Teaching Compassion

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“Who’d you play with today?”

I regularly quiz Ava about her kindergarten social life in an attempt to tighten the chord between us that gets a little slack after seven hours of school. I know the kids in her class by name. I know which ones I would like her to play with and I’m not afraid to make suggestions. After all, as a woman in my 30s, I’m a better judge of character. And yes, if you must know, I have some control issues that sending my child to school has managed to expose like an open, festering wound.

“I played on the bars with Tristan,” she replies.

It’s been the same answer for the past week. Tristan seems like a nice kid—though a little on the quiet side (which makes Type-A freaks like myself a little nervous). But what about her two BFFs from class?

“They play with another girl,” she responds, matter-of-factly.

“Well, can’t you play too?”

“No. The other girl doesn’t like me.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” There’s actually no way that could possibly be true.

“No, seriously. She told me. She said, ‘Go play with somebody else. I don’t like you.’”

I do not like this “other girl.” But enough about me.

“Does that hurt your feelings?” What I really mean to ask is, “Are you going to grow up wearing all black and drawing temporary barbed wire tattoos around your wrists with a Sharpie?”

Ava just shrugs it off. She’s either trying to act tough or she’s a bigger person than me.

Regardless, I hurt for her. It pains me that kids are so cruel. Ava’s guilty of it too. Not too long ago she spent the better part of a day in “timeout” for not being a judicious playmate. But it stings more when it’s your kid on the losing end of the cat o’ nine tails.

I had lots of friends growing up. At least I think I did. See, I’m under the impression that everyone likes me. I mean, why wouldn’t they? I’m nice. Funny. Easy to talk to. Logic (i.e. my husband) tells me there’s no way everyone likes me. But my delusion has served me well for more than 30 years. What’s the harm? A healthy dose of ego never hurt anyone.

Well, almost anyone. As it turns out, my sister didn’t always enjoy playing with me, especially when we played “school” and I appointed myself as the teacher. But it wasn’t my fault she kept failing my classes; she had a lot of promise, she just never applied herself.

“Ava’s a lot like you,” she explains, “so maybe these kids are just tired of her telling them what to do all the time.”

Ouch. And, “She’s only trying to help them play better.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clearly, my sister doesn’t get it. So I turn to a friend unlucky enough to be trapped next to me while we wait for our children to finish their gymnastics lesson.

She listens patiently as I worry and fret about Ava’s social life and mean-spirited kids who are attempting to squash her sparkly pink soul. She nods. She tells me she understands and then follows up with, “You’ve met my son, right?” Her son is a beautiful, blond, big-hearted boy just a year older than Ava. He also has special needs. My friend tells me that her son doesn’t have any friends at school. He sits by himself on the outer edge of the playground. Every. Single. Day.

She tells me that she can’t think too much about it or she’ll go crazy.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

I can’t pick my daughter’s friends. I can’t make it so every child likes her. But I can teach her to be kind and compassionate to all children. Better yet, I can insist on it.

Ava and one of her BFFs

Putting Black Friday to Rest

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Glad you're boosting the economy. Glad I'm in bed.

There was a time when I’d wake the day after Thanksgiving at 5 AM to drive 90 miles to Seattle to shop. But two things were different then: I didn’t have a child (and thus, complete respect for sleep), and the sales began at 7 AM, which was considered early.

These days, “early” is actually “late.” Most major stores opened at midnight, while the big daddies sprung their doors at 10 PM for “doorbuster sales.” The prices are good if you’re in the market for an off-brand TV or a Dora bicycle, but there’s no guarantee that you’re actually going to get one of these because you and three thousand other people with a dream are clamoring for limited stock. The stores don’t really care if you get what you came for. All they need is to get you in the door, then they can tempt you with the things no human being needs: a chair massage pad or an Orbeez Soothing Spa (you know you’re curious). And because you can’t leave a store at 3 AM empty handed, you impulse buy a zoo’s worth of pint-sized Pillow Pets.

And then there are the inevitable fights that break out. Who’s surprised by that? People have spent the past 12 hours cooking and listening to their relatives debate the difference between sweet potatoes and yams and then, tired and probably a little bit drunk, these same people line up outside Walmart in the middle of the night prepared to do battle in the name of Christmas. Some fool brings pepper spray for some crowd control and the rest belongs to Thanksgiving legend.

That said, when heartburn stirred me from my turkey-induced coma around 4 AM, I admit that I felt as if I was missing out on something by choosing sleep over sales—that “something” being a 30-percent discount on the Victorious Doll Ava covets. But the feeling only lasted until I rolled over to discover that my daughter had sneaked into my bed and was fast asleep, all cherubic and satisfied. I happily conceded my $5.99. Victorious would have to wait until another day, another sale.

I did go shopping for a couple of hours with my mom this Black Friday morning, but only after we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and cup of coffee. I avoided the ads and commercials altogether and instead stumbled upon a few deals, making me feel as if I really found something.

I didn’t want to know what I was missing. Instead, I focused on what I was gaining.

It’s Alive … ALIVE!

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So, I’ve been a little busy lately. My friend, Libbie Summers, came to me not too long ago and said, “I have an idea–” and before she could finish, I said, “I’m in!”

Libbie is a food stylist, culinary producer, writer, etc. etc. etc. Most recently she published The Whole Hog Cookbook. It’s not your mother’s cookbook. I know, because I don’t cook and I still read the thing cover-to-cover because of the beautiful photography and stories. Reading her book at least makes me want to learn to cook, or raise pigs, or travel around the world and be fabulous. But that’s what Libbie does best: she inspires.

So when she told me that she had something brewing, I knew that the best thing to do would be to go along for the ride. And I’m so glad I did.

SaltedandStyled.com is a site dedicated to food-inspired living. It’s the brainchild of Libbie and photographer, Chia Chong, so it looks as good as it tastes. I’m going to join this team of uber-talented women to flex my writing (pork)chops with a series of blogs and profiles about fascinating people doing everyday things. And, at the risk of sounding like an 8-year-old girl, I hope you like it-like it.

A Wrinkle in Time

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“Mommy! Mommy!” Ava yelled from the bathroom. “I have a wrinkle!”

I assumed she was horrified—who wouldn’t be? But when she sprinted into my bedroom, I saw otherwise.

Her smile was so wide it almost touched her ears. She was pointing to her forehead, which was as smooth as untouched snow.

“Where?”

“Here!” She insisted, raising her eyebrows to the sky and causing the slightest undulation in her forehead.

“Oh, yeah. Look at that.”

She threw her head back and her arms up in the air as if she was tearing through the tape at the Boston Marathon. “Yes! Yes! I’m growing up!”

There were other signs. Like the fact that her size 6 pants morphed into capris overnight or that she instructed me not to send her Batman cup to school because that would be “so embarrassing.” But for some reason, this wrinkle—albeit forced—was the sign she was waiting for.

Before and After

I remember my first wrinkle. I was 22 and applying mascara when I saw it resting near the outside corner of my eye. I faked a smiled and watched the wrinkle deepen. When I relaxed my face again, the evidence remained—like a dead bird on the side of the road. I pressed and pulled on my skin as if trying to straighten an unmade bed. But the crow’s toe remained.

Over the years, the toe turned into a foot and spread like pinkeye. Two deep lines emerged running from the outside of my nose to the corners of my mouth. “Smile lines” I called them, because I’m so freakin’ happy. But I wasn’t happy. I was dying.

Or so it seemed.

Of course, parts of me were getting better. I was smarter, more confident, more fit and generally more satisfied with my life. But my wrinkles were a relentless reminder that gravity is a constant whereas collagen is not.

It's never too early for a moisturizing face mask

Rather than treat the problem, I ignored it. But like extra weight or a wardrobe consisting of Keds and stirrup pants, one day I woke up and saw my wrinkles for what they were: a physical manifestation of my life; the happy moments (eyes and mouth) and the not-so-happy moments (the Levolor blinds across my forehead and the trident between my eyebrows).

I don’t want to erase my memories, but I could do without these wrinkles. This year I invested in an age-fighting skin care system and I’m happy to report it’s helping. I even face-masked Ava one night since it’s never too early (for the record, 34 is too late). I wish my own mother had opted to slather me with a little Retin-A instead of Coppertone Oil, SPF 2.

But I can’t turn back time. I can only hope for advances in non-invasive procedures. For now, I’ll try to fight the inevitable pruning with balms and butters. And try to embrace the stripes that I’ve earned along the way and wear them as proudly as Ava does.

 

A Hair Affair

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This is about hair. My hair. But allow me to begin with a parable.

I was going through my husband’s closet not too long ago and found his beloved USA pullover hanging there, awaiting the moment when 1995 would become retro-chic. I loved that pullover like I loved Bruce Willis. It was first-generation fleece—the kind Grandma uses to sew you a knock-off Snuggie. It had “USA” embroidered across the chest in big white letters, but the fleece was as flaming red as my husband’s Geo Tracker (yes, you read that right). I was always borrowing it because it smelled like Hugo Boss and Head & Shoulders. But like milk and “Party of Five,” most things have an expiration date. USA’s was past due.

“Honey, let it go,” I said, trying to pull USA from his grip.

“It’s Ralph Lauren!”

“It’s ugly.”

He considered this for a moment. Then held USA out in front of him and studied it. Then, suddenly, he saw the truth. He saw the light. He saw a sweatshirt my mother would kill to wear at the annual 4th of July party.

So what does a 90s pullover have to do with my hair? Hopefully nothing. But I’m going to let you be the judge of that.

See, I’ve been growing my hair out for over a year. And through this long, arduous process, I’ve gotten a little attached. I run my fingers through it constantly, I bathe it in Moroccan oil. I get it “trimmed” but never “cut.” But I’m worried that I’m turning into the Heidi Montag of hair and I won’t know when enough is enough. I’m worried that I’m wearing the USA pullover and no one has the decency to run interference.

Or maybe they have.

“Your hair—it’s so long.” I’ve heard it a lot lately. Not “beautiful.” Not “pretty.” It’s a statement of fact rather than quality. When you can’t ignore the elephant in the room, but you can’t say something nice, you simply state what is: “Now that’s a dress,” or “I see you colored your hair.”

So let me ask you this: is my hair too long? And how long is too long for a mom in her mid thirties? But let’s stay away from actual measurements because, one, I can’t measure, and two, I appear to have an extra vertebra or three in my neck. A 5” bob on the averaged-necked woman would look like a crew cut on me, so measurements don’t really translate. But where on the body does Kardashian glamour end and Crystal Gale kitsch begin? I look through magazines filled with long-locked women, their hair extending far past their shoulder blades. Then again, I also see adult onesies cut from zebra print.

And while I appreciate the spirit of “do whatever makes you happy,” that’s not the kind of advice I’m seeking. This isn’t about self-esteem; I feel good about myself with or without this much hair. I’m asking the equivalent of “ballet flats” or “platform heel,” “skinny” or “flared.” I’m asking because I don’t want to be the girl driving a Geo Tracker in 2011.

Is it the equivalent of an adult onesie?

Mommy on the Run

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People run for two reasons: they’re either running for something or from something. Sometimes it’s a combination of the two.

I’m running to train for the Savannah Rock ‘n’ Roll half marathon. I’m in the last few weeks of my training program and so far so good. Well, mostly good. I’ve been experiencing bouts of the “runner’s trots” around mile six. Don’t let the name fool you—it’s not a technical term for a cool-down jog. On the contrary, the runner’s trots have me making mad dashes for cover in whatever form it make take: house, tree or—please forgive me God—headstone. But that’s another story, and probably one I won’t write about for fear of being arrested. Just know this: when you have the runner’s trots, nothing else matters. So stay clear.

The first two months of my training program I’d run on the treadmill watching “E! News” or old episodes of “Friends” turned up to Metallica-concert decibels. The few times I ventured outside, I’d shove earbuds into my brain and keep pace with Gwen Stefani’s lyrical assurance that I’m “F-ing Perfect.” But I wasn’t perfect. Far from it. My runs were crummy at best. Afterwards, I’d collapse into the car, cue up Adele to mourn my imperfect run, and drive home to my husband and child who greeted me as if they’d been abandoned because God forbid Mom disconnects for an hour—a greeting which was always followed by: “What’s for dinner?”

Of course, I wasn’t disconnecting. Not really. The noise in my ears was drowning out the noise in my head—the stuff I desperately needed to tend to.

“I don’t run with music,” my friend’s father told me. “It’s my time to think.”

Running without music sounded as ridiculous as running without a sports bra, and equally as painful. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s to listen to experienced runners; their race division isn’t called “Masters” for nothing. My friend’s dad wins races. He’s been running his whole life and he probably never gets the trots. I run in cycles. I lose interest. I burn out.

So I decide to heed his advice and put down my iPod. Turn of the TV. I go outside and I run 10 miles, five of which are through a cemetery that is literally dead quiet. It’s not easy. In fact, by the last mile it feels as if someone is hammering ice picks into my knees. But it’s quiet.

I hadn’t realized how loud my life had become. I wake to an alarm or my 5-year-old standing over me like a poltergeist begging to play Barbies at 5 AM. I fall asleep to “The Daily Show.” During the day I listen to my chatty daughter who thinks she speaks Spanish (she doesn’t) and a husband whose head is filled with useless trivia he’s desperate to share: “Did you know that early civilizations had no concept of zero?” No. And I’m little cooler because of it.

For the first few minutes of my quiet run I don’t think I can make it 500 yards let alone 13.1 miles. Then a mile goes by and my suffering gives way to thoughts about my upcoming race, work and even writing. Then I drift into thoughts about my goals, my family and my place in this world. I hear my breath and I feel my pace. Somewhere along the way I even decide to sign up for a marathon. And by the last mile I do nothing more than feel every muscle in my aching body cry as I slap the pavement with my size nines. For the first time in a long while, I feel present. In tune and in pain, but present nonetheless.

This time when I greet my family, I’m grateful for the chatter. I’m grateful for them. I may be physically running on empty, but I’m spiritually refueled.

Now I run from the noise. And I run for myself.

Picture Day

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I don’t take good pictures. I’ve always been told I have a nice smile, but as soon as I sense a camera pointed in my direction, I turn all robotic. My mouth tenses, my eyes bug and I end up looking as if I’m being poked in the butt. I’ve tried all the tricks, like tilting my head, turning my chin down, applying Vaseline to my teeth. Nothing works. I’m like Bigfoot—the only good photo on record is a blurry one taken from a distance when I didn’t expect it.

My child sometimes shares my special gift, but only when it counts. And today is Picture Day at her school.

“Okay, smile!” I command her on our way out the door.

Cue the square-mouth, clenched-teeth, bug-eyed grin. She looks like a badger. A cute badger with a little beauty mark.

“Um, try to relax.”

Her face droops, her mouth and eyes leading the way. To my horror she even pulls her chin to her neck making her look as if she has a severe overbite.

“Okay, not that relaxed.”

She settles somewhere in between, which also isn’t pretty. But at least I’ll know what her mug shot will look like when she gets arrested at 3 AM in Hollywood after a 36-hour bender.

I give up and decide to focus my efforts elsewhere: on her hair. I have hair, but I know very little about hairstyling. I do know that a portrait with our usual go-to ponytail will make Ava look hairless. So I try a side ponytail to the left. Then to the right. Then I scrap it and go for some hair pulled up with a bow.  We drive to school and I stare at her in the rearview mirror wondering what the hell was I thinking.

I know it’s just a picture. I know she’s only five. But I also know that those dumb headshots float around in overstuffed drawers mixed with phonebooks, cap-less pens and foreign coins for years until one day you become famous and your one-time friend from sixth grade pulls out the class photo of you in a tie-dyed cat sweater, pink-foil lipstick and braces—which also happens to be the only proof that you once sported a perm—and sells it to E! for $1.2 million.

Who’s the crazy mom now, huh?

I adjust her collar, slick her eyebrows with spit and remind her to “be relaxed, just not too relaxed,” and send her own her way. She bops happily along oblivious to the fact that I want to chase her down and try hog-tying her into some pigtails. But it’s too late. My “Mommy Dearest” opportunity has passed. Now it’s up to the guy behind the counter, whom I’ll later learn had my child pose like a pinup and give a “sparkle smile!”

After school, she shows me her “sparkle smile.” It doesn’t sparkle. It doesn’t even flicker. A perfect combination of relaxed, but not too relaxed. It’s a straight-mouthed, deadpan look well suited for any terminator.

Oh well, . . . I’ll be back.

In case you didn't believe me...