Kathryn R. Biel's Blog, page 14
February 8, 2014
Say Cheese!
As I've mentioned before, I am the memory keeper in the family. At least for my mom's side. Even from the time I was a young child, I spent hours looking at the stacks of photo albums at my grandmother's house. I know all the pictures and all the stories.
I am probably about 4 years old. This is at my grandmother's house.
Sometimes, I am not sure if I remember the event because of the event, or because of the picture.
In my family, partly because technology was poor and partly because we're bad with pictures, we have a lot of bad pictures. This has become strikingly evident as I am compiling a life story in pictures (which is the third one I've done in the past two and a half years, which makes me very, very sad). My grandmother tried to take pictures. My dad took some, When pressed into service, my mom would even take a few. My aunt sent the doubles to my grandmother so she could see what was going on in their lives in New Jersey. And the majority of the pictures are terrible. You can tell my family is French because they liked to chop the heads off of people.
We have tons of what I like to call "the blur."
Now, I can't just toss this picture because it is one of the few I have of my brothers and me with both my grandparents. My grandfather passed away when I was 13, so there are not that many more years after this one. [By the way, I can tell this is New Year's Day, simply because we are all wearing the outfits that my grandmother gave us for Christmas. Just preceding this series of pictures in the album was the pictures of us opening the boxes with said outfits in them. And matching socks. My grandmother always gave us matching socks to any outfit.]
But this brings me to another point. Take pictures.
Take pictures of everyone.
Even if you don't like the way you look, get in the picture.
There are very few pictures of my mom with us as kids. There are tons of my brothers and me, but very few us the five of us, or even candids of my mom with us. She doesn't like to have her picture taken. I can show her a picture from the 1950's and know, without a doubt, her response will be, "I hate my hair in that picture." As such, she has avoided the lens. And, as a result, until the last few years, we don't have a lot of pictures of her. And certainly, even fewer good ones. There are very few of my mom holding us as babies, which I know she did. There are not ones of my mom with me at my dance recitals or my brothers' games, but you can bet your tail she was at every one of them. She still is.
My husband's family is even worse. They don't like to have their picture taken, so they just don't. For a while, if you made them, they looked like they were being tortured. Sure, they would be a great laugh on Awkward Family Photos, but it is sad when it is the last family portrait of my husband with his father.
At my great-aunt's wake a few years ago, I noticed that there was not one picture of her smiling. Now, she was not a happy woman, but she also didn't like to have her picture taken. Now, I'm sure she smiled at least occasionally. Wouldn't it be nice for her grandchildren to have a picture of her smiling?
Let the family grumble when you say "Ok, time for family pictures." Don't grumble when it is your turn to get in them. Smile. Pretend you like each other. Get everyone in them. Don't worry about how you look. Even if your clothes are the most stylish and your hair is in current fashion, it will be laughable in 30 years anyway.
The important thing is to get the picture. Capture that moment so you and your descendents can look back and know about the family. Know that you spent holidays together. Know that you had a goofy side.
Let them see the generations together.
This is the only picture I have of the 4 generations on my dad's side. My grandfather soon became too sick to sit up, but this is how I remember him, sitting at his table and reading. For you local peeps, where I am sitting is about where the hostess stand is at what is now known as Scarborough's Restaurant.
I enlisted the help of a friend to capture family pictures. We got all the families with my grandmother and then the whole family together. She passed away just two months after we did this. I like to think the sunlight on her in this picture is God's light.
I've finally convinced my mother-in-law to let me take her picture and to even enjoy it. I love this 3 generation shot.
And for goodness sake, don't forget to smile.
I am probably about 4 years old. This is at my grandmother's house.Sometimes, I am not sure if I remember the event because of the event, or because of the picture.
In my family, partly because technology was poor and partly because we're bad with pictures, we have a lot of bad pictures. This has become strikingly evident as I am compiling a life story in pictures (which is the third one I've done in the past two and a half years, which makes me very, very sad). My grandmother tried to take pictures. My dad took some, When pressed into service, my mom would even take a few. My aunt sent the doubles to my grandmother so she could see what was going on in their lives in New Jersey. And the majority of the pictures are terrible. You can tell my family is French because they liked to chop the heads off of people.
We have tons of what I like to call "the blur."
Now, I can't just toss this picture because it is one of the few I have of my brothers and me with both my grandparents. My grandfather passed away when I was 13, so there are not that many more years after this one. [By the way, I can tell this is New Year's Day, simply because we are all wearing the outfits that my grandmother gave us for Christmas. Just preceding this series of pictures in the album was the pictures of us opening the boxes with said outfits in them. And matching socks. My grandmother always gave us matching socks to any outfit.]But this brings me to another point. Take pictures.
Take pictures of everyone.
Even if you don't like the way you look, get in the picture.
There are very few pictures of my mom with us as kids. There are tons of my brothers and me, but very few us the five of us, or even candids of my mom with us. She doesn't like to have her picture taken. I can show her a picture from the 1950's and know, without a doubt, her response will be, "I hate my hair in that picture." As such, she has avoided the lens. And, as a result, until the last few years, we don't have a lot of pictures of her. And certainly, even fewer good ones. There are very few of my mom holding us as babies, which I know she did. There are not ones of my mom with me at my dance recitals or my brothers' games, but you can bet your tail she was at every one of them. She still is.
My husband's family is even worse. They don't like to have their picture taken, so they just don't. For a while, if you made them, they looked like they were being tortured. Sure, they would be a great laugh on Awkward Family Photos, but it is sad when it is the last family portrait of my husband with his father.
At my great-aunt's wake a few years ago, I noticed that there was not one picture of her smiling. Now, she was not a happy woman, but she also didn't like to have her picture taken. Now, I'm sure she smiled at least occasionally. Wouldn't it be nice for her grandchildren to have a picture of her smiling?
Let the family grumble when you say "Ok, time for family pictures." Don't grumble when it is your turn to get in them. Smile. Pretend you like each other. Get everyone in them. Don't worry about how you look. Even if your clothes are the most stylish and your hair is in current fashion, it will be laughable in 30 years anyway.
The important thing is to get the picture. Capture that moment so you and your descendents can look back and know about the family. Know that you spent holidays together. Know that you had a goofy side.
Let them see the generations together.
This is the only picture I have of the 4 generations on my dad's side. My grandfather soon became too sick to sit up, but this is how I remember him, sitting at his table and reading. For you local peeps, where I am sitting is about where the hostess stand is at what is now known as Scarborough's Restaurant.
I enlisted the help of a friend to capture family pictures. We got all the families with my grandmother and then the whole family together. She passed away just two months after we did this. I like to think the sunlight on her in this picture is God's light.
I've finally convinced my mother-in-law to let me take her picture and to even enjoy it. I love this 3 generation shot.And for goodness sake, don't forget to smile.
January 27, 2014
A Tribute to My Uncle and His Brother
This is a tribute to my uncle and his brother.
My mom has one brother. They were born 15 months apart, to a father who had just served 42 months in WWII and to a mother who waited all that time for her love to come home. They are Baby Boomers.
My uncle was perhaps a bit of a hellion. Just after graduating from high school, he enlisted in the army. Because of his fall birthday, he was only 17 and had to get my grandparents to sign permission. He had visions of going someplace warm. Perhaps Hawaii. Unfortunately for him, by the time he got through Basic Training, it was 1966 and he ended up in Vietnam.
While in Vietnam, he made the acquaintance of a guy named Ron. I don't know the details of the story, but I believe my uncle was injured and Ron helped him out. Fast forward a few years, after two tours in Vietnam, and my uncle and Ron were stationed at the same base. So while they met in the jungles of Southeast Asia, they spent the rest of their lives together in New Jersey. They are closer than most brothers I know.
My cousins call Ron "Uncle." For many years, Ron and his wife have been closer to my uncle, aunt and cousins than we, their "blood" relatives have been. We've run into Ron over the years at different family gatherings. He and his wife drove up 3+ hours to attend my grandmother's funeral two years ago, only to turn around and drive right back because they had another commitment.
My uncle and Ron have done great things together. I'm sure I don't know one iota of what they've done. One of the great things that they have done is worked through the American Legion to help other Vets. They help them with navigating the digital interweb to receive benefits. They help other Vets learn what benefits are available to them. They educate others about the PTSD from which most Vets suffer. And they talk about their experiences, lest we forget the sacrifices that have been made.
But then this terrible thing has happened. My uncle has gotten sick. Very sick. His prognosis is quite poor and the whole situation is heartbreaking and awful. And I don't know why it never occurred to me that he would be, but Ron has been there. And will be there. And when I heard that Ron was at the hospital every day, I thought, "Of course he is. They are brothers."
Despite his condition, my uncle is concerned about not only his wife, kids and sister, but also how Ron in doing. He's worried that Ron is spending too much time in the hospital. He's worried about Ron's health. Which makes me laugh because it is so typical of my uncle.
I want to take this chance to be able to publically thank my uncle and Ron for their service to this country. For their services to other Vets. And for their dedication to each other. They are both great men and I am privileged to know them. I hate this situation, but I love that they have each other.
Ron, me and Uncle Ed, enjoying the finer things in life--cigars and beer.
I heard this song today, which made me think of my uncle (although he is never far from my mind right now) and Ron. This song is for them.
My mom has one brother. They were born 15 months apart, to a father who had just served 42 months in WWII and to a mother who waited all that time for her love to come home. They are Baby Boomers.
My uncle was perhaps a bit of a hellion. Just after graduating from high school, he enlisted in the army. Because of his fall birthday, he was only 17 and had to get my grandparents to sign permission. He had visions of going someplace warm. Perhaps Hawaii. Unfortunately for him, by the time he got through Basic Training, it was 1966 and he ended up in Vietnam.
While in Vietnam, he made the acquaintance of a guy named Ron. I don't know the details of the story, but I believe my uncle was injured and Ron helped him out. Fast forward a few years, after two tours in Vietnam, and my uncle and Ron were stationed at the same base. So while they met in the jungles of Southeast Asia, they spent the rest of their lives together in New Jersey. They are closer than most brothers I know.
My cousins call Ron "Uncle." For many years, Ron and his wife have been closer to my uncle, aunt and cousins than we, their "blood" relatives have been. We've run into Ron over the years at different family gatherings. He and his wife drove up 3+ hours to attend my grandmother's funeral two years ago, only to turn around and drive right back because they had another commitment.
My uncle and Ron have done great things together. I'm sure I don't know one iota of what they've done. One of the great things that they have done is worked through the American Legion to help other Vets. They help them with navigating the digital interweb to receive benefits. They help other Vets learn what benefits are available to them. They educate others about the PTSD from which most Vets suffer. And they talk about their experiences, lest we forget the sacrifices that have been made.
But then this terrible thing has happened. My uncle has gotten sick. Very sick. His prognosis is quite poor and the whole situation is heartbreaking and awful. And I don't know why it never occurred to me that he would be, but Ron has been there. And will be there. And when I heard that Ron was at the hospital every day, I thought, "Of course he is. They are brothers."
Despite his condition, my uncle is concerned about not only his wife, kids and sister, but also how Ron in doing. He's worried that Ron is spending too much time in the hospital. He's worried about Ron's health. Which makes me laugh because it is so typical of my uncle.
I want to take this chance to be able to publically thank my uncle and Ron for their service to this country. For their services to other Vets. And for their dedication to each other. They are both great men and I am privileged to know them. I hate this situation, but I love that they have each other.
Ron, me and Uncle Ed, enjoying the finer things in life--cigars and beer.I heard this song today, which made me think of my uncle (although he is never far from my mind right now) and Ron. This song is for them.
January 26, 2014
Valentine's Day Giveaway
This post is either super awesome or super lame, depending on your prospective. I was asked to participate in a Valentine's Day Book Giveaway by a fellow author, Hilary Grossman (Aside--I just finished reading her book, Dangled Carat, and enjoyed it very much). Hilary has done a lot of leg work to set up this awesome giveaway. Twenty-two authors (including yours truly) have donated books, both e-books and paperback, to be given away on Valentine's Day. The raffle is now open, and all you have to do is head over to Hilary's website to read all the summaries and what the prizes are.
So pop on over and and check it out. There are some good books on the list. Some I've already read and reviewed on Goodreads, and there are some more that I want to read.
Happy reading!
(And for those of you that this post does not interest, I'm sorry. Hang in there with me, and I will try to have something else later this week.
So pop on over and and check it out. There are some good books on the list. Some I've already read and reviewed on Goodreads, and there are some more that I want to read.
Happy reading!
(And for those of you that this post does not interest, I'm sorry. Hang in there with me, and I will try to have something else later this week.
January 15, 2014
The Scrapbook
I've mentioned in the past that I scrapbook. I started it before I was married, and my initial project was going through my grandmother's albums and doing those pictures. I did not get all that far before life got in the way. Before I knew it, I was making a scrapbook for my boyfriend, who then became my fiancee. That turned into scrapping a wedding album and then a honeymoon album. Before I knew it, I had a child and there was tons more scrapbooking to do.
But life got in the way (new baby, new house, went back to school and was still working), and my pastime of scrapbooking took a back seat to everything else. Life continued and I kept taking pictures, so they piled up. About 4 1/2 years ago, I got back into scrapbooking.
I knew my time with my grandmother was limited. I tried to get all her stories from her so that I would be able to record them someday. And I realized how important it was for me to leave my stories behind. Sure, I love the "hobbiness" of scrapbooking. It is fun and relaxing. But I also see that I am leaving behind a gift for my children and grandchildren. I am leaving the gift of us. The gift of the family story. Those moments that you swear you will never forget, but somewhere along the line, you do.
Four years ago, I started going on bi-annual crafting weekends. I pack up and leave my hubby and kids for three days of bliss. I bring all my stuff and am responsible only for myself. I stay up way too late and get up way too early, just to work on my scrapbooks. Most of us who go have families and busy lives. We joke around that the weekend is all about "ME" since it is the one time we are not responsible for anyone else. We even sing the "ME" song (just repeat the word 'ME' to the tune of Beethoven's 5th Symphony, and you get the gist). Some people use the weekend to quilt or do other crafts. But I use it to scrap. I use the time to tell my story and record the important (and not-so-important) things in the lives of our family. Sometimes I get lost in the thought of the weekend itself, rather than what my mission is there. I look forward to these weekends so very much. They provide me with a respite from my life. There is good food and good people. People whom I had never met before are now considered friends because of the time spent on this retreat. We laugh until we cry, or pee a little. Or both.
Last January while on my retreat, I worked diligently on the scrapbook from our Disney vacation the previous summer. It had been our first trip, and I took over 500 pictures (although not all made it into the scrapbook). I wanted to capture the magic that our trip had been. I think I did, and am very proud of the scrapbook.
Besides being a wonderful memento of our week, that scrapbook has had a collateral effect. People I know were considering taking a trip to Disney. They were planning a 3-generation trip (kids, parents and grandparents), just as our trip had been. They had been hemming and hawing about the trip, and something had always gotten in the way of their actually planning and going. In discussing Disney, I whipped out (ok, lifted carefully, as that sucker is about 6" thick) my Disney scrapbook. They were able to look through the book and see all the who, what, when, where's and how's of the trip. After looking at the album, they decided they had to book their trip, and did so shortly thereafter.
They went on their trip this past summer and had a wonderful time. We saw all their pictures and discussed the parts of the park we liked when we were last together. Now, unfortunately, one of that group has become very ill. It is a grave situation with a poor prognosis. If their trip had not happened this past summer, it never would have happened. The time for that opportunity is gone, just like that.
Now, I know that they had been talking about it, and considering it. But I also know that the work that I put into my book helped them decided that NOW was the time to go and that they had to do it then. I have always considered my weekend retreats a gift to me, and my scrapbooks a gift to my kids. I now know that in some small way, my work had an impact on this family. I am so grateful that they had that magical week together, especially in lieu of the bleak prognosis.
I am heartbroken for them (and for us). Someday, when it is less painful, I hope the pictures from their Disney trip can make it into an album so their story can be shared, generation after generation, as well.
But life got in the way (new baby, new house, went back to school and was still working), and my pastime of scrapbooking took a back seat to everything else. Life continued and I kept taking pictures, so they piled up. About 4 1/2 years ago, I got back into scrapbooking.
I knew my time with my grandmother was limited. I tried to get all her stories from her so that I would be able to record them someday. And I realized how important it was for me to leave my stories behind. Sure, I love the "hobbiness" of scrapbooking. It is fun and relaxing. But I also see that I am leaving behind a gift for my children and grandchildren. I am leaving the gift of us. The gift of the family story. Those moments that you swear you will never forget, but somewhere along the line, you do.
Four years ago, I started going on bi-annual crafting weekends. I pack up and leave my hubby and kids for three days of bliss. I bring all my stuff and am responsible only for myself. I stay up way too late and get up way too early, just to work on my scrapbooks. Most of us who go have families and busy lives. We joke around that the weekend is all about "ME" since it is the one time we are not responsible for anyone else. We even sing the "ME" song (just repeat the word 'ME' to the tune of Beethoven's 5th Symphony, and you get the gist). Some people use the weekend to quilt or do other crafts. But I use it to scrap. I use the time to tell my story and record the important (and not-so-important) things in the lives of our family. Sometimes I get lost in the thought of the weekend itself, rather than what my mission is there. I look forward to these weekends so very much. They provide me with a respite from my life. There is good food and good people. People whom I had never met before are now considered friends because of the time spent on this retreat. We laugh until we cry, or pee a little. Or both.
Last January while on my retreat, I worked diligently on the scrapbook from our Disney vacation the previous summer. It had been our first trip, and I took over 500 pictures (although not all made it into the scrapbook). I wanted to capture the magic that our trip had been. I think I did, and am very proud of the scrapbook.
Besides being a wonderful memento of our week, that scrapbook has had a collateral effect. People I know were considering taking a trip to Disney. They were planning a 3-generation trip (kids, parents and grandparents), just as our trip had been. They had been hemming and hawing about the trip, and something had always gotten in the way of their actually planning and going. In discussing Disney, I whipped out (ok, lifted carefully, as that sucker is about 6" thick) my Disney scrapbook. They were able to look through the book and see all the who, what, when, where's and how's of the trip. After looking at the album, they decided they had to book their trip, and did so shortly thereafter.
They went on their trip this past summer and had a wonderful time. We saw all their pictures and discussed the parts of the park we liked when we were last together. Now, unfortunately, one of that group has become very ill. It is a grave situation with a poor prognosis. If their trip had not happened this past summer, it never would have happened. The time for that opportunity is gone, just like that.
Now, I know that they had been talking about it, and considering it. But I also know that the work that I put into my book helped them decided that NOW was the time to go and that they had to do it then. I have always considered my weekend retreats a gift to me, and my scrapbooks a gift to my kids. I now know that in some small way, my work had an impact on this family. I am so grateful that they had that magical week together, especially in lieu of the bleak prognosis.
I am heartbroken for them (and for us). Someday, when it is less painful, I hope the pictures from their Disney trip can make it into an album so their story can be shared, generation after generation, as well.
January 9, 2014
A Letter of Farewell
It has been a long journey. I know neither of us expected to last this long. In this day and age, twenty years is a long time. Wow, I can't believe it has really been twenty years. And I can't believe you won't be here for another twenty.
You have sat by my side through the most pivotal years of my life. Always there, always dependable. Keeping me on track, getting me through. Providing illumination and entertainment. Capturing magical moments.
You have traveled with me. To my college dorm rooms and apartments. To my clinicals in Florida and Virginia. You were by my side when I moved to Ohio and were content to come back to New York.
When I am away, I miss you terribly.
The years have been kind to you. Of course, there is always something new on the horizon. But that is not what I want. I want you faithfully by my side. You've aged well. I like to think we've grown up together. Perhaps you are no longer the most stylish out there, but you are very good at your job. I appreciate all of the hard work you've put in over the years.
I've noticed that you've been struggling. I've pretended it wasn't happening, but that didn't stop it from becoming evident. I didn't want to admit that we, no, you were not strong enough to pull through this time.
I have used you ever day and you asked for nothing in return. Always reliable and steadfast. A constant in this ever changing world.
I know nothing lasts forever, but I had really hoped you would. I wish I could say that I will never be able to replace you, but I know I am not that disciplined. But I can guarantee that I will never be as fond of your replacement as I am of you.
Good-bye clock radio (with cassette player). I will miss you.
You have sat by my side through the most pivotal years of my life. Always there, always dependable. Keeping me on track, getting me through. Providing illumination and entertainment. Capturing magical moments.
You have traveled with me. To my college dorm rooms and apartments. To my clinicals in Florida and Virginia. You were by my side when I moved to Ohio and were content to come back to New York.
When I am away, I miss you terribly.
The years have been kind to you. Of course, there is always something new on the horizon. But that is not what I want. I want you faithfully by my side. You've aged well. I like to think we've grown up together. Perhaps you are no longer the most stylish out there, but you are very good at your job. I appreciate all of the hard work you've put in over the years.
I've noticed that you've been struggling. I've pretended it wasn't happening, but that didn't stop it from becoming evident. I didn't want to admit that we, no, you were not strong enough to pull through this time.
I have used you ever day and you asked for nothing in return. Always reliable and steadfast. A constant in this ever changing world.
I know nothing lasts forever, but I had really hoped you would. I wish I could say that I will never be able to replace you, but I know I am not that disciplined. But I can guarantee that I will never be as fond of your replacement as I am of you.
Good-bye clock radio (with cassette player). I will miss you.
January 4, 2014
But First
Now that the holidays are over, it is time for the annual "Oh my God, where am I going to put all this new crap?" ritual. It is tons of work, somewhat tedious, somewhat arduous, and at times, quite emotional.
I come from a long line of hoarders. My grandmother, as has been previously documented, was a closet hoarder. My parents prefer to use the term pack rats. Now, I mean this with no disrespect. Afterall, I did go and pick up my skis, boots, poles, goggles and gloves that have been at my parents' house since 1988-89 ish for a ski outing tomorrow. Every time my parents throw something out, I inevitably need it shortly thereafter. I tend am the same way.
The take-down-Christmas procedure is actually a series of "but firsts." And it is always the "but firsts" that kill you. To take down the tree, I need to put the presents away. But first I need to vacuum the playroom. But first I need to put toys away in the playroom. But first I need to make a space in the playroom. And on and on and on.
These are totally first-world problems. I get it. My kids have too much. I need to clean out and pass it on. I've been meaning to have a garage sale, but frankly, it is too much work for me. There are way too many "but firsts" for me to even begin with that. I found a woman who does a non-profit garage sale for Multiple Sclerosis. I am going to donate to her, as well as to a local organization that helps the needy in our area. They run shelters, so I hope they could use toys. I would like my kids to see how fortunate they (we) are to have all our wants and needs met. I would like them to see the joy on another child's face when he or she gets a toy because they have none. I hope that they can understand and then not fight so much when I try to purge.
I started the purge last week, anticipating the "but firsts" that were to come. I gave all my remaining maternity clothes to a friend. If I end up pregnant now, she is in BIG TROUBLE, because I will totally blame her.
Today, I attended a baby shower for another friend. In discussion, I realized that one of my friends could use some clothes for her baby boy. Knowing that I have bins of my son's clothes in the basement, I offered them to her.
When I got home from the shower (after I picked up my skis that my parents have been holding onto for 25 years--good thing I haven't grown since I was 13), I went to the basement and pulled out the baby clothes. I tried not to look at them too closely as I shoved them in a big black bag. I pulled out the few special outfits and bagged up the rest. I was able to take three large containers and condense them into one (with some room to spare). As I did this, my son, who is almost ten (gasp!), was playing basketball in the basement.
And I started to get nostalgic.
Where did my little boy go? How has he gotten so big? When did this happen?
And I realized that keeping his onesies or overalls will not bring that little boy back. Keeping my daughter's first baby doll and stroller that she used before she could walk will not make her that little again.
That time is past, and no amount of memorabilia or stuff will get it back. The past is the past, and we cannot get it back. That is why it is so important to make the present count.
I can look at pictures and tell our stories through my scrapbooks. Lord knows, I have enough of them to fill the Library of Congress (or so my dad says). That way, the kids will have their history and memories to share with their kids. I can preserve that way. And I can look at my kids and who they are now. Who they have become. All of the past has added up to today. And today, they are kind and caring and funny.
I hope they will learn by watching me pass things on to be charitable. I hope it teaches them to look out for one another and even people they don't know. I hope they understand how good it feels to give someone clothing that is of no use to us, but know that it will really help that person. I hope that the clothes and toys have another shot at making memories and making other people happy the way they did for us.
Plus, it feels really good to declutter and get rid of stuff. But first, I had to blog about it.
I come from a long line of hoarders. My grandmother, as has been previously documented, was a closet hoarder. My parents prefer to use the term pack rats. Now, I mean this with no disrespect. Afterall, I did go and pick up my skis, boots, poles, goggles and gloves that have been at my parents' house since 1988-89 ish for a ski outing tomorrow. Every time my parents throw something out, I inevitably need it shortly thereafter. I tend am the same way.
The take-down-Christmas procedure is actually a series of "but firsts." And it is always the "but firsts" that kill you. To take down the tree, I need to put the presents away. But first I need to vacuum the playroom. But first I need to put toys away in the playroom. But first I need to make a space in the playroom. And on and on and on.
These are totally first-world problems. I get it. My kids have too much. I need to clean out and pass it on. I've been meaning to have a garage sale, but frankly, it is too much work for me. There are way too many "but firsts" for me to even begin with that. I found a woman who does a non-profit garage sale for Multiple Sclerosis. I am going to donate to her, as well as to a local organization that helps the needy in our area. They run shelters, so I hope they could use toys. I would like my kids to see how fortunate they (we) are to have all our wants and needs met. I would like them to see the joy on another child's face when he or she gets a toy because they have none. I hope that they can understand and then not fight so much when I try to purge.
I started the purge last week, anticipating the "but firsts" that were to come. I gave all my remaining maternity clothes to a friend. If I end up pregnant now, she is in BIG TROUBLE, because I will totally blame her.
Today, I attended a baby shower for another friend. In discussion, I realized that one of my friends could use some clothes for her baby boy. Knowing that I have bins of my son's clothes in the basement, I offered them to her.
When I got home from the shower (after I picked up my skis that my parents have been holding onto for 25 years--good thing I haven't grown since I was 13), I went to the basement and pulled out the baby clothes. I tried not to look at them too closely as I shoved them in a big black bag. I pulled out the few special outfits and bagged up the rest. I was able to take three large containers and condense them into one (with some room to spare). As I did this, my son, who is almost ten (gasp!), was playing basketball in the basement.
And I started to get nostalgic.
Where did my little boy go? How has he gotten so big? When did this happen?And I realized that keeping his onesies or overalls will not bring that little boy back. Keeping my daughter's first baby doll and stroller that she used before she could walk will not make her that little again.
That time is past, and no amount of memorabilia or stuff will get it back. The past is the past, and we cannot get it back. That is why it is so important to make the present count.
I can look at pictures and tell our stories through my scrapbooks. Lord knows, I have enough of them to fill the Library of Congress (or so my dad says). That way, the kids will have their history and memories to share with their kids. I can preserve that way. And I can look at my kids and who they are now. Who they have become. All of the past has added up to today. And today, they are kind and caring and funny.
I hope they will learn by watching me pass things on to be charitable. I hope it teaches them to look out for one another and even people they don't know. I hope they understand how good it feels to give someone clothing that is of no use to us, but know that it will really help that person. I hope that the clothes and toys have another shot at making memories and making other people happy the way they did for us.
Plus, it feels really good to declutter and get rid of stuff. But first, I had to blog about it.
January 2, 2014
My Idol
Last night, post dinner festivities, I noticed that my daughter was breaking out in hives. She had complained that her ear was itching earlier in the day, and I should have known something was up when she kept asking to have her back scratched. I tried not to freak out, but failed miserably. We tried to identify a food source that may have caused it, but couldn't. I did what any rational (read: irrational) mother would do, and I plopped her in the shower. I then covered her head to toe with Eucerin calming cream and hydrocortisone. I gave her Benadryl, and then I started to worry.
She got freaked out because I was freaked out and we debated taking her to the hospital. I was worried because the hives were centered around her eyes, her ears and neck and were starting to trail down her torso. I finally called the doctor. The on-call doc thought she would be fine, ordered another dose of Benadryl and to keep her cool.
I only checked on her 2-3 times during the night, of which I am proud.
When my daughter got up this morning, the hives were worse. Her other eye was almost swollen shut and she looked like she had gone a few rounds with Mohammed Ali. The hives were all over her body, right down to her hands and feet. I got her in with the doctor and then waited around for the appointment. Of course, I dosed her with Benadryl in the meantime.
The diagnosis is not hives, but Erythemia Multiforme. It is an immune hyperresponse, probably to the cold she had over the weekend. There is no treatment and the red spots can last weeks.
As a female, this is where I start to get concerned. How do I take her out in public like that? How do I send her to school? What if the other kids make fun of her?
She was concerned about it too. We had a conversation about it:
"Mom, will I still have these spots when I go back to school?"
"You probably will."
"What if my teacher won't let me stay in class and sends me to the nurse?"
I told her I would let the nurse know and she seemed content with that. She is not contagious, it's just her body over-reacting (I know, it's a shock that my kid would over-react about something).
As the afternoon progressed, the "hives" on her face are getting worse and worse. Her spirits are fine and she's a little trooper. Then, came the moment of truth: she looked in the mirror. I was afraid she was going to be upset.
"O! M! G!"
I waited, my heart ready to break.
"I am soooo cute!"
I hope someday to be as confident as my six year-old.
She got freaked out because I was freaked out and we debated taking her to the hospital. I was worried because the hives were centered around her eyes, her ears and neck and were starting to trail down her torso. I finally called the doctor. The on-call doc thought she would be fine, ordered another dose of Benadryl and to keep her cool.
I only checked on her 2-3 times during the night, of which I am proud.
When my daughter got up this morning, the hives were worse. Her other eye was almost swollen shut and she looked like she had gone a few rounds with Mohammed Ali. The hives were all over her body, right down to her hands and feet. I got her in with the doctor and then waited around for the appointment. Of course, I dosed her with Benadryl in the meantime.
The diagnosis is not hives, but Erythemia Multiforme. It is an immune hyperresponse, probably to the cold she had over the weekend. There is no treatment and the red spots can last weeks.
As a female, this is where I start to get concerned. How do I take her out in public like that? How do I send her to school? What if the other kids make fun of her?
She was concerned about it too. We had a conversation about it:
"Mom, will I still have these spots when I go back to school?"
"You probably will."
"What if my teacher won't let me stay in class and sends me to the nurse?"
I told her I would let the nurse know and she seemed content with that. She is not contagious, it's just her body over-reacting (I know, it's a shock that my kid would over-react about something).
As the afternoon progressed, the "hives" on her face are getting worse and worse. Her spirits are fine and she's a little trooper. Then, came the moment of truth: she looked in the mirror. I was afraid she was going to be upset.
"O! M! G!"
I waited, my heart ready to break.
"I am soooo cute!"
I hope someday to be as confident as my six year-old.
December 21, 2013
Label Shopper
The hubs shook his head when I told him I wanted a pair of Uggs for my birthday. He was diligent and went and even checked them out. I wanted the sweater kind, and he located them in the one store that carries them (Dick's Sporting Goods--can you believe it?). He wasn't sure that I really wanted them, because they seemed flimsy and impractical for our snowy winters here. He got me a gift card so I could get what I wanted, even though he didn't understand it. I ran to the store as soon as I could and purchased them. They were unbelievably on sale, and I ended up getting them for more than 40% off the retail price. All proud of the savings, I showed the hubs the boots. He just shook his head and said, "They just seem pricy."
Normally, I am not a big label shopper. There are some brands I like, and some that I consider luxuries. Ironically, the hubs prefers certain brands (like Brooks Brothers and J. Crew), but he buys so much less stuff than I do that he can justify the expense. I often look at the name brands and sometimes even salivate a little. For instance, there is part of me that really wants a Coach purse, but there is another part of me that thinks it is ridiculous to spend that amount.
For the kids, because they are growing, I'm even less likely to buy them name brand stuff. I cannot see paying $30 for one pair of sweatpants for Jake, just because they are Addidas. But on the other hand, I remember when I was a kid and how much I wanted all the name brand items like my friends had. I had a friend who had Sassoon jeans in nursery school. I was green with envy. My mother told me I could get designer jeans when she could find them at Filene's Bargain Basement. My first pair of "designer" jeans were Calvin Klein, and I bought them for myself after I was married. I bought them at Sam's Club. In grade school, I wanted the Reeboks in all the colors (I did have one pair of black and turquoise). I wanted the Swatch watches. When I got to high school, I wanted to shop at Express.
I've been waiting for this with my kids. I went to Catholic school, so I wore a uniform every day. I don't know if that made the clothing envy better or worse. I expected, especially with Sophia, that she would look at what her friends have and want the same thing. So far (fingers crossed), she likes what she likes. She likes sparkles and ruffles and animals. She pretty much likes what is in her closet that I have gotten for her. Some of her favorite outfits are hand-me-downs that came from who knows where. She likes to coordinate and look pretty and sparkly. Other than that, her requirements are slim. I have taken her to Justice to shop. I like the store because they have pants that fit her (she is super long and skinny). She likes the glitz. Actually, she likes all the crap in the store more than the clothes. She is just as content with the sparkly clothes from Target.
Jake likes sweat pants and t-shirts. As long as they are not too big, he is content. He is also an almost-10-year-old boy, so matching and coordination do not always come naturally, but he really tries. I have to bargain and barter with him to wear dress-up clothes. He HATES shirts with collars that button. He loves turtlenecks. He is occasionally tolerant of polo-style shirts. His motto is comfort.
So, here's the thing. Jake has a diagnosis of autism. It is mild, and pretty much everyone agrees that it doesn't really fit him, but nothing else does either. But it is his label, to help him get services. Somedays, I can see that he sort of fits. Somedays, not so much. He does have sensory issues, which is why he doesn't like the collared shirts. I think buttons were challenging for him for so long that he doesn't want to do them. He likes the snug feel of the turtlenecks and footie pajamas. He won't wear socks with a hole, and cannot stand if his clothes get even a little wet. These are all not uncommon with people with autism. So other than how the clothes FEEL, Jake has never cared about how he looked.
Until today.
He asked if I could get him a pair of Nike sneakers for Christmas. Frankly, his sneakers are his only pair of shoes, and they're pretty worn out since he wears them all day every day. He complained that I never get him Nike (which is true, because they're not really supportive, which he needs). He told me that EVERYONE in his class wears Nike and he feels that he looks like an "idiot" because he doesn't have the right brand of shoes. He did clarify that no one has called him that, but he just feels different because his sneakers are different.
Hold the phone. This is my kid who is not supposed to be tuned into that sort of thing. But he TOTALLY is. He wants Nike sneakers because his friends have them. It is just a regular kid thing to want.
So, even though I'm done shopping, I took him out today to get his sneakers. I made him try on other brands so he could feel the difference, and he still wanted the Nike. We found a decent pair (at only the second store). I didn't care the price. Ok, I did a little bit, but he needs something to wear on his feet right now. He is pleased as punch that he has his Nike sneakers and can't wait to bring them to school after break. He is happy that he has his name-brand shoes, just like all his friends.
This is just another reminder to me not to limit Jake based upon his label. No label fits him.
Well, other than super-awesome.
Normally, I am not a big label shopper. There are some brands I like, and some that I consider luxuries. Ironically, the hubs prefers certain brands (like Brooks Brothers and J. Crew), but he buys so much less stuff than I do that he can justify the expense. I often look at the name brands and sometimes even salivate a little. For instance, there is part of me that really wants a Coach purse, but there is another part of me that thinks it is ridiculous to spend that amount.
For the kids, because they are growing, I'm even less likely to buy them name brand stuff. I cannot see paying $30 for one pair of sweatpants for Jake, just because they are Addidas. But on the other hand, I remember when I was a kid and how much I wanted all the name brand items like my friends had. I had a friend who had Sassoon jeans in nursery school. I was green with envy. My mother told me I could get designer jeans when she could find them at Filene's Bargain Basement. My first pair of "designer" jeans were Calvin Klein, and I bought them for myself after I was married. I bought them at Sam's Club. In grade school, I wanted the Reeboks in all the colors (I did have one pair of black and turquoise). I wanted the Swatch watches. When I got to high school, I wanted to shop at Express.
I've been waiting for this with my kids. I went to Catholic school, so I wore a uniform every day. I don't know if that made the clothing envy better or worse. I expected, especially with Sophia, that she would look at what her friends have and want the same thing. So far (fingers crossed), she likes what she likes. She likes sparkles and ruffles and animals. She pretty much likes what is in her closet that I have gotten for her. Some of her favorite outfits are hand-me-downs that came from who knows where. She likes to coordinate and look pretty and sparkly. Other than that, her requirements are slim. I have taken her to Justice to shop. I like the store because they have pants that fit her (she is super long and skinny). She likes the glitz. Actually, she likes all the crap in the store more than the clothes. She is just as content with the sparkly clothes from Target.
Jake likes sweat pants and t-shirts. As long as they are not too big, he is content. He is also an almost-10-year-old boy, so matching and coordination do not always come naturally, but he really tries. I have to bargain and barter with him to wear dress-up clothes. He HATES shirts with collars that button. He loves turtlenecks. He is occasionally tolerant of polo-style shirts. His motto is comfort.
So, here's the thing. Jake has a diagnosis of autism. It is mild, and pretty much everyone agrees that it doesn't really fit him, but nothing else does either. But it is his label, to help him get services. Somedays, I can see that he sort of fits. Somedays, not so much. He does have sensory issues, which is why he doesn't like the collared shirts. I think buttons were challenging for him for so long that he doesn't want to do them. He likes the snug feel of the turtlenecks and footie pajamas. He won't wear socks with a hole, and cannot stand if his clothes get even a little wet. These are all not uncommon with people with autism. So other than how the clothes FEEL, Jake has never cared about how he looked.
Until today.
He asked if I could get him a pair of Nike sneakers for Christmas. Frankly, his sneakers are his only pair of shoes, and they're pretty worn out since he wears them all day every day. He complained that I never get him Nike (which is true, because they're not really supportive, which he needs). He told me that EVERYONE in his class wears Nike and he feels that he looks like an "idiot" because he doesn't have the right brand of shoes. He did clarify that no one has called him that, but he just feels different because his sneakers are different.
Hold the phone. This is my kid who is not supposed to be tuned into that sort of thing. But he TOTALLY is. He wants Nike sneakers because his friends have them. It is just a regular kid thing to want.
So, even though I'm done shopping, I took him out today to get his sneakers. I made him try on other brands so he could feel the difference, and he still wanted the Nike. We found a decent pair (at only the second store). I didn't care the price. Ok, I did a little bit, but he needs something to wear on his feet right now. He is pleased as punch that he has his Nike sneakers and can't wait to bring them to school after break. He is happy that he has his name-brand shoes, just like all his friends.
This is just another reminder to me not to limit Jake based upon his label. No label fits him.
Well, other than super-awesome.
December 18, 2013
By the Numbers
Age I turn today: 38
Height: 5'3"
Weight: Enough
Number of children: 2
Years of marriage: 12.25
Years in practice as a PT: 13.5
Number of cats: 2
Cups of coffee/day: 2
Days of the year that I eat chocolate: 325
Number of blog posts: 112
Number of Page Views on Biel Blather: 10,005
Number of copies of Good Intentions sold: 145
Number of brick and mortar bookstores that carry Good Intentions: 3
Number of 'Likes' on my Facebook author page: 126
Average review on Amazon: 4.6
Months until my second novel debuts: about 2 (yikes!)
Number of words in my current work: 52,007
Number of times I was up during the night thinking about this post: 3
Amount that I am grateful for my family, friends and the love in my life: Infinity
Height: 5'3"
Weight: Enough
Number of children: 2
Years of marriage: 12.25
Years in practice as a PT: 13.5
Number of cats: 2
Cups of coffee/day: 2
Days of the year that I eat chocolate: 325
Number of blog posts: 112
Number of Page Views on Biel Blather: 10,005
Number of copies of Good Intentions sold: 145
Number of brick and mortar bookstores that carry Good Intentions: 3
Number of 'Likes' on my Facebook author page: 126
Average review on Amazon: 4.6
Months until my second novel debuts: about 2 (yikes!)
Number of words in my current work: 52,007
Number of times I was up during the night thinking about this post: 3
Amount that I am grateful for my family, friends and the love in my life: Infinity
December 12, 2013
The Cinderella Myth, Part Two
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away ... oh, wait, wrong tale.
Yesterday, I blogged about the whole Cinderella thing being a myth, and how we, as women, can never magically transform into the beautiful princess without a lot of hard work. And perhaps a Pinterest mishap or two. This is more about why I have a problem with the idea of princesses, especially in terms of my young daughter.
When I was young and idealistic, I had the notion that I would not inundate my daughter with princess stuff. When my son was born, I was happy that I would not have to tell people, "No, we don't do princess stuff." The Disney princess machine was huge at this point, and I was happy with our Thomas the Train, and not having to ban princesses.
Then I had a daughter. And, by the age of two, she was naturally gravitating towards anything and everything princess.
Why, you might ask, would I have a problem with princesses?
There are two main things.
Actually three. Three main things.
1. I don't want my daughter thinking that she would need a man to swoop in and save her. She is a capable, smart, savvy person, and she can use her own brains and strengths (whether it is muscular strength or cunning and cleverness) to help herself. She does not need a dopey prince to slay any dragons for her. She can handle it herself.
2. I don't want my daughter thinking that it is as simple as "and they all lived happily ever after." It is not that simple. Marriage, and life in general, take a lot of hard work. There is no fairy tale ending. Even when people are happy together, it is because they have worked hard at it.
3. This is the big one. There are women who proclaim themselves "princesses." You see them on reality TV shows like Bridezillas, Real Housewives, Dance Moms and Say Yes to the Dress. There is a whole generation of women who feel that they should be treated as royalty at all times. These are horrible, horrible women. I do not EVER want my daughter prancing around with this sense of entitlement and attitude. Respect and good treatment are not givens. They are earned through good deeds, kindness and selflessness. I do not want my daughter thinking that she deserves some kind of special treatment just because she is.
I hope that through my behavior and actions, I am steering her on the right course. She, at the age of 6, has informed me that she is "soooo over princesses." However, at the age of 5, she was certainly happy to partake in the princess makeover at the Bippidi Boppidi Boutique in Disney World. It was her birthday surprise, and she did love it. She also loved that, for that day, every person we walked by wished her happy birthday. It was her birthday, and she certainly did feel special. She did not expect the same treatment afterwards (although I think her 6th birthday was a bit of a let down). I hope that she is well liked and respected, not because of her clothes or sparkles, but because of her sparking wit and clever ideas. Those gems are as rare as the crown jewels.
Yesterday, I blogged about the whole Cinderella thing being a myth, and how we, as women, can never magically transform into the beautiful princess without a lot of hard work. And perhaps a Pinterest mishap or two. This is more about why I have a problem with the idea of princesses, especially in terms of my young daughter.
When I was young and idealistic, I had the notion that I would not inundate my daughter with princess stuff. When my son was born, I was happy that I would not have to tell people, "No, we don't do princess stuff." The Disney princess machine was huge at this point, and I was happy with our Thomas the Train, and not having to ban princesses.
Then I had a daughter. And, by the age of two, she was naturally gravitating towards anything and everything princess.
Why, you might ask, would I have a problem with princesses?
There are two main things.
Actually three. Three main things.
1. I don't want my daughter thinking that she would need a man to swoop in and save her. She is a capable, smart, savvy person, and she can use her own brains and strengths (whether it is muscular strength or cunning and cleverness) to help herself. She does not need a dopey prince to slay any dragons for her. She can handle it herself.
2. I don't want my daughter thinking that it is as simple as "and they all lived happily ever after." It is not that simple. Marriage, and life in general, take a lot of hard work. There is no fairy tale ending. Even when people are happy together, it is because they have worked hard at it.
3. This is the big one. There are women who proclaim themselves "princesses." You see them on reality TV shows like Bridezillas, Real Housewives, Dance Moms and Say Yes to the Dress. There is a whole generation of women who feel that they should be treated as royalty at all times. These are horrible, horrible women. I do not EVER want my daughter prancing around with this sense of entitlement and attitude. Respect and good treatment are not givens. They are earned through good deeds, kindness and selflessness. I do not want my daughter thinking that she deserves some kind of special treatment just because she is.
I hope that through my behavior and actions, I am steering her on the right course. She, at the age of 6, has informed me that she is "soooo over princesses." However, at the age of 5, she was certainly happy to partake in the princess makeover at the Bippidi Boppidi Boutique in Disney World. It was her birthday surprise, and she did love it. She also loved that, for that day, every person we walked by wished her happy birthday. It was her birthday, and she certainly did feel special. She did not expect the same treatment afterwards (although I think her 6th birthday was a bit of a let down). I hope that she is well liked and respected, not because of her clothes or sparkles, but because of her sparking wit and clever ideas. Those gems are as rare as the crown jewels.
