In the first dream, I watched as a much younger version of myself sat in my mom's lap in a chair in our living room. Christmas carols were coming out of our hi-fi and we were both admiring the twinkling lights on the tree. I marveled at the peaceful stillness. No hustle. No bustle. Just enjoying the moment.
From there, I was whisked into a troubling scene. I saw myself burst into our kitchen after a long day at the office and brusquely explain to my sweet-natured, hopeful son why we absolutely could not make the brownies he was hoping to bring to his class party because I was too tired and still had so many things to do before I could go to bed.
My heart broke as I took in the expression on his face. How could I be so selfish?
But it got better. When my older son joined us and offered to make the brownies for me while I relaxed, I turned on him. I grabbed the box, cranked on the oven, pulled out a mixing bowl, and ordered them both out of the kitchen.
That's when the real nightmare started. The lights in the kitchen went out and I was utterly alone. Not the kind of alone I typically long for. The kind of alone that there's no coming back from.
I woke up with a start. The house was still quiet and dark, but far from empty. Relieved, I headed downstairs to bake some brownies.
God bless us, every one!
~ Rushing to Resolutions ~
'Tis the season to be rushing. There are gifts to deliver, parties to attend, and treats to make all by a very particular day. Since working parents by nature rush to and through everything—meetings, appointments, errands, conversations, and meals—we are in our element. Try as we might, even when all those around us have the presence of mind to be in the moment, we can't help but to race on to the next thing that has to be done, said, or planned.
Holidays are no exception. Take Christmas. Tradition practically mandates that all of this holiday's plates be spun and shelved the night before. The gifts must be purchased, wrapped, and strategically placed under the recipient's tree, the cookies baked and set out for the big guy, and the plans for the feast set. Technically, the only plate spinning that should be going on is remembering to set your coffeemaker to "auto" before you go to bed and deciding whether you'd like a sprinkle of nutmeg on your eggnog.
And yet, barely an hour into our Christmas day celebration, I'll grab a recently-crumpled piece of wrapping paper off of my living room floor, retrieve a candy cane pen from my stocking, help myself to a hefty piece of homemade coffee cake, and begin drafting a list of New Year's resolutions.
An annual rite of self-improvement, resolutions are akin to a home-based, personal performance review. At work, I'm assessed against how well I have met the objectives I penned for the previous year. At home, I assess myself. Topping my list since I was fourteen is "eat less, exercise more."
I pause to enjoy another bite of coffeecake.
Since the program manager in me demands measurable results, I try to recall the specifics. Did I meet the frequency and target goals I had set for myself? Staring at the lights on our tree, my eyes glaze over as I push these resolutions aside and consider replacing them with items of a more philanthropic nature such as volunteering at my kids' schools or maybe the local food bank.
"Mom, can you read this to me?" The spell is broken.
"What?" I ask as my first grader climbs into my lap.
Holding up a new book, he again asks if I will read to him. A knee-jerk reaction prompts me to reply, "How about you read it to me while I—"
Casting his big browns on me, his lower lip protruding just a touch, he waits for me to finish.
Defenseless against such a brazen assault on my sensibilities, I ball up my list, cap my pen, and say, "Wait. I have a great idea. How about you finish my coffee cake while I read this book to you?"
Smiling, he snuggles close and polishes off my breakfast while I take a moment to be in the moment.
~ Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot ~
Somewhere between the last strains of "White Christmas" and the beginning chords of "Auld Lang Syne," plate spinners begin contemplating plans for the upcoming year. We can't help it. It's what we do. Brand new calendars seduce us with blank pages just waiting to be filled in. We excitedly rub our hands together, setting our sights on the vast, clean expanse that beckons every January 1st. So many plans to put into motion and resolutions to kick start.
Just keep spinning, just keep spinning.
Before you know it, like a gerbil on its exercise wheel, we're on the road to the "crazy" store—that place my mom always said she was going when I asked her where she was headed.
So this year, before zooming onto this road to nowhere, I am going to force myself to stop, turn around, and look back on this past year. Taking the time to reflect on my accomplishments and consider any mistakes I may have made is not only rejuvenating, it helps me adjust my goals and right my wrongs before strapping myself in for another plate-spinning ride.
My dearest friend taught me this nifty lesson when we were roommates in college. At the end of each semester, I would impulsively look forward, fretting over things like which classes to take next, whether I should stay on campus for the summer, and if she thought I was nuts to dare that guy I had just met to go out with me. Pretty heavy stuff. Nonetheless, with her last final behind her, my BFF, a graduate student majoring in counseling, seized the opportunity to practice her newly learned skills.
At the pizza place that was not only our place of employment but our second home when we lived off campus, she would sit me down and conduct a retrospective on the prior term. Pointing out my accomplishments—everything from teaching idioms to a class of Vietnamese students as part of my graduate assistantship to mastering the fine art of rolling pizza dough, she reminded me of how far I had come since the beginning of the year. She'd also remind me of the hard, albeit not earth-shattering, decisions I had to make during that time, like whether to spend a portion of my student loan money on a bus pass so I could get to my internship or on a new perm.
All in all, a pizza and a pitcher later, all was right with the world and I knew exactly what I had to do. Even to this day, she is there for me. Living an hour apart, we occasionally catch up over lunch, assuring each other and laughing at our missteps. We can't help it. It's what we do.
Oh, and that guy I dared to ask me out? That would be my husband of over twenty years.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It's Better to Look Good Than to Spin Good
~ Ghosts of Haircuts Past ~
When I got laid off from my job several years back, the first expense to get exorcised from my budget was hair care. No more going in for trims every six to eight weeks, spending a small fortune on products and procedures intended to force my hair into something nature was simply never intending.
After years of sporting a multilayer, permed, and highlighted "do," I allowed my fine, pin-straight hair to grow into the long and silky style reminiscent of my seventh grade class picture. And, for this plate spinner—forever short on time, vanity, and cash—the style worked. Its versatility was a boon. I could pull it back into a clip, swoop it up into a ponytail, clump it into a bobby-pinned knot or, for an ultra-sleek look, do absolutely nothing to it except tuck it behind my ears.
Aside from daily washings and the occasional conditioning, for the next couple of years, I ignored my hair and pleas from my stylishly coiffed sister, begging me to, at the very least, go in for a trim. In a charitable mood, I concurred and let a stylist lop off several inches that I promptly donated. It grew back in no time.
Then it happened.
Last December, at our high school band's Christmas concert, we perused the silent auction items. In hindsight, I did find my sister's feverish bidding for a free haircut at a local salon a bit odd. When she let out a victory yell that could drown out a 747, I understood what she was going to do with her prize.
"Here." She handed me the ribboned salon brochure. I looked down at it.
Good for one free haircut with Alissa was written in
flowery pink cursive. All that was missing was a little heart over the "i."
A knot formed in my stomach.
Six months later, I dialed the number. The perky voice on the other end suggested a time a few days out. I gulped and said, "That would be fine."
Brochure in hand, I made my way to the salon. Before long, I was in Alissa's chair letting her weave her fingers through my hair as she examined it, asking, "So…what are we going to do today?"
I fought back the urge to say, "I'm looking for a style that will require me to come in for frequent trims and use several products and appliances so I can spend at least an hour styling it each morning and not have a prayer of getting it to look as good as it will when I walk out of here."
Instead, I blurted out, "Whatever you think, as long as it's easy to take care of, flatters my features, and does not make me look like every other working mother in this county."
An hour later, I walked out with a haircut reminiscent of my third grade picture—a blunt, shoulder-length cut with bangs.
At least it will be easy to grow out…
~ Quick Change Artist ~
At my office, most employees' desks are covered with framed photos, knick-knacks, plants, and candy dishes. Not mine. The sleek line of my faux-granite-top desk is obstructed by just a few neat stacks of notes and a desktop organizer stuffed with pens and paperclips.
While my coworkers may debate the virtues of an uncluttered desk, they agree that multitasking is a vital workplace skill. What they don't realize is that my daytime job is a walk in the park compared to the real plate spinning that goes on when I walk out the door at the end of the day.
At work, I excel. I'm responsible for my own success or failure. Never mind the smudge of oatmeal on my shoulder (remnants of a good-bye hug). Never mind the run in my pantyhose (not noticed until sitting next to my manager in a status meeting). Bring on the frantic sales people, the frustrated customers. Push up my deadlines and come to me with complaints. Ah! Another phone call. Bring it on.
"Good morning!" (pause) "Uh, no I don't know where your library books are." I lower my voice. "Put Dad on the phone." (silence, followed by loud bang of receiver being dropped on a wooden chair in our kitchen, then a shrill "Dad! Mom wants to talk to you!")
I hold the phone away from my head to prevent my eardrum from rupturing. Heads in my work area begin to turn. My husband gets on the line with an exasperated, "Yeah?"
I hear his plates crashing in the background. This morning was to be the premiere of his amazing "Drop the Boys Off to Day Care and Elementary School At the Same Time When The Schools Are Two Miles Apart" routine.
I crouch over my phone, "Everything OK?"
"Oh, just the usual. Trying to get out the door."
I hang up, take a deep breath, and remind myself that long-distance plate spinning is not in my job description. I check my schedule and prepare for my next meeting.
When the workday is behind me, I open the front door to our house. My husband is waiting for me in the foyer and, like an airport runway traffic manager—without the big headphones and orange glow sticks—he silently waves me up the stairs before the kids notice I'm home. In the quiet of our bedroom, I shed my work costume and put on my at-home ensemble of jeans and a sweater.
I rejoin my husband who in turn announces, "Mom's home!"
All five boys rush in simultaneously telling me about their day. "Can you help me with a paper?"
My husband tosses me a plate. "I need help with my math homework!"
I toss a plate to my husband. "What's for supper?"
I reach my hand up and grab another plate.
"Mom, how come you didn't come to our concert this morning?"
Blindsided, I hear a plate crash to the floor.
With that, my husband clears the crowd, pulls me close and asks, "So, how was work today?"
I sigh and tell him, "Oh, my work is just beginning."
~ Raiders of the Clothes Closet ~
With five busy boys, a full-time job, and aspirations of literary grandeur, I have little time or tolerance for clothes shopping. In fact, if given the choice, I'd rather be strapped to a chair and forced to watch reality TV. There. I said it.
Truth be told, I have never had the ability or desire to keep up with current trends. But with two older sisters, I never really had to. Inheriting hand-me-downs became my only means to a well-dressed end. It didn't matter how old the clothes were. Being the youngest meant that wearing something my older siblings, or even my Mom, at one time possessed was the coolest thing ever.
Or so they told me.
Waiting to take possession, though, was the hardest part. The twelve years I spent in parochial school only compounded the problem. Wearing the same uniform day after day, the only fashion muscle I got to flex was deciding whether I should wear a long- or short-sleeve blouse.
By the time I was finally old enough to go to dances, I had become a closet-raiding fashionista. Into their closets I would plunge, trying on all of the wrap skirts, gauchos, and cowl-neck sweaters I could get my hands on. Anything, as long as it wasn't made of plaid wool.
Salvation came when I started college. The designer-clothes bug that ravaged large sectors of the population in the early Eighties bit my mom hard. Her symptoms included prowling the high-end fashion mall on her lunch hour and accumulating all of the Liz Claiborne, Evan Picone, and Ralph Lauren blouses, skirts, and shoes that she could carry.
Although her affliction was highly contagious, I was living on campus at the time. As a result, my bout with the bug was relatively mild. While I didn't feel the urge to actually purchase designer clothes, I did feel compelled to raid her closet while home on breaks.
Thankfully, the designer duds I permanently borrowed saw me through graduation, my first job interviews, and the next few years that followed until I was faced with the biggest fashion challenge yet—what to wear on my wedding day.
Determined to self-finance the affair, my fiancé and I had agreed on a budget. With an image of Princess Di's dress, a vision of pearl beading and ivory taffeta, swirling in my head, I dragged my bridesmaids along on my quest for the THE dress—the one that would make me look like royalty, but not go over my limit.
After plowing through a dozen stores, I came to the sad conclusion that it didn't exist.
That's when my Mom invited me to raid her closet again. Turns out, THE dress was there the entire time. All it needed was a talented seamstress who magically, and quite economically, refurbished the beautiful circa 1952 Cinderella ball gown into a vision of Chantilly lace and tulle.
And on the big day, I felt like the coolest bride ever.
~ Fitting in Fitness ~
It started innocently enough. Rushing to get dressed in the dark of a recent morning, I grabbed a clean pair of jeans out of the laundry basket, eyeballed the length, and pulled them on. Twenty minutes later, I was pouring a cup of coffee in the kitchen absently wondering why the pants I had on felt, well, a little funny.
Then it happened.
"Mom. Are you wearing my jeans?"
He may as well have told me that I had a spider crawling on me.
"What? Of course not!" I gasped as I quickly examined my legs wondering how the denim covering them had gotten so torn and worn looking.
I blame the long winter that kept me inside baking cookies and casseroles and away from my walking routine. Nonetheless, it was an unsolicited pre-pool-season wake up call.
While my weight still falls within a normal range for my height, things are starting to shift south. I know this shouldn't surprise me. I'm finding out the hard way that age and gravity are BFFs. Combine that with the fact that working parents are notorious for putting the needs of others before their own, and I am not sure what to do about my, um, predicament.
Like it or not, the whole "eat-less-exercise-more-reduce-stress" mantra flies in the face of the plate-spinning lifestyle. We eat fast food on the go and guzzle coffee like a semi does diesel. Even thr
ough all five pregnancies, I credited my caffeine-and-refined-sugar diet for keeping me alert in staff meetings and well within the weight limits dictated by my mortified obstetrician.
My sister, well versed in all things weight loss, recommended cutting back on sugar. After I stopped laughing, I argued the futility of her plan. High fructose corn syrup is hidden in everything from breakfast cereal to shampoo. There's no getting around it, even if I wanted to.
As for exercise, I attribute my bicep of steel (right arm only) to the coffee curl reps I make a point of getting in each morning. More weight training, really. What I need is regular aerobic exercise. And to stick with something like that, I need a motivating element. Something with a deadline.
My son, a runner and, yes, the true owner of the jeans I had mistakenly swiped, waved a recently-received postcard at me. It announced reduced early entry fees for a 5k race scheduled for early June. "I dare you," he said, handing it to me with a smirk.
Not one to back down from a challenge, I snatched the postcard and examined the fine print closely. The words "free T-shirts to the first 2000 registered runners" popped out at me.
I returned his smirk.
Bring it.
Now, pass the pasta. I'm in training!
~ The Ultimate Spring Cleaning Workout ~
Is house cleaning something you keep shoving to the greasy back burner because there's always something more important to do?
Do you long for the promise of increased energy and stamina that comes with regular exercise, but just can't seem to find the time?
Let me introduce you to "The Plate Spinner's Ultimate Spring Cleaning Workout"!
This simple plan has the combined effect of leaving you with a house that sparkles, enough energy to leave a certain drum-beating fuzz ball in your tracks, and, best of all, a shorter to-do list. Only a true plate-spinning superhero could appreciate that kind of efficiency.
The Plate Spinner Chronicles Page 8
