 
• "Can I get a little help here?" Most commonly used after a fall, his tiny hand emerging from behind the couch/chair/table accompanied by his tiny voice and adult inflections. 
• "He's got that head going." Sullivan's favorite new activity involves headbanging and this is Henry's response when he sees it.  
• "What the heck?" Nough said. 

• He loves to be helpful (on his own time). He puts away his laundry. Pours, cracks eggs into and stirs pancake batter. Feeds Sullivan. And loves to help set the table. 
• We now play HideNSeek and it's soooo fun! Henry either stays silent in his hiding spot (which terrifies me) or giggles. He asks me to "squeak" to give him hints where I am so I've renamed it Hide and Go Squeak. 
• He says "I love you" often. Sometimes it may be a procrastination technique to start a conversation before bed, but it works every time. 
• When Sullivan cries, he has a special voice he uses to say, "It's okay, Sully. I'm here." And then sings "Row, row, row your boat." To make matters better, the interaction
  
  usually ends with, "He stopped crying. Now he's smiling at me!" He's also invented a game called "Jhoop!" where he raises and lowers plastic letters on Sullivan's tummy while saying "Jhoop." They both seem to enjoy it. 
• For the past several months, he's gotten attached to a handful of stuffed animals. He carts them around with him and talks with them, generally reassuring them that he'll take care of them. They include a dog (which is actually a purse), a hedgehog the size of a yoga ball, a "winney pig" named Martha, a cheetah that's as long as him, a giraffe from the San Diego Wild Animal Park, and a blue jay. When he can't be with them, he asks us to keep an eye on them.
• How he hates wearing pants. 
• And shoes. 

• After he draws, there is inevitably marker on his hands or crayon underneath his fingernails. The surprising color melts me. 

Adventures of Sullivan & Henry

This should probably be two posts as they are unrelated - but here's two stories. One Sullivan and one Henry.

*******

Last week we experienced a parenting fail. Henry and Sullivan had faucet noses and coughs. We are used to Henry picking up stuff at school. Sullivan, though, has been a pretty healthy kiddo. He started waking up at night (he doesn’t do this) and fussing (he doesn’t do this either).

On the second night, hearing his little sad cough from the crib across the room, I said, “That sounds like it’s moving to his chest.”

“We should probably take him to the doctor,” yawned Jared from next to me in the dark.

He’d had the mildest of fevers when I checked the day before, but otherwise mostly smiles. I’m serious, this is one smiley baby.

The next morning, my mom was staying home with a cold and offered to take him in. I made the appointment and waited to hear.

Croup.

Conjunctivitis.

AND
an ear infection.

I’m honestly surprised they let her bring him home and didn’t just confiscate him. Poor kid. What’s even more surprising knowing this is the amount he didn’t complain. With Henry, that would have been a full-fledged code red, including a Jack Nicholson style “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH” baby freak-out. Sullivan just expressed genial discomfort. “I don’t prefer this,” he seemed to coo when we leaned over his crib. Which was replaced by a smile when we picked him up.

Jared brought home a chalky, liquid medicine to be taken twice a day for ten days. The first couple of doses went down pretty smooth. Pursed lips and questioning eyes, but still swallowed. After a few days, he started to close his mouth and twist his head, avoiding the plastic tool like… well, like his brother. A couple mini-altercations and forced cheek squeezes, I was perplexed enough to reexamine the bottle.

“Refridgerate.” I read.

D’oh. Had I been slowing poisoning my thrice-sick baby? I called the pharmacy.

After being on hold for 13 minutes and then explaining the situation, “It’s fine.” the pharmacist told me. “It helps make it last longer. And with the taste, of course.”

Of course. So I stuck it in the fridge thinking by the next dosage, we’d be back to miracle baby. Not so much. In fact, he developed a lovely blowing technique which shot any medicine that had made it inside through his sputtering lips to a sprayed pattern on the closest object, generally the medicine administrator's face. And then he’d smile.

********

Yesterday, Henry started our day asking me about death and marriage. In that order. When I told him he was at Daddy’s and my wedding, he liked that. Later on his new favorite show (a super disturbing cartoon where animated Russian nesting dolls pop open and tuck things into their bodies - no joke!!), one of the characters said he was going to “Pop the question” to the kids teacher and showed them a ring. Henry liked this phrase (there was a song that went along with it) and asked if Daddy had popped the question.

Fast forward six hours later, after no more discussion of marriage or rings, Daddy comes home. (Jared had been gone for the weekend so this was one of their first interactions in a couple days.)

Henry: “Daddy, Mommy told me how you got married. I was there and then you shared the problem.”

Jared looks at me in horror with the What have you been telling our son??? eyes.

“Popped the question,” I stage-whispered to Henry.

“Oh right,” he nods. “Popped the question. [Pause]  Daddy, want to play Mega Bloks with me?”

Hardy Har Har and a New Car

The weekend before last, we bought this:

And we moved out of this:

And into this:

I’ve been in my new job for eight days now. While I’m sure there is a honeymoon phase for every new relationship (romantic, friendship, job, etc.), that knowledge doesn’t keep us from loving it each time. My coworkers are great. My office is great. My Board is great. And the work that we do is phenomenal. I get to hang out with incredible women. They are intelligent, driven, socially active and funny. Last week I had three lunches with Board members: the board chair and two co-founders. In each one, it felt like an honor to be there. And not because any of them are high falutin, exactly the opposite. They all do important work in their fields AND are dedicated to Hardy Girls. I felt the same rush as when they offered me the position. The same sense of flattery and accomplishment. And, listening to each of them talk about the organization, I realize what I have to contribute.

I do miss the girls of MCI. They threw me a going away party and expressed real sadness at my departure. That, too, was flattering. They meant (mean) a lot to me and to know the feeling was mutual makes it that much more poignant.

For awhile, I kept saying I was just going to get a straight-forward job. Data-entry or retail. Something that requires skill, but a job I could leave at work. I was struggling with work encroaching my home life. That originally “working from home” sounded like a perfect solution to having babies and a job, but when your jobs don’t end and you’re on call personally and professionally basically all the time, time is like San Diego weather: it passes just as fast, but you have nothing to show for it. My mother and therapist (two separate people, just thought I’d clarify since my mother fills both roles occasionally) both said I wouldn’t happy in a straight-forward job. That I’d be typing or filing or answering phones and wondering why I wasn’t holding my new, happy, mellow, easier-than-making-cake-from-a-box baby. But I want something easy, I whined to both of them separately. Easy makes your brain atrophy, they both said separately. And they were right, as mothers and therapists often are.

In my new job, as I told my mom, it feels like my soul is refilling. I come home with more energy. I enjoy going to work. I feel lucky to have this job - a job I didn’t even really know was my life’s work until I started it. I believe most of the world’s problems can be solved (or at least greatly improved) by women. Therefore, these aren’t just women’s issues, they are people’s issues. When we limit each other so much, we limit our world. And who wants a limited world except for those 1% of people who aren’t limited (at least financially). I learned this week that girls’ ambitions peak at age 8. This breaks my heart. I still wanted to be president at that age. (If you really want to cry, google Dora, Strawberry Shortcake or Rainbow Brite makeovers - what is wrong in the world!?!?)

Point is, this job is a two-fer (It’s probably actually like a six-fer, but let’s just focus on two right now.) I’ve always felt the struggle of motherhood and working - not a unique thing, I know. But I have to work. In this position though, when I go to work, I feel like I’m helping to create the world I want for my sons. Maybe being away from them for a purpose only dissuades my guilt and they’ll still be talking about their absent mother in therapy in however many years, but I like to think not. I like to think they’ll be as proud of their mother as I know I will be (am) of them. I like to think my role here will teach me how to raise two kind, empathetic, considerate, intelligent, hardy boys who will be excited to be surrounded by so many hardy girls.

Cat out of Bag

Again, I’ve started multiple blogs since my last posting. I made those aprons I was talking about:

I also finished the poodle tree skirt for my mother:

 

But, I’ve had some news for awhile and haven’t been able to share it. So any time I’ve started a posting, there’s the Tourettes of “don’t say it yet” that spills out of me.

I have a new job. I start on Thursday. Yes, this Thursday. What that means for us is moving, getting another car, not living in a dorm, not being home with the kids, me working full time outside of our living room for the first time since before Henry was born and, well, big change.

I’m very excited (and very nervous). I’ll be President of Hardy Girls Healthy Women. On my very first trip to Maine in 2009, I saw their storefront when out with my mother-in-law. I liked their logo and looked them up when I got in front of a computer next. I’ve been following them ever since. It is an awesome nonprofit dedicated to the health and well being of girls and women. The vision is that all girls and women experience equality, independence, and safety in their everyday lives. To that end, the mission is to create opportunities, develop programs, and provide services that empower them. The coolest part is this (from the website):

Although many, if not most, national programs designed to support girls in the past 15 years have focused on self-esteem and other internal, psychological issues, HGHW is one of the few programs that addresses girls' lives in relational and social contexts. We believe that it is not the girls, but rather the culture in which they live that is in need of repair. The developmental psychology concept of "hardiness" shifts attention from the individual to their environment-families, schools, and community organizations- as the key agents of change in girls' lives.

So, when the president position opened up, I had to apply, what with my years-long professional crush on them. I’m still a little shocked I was chosen, but I think there is that fear of being discovered as a fraud in most of us, regardless of your experience and competence.

I’ve always considered myself a feminist. I went to an all-girls high school. Worked for WIC. Worked for Girl Scouts. But it really wasn’t until I became a mother (of two boys, go figure) that my feminism went into full force. This isn’t the world I want for them. Too many stories about victims and sexual assault and commercials with boobs and thighs. I’m saddened by how limiting we are of each other. And how those limitations make all of us for the worse. Why is the fact that our women politicians pioneered the shut-down of the shut-down not more prominent in the news? Why do people freak out when my 3-yr-old wears nail polish and pink, plastic light-up sandals? These things are important to me and I’m beyond thrilled to be leading an organization that addresses this and more.

Hope all of you had excellent holidays and your new year is starting off with something that thrills you.