Elvis Has Possessed My Three Year Old

The King lives

A few months ago I asked my son what he wanted to watch on YouTube. Typical answers range from Elmo to Ingrid Michaelson (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 Elvis Aloha from Hawaii. 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."

"You mean, this didn't come from you?"

"No."

We looked at each other, dumbfounded. Where, then, did our child get the idea to watch Elvis?

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 comeback concert in '68, when he's still svelte, dressed in black leather; the classic footage of him shaking his pelvis, causing uproar in 1956; we've even watched the tragic but beautiful Unchained Melody 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.

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.

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.

Thanks. Elvis. You're still the King.

When I asked Daniel what Nalu should be for Halloween, he said, without hesitation, "A hunk of burning love."

Stop Apologizing

“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.” Julia Child

This passage from My Life in France 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.”

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?

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?

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.” 

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?

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.

Superwoman is Fiction

Last Thursday, as I drove to the car dealership, I sang out loud, “I’m super woman,” to the tune of “I’m Every Woman.” You’d think by now I might recognize the pride before the fall, but no, I didn’t. I congratulated myself on waking up, meditating, feeding everyone, and getting out the door in time. My packed schedule continued all day, without incident until 5 PM, when Carl came in the door.

“Sorry, I just heard your message,” he said.

I noticed he did not have the rolls or horseradish sauce I’d asked him to pick up on his way home. He plopped onto the couch and said he was exhausted, had body aches, and feared he had the flu. Did I feel sympathetic? No. I felt something more like fury. I was tired too. And now what were we going to have for dinner, and how was I going to get to my writing group on time, and who was going to entertain the very energetic toddler?

I huffed and sulked, then took the dog with me to pick up the things for dinner. An hour later, as I took our sandwiches out of the oven, Carl asked if something was wrong.

“I’m irritated,” I said.

When he asked why, I sighed, then thought about it. I wanted to blame my bad mood on someone else, namely him, but really, once again, the problem lied within. I had taken on too much that day, causing me to feel completely overwhelmed at the smallest obstacle. "Why don't you sit down for a few minutes?" he suggested.

Thank God I married someone who can remind me how to stay sane. When I get stressed, everything I know about staying calm flies right out of my head. But I knew he was right. I needed a few quiet minutes to calm down.

After just a few deep breaths I realized it wouldn’t matter all that much if I was a little late for the writing group. I remembered that I could ask Carl to finish the laundry and put Daniel to bed. I remembered one of my mantras, “I have all the time I need.”

Anytime I start thinking I’m superwoman, I’m in trouble. Some days I am quite amazed at what I can accomplish. But that level of energy is unsustainable for me, unless I take time for self-care. I don’t know if superwoman needed to meditate, eat well, exercise and rest, but I do.

Baking, Part 2

This is the cake

This is the toddler on cake
Any questions?

If you haven't already tried the yogurt cake recipe from Bringing Up Bebe, see the previous post and give it a try. Suggestion from baker extraordinaire Carolyn: use the recipe to make muffins instead of a cake. She says it makes them brown all over, which sounds awesome. Also, they probably won't be liquid in the middle, as my above cake was.

I continued my brownie experiments too (and I wonder why my jeans are feeling tight). This brownie recipe is AWESOME, and really easy. Almost as easy as making brownies from a box. And so much tastier. I used Ghiardelli cocoa powder, which probably helped.

Anyone have a favorite Christmas cookie recipe they want to share? I'm going to have to track down Aunt Dotsie's cream cheese cookie recipe. That is my all time favorite. I'll share it here if she lets me.

Happy baking!

Baking is NOT an Exact Science

In honor of everyone's favorite food holiday, I'd like to encourage those of you who are intimidated by baking to give it a try. Here's what bakers don't want us to know: it's not an exact science. I know, this flies in the face of conventional wisdom. But a friend posted something on Facebook about improvising when baking recently, and when I questioned her further, she insisted it was possible, that all I needed was trial and error. I remained skeptical.

But just as when you're pregnant, suddenly you see baby bumps everywhere, with my baking antenna up, I kept hearing the same message: there is wiggle room. Feeling brave, I attempted the yogurt cake recipe, found in Bringing Up Bébé, a lovely memoir by Pamela Druckerman, an American woman raising her children in France. Druckerman claims a toddler can make this cake on their own and not mess up, because the measurements don't have to be exact. I was intrigued, but thought I'd try it myself before involving Daniel.

My only problem was that the only yogurt I had was Greek. When I folded this into the batter, it seemed too thick, so I added some milk and hoped for the best. It came out beautifully—my friend Carolyn said it looked like something from a patisserie. I don’t know about that, but it tasted good, and looked good too.

Spurred on by my success, I offered to bring dessert to a friend’s house after a last minute dinner invitation. Daniel was napping, so I scanned the cabinets. I had chocolate chips, but not enough to make Blondies, my only baking standard. I looked in my trusty How to Cook Everything for a Brownie recipe. It called for unsweetened chocolate, but I figured semi-sweet chips would just be a bit sweeter. (A substitution I wouldn't have dared make a few weeks prior.) After I began melting the chocolate and butter, I realized that all our eggs were hard-boiled. Grr.

With my new baking confidence, I scanned the internet for an egg-free brownie recipe, and found one that uses flour and water as a binder instead of eggs. It called for cocoa powder rather than chocolate, so I was really putting my improvising theory to the test. I figured with chocolate, butter, flour and sugar, even if they weren't a masterpiece, how bad could they taste? I sprinkled some sea salt and chocolate chips on top of the batter for good measure and prayed to the kitchen gods.

My dinner companions oohed and aahed when I revealed the pan of brownies. I sliced them, noting a cakey consistency, then wished I would have tasted them at home. But I channeled Julia Child, and decided to just laugh it off if they were horrible. Thankfully, they tasted quite good. Yes, they were more cake than brownie, but still delicious.

Maybe I’ll ask Santa for some baking tins and attempt the cupcakes with caramel filling Liz told me about. This new hobby could really increase my dinner invitations.

Give a Little Leeway

This week, when my normal impatience arose, I breathed deeply and reminded myself that most of the world is going through back to school transition, and therefore may need some extra leeway. I’m happy to report it made for a pretty peaceful week.

Change is hard for me, even good change. In June, when Carl’s school year ends, and he’s around more, I love it, but the transition is still hard. Now, after a lovely summer, Carl is back to work, Daniel is back to the babysitter, and I’m back to managing more of the household. Going into the week I worried. How would Daniel adjust, after hanging out with Daddy all summer? How would Carl adjust to work life again? What about our poor puggy, home alone so much more?

To maximize peace in our home, and within myself, I decided to try giving everyone extra leeway for the week. Rather than reprimand myself for failing to write enough, I praised myself for writing at all. Rather than battle with Daniel about his nap, I surrendered, played with him, took him to Target. Rather than chastise Carl for coming home late, I invited a friend over for a play date. In all cases, life was much more enjoyable. I even forgave the asshole who cut me off in traffic yesterday. Yes, I felt the flood of righteous anger, but I remembered leeway, and had some compassion for his hurry.

This week, with all its changes, was so peaceful that I’m wondering if leeway should be a permanent mantra. Maybe I’m always harder on people, including myself, than is necessary or helpful. Maybe I’d be happier with lower expectations and greater acceptance of shortcomings. Hm. Maybe I’ll extend it another week and see how it goes.

Where do you fall on the leeway scale? Do you give too little or too much?

Daniel Has an Imperfect Mother

I’ve been cranky recently. Call it bitchy, call it a short fuse, whatever it is, Daniel has seen and felt it. It’s not about him. He’s being his lovely one-year-old self: mostly delightful, sometimes frustrating. But my moodiness felt bad enough that I took myself back to the Postpartum Stress Center today, to talk to Marcie, the counselor who helped me out of my depression six months back.

I vented it all. Everything I’ve been angry about lately, starting close to home, ending with the Catholic Church, with many things in between. After I was done, Marcie observed that I seemed “loaded for bear.” I had to agree. She added that when I don’t make time for myself, I get cranky. I nodded. She reminded me it was my responsibility to carve out alone time to write, to renew, to refresh. This rang some bells. “You ignore this at your peril,” she said.

I know everything she said to be true. We have covered this ground before. But the sneaky belief that it's selfish to need alone time had crept back in and taken over. My work for the moment is to accept the following as true: Whether I like it or not, I need alone time to be healthy. In its absence, I get grumpy, and grumpy can slide into depression. I wish I could handle everything with aplomb and grace, but I can't. Based on past experience, I show a lot more of both if I'm regularly refreshing myself with time alone to write, to dream, to play.

I’m sorry, Daniel, that you have a mom who gets depressed. I’m sorry you have a mom who needs breaks from you. I wish I could protect you from all pain, but I can't. I hope that by taking care of myself, I will set an example for you, one that will help you to care for yourself one day. You are my sunshine, my delight, the heart of my heart. I hope you always know and believe that.

Motherhood, My Way

Daniel rocking a Peruvian alpaca sweater

Something I’ve found hard as a mom is responding to other people’s expectations of what I should be doing. (Or what I think other people think I should be doing.) The most innocent question, like “what are you doing for Daniel’s first Easter?” can induce rage, defensiveness, derision. “Uh, he has no concept what Easter is, so nothing,” is what I want to say. I felt resentful about what everyone seemed to think I should do for his first Christmas, so you can imagine how I feel with his first birthday approaching.

I know moms who have formal pictures taken for every holiday – even St. Patrick’s and Valentine’s Day. I know moms who knitted stockings for baby’s first Christmas. I know moms who are planning elaborate first birthday parties. Because I have a tendency to compare myself to others, when I hear this I ask myself, why aren’t you doing that?

But recently a new thought occurred to me: maybe those moms do those things because they enjoy it, not because they’re caving to social pressure. I really enjoy dressing up. I’ve had people ask me, snottily, why I was wearing pearls on a Tuesday afternoon. The answer is, I just like to. It makes me happy. Similarly, I love to put my little man in cute outfits. I suspect very soon he’ll start having opinions about what he wears, so I’m taking advantage of this time to dress him the way I want to. Not to impress anyone. Not because formal wear is important for babies – just because it makes me smile.

So here’s my thought for Mother’s Day: motherhood has plenty of drudgery. Let’s all make a pact to not make it harder for ourselves than it has to be. I’m going to do mom things that bring me joy, and leave the photo shoots, crafts and parties for the Martha Stewart types. Happier mom means happier Daniel. So it will be pizza and cake for his first birthday, with whoever can show up on a Tuesday night. Maybe I'll wear pearls.

For All You Perfectionists

"My imperfections and failures are as much a blessing from God as my successes and my talents, and I lay them both at His feet." -Mahatma Gandhi

Wow. When I read those words a few days ago, they stopped me in my tracks. I've been chewing them over ever since, but am still not quite sure what they mean to me.

First, do I believe that to be true? Are my imperfections and failures as much a blessing from God as my successes and talents?

Perfectionism is one of my imperfections. I'm not trying to be cute, it's just true. By perfectionism I mean the tendency to want something to be so good (perfect) that either 1) it will never be finished, 2) it will never live up to my unrealistic standards or 3) I will never begin it in the first place, knowing that it will never be good enough.

Is this a blessing from God? Well, having high standards does motivate me to work hard. I do reach for fairly high goals. I can relate when people share about being overwhelmed or stuck or unable to finish something, thereby making me more compassionate. Those seem to be blessings.

Another of my imperfections is a compulsive need to figure everything out. Exhibit A is this post, right here. Can't I trust Gandhi that this is true? No, I need to test it, probe it, take it apart. This can be a blessing--a healthy skepticism is an asset in many ways. So is questioning, which leads me to new understanding, to larger truths sometimes.

Failures have certainly been blessings from God. I was devastated--rather--my ego was devastated when I was not accepted to University of Pennsylvania's law school. Yet, now I see that I ended up exactly where I needed to be.

I love the idea of laying all of it at God's feet. There is only so much my limited brain, with my limited worldview can understand. I do believe that there is a sentient being out there, something greater than myself, who understands why things happen. I am not that being. But if I believe in its existence, which I do, then I can work on trusting that my imperfections and failures are a part of some larger plan. Which doesn't mean I can't work on them or try to improve, but for me, it means trying to love myself, just as I am in this moment. Maybe one of my vexing imperfections is doing someone a lot of good. Maybe like my doggie's googly eye, my imperfect nose is part of why others love me. Who likes someone who seems perfect? (Not me, another imperfection.)

The crazy thing about perfectionism is that by definition, human beings are flawed. No one is perfect. Never has been, never will be. So why should I think myself any different? (Giant ego, another imperfection.)

A quote that has helped with my perfectionism lately is this one by Emerson:

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

I love his certainty that some blunders and absurdities crept in. Yes! Ralph! How did you know? And his use of the word nonsense. It's much gentler than the words I can use with myself. Most of all, I love his idea that I have a choice. I can choose high spirits over the nonsense. What a hopeful and empowering thought.

Let's have an imperfection party. Who's got one to celebrate?

Anything for Material

Seven months ago I left a prestigious, high-paying attorney job to write my first novel. This blog will document my journey in creating both a novel and a writer’s life. So far I've completed a draft of my book, and a handful of essays and poems. Along the way I’ve collected adventures, lessons, friends and teachers.

One great discovery: writing is an excuse to do things I otherwise wouldn’t do. Like take a surf class, work at a florist for a day, study Italian, make collages, take swimming lessons from an Albanian champion swimmer, swing on the swings by myself in the middle of the day, and befriend all kinds of unlikely characters, from the Colombian beauticians who wax my eyebrows, to Tony, the Sicilian chef who promised to teach me how to make pasta. In the service of getting material, it seems I’ll do just about anything. (Hence the title.)

And while I’m using material as an excuse to try new things, I’m learning all kind of lessons. Like how to be more open to the flow of life, when to push through barriers and when to stop, and the importance of accepting gifts, especially when they are unexpected. I have become more gentle with myself and am discovering what this self wants, what she loves, what she hates. I’m learning that the perfect really is the enemy of the good and finding the joy in doing, creating, participating in the process.

I look forward to the surprises, efforts, and failures that are sure to follow. Because if we're not making mistakes, we're not doing a good enough job of living. You hear that, Oprah? That's what I know for sure.