I spent the other day with a spunky little girl and found myself laughing hysterically, inside and out, at life through her eyes. It was surprisingly refreshing...and simultaneously terrifying...to realize just how many things had slipped from my consciousness as a grownup. And here was this little person who was like me minus all the baggage. How strange to look at her and feel, in one instance, so removed, and in the next, so oddly akin. And how the heck had I forgotten about stick-on earrings??
Our day consisted of many activities. We played "Pretty, Pretty, Princess" after I promised to exclude the evil witch pawn, Maleficent (aka the "bad guy"), from participating on any level. I chuckled as I observed all the princess pawns dressed in pastel gowns and the witch in black. I didn't have the heart to tell her that when she became old enough to read Vogue, black would be the new pink.
We had many funny conversations. It was a new and strange thing to talk so much to a child. Some declarations from her surprised and amused me. Others posed the potential for great embarrassment, like when she told me a woman, still within hearing range, smelled like...lollipops. There was a brief moment, before she finished her observation, in which I imagined myself apologizing to the Amish woman. But, thankfully, she smelled like candy and not something else.
Yet, another time she emphatically assured a stranger that I was not her mommy. Apparently, I didn't appear to be a kidnapper or social deviant, as the stranger let us go without reaching for his cell to report an Amber Alert sighting.
Then, in one of our deeper conversations, she most earnestly shared her feelings on life with "old" people (a category in which I was unfortunately included, as I am in the double digits).
"I'm with my Mommy all day..." she said.
"That's wonderful!" I responded.
She looked surprised and insisted. "But it's boring...don't you think it's boring to be with your Mommy all day?"
Her mommy, a close friend of mine, was a great mom and one of the most interesting people I know. But, then again, I was not four years old. I stretched to imagine her utopia. No stuffy grownups. A tower of toys. Rooms and backyards full of cherub-faced comrades. And an endless supply of cupcakes, cookies and, yes, lollipops. I paused, considering my response a bit more carefully...
"Well, you know, when you get older, you will probably move away and you won't see your Mommy quite as much anymore. And you will wish you had more days to spend just you and her...So, you really are lucky to have your Mommy everyday."
She still wasn't convinced.
"But why do grown-ups always have to work and do dishes. Daddy always say he can't play because he has to do the dishes?" Ha! Now, Mommies were boring and Daddies, workaholics! Had somebody signed me up for the preschool debate team without my consent??
"Well," I breathed. (Not having kids of my own yet, I really wasn't very confident in my children-nese.) "Grownups do have a lot to do. They work and take care of you. So, they have to do dishes and laundry and things like that"........dramatic pause (I know the answer will come to me).......
"Just imagine if they didn't clean the dishes or wash the clothes. You wouldn't have any clean dishes. And you wouldn't have any clean clothes to wear."
"And then I'd be naked," she said matter-of-factly and with a laugh in her voice...as the word naked still makes grown men chuckle in spite of themselves.
"Exactly!!" Gotcha! I had won the debate...for the moment.
Because, grownups + no work/dishes/laundry = naked people running around.
What a world that would be!
Thus after exchanging manis and pedis, playing house and salon and watching Toy Story....twice....I experienced the following revelations at the end of a long day with a four year old:
I played and won "Pretty, Pretty Princess" for the first time in a long time. (Okay, we both "won.) But, I was also reminded of what a simpler place the world is without bad guys.
I realized I haven't given much thought to lollipops recently, except for their caloric content...but I sure hope I smell like one.
I decided to try spending a little more time playing and a little less time working. As long as we're not running around naked, some dirty laundry and a few dishes won't make or break us.
And, last, and most important of all...
Mommy, if I've ever called you boring, I'm sorry! I love you so much!! You are anything but boring. And I cherish every moment we get to spend together, because I understand (as it often takes til we're grownup to do) that they don't go on forever and ever...to infinity and beyond.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Fireworks and the Three-Legged Dog
What would Summer be without a rousing July 4th celebration in all it's Norman Rockwell-inspired regalia? The smoky taste of something char-grilled. The sticky coolness of watermelon juice sliding down your chin. And--the proverbial icing on the Independence Day cake--a mighty fireworks display.
Of course, my family is more than a decade removed from the days Dad hoisted us, one by one, atop the Chevy station wagon. There, we crouched together to watch the sky light up again and again, each colorful explosion spraying out ribbons of fire that disappeared with sizzle and smoke over the cool Susquehanna.
This year, my parents listened and laughed as my grown-up siblings and I swapped more recent and less-than-perfect Independence Day experiences. My favorite, as told by youngest brother and family comedian, Patrick, painted a much less Rockwellian picture. Pat and his fiance had been more distracted by the cast of characters surrounding them than the fireworks show itself.
To set the stage, the soundtrack was that of screaming children, frequently punctuated by the shrill voice of an overexcited mother who insisted on calling out the "bow tie"-shaped fireworks every time they appeared in the sky. After ten or so bow tie fireworks, Pat was no longer amused. As he focused, once again, on inspiring some sense of romance before the evening's end by placing an arm around his fiance's slight shoulders, large plumes of cigarette smoke overpowered the light scent of her perfume and settled in toxic clouds around their tidy blanket. Finally, the star of the show was an older woman and the three-legged dog she insisted on walking back and forth across the dehydrated grass. Against a backdrop of "Stars and Stripes Forever" and finale of bow tie fireworks, the dog appeared the oddest companion of all to an otherwise celebratory evening. Of course, then again, he was perhaps most befitting.
We all (with the exception of Brangelina) tend to look less like a magazine cover and more like a hot mess on the 4th of July. Even the most perfect 4th of July's are less than valiant. In truth, the brown paint was peeling on that lemon of a station wagon. My dad had to fend off the grumpiness that accompanies bumper-to-bumper fireworks traffic. And I'm pretty sure my other brother, Ian, got more than his share of spankings (for terrorizing his sisters, hanging off the roof, running towards the road, the list continues). But, the mind has a way of scrubbing the memory of such "minor" details. Still, it's a very good thing for us that freedom means we can be who we are, not something we are not. And bravery comes in all shapes and sizes...example given, a small dog with one less leg.
My husband and I decided to be a little less brave this year. After a long day of socializing over July 4th potlucks, we exercised our God-given freedom to stay home for an evening of pay-per-view and A/C. This isn't to say we didn't appreciate the day and what it meant. And, sure, at first we felt like we were copping out. But we figured there would be plenty of fireworks celebrations to brave when we have mini-patriots of our own...and thus will ensue at least a dozen years of fighting traffic, enduring crowds and combing for the "perfect spot," a small patch of itchy grass. We are thankful for that small patch of grass. And the one on which our house sits, too. It isn't always Rockwellian, but it's home. On this, our July 4th, 2010, the perfect spot was our microfiber couch. We suffered less bug bites there.
God bless America, and God bless all the three-legged dogs.
Of course, my family is more than a decade removed from the days Dad hoisted us, one by one, atop the Chevy station wagon. There, we crouched together to watch the sky light up again and again, each colorful explosion spraying out ribbons of fire that disappeared with sizzle and smoke over the cool Susquehanna.
This year, my parents listened and laughed as my grown-up siblings and I swapped more recent and less-than-perfect Independence Day experiences. My favorite, as told by youngest brother and family comedian, Patrick, painted a much less Rockwellian picture. Pat and his fiance had been more distracted by the cast of characters surrounding them than the fireworks show itself.
To set the stage, the soundtrack was that of screaming children, frequently punctuated by the shrill voice of an overexcited mother who insisted on calling out the "bow tie"-shaped fireworks every time they appeared in the sky. After ten or so bow tie fireworks, Pat was no longer amused. As he focused, once again, on inspiring some sense of romance before the evening's end by placing an arm around his fiance's slight shoulders, large plumes of cigarette smoke overpowered the light scent of her perfume and settled in toxic clouds around their tidy blanket. Finally, the star of the show was an older woman and the three-legged dog she insisted on walking back and forth across the dehydrated grass. Against a backdrop of "Stars and Stripes Forever" and finale of bow tie fireworks, the dog appeared the oddest companion of all to an otherwise celebratory evening. Of course, then again, he was perhaps most befitting.
We all (with the exception of Brangelina) tend to look less like a magazine cover and more like a hot mess on the 4th of July. Even the most perfect 4th of July's are less than valiant. In truth, the brown paint was peeling on that lemon of a station wagon. My dad had to fend off the grumpiness that accompanies bumper-to-bumper fireworks traffic. And I'm pretty sure my other brother, Ian, got more than his share of spankings (for terrorizing his sisters, hanging off the roof, running towards the road, the list continues). But, the mind has a way of scrubbing the memory of such "minor" details. Still, it's a very good thing for us that freedom means we can be who we are, not something we are not. And bravery comes in all shapes and sizes...example given, a small dog with one less leg.
My husband and I decided to be a little less brave this year. After a long day of socializing over July 4th potlucks, we exercised our God-given freedom to stay home for an evening of pay-per-view and A/C. This isn't to say we didn't appreciate the day and what it meant. And, sure, at first we felt like we were copping out. But we figured there would be plenty of fireworks celebrations to brave when we have mini-patriots of our own...and thus will ensue at least a dozen years of fighting traffic, enduring crowds and combing for the "perfect spot," a small patch of itchy grass. We are thankful for that small patch of grass. And the one on which our house sits, too. It isn't always Rockwellian, but it's home. On this, our July 4th, 2010, the perfect spot was our microfiber couch. We suffered less bug bites there.
God bless America, and God bless all the three-legged dogs.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Our Youngest and Sweetest Fan!
Last week, I delivered a customized bag to a great friend I've known since college. Melissa was in need of a gorgeous over-sized beach bag for frequent trips to the shore. Given her obsession with the color combination of pink and green, I searched for and found the perfect fabric to construct a larger "Poolside Cocktail" tote with gorgeous pink handles. 
Her son, Kincaid, is featured in the photo below as our youngest, smallest and sweetest Sweet August Fan to date. The bag is undoubtedly large enough to carry him and big sis, four-year-old Eowyn. Although, after a day at the beach with two kiddos, it may be Melissa who needs carried home!
Thanks for sharing this photo with other Sweet August fans, Melissa!
Friday, June 4, 2010
Sweet Expectations
My life no longer follows the rhythm of the school year, when June meant freedom, and August's languishing days moved me ever closer to another year of lessons in the classroom and lessons in life. But when the hot air of today's June morning rushed past me, carrying with it a familiar scent--the sultry mixture of dirt, humidity and cut grass--my mind and memory flooded with other summer smells...the dense aroma of overheated car upholstery, the chemical scent of a new beach towel, the salty odor of hot skin sweetened by suntan lotion. These were the imperfect smells of liberation, three glorious months of freedom. I stood for a moment remembering what June felt like before I became concerned with the effects of humidity on my hair and makeup. That's when another smell flooded my memory--the oddly sweet aroma of paper and print. A new book. A borrowed book. Crisp or yellowed. It didn't matter. They all smelled different but the same.
Maybe I was an odd child for favoring a musty library over the community pool. But I loved getting lost in a good story, and for that, I will never apologize. My mother, desiring to encourage her young readers and escape the vexing heat, wisely shuttled us to the air conditioned local library more than once a week.
Nothing compared to the anticipation I felt tracing my finger over those book spines, scanning titles and authors for the next great adventure. The world was full of possibility just as summer was full of undiscovered moments. Would I make a new best friend? Write a great short story? Have my first kiss?
I did most of my reading when I was supposed to be sleeping--mid-afternoon nap-time, a good solid two hours of quiet immersion in my latest book. I always felt too old for naps anyway. After I had stripped away most of my clothes, I would turn the fan on to its highest setting and let the air blow directly across my body. My cotton sheets and pillow always cooled my skin, as did those faithful pages, smooth to the touch. I became lost in the stories they told. My favorites were Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie, Little Women and all the classics devoured by hopelessly romantic girls who imagine themselves the heroines of their own stories. The books inspired my imagination. The summer stirred my expectations of a wonderful story of my own.
Now that I realize one is never too old for nap time, I'd probably still spend mine reading. And summer remains glorious. I forget how much I love it until it's here again, and I can remove my shoes to let my feet touch the grass while my heart embraces another liberation full of possibility. Maybe, I will even visit the library today. More importantly, I seek to open this next life chapter of life with the same youthful enthusiasm as I did those lovely books.
It's June. And anything is possible.
Maybe I was an odd child for favoring a musty library over the community pool. But I loved getting lost in a good story, and for that, I will never apologize. My mother, desiring to encourage her young readers and escape the vexing heat, wisely shuttled us to the air conditioned local library more than once a week.
Nothing compared to the anticipation I felt tracing my finger over those book spines, scanning titles and authors for the next great adventure. The world was full of possibility just as summer was full of undiscovered moments. Would I make a new best friend? Write a great short story? Have my first kiss?
I did most of my reading when I was supposed to be sleeping--mid-afternoon nap-time, a good solid two hours of quiet immersion in my latest book. I always felt too old for naps anyway. After I had stripped away most of my clothes, I would turn the fan on to its highest setting and let the air blow directly across my body. My cotton sheets and pillow always cooled my skin, as did those faithful pages, smooth to the touch. I became lost in the stories they told. My favorites were Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie, Little Women and all the classics devoured by hopelessly romantic girls who imagine themselves the heroines of their own stories. The books inspired my imagination. The summer stirred my expectations of a wonderful story of my own.
Now that I realize one is never too old for nap time, I'd probably still spend mine reading. And summer remains glorious. I forget how much I love it until it's here again, and I can remove my shoes to let my feet touch the grass while my heart embraces another liberation full of possibility. Maybe, I will even visit the library today. More importantly, I seek to open this next life chapter of life with the same youthful enthusiasm as I did those lovely books.
It's June. And anything is possible.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Signature Pink Hope Clutch
This is the Sweet August Signature Pink Hope Clutch, which was auctioned last week for $85.o0!This one-of-a-kind designer clutch represents every woman who faces the difficult diagnosis of breast cancer. Its fabric, a strong, durable denim, embodies her strength and resilience. The individually-handcrafted rosettes represent her femininity and grace. And the pearls symbolize her stunning inner-beauty, produced by the gritty determination to overcome this disease. The clutch also opens to reveal a small hope ribbon in soft pink and fuchsia crystals.
May the woman who carries this clutch be reminded of her own inner strength and loveliness, no matter what her personal struggle. And may we all cling closely to the hope beating strongly beneath our breasts.
Monday, March 22, 2010
The Girl Next Door
It is the moniker we assign those bubbly, lighthearted women who possess all the purity and loveliness of someone who doesn't need to try too hard to be liked by everyone. "The girl next door" is simple and unassuming. We covet her naivety. We cannot imagine that underneath such a carefree persona could be anything but a life experience as flawless as her peaches-and-cream complexion. Whether out of envy or a need to preserve some untouched beauty in the world, we allow few frailties to beset the girl next door.
But what do we know about the real girl next door? The woman standing next to us in line, sitting beside us at church or on the subway--what do we know about her? The friend of a friend, with great hair and manicured hands, the girl that never looks like she's trying too hard--do we assume she is everything she pretends to be? Do we assign to her, in our imaginations, a carefree life with no great upsets, no deep regrets, no unrealized dreams? A beautiful woman, so put together, could not possibly understand the pain of another. The girl next door, with her picture-perfect life could never know the hollow pit of loss, could she?
She is a myth, the girl next door, dreamed up by Hollywood to inspire us to see more Doris Day movies. To believe that she existed...that perfect woman. Or, better yet, that we could be her. In the real world, the girl next door is a woman like you or me. She has a complex story of her own. And however charmed her life may appear from the outside, she has experienced disappointments and challenges, some so deep, they are untraceable to the human eye.
How well do you know the girl next door? The child, the teenager, the executive, the mother, the grandmother -- she is a girl at heart. She is a girl like you. Until you've walked a mile in her shoes, you cannot possibly begin to know what really makes her tick. So reach out to her. Let her be brutally honest, and be slow to judge. Show her understanding and compassion. That is how you will get to know the real girl next door. And how she will get to know the girl next door to her--you.
But what do we know about the real girl next door? The woman standing next to us in line, sitting beside us at church or on the subway--what do we know about her? The friend of a friend, with great hair and manicured hands, the girl that never looks like she's trying too hard--do we assume she is everything she pretends to be? Do we assign to her, in our imaginations, a carefree life with no great upsets, no deep regrets, no unrealized dreams? A beautiful woman, so put together, could not possibly understand the pain of another. The girl next door, with her picture-perfect life could never know the hollow pit of loss, could she?
She is a myth, the girl next door, dreamed up by Hollywood to inspire us to see more Doris Day movies. To believe that she existed...that perfect woman. Or, better yet, that we could be her. In the real world, the girl next door is a woman like you or me. She has a complex story of her own. And however charmed her life may appear from the outside, she has experienced disappointments and challenges, some so deep, they are untraceable to the human eye.
How well do you know the girl next door? The child, the teenager, the executive, the mother, the grandmother -- she is a girl at heart. She is a girl like you. Until you've walked a mile in her shoes, you cannot possibly begin to know what really makes her tick. So reach out to her. Let her be brutally honest, and be slow to judge. Show her understanding and compassion. That is how you will get to know the real girl next door. And how she will get to know the girl next door to her--you.
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