You Are What You Eat? Gulp, I Hope Not

“Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of.”

Sure, we’ve all heard the above nursery rhyme. If I had to say, in food terms, what I’m made of I immediately think of pizza, ice cream, wine, and grilled cheese with bacon. Much of my identity revolves around food—meeting up with friends for coffee, planning menus when entertaining, and feeling the joy of cooking for others. I’m one of those people who lives to eat, not eats to live.

But what if you have to cut out sugar and pretty much all foods you love? Then what’s left?

This fall I’ve been battling a flare up with my autoimmune disease, Hashimoto's. So I started researching nutritional ways to make me feel better. Feeling desperate I decided to try an autoimmune protocol (AIP) diet. Following the guidelines means consuming organic protein and vegetables. No dairy. No gluten. No sugar. Not even tomatoes or eggs.

This is not a post about my health or to catapult me into martyrdom--it is about the transformation and observation of feeling the loss of identity at this point in life.

Others who change jobs, divorce, get sick, quit working to be a stay-at-home parent, get injured and can’t play their sport, retire —this life alteration is what I’m referring to. The time when a large part of your life-- and maybe your defining characteristics-- are finished.

How do you adjust to the new you?

In O Magazine Martha Beck writes, “Any transition serious enough to alter your definition of self will require not just small adjustments in your way of living and thinking but a full-on metamorphosis.” She goes on to say, “Don't attribute your happiness to your new identity; security lies in knowing how to deal with metamorphosis, whenever it occurs.”

So I started dealing with these restrictive changes, accepting the adjustments…until one afternoon I simply craved a chocolate chip cookie. I decided to bake some gluten free version, (the prepared mix contained no sugar—so how tasty could they really be). My daughter said they looked like taco meat. My husband said they smelled like dog biscuits. And me? They truly did not satisfy on any level.

Admittedly the cookie experiment left me a little glum. Who was I, if not donning an apron and sharing in life’s delicacies with those I love?

Last week still feeling a bit blue, I trudged to a Christmas event where a speaker talked about the real meaning of the holiday. Regardless of any religious ties—what I heard could give strength to anyone facing overwhelming times. The message I heard: for times when your life expectations shatter, just focus on the constants--the true, positive, reliable parts of your life that bring you peace and happiness. That could mean faith, friends, enjoying the sound of your children’s laughter…

Sometimes in life you can’t have your cake, (or cookie), and eat it, too. If you are challenged by an identity change, seek supportive people who listen to you. And do activities that bring you joy. Maybe cook up a new nursery rhyme for yourself…and remember what you are made of and stay strong.

 

For more information about how AIP addresses inflammation in the gut read:

http://aiplifestyle.com/what-is-autoimmune-protocol-diet/

http://www.thepaleomom.com/autoimmunity/the-autoimmune-protocol

For the Martha Beck piece: http://www.oprah.com/spirit/Strategies-to-Deal-With-Every-Phase-of-Major-Life-Changes#ixzz3KlrXvcKz

 

How Do You Place the Importance of Where You Live?

Years ago I would walk through Boston’s North End, loving the intermingling smells -- the harbor’s salt water with the fresh bread from the bakeries and garlic from the Italian restaurants. I’d feel the uneven bricks below my feet. Hear the hum of nearby Logan Airport and the street traffic which used to run above ground prior to the Big Dig. Here was a city I treasured, that became a part of me, a part of my history. Still, in the back of my mind I knew I wouldn’t stay—that this wouldn’t be my forever home.

I’ve lived in a number of locations—and have appreciated their history, uniqueness, and people. Certain places felt more like home than others, but none so much as settling into the western Philadelphia suburbs. My heart feels that solid sense of belonging. Yet a notion always glimmers that maybe we’re missing something—that there could be other addresses to enrich our life experience.

How attached are you to your sense of place? Your house? Your town?

My husband and I often entertain the thought of working and living abroad for a couple of years. To provide that wide-open, global perspective, the cultural appreciation, the possible absorption of a new language. Relocating would teach our kids resilience, that change is a part of life, and that as long as we’re together we’re home.

On the flipside we appreciate the sense of stability, creating a rich history with friends and family, and becoming a real part of the community.

Does anyone else weigh settling down vs. exploring elsewhere? Especially now, at this stage in life?

We have friends who live abroad and those who move frequently within the States—and the wanderlust part of me thinks, “That’s amazing you have the gumption, that bold sense of adventure as part of your family fabric,” and I wonder if we could really uproot, take that leap, and start over just like they do.

And then I look around and feel there’s no place I’d rather be, sort of how Jesus Jones sang the lyrics in 1990.

“Place” impacts not only the shaping of our current lives, but how we reflect on our life experiences. I love the sentiment Ladette Randolph expresses in her memoir Leaving the Pink House, “I best understand my life though the houses where I’ve lived…Houses are often the archives for my deepest, most resonant memories, the places where I’ve curated my life stories.” The same applies to cities, towns, and neighborhoods.

I know home is where the heart is—yes, surrounded by those we love, but it is more—I need to feel an intuitive connection of peace and promise—to the local scenery, the familiar smells and sounds, and the rhythms of daily interactions. Look around you, breathe in the sense of place that envelopes you, and hopefully you feel the comfort wherever your current landscape takes you.

“Place conspires with the artist. We are surrounded by our own story,
we live and move in it. It's through place that we put our roots.”                               --Eudora Welty

Deadheading: Not Just for Flowers

Three weeks ago I deadheaded my sangria daisies, and I am shocked that even with the cooler October weather new blooms emerged to brighten my landscaping.  I love those flowers—and not just for the name.

Also around that same time I kept looking in the mirror at my dead head…my broken, dried hair...and thought—do I have the guts to just chop off my lack-lustrous locks? I haven’t had shorter hair in decades.  Just like Sally Field’s character M’Lynn worried in the 1989 movie Steel Magnolias—I agonized whether my hair would end up looking like a helmet.  Or I’d get that dreaded “Mom cut,” which would certainly age me.

How much do we worry about hair at midlife?  Men going bald?  Women dealing with thinning hair? 

I’ve been “blessed” with fine, straight locks my entire life, (hope you read the sarcasm in that statement)…and for the last five years have been dealing with thyroid issues, which has negatively affected my hair.  Sometimes I find my eyes scanning the crowds—admiring Irish and Indian women with their thick tresses. And then on the opposite side of the spectrum I think of my adult friends with alopecia who’ve completely lost their hair, and my heart goes out to them.

It’s inevitable that this visible, physical transformation occurs—unless you’re Sofia Vergara with her amazing mane.  No denying it—as we get older our hair does change.  It turns gray, alters in texture, and loses some of its elasticity.  And our hair surrounds a facial structure which also ages--our facial bones, including our eye sockets, nose and upper jaw, continue to morph.  Should our hairstyle be an accessory to this mature face?

Are there other mid-life people who fear changing hairstyles?  How attached are we?  I have some friends who boldly alter their persona with crazy color and frequent cuts, and I have others who haven’t changed their styles, (like me), for years.  Is it an emotional tie?  Our hair being a key to our personality?  A refusal to accept that our hair should change as we get older? 

I’m not sure we have to modernize our hair as we age, and I am not convinced that a haircut is timeless and can last for decades on our transforming faces.  I know I personally had to make a literal head vs. heart decision to cut my hair, and honestly, I’m still getting used to my mirror’s reflection. 

If you’re at your “split ends” with what to do with your aging hair I suggest asking for honest opinions from your friends and trusting an experienced stylist who will take into account your hair’s texture and facial structure before deciding the best length and cut.  Maybe it’s time for a fresh new style—or a simple enhancement of what you currently sport.  I never thought those daisies would spring forth additional life this late in the growing season…and maybe, just maybe…my own chopping will yield a brand new look—and outlook—of my own. 

 

I’d love to hear about your relationship with your hair as you’re getting older.  Please comment and share your thoughts.

 

If you’re interested in checking out hairstyles for different age groups:

http://www.redbookmag.com/beauty-fashion/celebrity-hairstyles/age-appropriate-hair#slide-1

Puppy Power--Teaching This Old Yeller New Tricks

I never really understood the appeal of dog movies. Beethoven? Couldn’t get over the slobber. Marley and Me? No interest in a misbehaving pooch. I figured—must be because I’m not inherently a dog person. I grew up with miniature schnauzers, but I’m not the type of person who would pet a friend’s dog. I get grossed out when someone takes a tennis ball out of a dog’s mouth to toss it. The adage of “Never trust a person who doesn’t like dogs,”--really? Who, me?

At this stage in life can a person change? Or can a dog be, (sorry for the pun), that cat-alyst?

Here’s an example. Continuing with the dog theme—I’m an old yeller. I am in awe of mothers who keep a calm tone, even after telling her kids to do something eight times. For me, for whatever reason, I can’t get my kids to motivate unless my voice escalates in pitch and volume. Which stresses me. It upsets the kids. Yelling, as any research can tell you, is not healthy. So last week I told myself—I would not raise my voice for an entire day. When I felt that annoyed energy rise up my throat I took deep breaths, walked into another room, and reminded myself of my promise. The kicker was that during dinner my 6 year-old said that the best part of his day was that I didn’t yell. That stung. Wow, even he noticed.

Maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks?

And maybe a young dog can totally transform you.

Three weeks ago we welcomed a puppy into our home. On a pretty much impulsive whim we drove to Lancaster County and bought an adorable puppy from a sweet Amish family. That first night as I got up every two hours to take out Olive, and then cuddle her close, I felt like the Grinch--at the end of the book. Literally, I felt my heart expand in love for this furry little creature. My maternal instincts kicked in, and I fell for—yes, a DOG. Never before did I understand that bond. Now I get why people have bumper stickers expressing their canine camaraderie. Last week I drove through Philly, saw a beautiful park with the skyline as background, and thought, “Wow, I’d love to bring Olive here sometime.” What?!?! Who, me?

At the end of the classic 1957 movie the little puppy steals a steak and starts to resemble his dad, Old Yeller. That reminds me that I don’t want my kids emulating my temper when they’re adults. Maybe I can learn new tricks—I’m trying to keep my outbursts at bay. And maybe my puppy has taught me to be more patient and tender. Now I can’t wait to watch a pooch movie—maybe this weekend we’ll watch My Dog Skip—and I’ll tear up knowing how much Olive has already enriched our lives.

Home is where the bark is. Just less so with me—I’ll leave the woofs to my playful puppy.

 

 

http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/health/2012/11/27/why-are-we-yelling/1729357/

http://www.parents.com/toddlers-preschoolers/discipline/tips/10-ways-to-stop-yelling/?page=1

How Do You Scratch a 7 Year Itch?

On average a person stays at their job for 4.4 years, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. And Millennials stay in a job for less than three years.*

So it’s no wonder that this year I’m starting to scratch. Getting itchy. My primary job, being a mother of four for the last 7 years, has caused a prickly feeling to creep up my spine. I love my kids with all of my heart. But it’s just that sometimes I want something different, a break from the daily grind of food shopping, laundry, and being the logistical leader of this family. I admit to wishing the time away for my youngest to start elementary school, (I can practically hear the gasps from my friends whose kids are in college). I may sound like an insensitive, unloving mother, but isn’t it only natural for an all-consuming job to wear you down?

I’m not the first person to feel this way. The “seven-year itch” is a psychological term suggesting that happiness in a relationship declines after year seven of marriage. So, maybe my job satisfaction level is just petering with parenthood. 

Last weekend my husband and I watched the 1955 movie, The Seven Year Itch, which shows how a faithful publishing executive, Richard Sherman, fantasizes about cheating with his new upstairs neighbor played by Marilyn Monroe. The two form an unlikely friendship—he being optimistic that romantic feelings are brewing, and she more seeking his air conditioning during a hot Manhattan summer.  It turns out that guilt runs Richard to his wife and kid who are summering in Maine.

But I can’t just run away from the mundane motherhood monotony by fleeing to Kennebunkport.

Who else has caught themselves in a cycle of dissatisfaction—in any situation? When there’s little hope of relief? How do you scratch your itch?

Four years ago I had the worst case of poison ivy. Oozing, hideous scabs covered my body, and all I wanted to do was scratch. The only way I found episodic relief? I scalded myself in the shower—tricking my skin to not feel the rash, but instead to feel the burn. Temporary, but still blissful.

During challenging, strenuous times like in my current full-time job, we need to find those retreats to recharge. And not feel guilty about doing so. Sabbaticals for teachers—and now in some businesses—were invented for a reason. Note: “sabbatical” is derived from the word “sabbath,” for rest—a luxury often missing for mothers. Along with time off we need the support to do so. We need a medium to escape the tedium.

This motherhood job is a permanent one—and is no fantasy like Richard Sherman’s whimsical daydreams. Anyone in the trenches can relate. His imagination takes him elsewhere…leading ultimately back to his family. Maybe, just like with the poison ivy, what is needed is a few showers of relief—to take me away---only to be returned to my little blessings, but with my irritation healed and me feeling less stressed. 

 

*”Job Hopping is the ‘New Normal’ for Millennials: Three Ways to Prevent a Human Resource Nightmare” –Forbes 8/14/12 http://www.forbes.com/sites/jeannemeister/2012/08/14/job-hopping-is-the-new-normal-for-millennials-three-ways-to-prevent-a-human-resource-nightmare/

No Woman is an Island? I Disagree.

I’ve often romanticized a tropical lifestyle—the ever-wearing flip flops, dancing to steel drums on the way to the food market type of existence. Wouldn’t life be more effortless and relaxing being surrounded by crystal clear, champagne shores, “knee deep in the water somewhere” --like the Zac Brown Band sings? Would we be in constant vacation mode driving to and from soccer practice?

For years I’ve yearned for that get-away paradise, especially at times when bottomless mango daiquiris didn’t cut it anymore. I even kept a secret list close to my heart of the five friends I’d take on a deserted island. You’ve probably heard versions of the “5 Friends Everyone Should Have,”—like a lawyer, physician, mechanic, therapist, and a carpenter. Or about the “5 Friend Types”—like a listener, a motivator, a helper, an adventurer, and a comedian. Would you pray to be shipwrecked with a movie star like Gilligan? Who do you prioritize? Whom can you text/call to satisfy your pick-me-up?   

When teaching a public speaking class about aggressive and agenda-driven interviewers I talk about the “island of safety.” I suggest that the students prepare three key message points to drive the conversation, to focus their time as an opportunity to present their ideas and not get sidetracked down some tangential path. If someone asks an unrelated, hostile question the responder should acknowledge it, and then create a bridge to return to their main messages, or to their island.

Over the years I’ve realized that the bridges to reach those on my island—have been key to not only survival, but to share in life’s sheer enjoyment. As a high school graduation gift my favorite teacher gave me a framed piece of calligraphy with John Donne’s poem, which begins with, “No man is an island, Entire of itself.” Contrary to Donne’s poem, perhaps we are our own islands, molding our lives by erupting into our own safe havens? Granted, mine’s a land-locked one in suburban Pennsylvania with no steel drums…but in a non-methodical manner I have somehow crafted my own island of safety. I know the importance of gathering that band of merry people whom I can depend on, laugh with, and be inspired by.

So be grateful for the treasures on your island, those who make you feel confident, loved, supported, and encouraged. And make sure to thank them for just being there—in your fashioned paradise—which, in reality, may be in your own backyard.

Mind Tricking Your Way to What You Want: Does Positive Thinking Actually Work?

Hypochondriacs, I would guess, are prepared when illness hits.  Medicines stocked in the cabinet, WebMD’s app ready to tap—they’re ready because they think about it all of the time.  On the flipside, if you’re like me, when sickness strikes it’s a crushing blow—a hard, sudden, throwing off balance type of knock.  And you have to drive to CVS at 10 PM because you can’t find any Tylenol.  But once a fluke happens once, or in the case of my 6 year-old, lightning struck twice with unrelated autoimmune diseases–then even a positive thinker who doesn’t take temperatures or rush to the pediatrician has doubts.  Because that seed has been planted in your head.  And those memories taught you about vulnerabilities. 

So on Friday night when I drove to a children’s hospital for suspected appendicitis for my 3 year-old I thought, hey, it could happen to him…why not?  But since I’ve been exercising my positive thinking muscles for the last two months I strong-armed every vision of Scottie being wheeled into the operating room into an image of him in his car seat driving home.

I’m not saying my thoughts have superhero tendencies, (because he ended up having a virus), but it made me ponder how potent positive thinking can be.  At this age how easy/difficult is it to maintain a positive outlook?  And do we have the power to manifest our own destiny?

I’m sure in some religious factions I could be scolded because God would be that captain of our trip.  But tons of literature supports the power of positive thinking and its domino effect on not only your personal life but on your community.  I love reading the recent positive affirmations on facebook.  The gratitude posts put a happy spin in the universe…and, like a boomerang or a reflection, should attract more joy and thankfulness.

But can actually thinking positively about what you want make a dream materialize? Or are we all like Silent Bob attempting our own Jedi mind tricks?

In 2006 I read the popular book, The Secret, along with 19 million others.   Most recently I read a 1940s title with similar themes interlaced with a more “faith in God to provide” slant, The Wisdom of Florence Scovel Shinn.  These two works advocate visualizing, practicing gratitude, and putting it out there to shape your world.  Have you ever thought of a song and then a minute later heard it on the radio?  Or slept with your future husband’s business card under your pillow practically willing him to ask you out?  If so—then you might have an inkling that our mental powers can cause our wants to appear.   

When I was in 8^th grade I spoke in an oratorical contest with “Destiny, Choice Not Chance” as the topic to extrapolate.  Back then I was convinced that my life would be a series of choices.  With more than a fourteen year-old’s perspective, however, now I realize that yes, along with life decisions to make we have the choice to focus on conscious optimism. And that powerful thinking allows our wishes to come true.  I invite you to try it—write down a goal, say some affirmations, or ask aloud what you want--and see how your magical, mental energy can make it real.  It’s a healthy and contagious way to live.  Mind over matter?  Maybe just mind what truly matters to you.

Can I Rise Up To My Pizza Dough Belly?

My kids love pepperoni roll—an easy dinner of gooey goodness. Last year when the kids helped me make it one of my cuties observed, “The pizza dough looks just like your belly, Mom.” And indeed it did. Instead of gushing about how it’s a badge of motherhood—(I’ve never liked espousing that), or making excuses for my stretch marks, I just laughed and said, “Yup, you’re right.” Because the kid was spot on.

But it’s not just post-baby body changes. Before I turned 40 one of my girlfriends warned me that everything I knew about my body was about to dramatically transform--fluctuating hormones, a sluggish metabolism, thinning hair, and practically non-existent eyelashes, to name a few. Having a mole biopsied in June woke me up to realize that yes, times are a-changing, and I started regretting my teenage Banana Boat Ultimate Tanning lotion years.

Middle-aged women, how do we see ourselves? And how is our self-reflection mirroring to others?

For the first time in my life serious conversations of Botox and at what age for your first chemical peel swirl around coffee chats. And then I think, who has the time to really deliberate which night cream is the most productive to reverse signs of aging? I do get my hair highlighted—am I just contributing to some societal standard? I read Good Housekeeping yesterday, and 8 of the first 9 advertisements promote products to make me look younger; hence, healthier and more vibrant.

So, no surprise, plastic surgery and Botox are on the rise. From 2011-2012 cosmetic procedures grew 6% for 40-54 year-olds.* For a broader perspective-- since 1997 the number of cosmetic procedures for women increased over 471%. That constitutes $11 billion on cosmetic procedures in 2012 in America.**

If this generation is more educated, has gained broader experiences, has broken through glass ceilings, why are we striving for a body ideal more so than our mothers’ generation?

When I was a first-year in undergrad Naomi Wolf spoke to a chapel filled with eager, on the brink of their own feminist thoughts women. To be honest, at that age I half-listened to her warnings of how society’s high standards of beauty were worsening. I had youthful skin, no children, and I wasn’t really “out in society” feeling pressures yet. But now I realize how her warnings have manifested.

More recently the Dove Self-Esteem Project warns that the negative language we use to talk about our bodies, and when critiquing other women, harms our youth’s self-confidence leading to unhealthy eating and exercise habits—even to anorexia and bulimia. And to add stress, Dana Hunsinger Benbow in a USA Today article states that “It's not the media or skinny, out-of-proportion Barbie dolls or even peer pressure that is the No. 1 cause of body issues for young girls. It's their mothers.”

Yikes.

Listen—I’m not judging. More wondering and observing. Is it worth it? In this next decade will we be more alert to our appearances—more than ever? And what is the ripple effect of these ubiquitous body enhancements on the next generation?

I have no answers—this is a conversation—but for now, I “knead” to simply roll, (with pepperoni), and hopefully be as real, honest, and accepting about the many physical changes ahead. It certainly is a lot to digest.

“You could see the signs of female aging as diseased, especially if you had a vested interest in making women, too see them your way. Or you could see that a woman is healthy if she lives to grow old; as she thrives, she reacts and speaks and shows emotion, and grows into her face.”

Naomi Wolf, The Beauty Myth

 

* American Society of Plastic Surgeons http://www.plasticsurgery.org/Documents/news-resources/statistics/2012-Plastic-Surgery-Statistics/full-plastic-surgery-statistics-report.pdf

** American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery http://www.surgery.org/sites/default/files/ASAPS-2012-Stats.pdf

http://selfesteem.dove.us/Articles/Written/Body_talk_use_the_power_of_your_words_to_feel_great.aspx

http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2013/08/23/moms-daughters-influence-body-image/2690921/

Dive in and Take Another Chance: 5 Lessons Learned From Summer Swim Team

Last year my oldest son cried when he did not make the summer swim team. So this past May when he wanted to try out again I cringed. I even suggested he not take the chance. Mom of the Year told him not to—better than fail, I thought to myself. The cold and rainy tryout day? I secretly was happy that maybe I could convince him to stay home. For a kid who did not swim the entire school year I thought he was crazy to attempt once more. And be disappointed. As we waited in line for his turn he turned to me and said, “Maybe I should have taken some lessons.” And then what shocked me? He jumped in the pool and completed four lengths of what looked like freestyle, backstroke, and creative interpretations of breaststroke and butterfly. When the coaches told Jack that he made the team he looked at me with the same blue eyes as the year before, but this time I saw pure excitement. And my heart soared. What if we had stayed home and played the Wii that afternoon?

No, this is not a bragging piece about my kid’s summertime swimming sojourn. Instead, over the last few months I noodled over the notions about what we can learn from youth. Proudly I saw a lot of growth in an 8 year-old. Why not internalize some lessons as I watched him this summer? Who’s to say we shouldn’t look at our kids—nieces, nephews, students, neighbors--and inject some of their youthful zeitgeist? We’re still young-at-heart, right?

Top Lessons this 40 Year-Old Learned from My Son this Summer:

1.       The Stakes Aren’t as High as Adults Think: Kids don’t overanalyze every possible outcome, what people will think, and how decisions could affect their life ever after. They live much more in the present.

2.      Sheer Focus Leads to Success: My son wouldn’t put his feet down at that swimming tryout—the same applies to our lives. Don’t give up easily—keep paddling even if you’re tired. Remember your goals.

3.      Practice Does Perfect: While an Olympic tryout isn’t in my son’s near future, after two months he can swim all four strokes. When you want to improve in life, you need to dedicate the time to improve. You undoubtedly will.

4.      Cheer Loudly for Your Teammates: Aren’t we all in this together? Celebrate the successes of your friends and peers—it feels good; it is pure fun. And your friends appreciate the thoughtfulness.

5.      Have Faith in Yourself: Even if no one else believes in you, (even your mother), go for it. Be brave. You are the master of your own destiny. That experience is powerful—and will stay with you for the rest of your life.

When you need a boost of confidence or are afraid to be humbled—remember, our children face those moving moments each and every day. And they survive. Even thrive sometimes. Dive right in yourself. And be mindful of that kid kicking inside you—and if you need to, collect some mental ribbons of your successes. Just trying your best can be good enough. I think about that May day and if Jack didn’t try--not only would he have not learned to love a new sport, but I, too, would have missed out on learning some important life lessons.

“The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experiences.” 

-- Eleanor Roosevelt

 

Are we just trying to raise “super people” who are afraid to fail? Read this article for more insight.  http://www.newrepublic.com/article/118747/ivy-league-schools-are-overrated-send-your-kids-elsewhere

The Brunch Club: The 40-Something Stereotypes

At the pool the other day I watched my 10 year-old daughter hang out with her peers. After observing for five minutes this amateur sociologist noticed an alpha girl, and the rest could easily be labeled into characters from the 1985 iconic movie, The Breakfast Club. What amazed me was how quickly such typecasts unfolded.

Yes, labels exist. Even if we wish they did not. It’s human nature to organize, to recognize patterns. Why else would so many people be interested in taking those descriptive quizzes, like “What Force of Nature are You? What Type of Parent are You? What Mineral are You? What is Your Old Person Name?”* Are we so unsure of ourselves that we seek validation? A sense of belonging? Curiosity? Amusement?

In 1943 William Foote Whyte’s Street Corner Society was published, a classic in field research canvassing the social structure of Boston’s Italian North End. I read that book in graduate school, and to this day, I could put my feet in his shoes. But instead of observing immigrants in the poor section of town I would rather write about the phenomenon in the surrounding suburbs-- the patterns surfacing with middle-aged women. While I would guess that most of my friends, and I included, would assert we have high confidence levels, feel good about life decisions made, and have nothing to prove-- still, a natural grouping, a classification reveals—of each other, by us. At our age Breakfast Club-esque labeling occurs, and while I’m not saying it is right, just like in high school, certain patterns emerge.

From my corner I see these following 40-Something Women in the Brunch Club, (because, let’s face it, we’d rather attend a meal with mimosas and Bloody Marys):

1.      The Triathlete: Maybe she does not compete in three sports, but she belongs to the faction of fitness buffs who pride themselves on keeping in shape.

2.      The Volunteer: The woman who somehow has the energy and time to devote to tons of committees.

3.      The Organic Health-Food Nut: She walks around sipping a green smoothie combining kale, chia seeds, and blueberry.

4.      The Has-It-All: She has a good-looking spouse, wonderfully behaved children, and a posse of perfect friends.

5.      The Sports Mom: She cheers the loudest on the field, constantly chauffeuring her kids to the next practice, game, or match.

6.      The Minivan Maven: She showers every other day, can’t find lipstick in her grimy cupholders, and is fueled by coffee and wine.

7.      The Anti-Establishment Chick: The one who vows to not be like any of the other groups of women, so, in a sense, is in her own clique of Ally Sheedys.

As in the John Hughes movie, if you had to compose a 1,000 word essay about who you are—think, not only about yourself, but those around you. Are you a victim of a stereotype? Or the one passing judgment? Most likely we all have more in common than the surface reveals. The next time you “walk on by” get to know someone first. Every single woman I know has battled her own share of fertility issues, miscarriages, family estrangements, health scares, and relationship disappointments, to name a few. Remember: “We are all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it.” –The Breakfast Club

 

 

 

*Quizzes taken from the websites http://www.survley.com/ and http://www.playbuzz.com/

**”Walk on by” is taken from Simple Minds’ Don’t You(Forget About Me), the theme song from The Breakfast Club

Never Stop Improving

“Rome wasn’t built in a day.” Sure, that common expression applies if it’s around 750 BC. But if you’re more like my husband and I, you may live in the suburbs and be Lowe’s poster children to their “Never Stop Improving” slogan.  I feel like our house and landscaping projects will only be completed when we sell the house and move to assisted living. We’re no aqueduct architects. But even with simple projects, and more ideas popping up on the wish list, sometimes I wonder how endless the progress pursuit is.

I wonder why we keep doing more. Because when I work to improve I feel productive? Fulfilled? Alive?  As soon as one project finishes I start dreaming and plotting the next one. A guy I dated in my early twenties told me that I’ll never be happy because I’ll never be satisfied…which bothered me…(obviously, if I’m still thinking about it 15 years later). Because I was happy then, and I’m happy now. So what if I’m that person eating from a tub of caramel popcorn who takes bite after bite seeking a perfect blend of puffiness, salt, crunch, and sweetness?

Of course there is always more out there. To do. To learn. To help. To change.  

That made me think. In life, should our goal be...to never be satisfied? To constantly search for that ideal kernel of caramel popcorn? That way we build energy as we dream and create. Always having a to-be state means having something to shoot for—an arrow representing motion, meaning life.

Because if we don’t find contentment will we become complacent? If we stop improving and complacency kicks in like a pond with no filter or fountain…do we become as murky, stinky, and gunky as the standing water? Interestingly—both “content” and “complacent” have similar definitions--feelings of being satisfied with how things are. Yet the latter has a negative connotation. Sometimes I wonder if we should strive to be still, to be mellow and content. I think of Frank Sinatra’s “Strangers in the Night”—or really, those 1996 Bud Ice penguins crooning “Do Be Do Be Do.” We live in a constant balance between the “do” and the “be”--accomplish vs. relax.

If stillness--to just “be”-- is the end goal, what does that look like? That someday I’ll sip a glass of cool lemonade on my porch, look at pretty landscaping, and think, wow, I’ve done it—and I’m content. Then what? I do the same thing the next day? Over and over...is that fulfilling? Comforting? Bringing satisfaction? I’m not convinced…or maybe that’s just fuel to justify more improvement projects.

Like Mick Jagger sang I’ll probably always be in the chorus of not getting satisfaction. But that does not equate to overall happiness and joy. There is worth in seeking and improving because it manifests as creative, living energy. Maybe Lowe’s home improvement outlet has it right...and that making changes brings excitement, stimulating, um, life’s highs.

It's Your Turn--Take Your Own Detour

Sometimes life feels on autopilot. For life’s detours, where do you turn?

At spring’s start I was driving in North Philly-- many of the streets were blocked off for tree and pothole repair. I circumnavigated on streets I’ve never explored—especially since so many one-way paths create a somewhat confusing labyrinth. In a pretty banged-up section I was pleasantly surprised seeing gorgeous gabled homes, pretty brick rowhouses, and some glorious trees. And as I was turning one corner I noticed the quaintest coffee shop—that I never saw on my typical, route-by-rote commute. It stuck out to me—especially since run-down storefronts and homes bookended it.

We obviously never know what will appear when we turn a different corner—those sneaking surprises that delight our senses and broaden our perspective, perhaps meeting an inspiring person along the way. Yet we often relax into our known, predictable, and practical creature comforts. They’re easy. And how readily I fall into secure patterns. I get it. But seeing that unexpected coffee shop made me think that even if life doesn’t force us on a new path maybe we should make ourselves take new routes. Who knows all that we could be missing? Or that there could be other ways to turn?

I went to a moving and peaceful burial at a scenic cemetery last Friday. The woman who led the service concluded with a soulful meditation calling upon an archangel to channel our energies. What struck me at the time was that even though I’m a pretty open, faith-filled person…I never thought to pray to an archangel for guidance or support. This is not some religious soapbox post…my point is that the service opened my eyes and broadened my outlook. Even though I follow a religion I was surprised by yet another source of comfort to turn to.

That lesson can apply to anyone. Because, let’s face it—we all snuggle into our own grooves.

The other day my daughter made me flip through the car radio stations because she doesn’t like “old school” songs. She prefers the up-to-the-last-five-minute releases. But she made me stop at Nicki French’s 1994 dance version of “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” I started singing the catchy tune with lyrics I know too well. “Turn around…every now and then I fall apart…”

“Stop singing, Mom. I want to hear it,” she flat-out told me.

Wow, like Life cereal’s iconic 80’s commercials…she surprisingly liked it. Perhaps the lass will learn to love songs from other decades, even finding solace and inspiration from yesteryear’s melodies. I’ve often turned to music for meaning, and maybe she will, too—even those “old” songs.

Going a different way can be a refreshing start or spark something inside you. Create your own detours and take a unique turn—even towards a new source for needed guidance, support, and love. Be aware of those hidden muses to open your heart and mind. Like the song says, “There's no one in the universe as magical and wondrous as you.” Maybe you just need to take a turn.

Life is Like a Pot of Soup

In 1994 Forrest Gump made famous his mama’s lesson, “Life is like a box of chocolates….you never know what you're gonna get.” It’s the same when I make a batch of soup. Sometimes a pot will turn out especially tasty, and my husband will look at me and shake his head—because he knows I’ll never be able to completely replicate it, since so much of soup-making is an improvisational process. The outcome always differs by playing with proportions along with the variety and freshness of ingredients.

Whenever I’m at the stove I recall one of my favorite children’s books, Stone Soup. For those who haven’t read it, the main character doesn’t have a pot to, um, cook in, and his hunger propels him to tell people in the village that he can create soup from a stone, which they all soon marvel at his miracle in the making. The charming chef keeps tasting the soup and adds that with a donated chicken, later an onion, then some carrots, and a little pepper…that the soup keeps getting better. “Soup from a stone, fancy that,” the villagers exclaim after each addition. A part of me always felt a little bad that they were being duped by a man who clearly had nothing but a rock and an idea…but the other part of me always marveled at his brilliance, the way he influenced them to believe in his vision.

This past week I’ve been thinking about how throughout our own life’s journeys we never know what we’re going to get, like those chocolates, or even when concocting a recipe—we’re never quite sure how the end result will taste. But one thing is certain. We all begin with a somewhat clean slate, like that smooth stone in the kid book. And that the ham bone, the stock, the vegetables, the beans, the Italian parsley, and the garlic add the right amount of acidity, spice, nourishment, and freshness. In a way, just like the teachers, coaches, relatives, and friends…all shape us into the interesting adults we’ve become.

Rarely can anyone concoct a bad soup…and the same applies to people. Most people I know are intrinsically good who want to help others. Who comes to your mind? Who has been particularly influential to you?  Think about those you’ve encountered and brought into your friendship circle. I’m especially thankful for those who have made me a better person and who inspire me to strive to be a better cook, mother, friend, teacher—you name it.

Maybe I’ll buy some shrimp tonight and make a “Gump-bo.” While I chop peacefully I’ll gratefully think about all of the flavorful folks who have peppered my life with experiences, laughter, and guidance, knowing full well that my pot is ever tastier with them in it.   And, like Forrest said, “That's all I have to say about that.”

This post is dedicated to the ever cool and inspiring Renee Fitzgerald who taught me to add/welcome as many different ingredients/people to my savory soup mix.

Play It Right…So Says Playwright Shakespeare

I’ve never been so frustrated with either parent that a fortune cookie reversed our lives so we could switch places to learn mutual respect of each other-- a lá Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis in the 2003 movie Freaky Friday. At this age, when I look in the mirror a genetic mosaic reflects back at me.

When you look in the mirror who do you see? Your mother’s eye crinkles? Your grandmother’s nose? Untamed eyebrows just like your father? Much more than physical characteristics I recognize…I see the lessons I teach my kids, it’s the phrases I utter that, yes, my mother used to say twenty years ago, it’s the dreams, ambitions, and hobbies I identify with along the DNA path. And one scary glimpse sees that as we age, the older generations do, too.

William Shakespeare, who turned 450 this past week, wrote that the last of the “seven ages of man” is a second childhood. He observed that parents and children often reverse roles as parents grow older. I’m lucky—my parents are still healthy and vibrant. But when do those roles get reversed? My mom was 19 when her mother died. My father lost both parents by the time he was 46. Daunting, reality-facing facts that freak out most people.

The so-called circle of life begins to feel noose-like if you dwell on the negative aspects of caring for your parents or older loved ones. This sandwiched golden era, in some ways, may be fleeting. And if so, do I take the time to really appreciate it? And them? And what about the important life lessons they have gifted to me?

Since I only read Cliffs Notes versions of Shakespeare’s works—here’s my abbreviated list of what I have valued from my parents and grandparents:

1—Make time. My dad had lunch with his mom at least once a week throughout his professional life. I can only hope to have that kind of relationship with my adult kids.

2—No table is too small. My grandparents lived in humble homes, yet that did not stop them from filling them with people and food.

3—You get more when you give. My father’s ever-thoughtful generosity is quite a high standard. I always took note of his considerate gestures and vowed to be like him.

4—Never stop caring. Just like people say you never stop worrying when you’re a parent, the same happens when thinking about the older generation. Admirably my mother devotes countless hours taking care of her stepmother who turns 95 this May.

5—Embrace your in-laws. I grew up knowing that my parents truly loved and appreciated their in-laws. My mom emphasized how much my paternal grandparents loved my dad, and she respected that bond. While I know those relationships can be complicated and sometimes not perfect, I want that love and respect to trickle down to the relationships with my kids’ someday spouses.

Think about what you value most about what you’ve learned from your parents and grandparents, what is especially worth highlighting and modeling before we hit Shakespeare’s second childhood. The Bard was on to something in Sonnet 2:

When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held…

When looking in the mirror we may notice forty winters’ wrinkles, but look deeper for those imparted and important lessons. To me, my parents’ and grandparents’ respectful, loving, and generous examples run deeper than any superficial trait. What do you value the most? Write it down—iambic pentameter purely optional.