Ahh, the ways we try to overcome working mommy guilt…

Like so many women I know, I work outside of the home.  This offers many benefits, but also some challenges.  One of these might be when you need to travel for your job.  My kids don’t like this.  I don’t like being away.  And my absence puts more pressure and stress on my husband.  So even if I get some satisfaction out of an interesting and rewarding day, or a grown up dinner out at a restaurant, I always feel the stress of 4 people, not just one.

This is how I feel when I’m away on a regular day.  But recently, I was away for a special day.  A special Mother’s Day Tea Party offered by my daughter’s kindergarten class for all of the mothers of the children.

…Or should I say, all the mothers of the children who could plan to be there with the one week notice we were provided for the big event.  It still boggles my mind they couldn’t inform families earlier of the party, since the class clearly had been planning this for a while, and had an actual song and reading prepared for the moms.

…Or I should say, for the Moms who came to the party.  You know, the Moms that love their kids enough to show up.  But then there are the other Mommies, the bad working Mommies who love their kids, but not quite enough to be there on only one week’s notice.  Thanks, School.  Thanks a lot for putting me in the position of being one of only 3 Moms who weren’t at the Mother’s Day Tea with their child.  Feels good.

I thought about it the whole day while I was away working.  I watched the clock until it hit 1:30, when I knew the party was due to start.  I was sad.  And felt awful.  And thought to myself, “well, there’s a kindergarten memory I will never get back, and one my daughter will never have with me.”

So what’s a working mom to do?  Why, make it up to her by completely over-compensating and trying to find something even more special, of course!  I thought I would take my daughter to our own mother-daughter tea, just the two of us.  But it had to be someplace really fancy and different so that we could create our own memory.  You know, like on those Hallmark commercials where the mom and daughter lean in at the table and tell secrets and share sweet little laughter.  Yeah, just like that.  Except when the needle on the record scratches us back into reality.

I was rushing my daughter to get ready, since I wanted to be sure we left plenty of time to drive downtown and find parking.  She was very excited to get dressed up in her gorgeous yellow lace dress for our high tea at the Big Fancy Hotel in the city. She put on her black satin shoes with a little rhinestone accent, her sparkly seahorse necklace, and her white ruffled cardigan sweater. She looked adorable!

Of course I was expected to get dressed up too, so I threw on a dress and some pumps, and off we went.  Until I hit a bit of a roadblock heading out the door, because the weather was rainy and crappy, and I didn’t have a decent raincoat to wear.  One was too casual, one was too old and shapeless, and one was just right…it was the perfect look, except that it was a bit big on me. (Back when I bought it, I had accepted the trade-off between a very pretty satiny green and high style jacket at a bargain price, and a fit that wasn’t quite right.  I never looked really great in it, but heck – it was a bargain!)  I didn’t feel comfortable wearing something that didn’t fit well to the Big Fancy Hotel in the city, but figured it was my best option so quit worrying about it and ran out the door with my daughter.

We made good time driving into Boston, found rockstar parking just a few blocks away, and crossed the busy main street holding hands together, feeling very proud to be with my adorable little girl.

We were certainly in the high-end district now, passing chichi shops like Chanel and  Burberry.  As we stepped off the street onto the wide sidewalk in front of Hermes, I thought I saw a smudge on my shoe.  I asked my daughter to stop for a minute as I crossed one leg over the knee of my other and tried to rub off of the mark. After all, I couldn’t have a smudge on my shoe walking down this type of street, heading into the Big Fancy Hotel, could I?

“OK let’s go,” I instructed my daughter.  But as I leaned my body forward to walk, the skinny heel of my shoe got caught in the lace of my daughter’s dress.  I couldn’t unhook it and fell forward, taking a complete header in front of about 20 well-dressed passers-by and smack dab in front of the Hermes window.  Well, at least they don’t know me there.

It was a bit of a blur, and as if in slow motion, I saw my shoe fly off, up into the air, and felt myself come down with a thud on my most padded part, with my legs straight out in front of me.  At least I had the wherewithal to quickly cross them at the ankles before revealing anything.  Because, you know, that would have been embarrassing.

Nothing but grace and class, ladies and gentlemen.

When I looked up, my daughter was standing right by my side, fortunately unaffected by my impromptu gymnastics routine.  Several strangers were staring at me, and three extended their hands out to help me up.  I smiled, gave a little laugh, and got up.  I quickly put my shoe back on, told everyone I was fine, and dusted off my jacket.

I only ripped a small bit of my daughter’s lace, which was barely detectable.  And that little smudge on my shoe that I was so self-conscious about was now dirt and moisture from the wet sidewalk, all along my leg and up to my green satin raincoat.

Funny, I thought.  I am always telling my daughter not to worry about what other people think.  And here I was so concerned about the right coat, and the right-looking shoes.  Here is what I get, I thought.  But as I walked up to the revolving doors leading into the gleaming lobby of the Big Fancy Hotel, I had another thought.  I hoped that my daughter noticed that as embarrassing as things could possibly get, you just get up, give a little laugh, dust yourself off and move on.  No crying.  No complaining.  No worrying about it.  Just move on.

As you might expect, we had a nice time at our high tea, but it wasn’t the Hallmark commercial I thought it would be.  I think we could have had just as fine a time going for a burger together, in our jeans and t-shirts, for a third of the price.  What defines special isn’t the fancy dress, or the gleaming lobby, or the overpriced restaurant in the high-end part of town.  What defines special is being together and sharing an unforgettable moment.  In this case, it was probably Mommy taking a header in her dress and high heels on Boylston Street in front of 50 people.  Ah, the memories.

And as I write this, all I can think is, boy, do I love my daughter.  Happy (belated) Mother’s Day, everyone.

Tags: balance, career, children, family, high tea, humor, kids, life choices, mother daughter time, mother's day, motherhood, priorities, working mom

It’s baa-ack…the dreaded denim overall – revamped!

Those of us fortunate enough to be between the ages of 15 and 25 in the early 90’s may recall the trend: denim overalls.  Whenever I think about it now, the Dexy’s Midnight Runners video comes to mind, where the singer hopped around in overalls while singing Come On Eileen.  (Holy crap did I just date myself there…crickets chirping and blank stares from anyone under 35.)

Yes, in the early 90′s, young women everywhere were somehow duped into thinking that an article of clothing which could only be equated in fit to an extra-long pillowcase with neck and armholes, was the most fashionable thing to wear since Madonna’s lace socks with pumps.  I opted for the even cooler denim overall shorts version.  Not only were these adorable during the summer, but as the weather got colder, I rocked those babies with tights and my Doc Martens.  Seriously, how cool was I?  Of course it wasn’t until a year or two later, once I had adequate distance and maturity, that I realized the truth: those damn overalls were hideously unattractive!

So imagine my disbelief when I received an email today from a clothing company marketing their “old-school cool, premium worksuit.”  If by old school they mean, worn by your grandfather during the depression as he worked on building the highways of our great nation, then yes, it is…cool.  This new introduction has been souped up though; they kept the horrid structure – or lack thereof – and embellished it with an inconsistent wash and splashes of paint to make it look like you casually threw on the tarp you used for your recent painting project.   After you used it to scrub your floor.  After it just got run over by a truck and dragged in the dirt for 20 miles.  All this, for only $200.

Here is their detailed product description – along with my comments in red:

Workwear gone irresistibly um no, actually, it’s quite resistible cool in small-batch, high-quality denim—simply roll and keep rolling into a little ball that will fit nicely into your waste basket, add sandals, try to make the sandals very sparkly and glittery so as to draw as much attention as possible away from your new worksuit, and try not to let all the compliments go to your head.  Note that you will only get compliments if prior to wearing this, you would show up naked everywhere, and only if your nakedness was far more offensive than this outfit . Cotton. Slouchy fit that makes you look as if you have no waist and a baggy, saggy ass. Long sleeves. Button placket. Belt loops. Chest patch pocket, slash pockets, back patch pockets.  Yet still not nearly enough pockets to patch over this hot mess. Import.  Should turn around and quickly export.

Let’s make two things clear: #1, even if you are super-model thin, this is not a flattering look.  #2, if you are curvy, like me, and need to define your waist due to your wider hips and posterior, this particular “style” will only make you look like one solid block from your shoulders to your hips.  Repeat: this is not a flattering look.

Fortunately, another benefit of being 40 is that you’ve seen and tried enough bad trends to know when to recognize one now.  I really like fashion.  I understand old styles become new again and trends come back.  But can we please not bring this one back?  Let’s spare the young women of today from what we had to learn the hard way 20 years ago.  Call it a premium denim worksuit.  Call it overalls.  Call it dungarees.  But please, let’s not call it what I’m wearing today.

Tags: 40, 80s fashion, denim overalls, humor, overalls, trends, what not to wear

On Aging…Part Deux (The Body)

A gym just opened up 5 minutes from my house.  It’s one of those little boutique gyms in a small space that offers personalized attention to help you get in shape.  I’ve been thinking about finally doing something official to get fit (trimming back to 3 desserts a day from 6 isn’t the ultimate solution I thought it would be), and given the convenience of this place, I was left with no excuse.

I called and made an appointment to check it out.  The guy told me to come dressed in workout clothes.  I realized that meant I’d have to find my sneakers, which at this point were probably buried in my closet under a mound of old Twinkies wrappers.

OK, that was an exaggeration.  I haven’t had a Twinkie in over 10 years, and I think that I’m relatively reasonable about what I eat.  I love salads, I never eat potato chips.  I do have a sweet tooth though, and am a sucker for chocolate.  Or warm, soft-baked chocolate chip cookies.  Or cake.  (Sigh.)  I know I need to get fit, but let’s face it: I weigh the same as I did 6 years ago and wear the same size jeans I wore before I had my kids…of course, things have shifted a bit and they fit a little differently.  But to sum it up – I think I’m in decent shape; I just need to firm up.

Or so I thought.

I walked into the tiny “gym,” and the other women there were either considerably larger than me or a good 10 years older than me.  I heard a voice over the PA system that could only be likened to the woman on the Hertz Neverlost navigation device say, “begin sets, now.”  I watched the women begin to lift their weights and pull their…pulley things.  Soon the voice returned and said, “rest time, now.”  And the women stopped exercising.   It was like The Stepford Wives Go To the Gym.  Hmm.  This was strange.

An overly enthusiastic, somewhat cross-eyed manager who revealed a set of braces when he smiled, greeted me.  Hmm.  This was strange.

But heck, this wasn’t hard-core.  I can do this.

Or so I thought.

First, the weights.  I haven’t worked out with weights since the pre-kids days, so after a while my muscles really started to feel it and my body was a bit shaky.

Then he had me do this exercise that I haven’t done since I was on the basketball team in high school – and it was hard then!  I’m sure you’re all familiar with this favorite: you stand with your back against a wall and slide your feet forward, then bend your knees so that your thighs are parallel to the floor and your back stays pressed against the wall, so you wind up in a position where you look like you’re sitting on a chair.  Except there IS NO CHAIR.  And it HURTS.  I tried to keep my cool as he stood there, timing me on the clock with his bracey smile.  I thought to myself, keep it together; you can do it; please don’t slump to the floor or collapse on the tile like some sort of weak prisoner on a hunger strike. He called the time, which I believe was only a minute or two but felt like 3 hours, then said, “OK, ready to do it again?”

No.  I wasn’t ready.  So finally we moved on to the cardio, which was fine. But boy did I feel like a loser not being able to get through the weights without difficulty.

After the cardio, the guy had me take off my socks to step on this scale-type thing that measured my body fat through my feet. What a nifty little invention!  It spit out a receipt with all of my key measurements, then we sat down to discuss it.

Did I mention that I weigh the same as I did 6 years ago?  Well, apparently that doesn’t mean SQUAT!  Because apparently, my body fat is technically in the “obese” category.

I looked surprised.  The guy explained, “well of course no one would look at you and call you obese, but medically speaking, you are in this range.  And it’s dangerous.”  He whipped out this sheet of paper and put it on the table in front of me.  ”Do any of these illnesses run in your family?”  I scanned the extensive and depressing list.

“No,” I said.

“Good,” he responded seriously.  ”But you know, when you are obese you open yourself up to all sorts of potential medical issues.”

“I know I need to firm up and I understand I haven’t worked with weights in a while,” I said, “but I look around and I don’t think I look that bad.”

“Well of course you don’t.  Look who you’re comparing yourself to.”  He retorted.  “The whole country is overweight.  So when you see yourself compared to them, of course you think you look OK, but that’s really not a good comparison.”

Excellent. Apparently I was the tallest of the midgets.  Or perhaps I should say, the fittest of the fatties.

Then the guy tediously explained to me the relationship between age and fat, and how weight-bearing exercise is the only thing standing between me and my body becoming a giant vessel of mayonnaise by my 45th birthday. Wonderful news!  Apparently once you hit 40, unless you are putting forth effort in a gym with some sort of muscle-toning equipment, your body begins to turn into gelatinous goo.

What a lovely image.  I envisioned 30 years from now, my body making the gurgling sound of traveling jelly when I walked, calling out to my brain, “just reach for the broccoli!  Please!  Just.  One.  Stalk.  Just one small floret.  Please?“

OK, once again, big hyperbole.  I knew I would never let myself get like that.  But that’s how this guy made me feel for a minute.  I walked in thinking I was in decent shape.  I walked out thinking I was the Before photo.

You gotta love the used car salesman tactics.  And I knew that’s what it was, but it still got to me.  Fortunately, not while I was there.  But after I left, I started thinking about it, and about the possibility of being unhealthy and not being able to be the mom I want to be for my kids, and I started crying a little.  Course by the time I got home I realized this was just a way to get me to sign up and thought, “Screw him!  Now pass the donuts!”

Despite the scare, it was a good wake up call.  I decided to join a different gym, where I feel more comfortable.  I do think 40 is a pivotal time to check your health and start getting into good, healthy habits.  I also think it’s important for my kids to see me exercise and to see me make fitness a priority.  I know I’ll never totally give up my favorite treats, but I want to make exercise a part of my life that I incorporate into my daily routine.  I figure I can start with 3 days a week now and see how that goes.

Who knows, maybe I’ll have some muscle by the time the summer comes around, and I will be able to shed that parka around the poolside.  And eventually, I might even be able to earn the caption, After.

Tags: 40, 40-years-old, aging, daily life, exercising, family, getting in shape, going to the gym, humor, life choices, me time, priorities, rebirth of betty, transform, women, working out

On Aging…Part One (The Face)

I’ve been getting my hair cut and highlighted at the same place with the same stylist for years now.  I just had my appointment, and had a reaction to something that occurred there which I could only classify as mildly horrifying.

Going to the salon has been a bit of a mini vacation for me. It is the one time every two months where I can actually sit down, enjoy the luxury of flipping through a magazine uninterrupted, and have a little time alone where I don’t have to answer to anyone.  So after I got the foils in, then had my hair washed and conditioned at the sink, I walked to my stylist’s chair in the back of the salon.

Her chair is the last in the row, next to a floor to ceiling window, so there’s a lot of light shining in.  And while I’ve been sitting in this chair for years, I’ve never experienced what was about to follow.

I sat down and looked up at the big mirror in front of me.  My hair was all swept back from the wash so I had no benefit of bangs or a hairstyle, and while I like to believe we all can pull off the slicked back hair that I see in magazines, it was a far cry.  I seem to recall, back in the day, that I could at least get away with this.  Perhaps it was the lighting, or perhaps I’ve just been walking around in a semi-deluded state thinking I’m doing better than I actually am.  But at that moment, when I looked in that mirror, it was like the room went black, rays of light streamed down on me like a laser from parted, puffy clouds, and the voice of James Earl Jones echoed out, “Welcome to…THE CHAIR OF TRUTH!”

Holy crap!  What is that?  I had big lines on my face, stretching from the sides of my nose down to the corners of my mouth!  My forehead wasn’t looking too smooth either, and in general I looked…well…not like ME.  Who the hell is that?

The next day at work, I sat next to a woman who just turned 50.  She is petite and in good shape and does not at all act like someone her age – no one would ever guess, through appearance or personality, that she was 50.  But for some reason, perhaps because of my salon episode the day before, I took notice of her face.  Her eyelids were sort of drooping.  And she did, in fact, have some wrinkles.  As great as she looks, she wasn’t immune to aging. And neither, it appears, am I.

Is this what’s next?  Will the weight of a full life start to bear down on my eyelids?  Will my face mark the moments of laughter and tears that accompany the experiences of the years?

I then remembered a woman who I met when I was in college.  She was the director of this local non-profit organization where I interned one summer. She was an older woman in her mid-late 50′s, and she was striking.  She had shoulder-length gray hair that was brushed back off of her face, which had wrinkles and lines.  She wasn’t model thin, she was average build, and she wore bright, colorful, flowing clothes.  Looking back, what probably struck me about her was her confidence.  She was her age, and she did not try to hide it.  Or cover it up.  Or paint it a different color.  Or pretend she was anything other than who she was.  I can still picture her in my head, and how I thought to myself that I hoped to look like her when I was her age.

I’ve always believed in aging gracefully.  I would never even consider something like Botox and find the concept in itself a bit sad.  You can’t stop time, and my philosophy has always been that a creased face reflects the experience and wisdom that comes with age and living a full life.  Age is something you should be proud of and not try to hide.  I’ve always believed this.  But it is certainly interesting when you are confronted with your beliefs on getting older at age 40, vs at age 25 or 30.  Time to walk the talk.

I still do believe this.  This is still my philosophy.  But as I start to see the first signs of aging, I guess I can understand a bit more where others are coming from.  I guess I have a bit more empathy for those who go to great lengths to try to stop the clock.  It’s a strange thing to look in the mirror one day and not see what you’re used to seeing.  Like the aging of our kids, our own aging is gradual and you don’t notice the changes when you see them everyday.  Once you do realize it, it’s strange and a bit unfamiliar.

But once the initial shock is over, it’s OK.  I think women of all ages are beautiful.  In fact, I think women who are comfortable in their skin and aren’t afraid of aging, who embrace it and celebrate their experiences instead of fruitlessly fighting it, are the most beautiful of all.  They are the ones who make aging look good.

Tags: 40, 40-years-old, aging, change, life, life change, me time, women

Another spectacular start to my day

By 8:04 AM, as I walked slowly up our driveway to the sound of my son crying and calling my name from inside the doorway of our house, I could do nothing else but give a little smile and shrug up to the sky and say, “what else this morning?”

The day before, my husband and I had been excited to surprise our kids with Disney on Ice tickets – the Toy Story version.  Both kids were excited, my son in particular was over the moon since he is Buzz Lightyear’s #1 fan, and my husband and I were really looking forward to a fun family day together.  We had taken a vacation day from work just to see the show and have lunch downtown.

But on the drive down, our daughter’s nose started bleeding.  Actually, I would say gushing would be a more accurate description.  She is prone to nose bleeds, like her daddy was when he was a kid, and while they don’t hurt and cause no true physical harm, they are very upsetting to both our daughter and us alike.  I unbuckled my seatbelt and reached back with some Kleenex as my husband pulled into a Burger King parking lot.  I jumped out of the car, threw open her door, and began firmly pinching the bridge of her nose while holding napkins underneath it and talking to her in a calm and soothing way.  Poor kid.  The blood kept coming,  soaking much of her shirt and jacket.  My husband ran inside to grab a bigger stack of napkins, and my son intermittently asked when we were going to the show, complained that he dropped his toy under the seat and asked me to reach over and get it, and stroked his sister’s arm to comfort her.  Gotta love the complete obliviousness of childhood.

Ultimately, we had to turn the car around, miss the show, and spend the next two and a half hours at the ER thinking they would have to cauterize her nose.  They didn’t. It finally stopped.  But needless to say it was a very disappointing ending to what we anticipated would be a fun vacation day with our kids.  My daughter, the absolute trooper that she is, was tough and together and fine.  Not once did she whine or complain.  Until this morning, when it was time to go to school.

Getting our kids out of bed in the morning is usually a struggle on a typical day, but today, the disturbing nose bleed episode from the afternoon before combined with the slight cold she had, made our daughter extra slow and sluggish.  

She protested going to school.  She protested getting ready for school.  And I thought to myself that if I were a stay-at-home mom who didn’t have a big meeting today which I had to attend, I would have probably let her stay home.  I felt guilty.  Is this worth it?  But then I took her temperature and it was normal.  And I realized that I didn’t want her to get in the habit of thinking she could stay at home for a regular cold and skip days of school if she just didn’t feel like going.  So with some backup from my husband, we got her up and dressed.  And by the time she and my son got downstairs we had about 7 minutes to eat, get in our snow gear, and get outside for the bus.  I really thought we were going to miss it today.

We usually have to walk to the bus stop, but one of the very few advantages of this year’s New England snow is that the bus now has to pick up and drop off right at our driveway, since we still can’t access the sidewalk to walk to the bus stop.  I told my son he could stay inside and finish his breakfast while I walked his sister to the end of the driveway, and that I’d leave the door open and be right back.

By the time we took a few steps onto the driveway, we heard the bus and watched as it came barreling down the street.  Usually, it goes much slower, looking for us at our driveway.  I ran and waved, calling for it to stop.  The driver braked and stopped abruptly.  My daughter and I ran to the end of the driveway, I gave her a kiss, and she climbed on.  

It was then that I realized why the bus didn’t stop like it usually did – there was a different bus driver than our regular driver Gina.  She must be on vacation, I thought, as the bus pulled away and I waved to my daughter.  And then, as it drove past, I saw those big block letters on the side of the bus, stating quite clearly that it belonged to a completely, different, town.  What?  What!  Processing…processing: didn’t know to stop at our house, different bus driver, and now a different town name?  …Did I just put my daughter on some other bus that runs through our neighborhood?!

“Wait!  Wait!”  I took off down the street screaming and waiving my hands like a mad woman, surprised that the 3 inch heels of my patent boots could handle the pavement so skillfully.  ”Wait!”  I called again.  The driver stopped as some of the kids from the next bus stop looked over at me, the crazy mom chasing the bus like a frenzied pet dog.

The driver opened the window.  ”Uh, no,” he said with a slight smile.  ”We’re not going to Amesbury.  This is the right bus.”  Apparently other parents had already made that assumption this morning.  ”Oh,” I smiled sheepishly and waved.  ”OK, thanks.”  The bus pulled away and I waved to my daughter again, who glared at me from behind the high window.

I laughed.  It could have been more embarrassing.  She could have been in middle school.

Chuckling to myself, I walked back up the winding street in the chill considering how challenging this morning had already been. And as I turned up our driveway, I heard my son crying and shouting out my name from inside the house.  ”Mommy!”  He sniffled.  ”Mommy, where are you?”  I hustled back into the garage and up the steps to the house to comfort him.  We hugged for a long while until he calmed down, then I got him dressed and we finally got into the car so I could drop him off at daycare.

At this point, I was about 15 minutes late for work.

And then, as I turned onto the highway, I realized I got on going North toward work, instead of going South, toward daycare.  I sighed, picked up the phone and quickly called work to tell them I’d be about a half hour late, then drove to the next exit to turn around and get back on the highway in the right direction.

Another fabulous working mommy morning!

Tags: catching the bus, daily life, getting out in the morning, humor, job, kids, motherhood, nose bleeds, sick day, stress, working mom

The Evolution of Romance

It was probably about 10 years ago now that I was getting ready to go to a Valentine’s Day party at my friend’s place.  Her apartment would be filled with the same group of people who I had met several times before – most of whom were single.  I myself was romantically challenged that year.  I had been dating a guy who had a lot of the qualities on my checklist at the time: he was an artist, played the guitar, and wrote me poems.  That’s the kind of indulgent romance you desire when you’re young and idealistic and have no one else to focus on but yourself.  We had been dating for almost 3 months when he broke things off with me, and that was it: I decided that I was through with Boston guys and was ready to move back to Chicago.

So to express my enthusiasm for the holiday, I volunteered to bring a cake to the party.  When I unveiled it, one friend sort of gasped, and another laughed.  It was a heart-shaped cake, which I had frosted with very dark chocolate icing that almost looked black.  I wrote across the top with red icing, “Happy F-ing Valentine’s Day,” and for the final touch, took a kitchen knife and stabbed it in the middle of the cake.  It was hilarious.  (What can I say, I used to be edgy.)

It was a fun party, but I was hoping my other friend, this guy I used to work with and who I hung out with often on weekends, was going to show.  He was flying back from a business trip though so I wasn’t expecting he’d make it.  But he did show.  And I was happy.  And we spent the rest of the night sitting next to each other talking on the couch.  We started dating after that night.  And even though I told him I didn’t want to get involved in another exclusive relationship and wanted to “play the field,” I never went on another date with anyone else.

Our courtship was filled with little surprises.  One weekend afternoon he asked me to come to his place, and told me that I should wear something warm that I didn’t mind getting dirty.  This struck me as odd since neither of us were particularly outdoorsy types, but I went with it.  When I showed up, he escorted me to his spare room.  And there, in the middle of the room sitting atop a tarp of newspapers that covered the floor, were two pieces of unfinished wooden furniture, colorful cans of paint, and several brushes and sponges.  I had mentioned to him that I used to paint furniture, but that I didn’t have the time or space to do it anymore.  So he gave me the time and the space.  We each picked up a brush and spent the next few hours painting and talking.  And as you might have guessed, I never moved back to Chicago.

Now, going on 9 years of marriage, we find ourselves looking at couples who seem well-rested or toned or involved in more things than we can imagine, saying to each other, “well, they don’t have kids.”  Kids take time.  They demand attention.  They cause you sleepless nights and frazzled nerves and short tempers.  It takes a lot of effort to craft good, decent people from the beautiful but naïve raw material you are provided with in a new little life.

But what I often forget, is that my husband was my first baby.  I used to give him so much more attention and care that now goes to the kids.  And as he’s moved up the ladder in his career, his work has become more stressful and more time-consuming, as well.  That’s life.  And the little surprises that were just for us have had to be put aside for more immediate and necessary matters.  But last week, he gave me something that made me very happy, and probably didn’t even realize it.

I was traveling for work and had to stay overnight.  I don’t like having to travel because I hate being away from my family, I know my kids miss me, and I know the stress that it causes my husband when I’m gone.  But early in the morning the next day, I got a text from him.  All it said was, “Hi.  I just wanted to thank you for preparing and packing the kids’ lunches and snacks before you leave for a trip.  It really helps me out and I want you to know I appreciate it.” It was so simple, and not particularly oozing with romance.  But to me, it meant so much that he took time out of a busy morning to tell me he appreciated me.  So although I’m sure we’d both love a little more “us time” and I’d never turn down a dozen red roses, romance evolves in marriage, and sometimes a simple show of appreciation can mean a lot more than a bouquet of flowers.

I am very lucky.  I married a great guy who is kind, smart and thoughtful; who shares the same goals for our future, who never says a word when I come home with a shopping bag, who supports and encourages me in what I hope to achieve, and who is a wonderful and super-involved dad.  Yesterday morning the kids climbed into our bed and gave us big hugs.  I looked over at my husband cuddling our kids, who in turn were reaching their arms around his neck to give him a big squeeze, and all was right in the world.

So on this Valentine’s Day, I just wanted my husband to know that I appreciate him.  We can wait for the next phase of our romantic evolution when the kids are in college.

Tags: balance, children, family, husband, marriage, parenting, Romance, Valentine's Day

Have a Betty-licious New Year!

It’s new year’s eve, 2010.  And after a rest from the craziness of the holidays I have finally caught up on sleep, just in time to go back to work on Monday.  Anyway, as it is the day before a new year, I of course became reflective (or as reflective as one can be in between a playdate, a Shrinky Dinks  project with my daughter, and playing cars with my son).

I’m not much for resolutions; either because I never really make them or never really keep them.  But as informal as they are, I do have a few things I’d like to accomplish in the next year.

In 2010, I finally had one of my plays selected for production!  This was a big achievement for me, but I need to stay focused on writing and keep it going.  I will try to write more regularly.  And as I mentioned in my last post, I miss blogging.  Though somehow while I was away from Betty I managed to finish that new 10-minute play and submit it by the deadline.   I find out if my play was selected for The Boston Theatre Marathon in April.  It’s a very subjective process, but maybe 2011 will be the year.

I will also try to exercise regularly.  I made a bold attempt at that back in March, gave it a valiant effort for a few months, then got busy.  I am now on major pastry detox, and will try again to get up early and ride that exercise bike before work every day…or, almost every day.

And in addition to that, I will try to have more patience, pay better attention, cook healthier meals, make more calls and keep in better touch with those I love.

One thing I was reminded of today, which has been a theme in this blog, was that it’s never too late to make positive change.   Even when you think people will never change, especially once they are older and set in their ways, they can surprise you.

To all of you (if all 12 of you are still with me!), I wish you a wonderful New Year.  May it be the rebirth of many exciting things for you, and hold some happy surprises.

Talk to you in 2011!

All my best,

Betty

Tags: 2011, exercising, family, humor, motherhood, new year, opportunity, priorities, rebirth of betty, resolutions, women, writing