tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38583405662541617612024-02-07T18:10:17.187-05:00Anything for Material: This Writer's LifeJulie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.comBlogger146125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-69500072027240072262017-09-28T15:36:00.000-04:002017-09-28T15:36:27.213-04:00Top 5 Reasons to Start a Women's Writing GroupI'm starting a new new women's writing group on Monday, here in Narberth, called Girls Write Out. (Thank you, I like the name too.) Why?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">1. Writing is an isolated activity, and can feel lonely. Writing together in a group, giving and receiving feedback has been essential to my development as a writer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">2. A number of women I know express something like this, "I really want to write, but I don't know how to start." Or "I'd love to write but I struggle to make time for it." Or "I have a book I want to write, but I'm stuck." I relate to these obstacles, and I wanted to make a space where women can gather and write, together, in a supportive community.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">3. I have started and been a part of other writing groups, some of which helped me a lot, some of which damaged me quite a bit. I have come to believe that a writing group needs a leader, someone to establish ground rules and ensure the rules are respected. This allows everyone to feel safe, and when we feel safe, we do our best work.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">4. I believe we all have stories to tell, and I want to encourage new writers, and established writers, to claim their stories, write their stories, and share their stories.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">5. Writing is how I make sense of the world; it is one of the ways I heal. I want to help other people find that outlet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the students from a previous workshop had this to say:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-c6dfa59b-c9f5-d25f-11df-edf8dbb39766"><span style="font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Over the course of a month in 2015, I took Julie’s weekly writing workshop and was impressed with her thoughtful and organized style, which drew on multiple tools to engage our group, encourage and draw out our ideas. Julie established a nurturing atmosphere for the workshop. We learned from Julie and each other. The positive vibes and different writing styles of the group emboldened and challenged me to open up and continue trying."</span></span></span><br />
<span><span style="font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span><span style="font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Please contact me if you're interested in learning more about Girls Write Out at julie.heartswrite@gmail.com.</span></span></span>Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-49071032811767253062017-06-17T12:24:00.001-04:002017-06-17T12:24:30.691-04:00Fuck You, DeathNo one else I love is allowed to die. I'm serious. My heart can't take another one. I woke up yesterday morning, on my 41st birthday, and logged onto Facebook to see birthday wishes. As I scrolled I came across a post from Carol, my first writer friend. It was a sweet photo of one of her nephews as a child. I "liked" it, then noticed a comment that said, "This brought a tear to my eye. She loved her nieces and nephews so much." Wait, what?<br />
<br />
I looked at the other comments, my heart beat picking up the news before my head could. Why was that written in the past tense? Why had this been posted by her husband? What the fuck was going on? I didn't want to believe it, but I messaged a mutual friend, asking if Carol had died.<br />
<br />
Yes.<br />
<br />
Between my birthday and my last day of a job I really loved, I couldn't absorb that news yesterday. I wouldn't let myself even think about it. But this morning, after sleeping in, meditating, praying, talking to some friends, I looked at Carol's blog, and read this, her last blog post: <a href="http://knowhopeknowgrowth.blogspot.com/2016/12/writing-story-of-your-life.html">Writing the Story of Your Life.</a><br />
<br />
You have to be made of stone not to cry reading that. But I knew Carol, I loved her. And I didn't know her cancer had returned. We saw each other mostly during the summer, when I was closer to her home in Cape May. We hadn't talked in a few months, but I thought nothing of that. I was going to call her next week to set up a catch-up date.<br />
<br />
I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't get to tell her how much it meant to me that she befriended me at my first ever writer's conference; that she asked for my email information, and that we struck up an easy friendship. I didn't get to tell her how much I admired her perseverance with her writing. How she inspired me by self-publishing <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Carol-Fragale-Brill/e/B00BE1QNQO/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1">her two beautiful novels</a>. How much I admired her move from Philly to the shore, and how she went after what she wanted in life with gusto.<br />
<br />
Her last blog post talks about how she can be a friend to us from the beyond, but you know what? Fuck that. I have too many angels already. I don't want anymore. I want to have decadent pancakes with her at Clary's. I want to walk with her on the beach, or through Stone Harbor, looking at books. I want her support when my book comes out. I want my novelist friend, here, on earth, where I need her.<br />
<br />
I will move through the sadness and anger, eventually, and the shock. I know I will. I've done it too many times before. And I will call on her help from the beyond. I do believe that my loved ones are still with me, in a different form. But I hate this.<br />
<br />
The price for having a big, beautiful, rich life, so full of love, is having to say goodbye to people, sometimes much sooner than we are ready to do so.<br />
<br />
Carol, thank you for your friendship. Thank you for your belief in my writing, and in me. Thank you for your work. Up until your last days, you wrote and published work that deeply moved me, and countless others. I'm angry we won't have any more writing from you, and I am so grateful, bone-deep, that you shared the work you did with us. Help me to follow your example, to have an eighth of your courage, persistence and grace. Thank you for blessing me with your love.Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-90942279668508419162016-12-12T17:25:00.000-05:002016-12-12T17:25:18.762-05:00Young Love and Our Lady of Guadalupe<img height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiegrtPK_foicGCbrPJuzjnKzYRyKnFj7n3x64fLWMsjhro05riYxYoVP6-cmx0Kq9Hl9xe8mo3I8t9qI7DfFlcl4jNmjfa04NwATkX4zs2Muk08GL81n8zvKz48Pjvf7CMVn_ToYeoOEFh/s400/Our+Lady+of+Guadalupe.jpg" width="301" /><br />
<br />
This post originally appeared as an essay in The Philadelphia Inquirer, December 2015.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By Julie Owsik
Ackerman</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Antonio had told me
for weeks not to miss the celebration for Our Lady of Guadalupe, but then he
had broken up with me. What to do? In my own Catholic upbringing, we have May
Processions to celebrate Mary in the spring. They involve little children, a
ceremony, a Mass, some punch and cookies afterwards maybe. But during my junior
year of college in Cuernavaca, Mexico, my friends had insisted that the
celebration for <i>La Virgen</i> could not
be missed, broken heart or no.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So, on Dec. 11, I
go with my Mexican friends, who were also Antonio’s cousins, to the
festivities, having no idea what to expect. A party night for Mary? It is chilly
for Cuernavaca, around 55 degrees, and we huddle outside the Guadalupe shrine
closest to my friend Norma’s house. The neighborhood women pass out warm
tropical drinks that tasted like guava. I wait, stomach clenched, and find
myself praying to Mary for help. <i>Help me
to stop loving him.</i> <i>Help me to stop
hurting him, and myself, and my boyfriend from home.</i> I wouldn’t have prayed
to the Mary of my youth about these troubles, but <i>La Virgen</i>, I think she might understand.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Our Lady of
Guadalupe, <i>La Virgen</i> or <i>Virgencita</i> to Mexicans, is the
apparition of Mary when she appeared to an Aztec man named Juan Diego in 1531,
11 years after the arrival of the Spanish in Mexico. She returned to this
humble man four times, asking him to go to the bishop and build a temple in her
honor on the spot where she appeared. She explained, “All those who sincerely
ask my help in their work and in their sorrows will know my Mother’s Heart in
this place.”</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Asking an Aztec man
in 1531 to go tell the bishop to build a shrine is kind of like asking an
undocumented immigrant to get a private audience with the governor for a pet
project. But Juan Diego did as the lady asked him. He went to see the bishop,
who asked for a sign that he was telling the truth. So the lady told Juan Diego
to gather up the roses that were blooming, on a hillside where there had never
been flowers, put them in his cape, and not to show anyone but the bishop.
Again, Juan Diego followed instructions, and when he went to the bishop and
opened up his cape, the roses tumbled out revealing the image of the lady. That
image of her still exists, on the same cape, hanging in the cathedral built on
that hillside.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mary appeared to
Juan Diego as a dark-skinned, dark-haired woman, speaking his native language,
Nahuatl. She doesn’t look otherworldly, angelic, but like a real woman, and she
sounds like the kind of mom everybody wants.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We wait at the
shrine, drinking our punch. I wish mine were spiked with tequila, but no such
luck. Norma knows that Antonio and I have broken up, and though she has no
official position, I know she thinks what everyone seems to think — I should
live in the now, enjoy myself. I hear drums in the distance, then a sound like
a parade approaching. The dancers appear.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">They are all young
men, dressed as <i>viejitos</i>, old men and
women, their costumes including demonic-looking masks, raggedy clothes, canes.
They do a simple, traditional dance that came from the village in Guerrero from
which their families originated. Percussion fills the air, but the loudest
sound I hear is my heart, as I watch only my love. It’s obvious who he is,
costumed or not. He and my host brother are the tallest pair by far, and he the
most graceful dancer. The rhythm, the dancing, the night — it’s enough for me
to forget all the reasons we shouldn’t be together.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You’re
staring,” Norma says, nudging me.</span><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I pull
my eyes away, look at her. “I’m watching the dancers.”</span><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You’re
watching <i>one</i> dancer.”</span><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I sigh,
don’t bother denying it. <i>Help me,
Virgencita</i>.</span><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“It is well, littlest and dearest of my
daughters. Am I not here who is your Mother?”</span></i><i><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After
dancing for a while, the <i>viejitos</i>
remove their masks, greeting friends in the crowd. I want to run, I want to
hide, but what is the point? We share all the same friends. I might as well get
used to this.</span><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Are you not under my shadow and protection?”</span></i><i><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Antonio
approaches, extends his hand in the customary greeting, kisses my cheek. I
think I might crack in half from the pain. I see the same hurt on his face,
which is no consolation. Why did we break up again?</span><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’m glad you
came.” He says it so quietly, with such sincerity. It is an arrow in my heart.
I can’t look at him, only nod.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hey, <i>cabrón</i>!” one of his buddies shows up
with a flask of tequila — thank God — and offers it to us, pouring it into
small paper cups. The women pass out tamales and more punch, but after a
precious few minutes it is time for the dancers to process on to the next
shrine.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He turns to look at
me. “Will you come with us?” he asks.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“How
long will you dance?”</span><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“All
night.”</span><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And then I see it —
why we have broken up. Because as much as I love being here for this moment,
this is only a moment to me. I am dropping in, passing through, and he is
upholding a tradition passed from one generation to the next.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes,
I’ll be here,” I say. For now. I don’t have to add this part. He knows it. He
kisses my cheek, lingering for only a moment longer than he should. I inhale
his scent, like spring rain, reach up a hand to touch his face, but stop short.</span><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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returns to the dancers, I return to Norma, hollow as the drums that surround
us.</span><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Here I will see their tears; I will console
them and they will be at peace.”</span></i><i><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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yet at peace, but following the dancers that night processing from shrine to
shrine, I begin to believe in <i>La Virgen</i>.
I lose a boyfriend, but I gain a Mother.</span><span style="background: white; color: #500050; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Julie Owsik
Ackerman is finishing a novel based on her experiences studying in Mexico. <</span><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="mailto:julieack@gmail.com" target="_blank">julieack@gmail.com</a>></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-46561485381810031872016-10-14T11:48:00.000-04:002016-10-14T11:48:01.904-04:0010 Sweetest Things, 5 1/4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My baby is 5 already. Five and a quarter in a few days. Where do the days, months, years go? I just re-read some old entries, and was struck by how much I had forgotten. Everyone says that you forget things, but I didn't really believe them.<br />
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So, for the sake of remembering, here are 10 sweetest things about right now:<br />
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<ol>
<li>He holds my hand as we walk to school. These days may be numbered, so I enjoy every last one.</li>
<li>He kisses me goodbye, in front of his whole class. Ditto above - days numbered.</li>
<li>He hugs me, both spontaneously, and when asked.</li>
<li>He makes up his own songs. All the time. Sometimes I question the content, like the one with the refrain about drinking alcohol, but mostly they are about God's creation (Catholic School), or whatever he is looking at (ie living room couches.)</li>
<li>He loves to read stories together. Current favorites: The Pout Pout Fish, Star Wars anything, and anything haunted.</li>
<li>He asks us to make up haunted stories, almost every day, then tells us when they get too scary.</li>
<li>He loves to help: vacuuming, feeding Nalu, emptying trash - any job he can do around the house, he does with joy.</li>
<li>He's a road warrior. We can drive 6 hours to Central New York, with nary a complaint from the backseat.</li>
<li>He's generous. He'll share his dessert, even if it's M&Ms, and he only has a few left.</li>
<li>He loves to tell jokes. He's even creating his own material. He'll be writing his own blog entries soon.</li>
</ol>
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-84719573925344870492015-07-26T22:43:00.000-04:002015-07-26T22:43:43.086-04:00Hey Mexican National Futbol Team, Here's What to do in Philly<div class="MsoNormal">
First of all, let me say, <i>Bienvenido</i>. <i>Nuestra cuidad es su
cuidad.</i> Having spent a lot of time traveling in Mexico, enjoying the beauty and
culture of your country, I wanted to offer some tips on how to spend the time
you have in our corner of the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span>Get a cheesesteak. It’s our thing, what we’re
famous for here in Philly. So unless you’re vegetarian, then yes, get the
requisite cheesesteak. Dalessandro’s is the best cheesesteak in Philly, but, it’s
a bit out of the way, in Roxborough (600 Wendover St, Philadelphia). You can’t go wrong with Jim’s (400 South Street), Tony Luke’s (various locations) and most people like Pat’s (1237 E. Passyunk Ave.) I’d avoid
Geno’s, since they have an obnoxious order--in-English-only policy.</div>
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</span><!--[endif]-->If you’re looking for a taste of home, go to the
Italian Market in South Philadelphia – now full of Mexican restaurants and
markets. The Taqueria Veracruzana (908 Washington Ave.) is my favorite, but feel free to shop around.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</span><!--[endif]-->After filling your belly, be sure to wander down
South Street. Night or day, something interesting is always happening on South
Street. It’s a great place for people-watching, for shopping, for wandering. <o:p></o:p></div>
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</span><!--[endif]-->From South Street, head into Old City. Here is
where you’ll find Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. You can learn about
the early history of the United States, including fun facts about the hot and
sweaty summer when the Constitution was debated. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Round out your visit with a stroll down the Ben
Franklin Parkway, modeled on the Champs Elysees in Paris. Walk the wide
boulevard, enjoying the fountains, flowers and sculptures. Duck into the Barnes
Museum to see an amazing collection of modern art, the Rodin Museum if you
enjoy sculpture, or head to the mother museum, the Philadelphia Museum of Art,
where you can see a bit of everything, including two works by Diego Rivera. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Finally, no trip to Philly is complete without
running up the steps of the Art Museum, like Rocky, and jumping up and down at
the top. It’s fun, it’s silly, it’s mandatory. Just do it. Then take your
picture with the Rocky statue at the base of the steps. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There are many more things you could enjoy here in the summertime:
a Phillies game, a trip to the Jersey shore, an afternoon at a winery, an
outdoor concert at the Mann Center, dinner at one of our many world-class
restaurants. Do it all, and come back again. <o:p></o:p></div>
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-21715963355541929512015-07-19T13:10:00.001-04:002015-07-19T13:11:31.013-04:00A Wish for All Young Ball PlayersAnd in honor of my dad and the St. Bernadette's Beavers...<br />
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Originally published in The Philadelphia Inquirer on April 15, 2015<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Julie Owsik Ackerman</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">is a writing coach for college applicants</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Spring means crocuses, robins, and baseball. The Phillies come back to town, and little boys and girls are fitting their hands into leather gloves, running the bases, and swinging a bat. I began playing baseball on a boys' team, at the age of 5. I hated it. I would have preferred dance class, but no one was going to tell my mom that her daughter couldn't play baseball because she was a girl, and it was probably easier to take all of her children to one place. So off to the baseball diamond I went week after week.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After that first season, my parents switched me to the girls' softball league, which I liked better. I had three brothers, and lived on a block with all boys, so having girls around, at least at the ball field, was a relief. But did I even enjoy softball? I don't know. It's hard to like anything while you're learning. In those first years I just remember being at "The Field" all the time. We practiced when it was still so cold that my hands were red and raw, and would sting when I caught a ball in my glove. Other days we baked in the sun, thirsty and unsheltered. In the early years, I tried every position, kept showing up, kept practicing, and over time, became a decent player.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 12.375px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Although anyone could play in the town Little League, it was a big deal to make the St. Bernadette's school team. So when I made it in seventh grade I was pleased. In eighth grade, our coach got sick, and the call went out for volunteers. My dad asked me what I thought about him coaching. He had played Division 1 baseball at St. Joe's University, coached high school sports for years, and my brothers in many things, but could he handle girls? There weren't many options, so I said we could give it a try.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At our first team practice we told my dad we didn't want to order hats.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"What?" he asked, incredulous. "This is softball."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"They'll ruin our hair," one of the Nicoles explained. This was the 1990s - big bangs were important.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What would Dad do? Get angry? Force the hats on us? He thought for a moment, then said: "OK, I guess we'll vote on it. How many people want hats?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few nerds raised their hands.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He laughed, and then said, "OK, looks like we won't be wearing hats this year."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It may seem a small thing, even silly, this respect of our big bangs, but it was brilliant. With that vote, he showed us - he showed me - that he respected us, that he heard us, that our opinion mattered.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So began a magical season. With Katie Weinrich pitching, me at first base, the team's solid defense, and some good hitting, the St. Bernadette's Beavers were almost unbeatable. I'd never had so much fun. Winning will do that. Winning with your dad as the coach, and your friends as your teammates, well, that's a dream season.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The golden season tarnished a bit when I contracted chicken pox right before the playoffs. Restricted to bed, I learned the news when my dad came home from each game with his play-by-play report. It was torture to be lying at home, missing the pinnacle of everything we had worked to accomplish, but the team kept winning and winning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In a movielike ending, the doctor cleared me to return for the big game. We had made it all the way to the Archdiocesan Championship, playing to be the best Catholic school team in the whole Philadelphia area. I was so proud, so pleased, and so glad I could be there with my teammates. Pock-covered or not, I was ready to play my heart out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The score was 1-0. It was the bottom of the fifth inning (we played only six). The bases were loaded with one out, and I came up to bat. Here was my chance, to knock in the winning runs for my teammates. I gripped the bat, breathed, waited for my pitch, and when it came I knew it. I swung with all my pent-up weeks of frustration, crushing that ball. CRACK! I knew my glory moment had come. Just like in the movies, I heard the screams, I felt the joy, then no! No! THUD. The ball landed. Directly in the shortstop's glove. I was out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Everything went silent. It was supposed to be the best hit of my life. How could it end this way? I walked, trembling, back toward the bench, and when my dad put his arm around me, the tears just poured out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He hugged me and let me cry, let me be the 13-year-old that I was. After I calmed down he said, "Jewel, that was a great hit. You did everything you could. I'm proud of you."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We lost the game.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I recently asked my dad about the game, he said what he has always said, "If you had hit that ball two feet in the other direction, we would have won."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That was a good lesson to learn. Even when you pull yourself up from a sickbed and have a chance to be a hero, all you can do is swing the bat - you can't control where the fielder is standing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can't lie. The loss still hurts a little. But in losing, I won something way more valuable. I learned that day that my dad was proud of me even when I wasn't the hero, even when I lost. That is my wish for every child this baseball and softball season.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 12.375px;"><br /></span>Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-67187858227418292762015-07-19T13:04:00.002-04:002015-07-19T13:12:02.928-04:00Our Heritage Connects us to FamilyIn lieu of writing any new material, I thought I'd share some work that's been published elsewhere over the past few months. Happy summer :)<br />
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<img alt="Members of the Cara School of Irish Dance in Drexel Hill dance along the Benjamin Franklin Parkway on Sunday." src="http://media.philly.com/images/StPatricksDay-CaraSchool_600.jpg" /><br />
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<span style="line-height: 12.375px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Originally Published in The Philadelphia Inquirer March 17, 2015</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 12.375px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By Julie Owsik Ackerman</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why do we care about St. Patrick's Day?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm a third-generation Irish American. My mom's grandparents immigrated from Ireland and my grandparents were born in Philadelphia. So if I'm not looking for an excuse to drink too much Guinness, why celebrate at all? Why does it even matter to me that I'm Irish?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For me, the answer is that it mattered to my grandmom, and I loved her. Dorothy Higgins Wade grew up with Irish parents, in St. Brigid's Parish, in the Irish community in East Falls. Although she moved out to the suburbs when she married, she carried a love of that community and her Irish heritage with her, passing that love down to her daughter, who passed it down to me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In 1997, Grandmom, my parents, and I traveled to Ireland for a family reunion. More than a hundred family members gathered from the United States, Ireland, England, and Australia for the occasion. It was the first time my Irish American grandmother had ever visited the homeland, and she was thrilled. I was 21 that summer, a wee lass, and was suffering through a heartbreak in true Irish fashion - by drinking a lot, writing poetry, and crying on the shoulder of anyone who would listen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The trip helped me in ways I couldn't have imagined. After arriving in Dublin, the first odd thing I noticed was that everyone there looked like my family. I'd never been anywhere like that before. This was comforting at a time when I was feeling so lost and rejected.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Also, the Irish really are the friendliest people you'll ever meet, a trait that Grandmom and I both shared. Over the course of the 10 days, we would leave Grandmom on a bench to rest while we explored, and every single time we would return to find her with a new friend. Every time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It became increasingly difficult for me to be sullen and sad while surrounded by so many cheerful and friendly people.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a day in Dublin, we made our way to Sligo for the reunion weekend, and we had a big party. One of my younger Irish cousins had just joined a boy band, which sang a few songs at the gathering. That band would turn into teen sensation Westlife a few years later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the party, some cousins and I went out to a club, and I met a cute Irish guy who kissed me in an alcove while rain poured outside. Walking home later, my cousin Julie and I lost our way and hitched a ride with the local police. Dancing, kissing, riding in police cars - Ireland was bringing me back to life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After our weekend in Sligo, we went out to the family farm in County Mayo. As I stood with Grandmom in the doorway of the small home where her mother was born, my pain didn't disappear, but it shrank a bit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I saw that, yes, my broken heart mattered, but in the scheme of a life, it wouldn't be the only thing that would matter. I couldn't articulate it yet, but I know now that a seed of hope was planted that day with Grandmom: I would love again; I would marry; I would travel one day with a beloved child and tell him about people I loved who had passed on; he would hold my hand while I cried, just as I did for Grandmom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All of those things have come true.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So when St. Patrick's Day comes now, I don't start drinking at 9 a.m., and I don't go to parades or pull out a copy of James Joyce's <em>Ulysses</em>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I do make one of Grandmom's recipes, handwritten on index cards just for me. I do listen to some Irish music, even if it's just Blackthorn in my kitchen. I do call my mom to hear her say, "Top of the morning to you, my pretty colleen."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I do remember how much it meant to go to Ireland, to be with my Grandmom and my family, and to see that I was a part of something bigger than myself. I was loved, maybe not by one particular man, but by Dorothy Higgins Wade and a whole clan of crazy Irish folks.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 12.375px;"><br /></span>Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-15788188191343529242015-03-06T12:59:00.000-05:002015-03-10T12:41:13.067-04:00How to Survive a Shitstorm (Deep Acceptance)<div class="MsoNormal">
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My family got walloped this week. Not just with snow. Carl hurt his
back Monday morning. So badly he couldn’t get up for three days straight. I had
a migraine that started Sunday and lasted until Wednesday. And the three-year-old
and pug can’t take care of themselves just because we’re sick and hurt. (Can we
put that clause in the parenting contract somewhere?) <o:p></o:p></div>
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Immobile trumps migraine, so I was caring for everyone with
my headache. I do not recommend this. By Wednesday night, I felt beaten. Driving
home from work, exhausted, head pounding, I put in a CD called <a href="http://www.soundstrue.com/store/the-deepest-acceptance-2893.html">The Deepest Acceptance</a> by
<a href="http://www.lifewithoutacentre.com/">Jeff Foster</a>. He reminded me that most of my suffering comes when I want things
to be different from how they are. Right. It’s so simple and so true. Is the
headache causing my pain, or the fact that I want the headache to go away right
this instant? Is Carl being on his back causing my pain or the fact
that I want him to be up and helping right this instant? Is the snow
causing my pain or the fact that I want it to be spring right this instant? Usually, what is
causing my suffering is the latter. Something happens, and I don’t like it, but it’s
the fighting against it tooth and nail that causes the bulk of my pain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Why is this thought helpful? Because I can’t change the fact
that the headache is here. I have meds, but they don’t
always work. The headaches come when they come, and go when they go. But changing the
way I think about them does relieve some of the suffering. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The snow is another example. I hate winter. So when a friend texted me yesterday to ask if Daniel and I
wanted to come play in the snow with her, my first (inward) response was “hell,
no.” But, after being cooped up all morning with my husband on his fourth day at home immobile, I decided an outing was a good idea. We bundled up, and trudged outside. Daniel
brought his shovel with him, shoveling walks as we went. I had to admit, once I
stopped wishing the snow wasn’t here, that it was beautiful. My friend was
thrilled to see us, which further lifted my spirits. We lied on her lawn and
made snow angels. We hunted for a sled in her basement, finding an old
snowboard instead. We constructed a hill on her porch steps, then watched
Daniel slide down it over and over and over, saying, “I wanna go fast!” and “Can
I go again?” My grumpiness and my headache slid away as Daniel slid down the hill, as we laughed and played in the crisp winter air, laughing and loving it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Some days pain appears, some days joy appears. Some days
both. Jeff Foster says we don’t have to try accept anything, that anything that
appears we have already allowed into our experience, and have therefore already
accepted. I like that. I don’t have to try to accept, I’ve already accepted.
Just for today, I accept that it is March 6, that my world is snow covered,
that I did not get as much work done this week as I wanted, but that I took
care of myself, I was a good wife, a good mom, and I had a beautiful day with my
boy yesterday. Just for today, that feels like enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-26529696131566601142015-02-19T15:45:00.000-05:002015-02-19T15:45:54.615-05:00Beating the Winter Doldrums<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Come and swim at the Y M C A</td></tr>
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<br />
January was rough. My Grandmom died, I had this nasty cough/cold that wouldn't go away, and Daniel and I were having these epic battles about getting dressed every morning. And let's face it, it was January. Does anyone like January?<br />
<br />
Teetering at the edge of depression, I finally joined the gym I'd been talking about joining for years. We have a brand new YMCA near our house and my friends who belong are borderline cult-like in their love of it. I thought it was too far from our house, but when I google mapped the Y versus the LA fitness, it was only five minutes further, and Daniel could swim there too. Sold.<br />
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Since joining, my whole winter has turned around. During our first visit, Daniel played in the Kid Zone while I danced at Zumba - instant smile!!!! and Carl worked out. Amazing. Two happy parents and a not-too-unhappy kid.<br />
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For our second visit, we had a pool night. We all brought our bathing suits, and I played with Daniel while Carl swam laps, then Carl played with Daniel while I swam laps. It felt like a Tuesday night vacation. Three happy people on a Tuesday night in February. Amazing.<br />
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I know that endorphins make a big difference, but sometimes I guess I need a break from exercise to remember just what a big difference it makes. The week before I joined the gym I was borderline depressed. After three workouts I felt like myself again.<br />
<br />
A wise friend pointed out that it wasn't just the exercise, but the family date that put the smile on my face, and she was right. Since she said that I've been trying to do some kind of weekly family excursion once a week - whether it's splashing at the pool, or eating at Outback, something just for fun. In spring and summer, spontaneous fun abounds. In winter, it takes a bit more work. But with some focus and attention, with exercise, with watching daily comedy, I find that as friends complain about the winter doldrums, at least for today, I'm feeling pretty good.<br />
<br />Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-40099969970380599482014-12-09T13:37:00.000-05:002014-12-09T13:37:00.573-05:00Back to School<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmunbee2D3CIXtGEfbQzk9JxqI6NMzYmhjMskK3HlyNqjVi1jZPcvNo8q3ZYbeMOdIli0LSV4KksXIEMCaKjDeSuqE3Jay55j6ebBwrH0oAdF0LFGKGjl3HcqvW25r1k7UdCfpkdhLmQ/s1600/20141207_123344.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmunbee2D3CIXtGEfbQzk9JxqI6NMzYmhjMskK3HlyNqjVi1jZPcvNo8q3ZYbeMOdIli0LSV4KksXIEMCaKjDeSuqE3Jay55j6ebBwrH0oAdF0LFGKGjl3HcqvW25r1k7UdCfpkdhLmQ/s1600/20141207_123344.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Last weekend, after visiting Manhattan on Saturday, and staying with dear friends for the night in Pelham, we stopped by my alma mater, Fordham, for a brief visit. Usually when we go to the Bronx, I want to go to Mike's pizza, or Ann and Tony's for penne a la vodka, or Butchie's for their chicken sandwich. I love to walk through the Botanical Gardens, or visit the zoo, or walk up Fordham Road or Arthur Ave for a slice of local life. But this Sunday, in the dead of winter, after a very full day on Saturday, all I really wanted to do was walk through campus, and have brunch in the cafeteria, much as I would have twenty years ago.<br />
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I charmed the security guard with my true story of being an alum, wanting to visit and buy some Christmas gifts from the bookstore. He allowed us to park for free on campus. (Christmas miracle!) We walked through the biting wind, stopping for a picture in front of Keating Hall, and Daniel actually looked at the camera (miracle number two!) Walking into Keating, memories leapt out at me: the absolute confusion in Calculus, which I promptly dropped for an easier version; the glory of studying with Elizabeth Johnson, one of the premier feminist theologians of our time, as a freshwoman; her asking me to read one of my essays about gender aloud to the class; feeling sometimes slighted as a woman by the Jesuits; feeling enlivened by New York City - that anything was possible.<br />
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As we walked around campus I remembered writing for 'the paper,' the alternative campus newspaper, and that they asked me at the end of my freshman year, to be the editor-in-chief. I declined the honor, not wanting the responsibility, but I did keep writing. Looking back, it was good to remember that even then, I was a writer. That fact was obfuscated for awhile, but it has always been a part of who I am.<br />
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Brunch was pretty much the same, though they do have a gluten and nut-free station now. I told Carl how I had fought for vegetarian options in my day. Daniel had donuts, ice cream and frozen yogurt, which is probably how I ate when I lived there. "Is it possible to put on the freshman fifteen in one day?" asked Carl as he came back with his third plate of food.<br />
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The bookstore was closed, and though I didn't leave with any souvenirs, I did take home a clearer sense of myself, which is probably better than another Fordham t-shirt.Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-91979422857018668812014-11-27T09:26:00.000-05:002014-11-27T09:26:08.191-05:00Biggest Party Night of the Year - With Kids<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ZlGE4yeKsYscZm0RcLdvtKwchUJJuI73xtvDhvwwrfYD7ZOdcaxCywb75pvFU5clPDcoISzVQ7feaxgsfyGozsVNKs8BE6-Zf5ZZuQ0pRYf1sTDkKI4oev-ebBbRrC35c_OhPOkD634/s1600/10623684_10203871869970289_1685419095357541655_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ZlGE4yeKsYscZm0RcLdvtKwchUJJuI73xtvDhvwwrfYD7ZOdcaxCywb75pvFU5clPDcoISzVQ7feaxgsfyGozsVNKs8BE6-Zf5ZZuQ0pRYf1sTDkKI4oev-ebBbRrC35c_OhPOkD634/s1600/10623684_10203871869970289_1685419095357541655_o.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing can stop this family from having a good time</td></tr>
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The night before Thanksgiving used to mean meeting friends in a swanky lounge downtown, or a local neighborhood pub, or a sweaty dance club. For a few years, when most of my friends had kids, but I didn't, I held on to this tradition, tried to rally my gang for a night out, unable to accept that things had changed. Now, three years into parenthood myself, I get it. I'm not getting a babysitter for Thanksgiving Eve. Not gonna happen. But as I contemplated the weekend arriving, I wanted to be with friends. My nights in sweaty clubs may be (mostly) on pause, but that doesn't mean I can't see friends. So I took matters into my own hands, brought the party to me.<br />
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What the biggest party night of the year looks like, with kids, is this:<br />
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Your husband for some reason decides to clean off the top of the fridge for the first time in 10 years, right before everyone arrives, leaving the whole house smelling like bleach. This makes you open the windows even though it's 25 degrees and snowing. He's still vacuuming when people are arriving, since "there will be babies crawling," and though you want to murder him, because who cares if the rug is dirty when the food isn't ready, you remember his mom telling you to never interrupt a man who is cleaning, and remind yourself that it's good to have a clean rug and a sweet husband.<br />
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Four other families with youngens come, arriving at 6 pm. You order pizza, cook up some veggies from the CSA, and French fries for the kids. The guests bring crudite with hummus, Greek salad and pumpkin pie. You feast, eating in shifts, some people standing. Parents are used to this. When Rhoda stands, you discover she was sitting on your son's stethoscope. She laughs and said she didn't even feel it. You love her for this.<br />
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Daniel, Jacob and Ruthie, ages 3, 3 and 5, eat quickly - only pizza and fries, obviously, and then go play in the living room. When Teddy, age 3 arrives, he joins them. The babies, Trixie, Tyler and Kieran, ages 7 to 12 months, join the fray. After dinner, parents sit on couches, sprawl on the floor, talk in pairs or triads. The moms sit in the dining room for a blessed fifteen minutes and talk about comedy dreams, while the dads manage the mayhem in the living room. A few times you look in the living room and shudder to see every scarf, glove and hat that you own strewn about, along with every lego, toy, musical instrument and book. Oh well, it <i>is</i> the biggest party night of the year.<br />
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At 8:15, Lauren starts to pack up baby Trixie, the youngest of the bunch, with the biggest eyes, and most adventurous palate (duck confit, yes please says baby Trixie.) The dads do a crazy cleanup sweep that you wouldn't believe if you hadn't witnessed it. Your living room is restored to order in five minutes. Babies are bundled into car seats, kids into winter clothes. Hugs and kisses are exchanged. Your little guy is jumping on the couch like a maniac, fueled not even by sugar, but by the sheer excitement of Thanksgiving Eve. He's shouting Happy Halloween! Happy Easter! Your husband puts him to bed as you begin cleaning up and cutting up the bread to make the stuffing for Thanksgiving dinner.<br />
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No alcohol was served, it was hardly swanky, but it was loud, and full of love, and connection. The only thing missing was dancing. Next year, I'm adding a dance party to the mix.<br />
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Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-53988222770704361642014-11-06T22:25:00.000-05:002014-11-06T22:25:07.357-05:00Elvis Has Possessed My Three Year Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The King lives</div>
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A few months ago I asked my son what he wanted to watch on YouTube. Typical answers range from Elmo to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nllK4DwECz4">Ingrid Michaelson</a> (he's eclectic.) On that particular night he said, "Elvis." I assumed he has watched this with his dad, so I didn't think much of it, and gamely pulled up <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ct4bFKwZJRo">Elvis Aloha from Hawaii</a>. Later when I mentioned it to Carl, he said, "Yeah, he asked me to watch Elvis the other night, and I assumed you had watched it with him before."<br />
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"You mean, this didn't come from you?"<br />
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"No."<br />
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We looked at each other, dumbfounded. Where, then, did our child get the idea to watch Elvis?<br />
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Whatever its genesis, my son loves the King. We have watched Elvis Aloha from Hawaii almost every day since then. I have shown Daniel other Elvis footage, the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rolb1dAbUAA">comeback concert in '68</a>, when he's still svelte, dressed in black leather; the classic footage of him <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMmljYkdr-w">shaking his pelvis</a>, causing uproar in 1956; we've even watched the tragic but beautiful <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w2RQclUKdms">Unchained Melody</a> performance, just weeks before his death (at age 42!). But no, the boy is only interested in watching Elvis in Hawaii. Why? I can't really say.<br />
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The Hawaii concert makes me a little sad. Yes, he's still the King, but he's clearly high, and has begun his descent into his addiction. Yet he also has moments of clarity, charm, and talent to spare. He's not the man he was in the earlier performances, but vestiges of his prodigious gifts remain. Watching clips from the videos now, I'm struck by his lack of perfectionism, by the fact that he was still working, even in his addiction, until the very end, still offering his gifts to the world.<br />
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He may not have been sexy or even coherent all the time, but he was still singing. And my three year old loves it. Go figure.<br />
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Thanks. Elvis. You're still the King.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">When I asked Daniel what Nalu should be for Halloween, he said, without hesitation, "A hunk of burning love."<br /></td></tr>
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Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-16941687124396959892014-09-09T15:13:00.000-04:002014-09-09T15:13:08.504-04:00Is Bottle Good Enough?<img alt="A still from the simpsons shows a group of moms staring at Marge in horror after she dropped a baby bottle" src="http://bitchmagazine.org/sites/default/files/u2583/simpsons2.jpg" /><br />
<br />
I'm very excited to share an <a href="http://bitchmagazine.org/post/public-health-campaigns-shouldnt-shame-moms-who-choose-not-to-breastfeed">essay </a>I wrote about breastfeeding, published by <a href="http://bitchmagazine.org/">Bitch magazine</a>. Please read it if you're interested, and pass it along to any moms who may benefit from my experience.<br />
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As always, I love to hear your responses, either here on the blog, by email, or any way you wish to share them. I know many women, like me, have trouble with nursing. Failing at this act that seems like it should be so easy and natural caused me a lot of shame, and pain, at a time when I was vulnerable, hormonal, and sleep-deprived. The judgment from health professionals, other moms, and strangers didn't help. I might still be a tad angry. But writing the article helped. Check it out:<br />
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<a href="http://bitchmagazine.org/post/public-health-campaigns-shouldnt-shame-moms-who-choose-not-to-breastfeed">Is Bottle Good Enough?</a><br />
<br />
<br />Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-90141432098993244122014-08-22T15:13:00.000-04:002014-09-04T09:47:12.302-04:00A Daily Dose of Humor, My Cure for End of Summer Blues<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Czv58ZdfRNKBxHur0xndYxX_aj5V0MRhgNYU6ezin1WSCGW3V8aczQAvInzAvWaTYMwlidfEjkJx_qmHHyHEF3dyNCVbOqjk5VmB6xjqWpbxtenXFg2Ib2L9fmh7ScTmK8JDqJO0oIY/w700-h525-no/20140705_204855.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can't every day be like this?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
End of summer. Not my favorite time of year. My prescription for handling this is a daily dose of humor. In addition to all the other necessary self-care: the exercise, the meditation, the sleep, the healthy eating, time by myself, time with friends, time with Carl. Yes, I need all of it, and yes, sometimes it's exhausting. But right now, I also need to laugh.<br />
<br />
So here is a link to something that helped me look on the plus side of back to school: <span id="goog_1493990716"></span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s56-Ta35JRk">Baby Got Class<span id="goog_1493990717"></span>. </a>And if you've yet to discover <a href="http://www.thelonelyisland.com/">The Lonely Island</a>, Andy Sandberg's comedy group, check them out. My personal favorite of their videos is <a href="http://www.thelonelyisland.com/video/andy-punching">People Getting Punched Right Before Eating</a>, but there are so many good ones. Warning - most of them are explicit - so don't watch at the office or with your kids.<br />
<br />
Please post your favorite funny people or links here. Share the wealth.<br />
<br />
Buying something cute for fall helps too - even if it's just one small thing. Just saying.Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-47898484097729768122014-07-03T07:53:00.000-04:002014-07-03T07:53:13.403-04:00What If He Wore Pajamas to School?So apparently the "terrible twos" is a big fat lie and it's actually the "terrible threes." Here I was, thinking we were out of the woods, when the trouble was just beginning.<div>
<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio3WCzGMPxhA_iPxXz2PLS-nnHXYGlk4BFpscvbDroIXWdrZhSEqhahPigJdEYX0vwJEgMhT4QmDzPVCSrxPEt9Ev0QKgzemctPxIwD4wnOZ8Rw0_iJvOG7M-yBXJ5b0GC0vO2jIpBKV0/w394-h525-no/20140613_220117.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="300" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Okay, it's not all bad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Carl was away for nine days, though it's never easy, this trip coincided with the beginning of what I'll call an ornery phase. A few examples:<br />
<br />
D: I want cereal for breakfast.<br />
(upon seeing cereal in his bowl.)<br />
D: I want <i>yogurt</i> for breakfast!!!<br />
<br />
Me: Time for bed.<br />
D: It's <i>not </i>time for bed.<br />
<br />
Me: I like your haircut.<br />
D: You <i>don't </i>like my haircut.<br />
<br />
And then there's getting dressed. What was once a longish, fairly annoying process has become pure torture. For me. In Carl's absence, running late for work, out of patience, I slammed the bedroom door and told him that we weren't leaving his room until he was dressed. This set us up for a show down that left me completely drained, by 8:30 a.m.<br />
<br />
Upon recounting this to a friend with adult children, she said, "What if you had just let him wear his pajamas to school?"<br />
<br />
Her question stopped me short. I thought about it. "Everyone would have judged me," I said. "All the teachers, and other parents."<br />
<br />
My friend paused, then said gently, "Probably not."<br />
<br />
I exhaled loudly, realizing two things: she was right, and even if she wasn't, even if they all judged me, the awful fifteen minutes of forcing my child to get dressed was just not worth it. Let them judge.<br />
<br />
So now, whenever I start to have a conflict with Daniel, I ask myself, "What if he doesn't: brush his teeth, put on his shoes, eat his carrots, say goodbye, etc?" And most of those battles, I let them go. Because if I'm going to survive the threes with any serenity, I'm going to have to pick my battles.</div>
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-73764150076542388952014-06-20T17:12:00.000-04:002014-06-20T17:14:56.296-04:00Goodbye to Age Two<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavsTQU0lmM9gGetGmeaG3SrooOOW_Yoeop0UAGNdV7TOmASCdk7ynsgaNxOzq0shdzPQFcNtnhgpnSBmssR-MQrqGVZPc3O7DftWcg0SKtXsdyS0pt0IBlFKshle-nO-F2LeRTkTrbzM/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavsTQU0lmM9gGetGmeaG3SrooOOW_Yoeop0UAGNdV7TOmASCdk7ynsgaNxOzq0shdzPQFcNtnhgpnSBmssR-MQrqGVZPc3O7DftWcg0SKtXsdyS0pt0IBlFKshle-nO-F2LeRTkTrbzM/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tender moment</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On my son’s third birthday, I’m feeling a bit wistful. Even
though I do NOT miss infancy, (I barely survived it with my sanity intact,) when
I kissed my boy goodnight last night and said, this is the last time I’ll see you
when you’ll be two, my heart caught in my throat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never know when these moments will happen. His first
birthday came and went with no feelings. But when I turned his car seat from
backwards to forward facing, I burst into tears, realizing, he’ll be
riding forward for the rest of his life! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He threw a doozy of a tantrum on the eve of his third
birthday as if to remind me just what I wouldn’t miss. But for the most part, I
loved age two. I loved the sweetness of it. We’d be riding along in the car,
and he’d shout from the backseat, “Mommy – school bus!” or “Bridge!” or “Digger!”
So much about ordinary everyday life is so fresh and exciting for him, and he
has the words to express it. I enjoy his growing independence, his ability to walk
distances, put on shoes, pull up pants, climb in and out of the car. He’s not always
cooperative, of course not, but he’s rather reasonable for a kid, and will
often compromise, or strike some sort of deal. (Yes, toddlers should teach
negotiation skills in law and business school.) Two was fun.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWqYpvDOU3dmajlVTNLl2LzEp_rPvX20qcErHiPMM9qX3c7IUwHZBKvCcXqWznCC6Ln8Mr_lu525IZWIydzIsY7sUZpqN8bDvZlopobGp5XcmCy-LRFAP2M1zE4uUoAxYZUUCOkYDuLjg/s1600/Daniel's+3rd+birthday.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWqYpvDOU3dmajlVTNLl2LzEp_rPvX20qcErHiPMM9qX3c7IUwHZBKvCcXqWznCC6Ln8Mr_lu525IZWIydzIsY7sUZpqN8bDvZlopobGp5XcmCy-LRFAP2M1zE4uUoAxYZUUCOkYDuLjg/s1600/Daniel's+3rd+birthday.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He's three!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my friends says each stage of a child’s life has
gains and losses. I’m sure age three will have things I’ll like – goodbye diapers
– and some things I won’t. I’ll try to keep focusing on the positive, enjoying
the gifts of three and remembering that all we ever have is the present. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As
much as I may want to freeze him in time, in this sweet innocent phase, I can’t,
and I don’t really want that anyway. The best I can do is to stay present as
much as possible, and enjoy each moment as it unfolds, and when sadness arises,
welcome that too, as part of being alive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What did you love about age three? Any tips for the hard parts? <o:p></o:p></div>
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-49742898369605768212014-04-11T16:33:00.002-04:002014-04-11T16:33:58.608-04:00Giving up Rushing for Lent (Again)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT9xVT1lsWKvtOsGrRdOPD4ot9Kh8Ve9mm3Aom03nWe_PHXIET_" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two very wise creatures</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that Lent is almost over, I can confess that I have
given up rushing <a href="http://anythingformaterial.blogspot.com/2013/03/taking-my-time.html">(again)</a> and that I forgot that I had done this last year. So,
there is still work to be done here. Yes, when driving. My instinct when
driving is to increase speed when the light turns yellow, to go at least five
miles an hour above the speed limit, to never wait behind someone making a left
hand turn if it can be avoided. I have experimented over the past few weeks
with noticing these impulses, and sometimes doing the opposite. The interesting
thing is that waiting behind that car in the left lane is not that bad. It
doesn’t take me any longer to get places than it does when I rush, and when I
arrive, I am much calmer. Hm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Besides on the road, the time I notice the most rushing is
in the morning with my son. No wonder our mornings can be so unpleasant and
full of conflict when I’m always rushing us. I realized that part of the reason
for this is that we have to get to school by a certain time for him to eat
breakfast there. So I experimented for the past two days, and fed Daniel at home,
and it changed my whole attitude about our morning. I didn’t care nearly as
much about when we arrived at school. Interestingly, we actually got there in
time for breakfast, but the whole morning leading up to it was so much more
pleasant for both of us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lent is almost over, but I hope to take these lessons with
me. Rushing only makes me less happy, and doesn’t get me there any faster. Maybe
Mr. Rogers was right about taking our time, like he was right about so many
things.<o:p></o:p></div>
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-6646395603836739932014-04-04T12:33:00.000-04:002014-04-04T12:35:04.982-04:00Where Have I Been?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObVoZSdE0a8NW59COchOcFcRZevgcgmJXmxJEa6FIXZTjCM1QAmtYUrTg4UabW-AoNARO_RSZZVKot8bNPyDY4t6C_aZ8h8EUVBlr7l2r5l4G-9P_UrRMu0loHXldP4h3wEWjbQTVSbA/w362-h482-no/20140309_103937.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just pretty. No relation to text.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Seriously, it's a good question.<br />
<br />
Well, for the past month, I've mostly been sick with headaches. You can read more about that at<a href="http://4broadminds.blogspot.com/search/label/Julie"> 4 Broads.</a> I am thrilled to say that I have been headache free for five straight days, which I think means the cycle is broken, and I'm on the road back to health. Goddess-willing.<br />
<br />
I've also been writing a lot about breastfeeding, and one of those articles is going to be published in Bitch magazine - yippee - as soon as I finish writing it.<br />
<br />
I've been editing lots of work for other people. If you need help with editing, or know someone who does, please contact me. I love editing other people's writing. It gives me some kind of sick satisfaction. So much easier than creating my own work.<br />
<br />
But yes, I'm still creating my own work. I'm finishing up my first novel. For real this time. I'm working on poems and essays, and even a 10 minute play.<br />
<br />
I have a new website in the works too.<br />
<br />
So that's a little about me. What are you up to this spring? I'd love to know.Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-34805641755295578232014-01-28T16:07:00.000-05:002014-01-28T16:07:29.314-05:009 Ways to Like Winter More<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEGMHiA-pmMvgGtMuFBHFrrYFLjBovEAHtO-h76ZpD8QXaF6nZb5Z-PUaJjCE39eEujaySnyzyi9w6Vg6H3RA7gMay4hCSmvsonnCc-XGhX12W8l8WMkv6CKkGJyIZYWG_h2AC29rXTA0/s1600/Julie+and+Nalu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEGMHiA-pmMvgGtMuFBHFrrYFLjBovEAHtO-h76ZpD8QXaF6nZb5Z-PUaJjCE39eEujaySnyzyi9w6Vg6H3RA7gMay4hCSmvsonnCc-XGhX12W8l8WMkv6CKkGJyIZYWG_h2AC29rXTA0/s1600/Julie+and+Nalu.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nalu and I huddle for warmth</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Okay, it will never be my favorite time of year. I don’t love that
I have to wear a knit hat and four layers of clothes, inside my house, just to
stay reasonably warm. But I’m trying to look at the bright side.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 13.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Work with me, people!<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
1) Plan fun events. Carl and I have concert tickets for Feb. 28.
My mom and I are going to see a favorite writer speak next week. I have two
birthday parties coming up. In winter, I can't rely on fun just happening, I
need some guarantees. Plans help.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
2) Get a vacation on the calendar. Even if
it's not until July, you can start dreaming about it now. My mom and I just
bought plane tickets to Paris for April, and boy has that put a spring in my
step.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
3) Spend time outside. I know, it's
freezing - literally. We still need fresh air. Bundle up and take the dog, the
kid, or yourself for a walk. Even 20 minutes will help. I promise.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
4) Have things that force you to leave the
house at night. It gets dark so early. If I'm home, I'm likely to curl up in
front of the TV, which is okay sometimes. But if I have a plan to meet a friend
or hear a lecture, I may have to drag myself out of the house, but I'm always
glad I did.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
5) Start a book club or coffee clatch or
sewing circle. I really wanted a writing group and I couldn't find one that
worked for me. Desperate, I started one, inviting a few friends and
acquantainces. Not only does it get me out of the house every other Thursday, I
get to share the joy and struggle of writing with people who understand. Priceless.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
6) Appreciate time to hibernate. Catch up
on Oscar nominees, Downtown Abbey, whatever you missed while you were enjoying those
long summer nights.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
7) Take up a winter sport. Ice skating,
skiing, snowboarding: these are things that could help me to enjoy winter. (So
they say. I've yet to try this one.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
8) Take baths, sip hot tea, make soup. Strictly winter
pleasures.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
9) Visit museums. Winter is the perfect time to rediscover the joy of dinosaur bones or Matisse
or medical oddities.<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
What have I missed? Seriously, I need help with this one.</div>
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-68113893303057537232013-11-22T11:02:00.001-05:002013-11-22T11:02:48.251-05:00Make a List, Check it Twice<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<a 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" width="200" /></a>A few weeks ago, I asked my co-worker Evan how much time he spent
in Wegman’s when he did his food shopping. “30 minutes or so,” he said. I was spending, on average, 60 minutes each time I went there,
and not coincidentally, way more money than I planned to. “It’s all about the
list,” he said. I told him I usually had a list. "But do you stick to it?" he asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What a concept.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I have a list when I go to the store, my eye wanders, especially at Wegman's. Maybe I do need that hot wing cheese dip. Or that new brand of granola, or the chipotle hummus. Maybe the
blue corn tortilla chips are healthier. With so many choices, my trips there became
endless, overwhelming, exhausting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next week, I took Evan’s advice. I made a comprehensive
list and went into the store, determined to only buy what was on it. It took
great discipline with so many temptations: the funky car magnets I’d admired, pita chips for the aforementioned hummus, pepperoni for our pizza – but no, I stood firm, stuck to the list, and got out
of there in 30 minutes, on budget. Amazing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I resisted each impulse to buy something not
on the list I realized those urges came from a scarcity mentality – I have to buy it
now, because maybe I won’t have another chance. I’m not sure what that’s about,
but once I realized it was driving my buying choices, it was easier to say, no,
I food shop at least once a week, if I really need eggs, I can get them. Having
a list helped me feel more secure that I wouldn't have to do an extra grocery trip for a forgotten item.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ultimate triumph of the list came the following week when I took
my list, my new discipline and my toddler to Target. Somehow, I found everything that I needed and was back in the car in 30
minutes. With a toddler. This might not be walking on water, but for my world, it was miraculous. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The list made me realize how
susceptible I am to clever marketing, how distracted I am, how tempted to buy things I don't need, and have never considered until they catch my wandering eye in the store.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Could this possibly work for Christmas shopping? If you try it, let me know how it works out.<o:p></o:p></div>
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-8485219032676594132013-10-22T19:01:00.000-04:002013-10-22T19:01:57.526-04:00My New York Times DebutIn case you missed the big news, I had my New York Times Debut on October 13 - the Sunday Times, no less.<br />
<br />
In response to an essay called <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/10/06/fashion/a-feminists-daughter-finds-love-in-the-kitchen.html?_r=0">A Feminist's Daughter Finds Love in the Kitchen</a>, I wrote a response, which they printed in the Style section. I'd love to hear your responses to the essay, a subject near to my heart - how to balance our own needs with our children's.<br />
<br />
Thank God my mom gave me great advice, so I could submit it to The New York Times!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_rdHaJlDmkuxwTvQ3if0jdb6YYe9J8s76o-1Rm_VKnHRYVP87rxsAh-JIdqucGI5gGfQlUsHlry8L7Pzy2iyttd6kvuZGJrjgTD62CqqMFiq0Pq8s5Nfoa96hy-e3fJ9_GUS_qGbHXQ/s1600/New+York+Times+Debut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_rdHaJlDmkuxwTvQ3if0jdb6YYe9J8s76o-1Rm_VKnHRYVP87rxsAh-JIdqucGI5gGfQlUsHlry8L7Pzy2iyttd6kvuZGJrjgTD62CqqMFiq0Pq8s5Nfoa96hy-e3fJ9_GUS_qGbHXQ/s320/New+York+Times+Debut.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-65845867637043179742013-10-11T11:08:00.000-04:002013-10-11T11:08:14.371-04:00It's Okay to Feel Sad<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTN9WHhAZeTvFJ91GaKmGTfwqiRMp0GeQtQ_4FznTe4pkl49aIV" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel's face at drop-off is sadder than this</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each morning, when I drop Daniel off at school, as I say
goodbye, he clings to me. He says, “I want my mommy to stay,” makes the saddest
face anyone has ever seen, and often bursts into tears. I hate this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But with the help of some friends and some books: (thank you
How to Talk so Kids Will Listen and Listen so Kids will Talk) I realized that I
was making it worse by denying his feelings. By saying things like, “You love
school,” or “You’re going to have fun today,” or “You’re okay,” I wasn’t
permitting him to have his feelings. In point of fact, I didn’t want him to
feel sad, because then I felt sad, unsure, guilty, and I hated that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once I realized that I’d been trying to gloss over his
feelings, I began saying, “This is the hard part, saying goodbye. It’s okay to
be sad.” This simple statement, said with sincerity, defuses his sadness pretty
quickly. Earlier this week, he actually let go of me, and I didn’t have to peel
his little fingers off my hand or leg.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend said to me recently that he found in parenting his
children, he was really parenting himself. This started me thinking about how I
don’t acknowledge my own “bad” feelings. I do have a naturally sunny
temperament, but I also have a tendency to stuff or deny feelings like sadness,
guilt, anger, fear. Because I don’t like feeling them, I pretend that I don’t. Each
time I tell Daniel it’s okay to be sad, I’m telling myself the same thing. I
need that message as much as he does, maybe more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Besides changing my strategy at drop-off, I also try to
remember that everyone’s life has good and bad, comfort and discomfort, every
day. I cannot prevent Daniel from experiencing discomfort. Of course I hate the
idea of him suffering, but knowing that it’s not my job to prevent it allows me
to breathe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what can I do? I can acknowledge his feelings, listen to
him without judgment. And I can give us all some extra leeway during transitions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be overwhelmed. It’s
okay to be guilty and unsure. The more I accept these feelings, welcome them
even, explore them with curiosity, the less scary they are, the less they rule
my life, the more I’m free to enjoy the good.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-47129100524516135702013-09-10T11:22:00.000-04:002013-09-10T11:22:05.241-04:00Rancho Relaxo No' Mo'<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUVz2AYu7TBAIXxBf-25xxOCBhu-AMwPPNAU5MYFJQa-OG7_ifNoBtSJogb4YIMJHNG3aPVjwvtfnr18D4c5d2shsXRPbw87OUWfgwowKUMEds3os6vPeDHqb1yoGf-gKo1S9Nj9LUIas/s1600/2012-2013+245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUVz2AYu7TBAIXxBf-25xxOCBhu-AMwPPNAU5MYFJQa-OG7_ifNoBtSJogb4YIMJHNG3aPVjwvtfnr18D4c5d2shsXRPbw87OUWfgwowKUMEds3os6vPeDHqb1yoGf-gKo1S9Nj9LUIas/s320/2012-2013+245.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what a week on Maui will do for you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Summer in the Ackerman household is Rancho Relaxo. Carl has
about eight weeks when he’s not teaching, and though he works part of the time,
he is home more than usual. Daniel stays home with Daddy while I work, we spend
long weekends at the shore, we loll in Lake Ontario with the Ackermans. This
summer, Carl and I spent 10 glorious days in Hawaii. In a lifetime of great
summers, this was one of the best I've had.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now it’s over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
End of summer is hard every year. We transition from Rancho
Relaxo to Rancho Insane-o. Jumping back into the school year routine is a bitch
slap. Carl wakes at 5:30, I follow by 6. Must get dog walked, everyone fed,
dressed, with daily lunch and necessities in hand and out the door by 7:15. This
requires organization during weekends and evenings – food must be bought,
lunches packed, laundry done, etc. Which is all fine. I like our school year
routine. In fact, by the end of summer, I crave the structure and routine of
fall. I need time at home, dates with friends, quiet time to write. But these
first few weeks are always an adjustment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This year, Daniel began preschool. So into the regular
transitional mix we added learning how the school works, what Daniel needs during
the day, how to help him adjust to being there four full days a week, what
drop-off and pickup will be like. When the first day was hard (as everyone said
it would be), a torrent of second-guessing and fear overcame me: was I doing
the right thing? Was I a selfish mom? Yes, we need my income, but shouldn’t our
child’s well-being come first? Is there another situation that would be better,
easier?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day two was a lot better than day one. Daniel’s teacher told
me how she had held him until he fell asleep at naptime, which told me
everything I needed to know about how kind she was. I ran into an acquaintance
who taught preschool for 25 years. She said, “Preschool teachers have a special
love for the little ones who have separation trouble. He will feel that love.”
I knew she was speaking the truth, and that God had sent her to tell me that. I
reminded myself that I had done my due diligence. I hadn’t just willy-nilly
signed Daniel up for this program. I had prayed, meditated, researched,
visited, discussed. Now I had to give it a chance to work, knowing that usually
it takes a week or two to adjust, and even though I’m uncomfortable now, the
reward will be great if this new situation works for us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve intensified my self-care over the past two weeks: made
time for a massage, rested more, attended church, fed myself well, bought a new
pair of boots (one consolation of fall.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Share your wisdom with me. What helps you (or your children)
adjust to change? How do you take care of yourself when things are hard? I know
that most of the country is in transition in these first weeks of September.
How can we help each other survive Rancho Insane-o?<o:p></o:p></div>
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-36332632423254235012013-05-17T11:10:00.000-04:002013-05-17T11:10:09.196-04:00Stop Apologizing<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
<img src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcToipynzn9YzsHfjBpeJKpFr-mrwzy3FLIU0mgih9-JcGBx92P4" /></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I don’t believe in twisting yourself into knots of excuses
and explanations over the food you make. When one’s hostess starts in with
self-deprecations such as ‘Oh, I don’t know how to cook…,’ or ‘Poor little me…,’
or ‘This may taste awful…,’ it is so dreadful to have to reassure her that
everything is delicious and fine, whether it is or not. Besides, such
admissions only draw attention to one’s shortcomings (or self-perceived
shortcomings), and make the other person think, ‘Yes, you’re right, this really
is an awful meal!’ Usually one’s
cooking is better than one thinks it is.” </i>Julia Child</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This passage from <u>My Life in France </u>really stuck with me.
Maybe because, like most women, I overapologize. Someone will bump into me in the street, and I automatically say, "I'm sorry." Ironically, when I’ve done something wrong, it’s hard to apologize, but when I’m falling short of the expectation to be the perfect mother, homemaker and woman, I can't keep the explanations in my mouth. “I’m so sorry the house is a mess.” “I’m so sorry dinner isn’t ready yet.” “I’m so sorry I don’t have vegan cupcakes made from raw organic ingredients for your child.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I read Julia's above thoughts, I realized it is annoying to have to
reassure someone that they are okay, so why should I put guests in that
position?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With my antenna up about this issue, I started noticing it
in other people. I have shown up at a friend’s house, who said, “Oh my god,
there’s cat hair everywhere, I haven’t dusted in weeks, and oh, God, that's my son’s dirty underwear in the corner.” I definitely would
not have noticed any of those things had she not pointed them out. Even if I
had, I certainly am not inclined to judge anyone else’s housekeeping, and if I
am, isn’t that my problem? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So unusual is the unapologetic host that she makes quite an impression when she does appear. A friend reported to me how, twenty years
ago, when her son hurt himself on the playground, an
acquaintance invited them to her house to bandage him up. The house was
disastrous—dishes piled in the sink, toys and clothes strewn everywhere,
outrageously messy—and the hostess didn’t apologize or explain. According to my Grandmom, my cousin Adelaide was always happy to host a party, no matter the state of her home. “She
would have dustbunnies the size of cats, and they didn’t bother her in the
least.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both incidents were reported with admiration, disbelief - like how could you possibly be relaxed and unbothered by other people seeing your mess? I'm working on this skill, and because I have a living tornado, in the form of a toddler, I get plenty of practice. I can straighten up the house five times a day and still have a disaster scene. Why bother?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, fair warning, if you're coming over for dinner, you might find a messy house and a mediocre meal, but you'll also have a happier, more relaxed hostess. And aren't you coming over to spend time with me, not to judge me? Maybe I can inspire you to worry less about your dustbunnies, and then your mess could inspire someone else. Let's start a chain of unapologetic imperfection.</div>
Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858340566254161761.post-61656066429892203752013-05-10T12:15:00.004-04:002013-05-10T12:15:56.774-04:00Juggling Act<br />
<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
<img height="320" src="http://bernicewood.files.wordpress.com/2010/08/woman20juggling_2.jpg" width="182" /></div>
<br />
<br />
A tired cliche, I know, but I really do feel I've been juggling many balls in the air over the past few months. I've been working part-time, writing essays, planning a writing workshop, mothering Daniel, considering a return to my legal career, experimenting with screenwriting, and yes, I recently returned to my second novel.<br />
<br />
So I haven't written many blog posts, and I'm trying to not feel guilty about it.<br />
<br />
What I have written is posted at<a href="http://4broadminds.blogspot.com/"> 4 Broad Minds</a> - thoughts on<a href="http://4broadminds.blogspot.com/2013/05/mothers-day-isnt-all-brunch-and-flowers.html"> Mother's Day</a> and <a href="http://4broadminds.blogspot.com/2013/03/cant-we-in-laws-get-along.html">mothers-in-law</a>. I hope you'll come visit me there.<br />
<br />Julie Owsik Ackermanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11583691214627281052noreply@blogger.com0