NK VILLAGER COVER STORY (April 2010) THAT KATE PHILLIPS FROM NK VILLAGER WROTE ABOUT MY BOOK!
Write what you know is a well-known adage for authors. Following that advice led Cheryl L. Butler, proud mother of eight, to pen her first book, Pregnant Women Don’t Eat Cabbage and Other Words of Wisdom for Expecting Mothers. Who would know better?
“I always loved to write,” says Cheryl, familiar to many residents as the NK Villager’s Family Zone columnist. “I kept journals and made up stories, but the idea of being an author really interested me when my husband, Brian, and I had six children with the seventh on the way.”
Cheryl pulled off this amazing feat after her eighth child was born thanks to Brian spending every Saturday for 18 months with the children while she went to the library or her mom’s house to work on her book. “Brian has been my biggest cheerleader,” states Cheryl. “He gave me the time to do this.”
Before her book, Cheryl started out her career as a published writer with an essay in the Providence Journal entitled “Yes, We Have Seven Children and We Are Proud of It.” Butler wrote this piece in response to the numerous times she has been asked if all the children are hers or from a blended family.
“I wanted to make the point that families come in all sizes,” notes Butler. “Before the children, Brian and I were a family.”
Before the children, Brian and Cheryl had quite a journey to become a family of 10. They met on Cheryl’s 21st birthday at the dentist’s office where she worked. They were married two years later. Cheryl, the oldest of five, and Brian, the youngest of four, together decided to have three children.
“That was the plan, but it wasn’t that easy,” says Cheryl. “After nothing happened for a year, I went to see Dr. Jaffe to find out what was wrong. After six years and three miscarriages, Brian and I decided to adopt.
“It was supposed to take about two years for us to welcome a child into our family, but our scrapbook for birth mothers was sent out early by mistake and we were chosen to receive a baby due in only a week,” explains Cheryl. “We made plans to fly out to Colorado to be there for the birth, but our daughter, Brittany, was born an hour before we got on the plane. The airline bumped us up to first class. It was a nice celebration. When we arrived, Brittany was a beautiful baby waiting for us at the hospital.”
Cheryl had been undergoing fertility treatments before the adoption. After the adoption, she was informed that she was eligible for one more treatment. One year to the day that she brought Brittany home, Cheryl gave birth to a son, Connor. When he was three months old, she became pregnant with daughter Casey. About a year later, Austin made his appearance and the Butlers decided their family was complete.
“When Austin was four, we decided to have one more though Brian thought it was a bit crazy,” says Cheryl. “So our son, Cameron, was born; and a year after that we had Brendan for a playmate. The last two, Brady and Annie, were very pleasant surprises. Annie was born when Brittany was 12.”
After seven deliveries, Cheryl certainly knows a lot about being pregnant. However, she wished she had been given additional information to help with the more humorous and embarrassing moments of pregnancy. This is the information she includes in Pregnant Women Don’t Eat Cabbage.
“While pregnant with Annie, I started thinking about this book—to relate how scary a first pregnancy was and all the things you really are not prepared for,” says Cheryl. “I just wanted to share this information with other women. This is not a medical book. It’s a whimsical look at pregnancy.”
With chapters like “Try, Try Again—Trying to Conceive;” “When You Lose Sight of the Floor, Do Not Lose Sight of Your Humor;” “Are We Having Fundus Yet? The Joy of Afterbirth;” and “Will I Ever Walk Again? Getting Up and Around After the Stork Arrives” the humor shines through. The title chapter, “Pregnant Women Don’t Eat Cabbage! A Few Things to Keep in Mind Shortly Before Your Due Date,” will both educate and shock readers, but it is important information.
“I was a modest prude,” explains Cheryl. “I never thought I would write about any of the things I went through, but newly pregnant women need to know there is a funny side to it—and to be open-minded about the embarrassment. Pregnancy and birth are not like a fairytale, not a Disney moment.
“The book is a light, carefree, but honest look at pregnancy, nothing horrible. There is a lot of humor,” continues Cheryl. “I learned a lot along the way. For instance, even when you think you know about something, like delivery, you can be surprised. Every one of my deliveries was different including labor which was long—from 12-20 hours.”
Cheryl labored long and hard on her book, too. “After I finished writing on Saturdays for 18 months, I sent the book to six places. I picked small publishers as I thought I would have better odds getting published there. Within three months, I heard back from three of them, and two said yes!”
Once the book was accepted, the next step was signing a contract and getting assigned an editor and a graphic arts person that would design the cover. “My editor, Loretta, was wonderful,” says Cheryl. “The publisher wanted to keep my ‘voice’ just as it was so Loretta made a few minor suggestions for some of the chapters, but otherwise, it was basically as I had written it.
“I had chosen the title over four years ago because when I got pregnant with Annie, I knew I didn't want to repeat what had happened with a Ruben Sandwich before I had my sixth child, Brendan,” shares Cheryl. “I joked one day with Amy, one of my girlfriends, and said something silly like ‘Having done this six times already, I know what I won't be eating within a month of delivery...cabbage!’ And there it was: I said ‘Pregnant Women Don't Eat Cabbage’ and a book was born.”
Writing a book is one thing, promoting it is another thing entirely. “It is nearly a full time job to market a book, unless you're a New York Times bestselling author,” says Cheryl. “I was realistic from day one, but am enjoying reaching out to places that are not only baby-related, but to women in general--even if they have never had a baby.
“I hope to reach out to women everywhere that have an appreciation of their bodies and what those bodies do to carry a pregnancy and then deliver a baby! Remember, I adopted my first baby. I had such a sense of appreciation and awe for our birth mother for what she went through to have our daughter. Even when I was struggling with infertility, I couldn't help myself and would read books on pregnancy just to see what it might be like,” notes Cheryl.
“My book is a fun, easy-breezy read. I hope it will find its way into many women's libraries and will be shared amongst girlfriends and family members experiencing the awesome journey of pregnancy,” says Cheryl. “And there is plenty in the book to keep the fathers-to-be chuckling as well. Pregnancy is life changing for men, too!
“Brian and I never dreamed we'd be the parents of eight children ranging in age from five to seventeen,” states Cheryl. “My family is my first passion. Writing is my second. And as crazy as things get, I cannot imagine surviving without a good sense of humor. It's truly my most prized asset, and has helped me through infertility, adoption, changing thousands of dirty diapers, and is now nudging me through the teenage years. I hope to never leave home without it!”
Combining her love of family and writing along with her sense of humor all led to Pregnant Women Don’t Eat Cabbage and Other Words of Wisdom for Expecting Mothers which was officially released on February 25th, and is available at the NK Free Library and other libraries in the state, amazon.com, publishamerica.com as well as What’s Kicking, a place where the whole family can enjoy seeing a 3D sonogram, on Post Road. By late spring, it should be available in local bookstores and gift stores that carry baby items.
Cheryl L. Butler has two more books in the works—both family/humor oriented which are expected to be released in 2011 and 2012.
As my wonderful husband loves to say around here......."Every Day is Good....Some are Better!" Follow my life as the adoring, yet sometimes harried mother of eight----proud owner of the wonder girdle and chia bra!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Living In The Motherhood Moment
(My Column in April's NK Villager and EG Magazine)
“Mom! Mom, you’re not listening to me” my daughter prattled on while I stood in the dressing room holding two armloads of bikinis and springy ensembles that in total held less fabric weight than the single outfit I was wearing that moment. Oh, the agony of fashion shopping with a teen girl! Nope, I didn’t hear a single vowel she uttered, but it wasn’t because I wasn’t interested in learning more about why pre-calculus was ruining her life or how learning to drive in my minivan might leave her with permanent emotional scars. I was too busy contemplating if I should dare to give artichokes a whirl again this Easter, wondering when the mealy moths in our pantry would ever disappear, and daydreaming about which decade it was that I actually enjoyed trying on a bathing suit that didn’t have built in support or a skirt attached.
What a shame that I had just robbed myself of 15 carefree moments to kibitz with my daughter and simply enjoy the experience of watching her try on napkins, I mean two-piece bathing suits, all while she opened up about her complicated 17-year old lifestyle. Worse, she called me on it! Clearly it was time for me to get on board with today’s self-help gurus and stop being so distracted by life but instead try living in the moment!
I did a little research and found that living in the moment means you are totally immersed in an experience and therefore should reap far more happiness from your everyday life. I once read--the past is history, the future is a mystery, and the only time we really have is now - just this moment. So as not to ever miss out on important bonding moments like I did when my daughter asked me if I preferred tassels or fringe on those cute shorts she was trying on, I decided I would try to live in the second, never mind the moment, as often as I could.
I turned in early the night before so that I would be well rested and full of vim and vigor for my first full-fledged day of “Living in the Moment”. The alarm went off at precisely 5:45 AM, and
I searched the nightstand for my glasses but instead knocked over my glass of water. That was so not the plan, so I allowed myself a little groan and then scurried to the bathroom to grab a towel before the spill ruined one of my only guilty pleasures, my latest edition of Soap Opera Digest—hey, if anyone knows how to live in the moment, it’s my friends from Days of Our Lives. They never work or seem to have any trouble finding invisible caregivers to watch their children so they can relax, putter around their beautifully decorated penthouses, or dine out 7 day’s a week, not once fretting over a negative balance in their checkbooks—these are my kind of people!
Breakfast is served and instead of shuffling through six boxes of cereal, I decide I will stop, look lovingly into all my children’s half-opened eyes and ask them how they slept and if they would like to have cereal or something hot and delicious instead. The confused looks on their faces told me all I needed to know—Mom must be really ill, hot and delicious on a school morning means rinsing off the hardened food particles leftover from last evening’s silverware with boiling water.
Bus departures begin at 6:40 AM in our homestead, so instead of cackling half-minded “the bus just went down the street” to my high schoolers, I gently tapped on their bedroom doors and quietly made the announcement and just relished the harried moments I observed as they snatched backpacks, iPods and hoodies, while treasuring those snarky comments they made under their breath—something I usually do from three rooms away. Ah, soaking in the moment—what a beautiful thing!
The rest of the day unfolded with much of the same. I tried to be alert in nearly every waking moment. From consciously noting the involuntary twitching of my upper body as the dog barked nonstop at the UPS man to the gentle creaking of my bones as I sat perched in the family room scrubbing the freshly ground backyard mud out of the carpet, I was temporarily able to push my to do lists and often intense thoughts about what was waiting for me around future’s corner right out of my mind. And when my son’s 6-year old play date commented that our home smelled like his grandfather’s car, I stopped what I was doing and savored his innocence rather than panic that our house smelled like a cigar joint.
I probably went overboard at my first attempt to immerse myself in life’s everyday moments—when I began naming the dust bunnies in our kitchen I realized I had gone too far. Most days my mindset will still be crazed and usually one step ahead of where I am presently standing, but if I can try to be more present during those “dressing room” instances with my daughter and the rest of my family then I will certainly be living more in the motherhood moment—and I think every child deserves at least that.
“Mom! Mom, you’re not listening to me” my daughter prattled on while I stood in the dressing room holding two armloads of bikinis and springy ensembles that in total held less fabric weight than the single outfit I was wearing that moment. Oh, the agony of fashion shopping with a teen girl! Nope, I didn’t hear a single vowel she uttered, but it wasn’t because I wasn’t interested in learning more about why pre-calculus was ruining her life or how learning to drive in my minivan might leave her with permanent emotional scars. I was too busy contemplating if I should dare to give artichokes a whirl again this Easter, wondering when the mealy moths in our pantry would ever disappear, and daydreaming about which decade it was that I actually enjoyed trying on a bathing suit that didn’t have built in support or a skirt attached.
What a shame that I had just robbed myself of 15 carefree moments to kibitz with my daughter and simply enjoy the experience of watching her try on napkins, I mean two-piece bathing suits, all while she opened up about her complicated 17-year old lifestyle. Worse, she called me on it! Clearly it was time for me to get on board with today’s self-help gurus and stop being so distracted by life but instead try living in the moment!
I did a little research and found that living in the moment means you are totally immersed in an experience and therefore should reap far more happiness from your everyday life. I once read--the past is history, the future is a mystery, and the only time we really have is now - just this moment. So as not to ever miss out on important bonding moments like I did when my daughter asked me if I preferred tassels or fringe on those cute shorts she was trying on, I decided I would try to live in the second, never mind the moment, as often as I could.
I turned in early the night before so that I would be well rested and full of vim and vigor for my first full-fledged day of “Living in the Moment”. The alarm went off at precisely 5:45 AM, and
I searched the nightstand for my glasses but instead knocked over my glass of water. That was so not the plan, so I allowed myself a little groan and then scurried to the bathroom to grab a towel before the spill ruined one of my only guilty pleasures, my latest edition of Soap Opera Digest—hey, if anyone knows how to live in the moment, it’s my friends from Days of Our Lives. They never work or seem to have any trouble finding invisible caregivers to watch their children so they can relax, putter around their beautifully decorated penthouses, or dine out 7 day’s a week, not once fretting over a negative balance in their checkbooks—these are my kind of people!
Breakfast is served and instead of shuffling through six boxes of cereal, I decide I will stop, look lovingly into all my children’s half-opened eyes and ask them how they slept and if they would like to have cereal or something hot and delicious instead. The confused looks on their faces told me all I needed to know—Mom must be really ill, hot and delicious on a school morning means rinsing off the hardened food particles leftover from last evening’s silverware with boiling water.
Bus departures begin at 6:40 AM in our homestead, so instead of cackling half-minded “the bus just went down the street” to my high schoolers, I gently tapped on their bedroom doors and quietly made the announcement and just relished the harried moments I observed as they snatched backpacks, iPods and hoodies, while treasuring those snarky comments they made under their breath—something I usually do from three rooms away. Ah, soaking in the moment—what a beautiful thing!
The rest of the day unfolded with much of the same. I tried to be alert in nearly every waking moment. From consciously noting the involuntary twitching of my upper body as the dog barked nonstop at the UPS man to the gentle creaking of my bones as I sat perched in the family room scrubbing the freshly ground backyard mud out of the carpet, I was temporarily able to push my to do lists and often intense thoughts about what was waiting for me around future’s corner right out of my mind. And when my son’s 6-year old play date commented that our home smelled like his grandfather’s car, I stopped what I was doing and savored his innocence rather than panic that our house smelled like a cigar joint.
I probably went overboard at my first attempt to immerse myself in life’s everyday moments—when I began naming the dust bunnies in our kitchen I realized I had gone too far. Most days my mindset will still be crazed and usually one step ahead of where I am presently standing, but if I can try to be more present during those “dressing room” instances with my daughter and the rest of my family then I will certainly be living more in the motherhood moment—and I think every child deserves at least that.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Mama and Her Panties
Ahh! Spring is in the air and what better way to celebrate this fresh new season than to spiffy up my wardrobe of undergarments? I realized how necessary this was this morning when I opened my underwear drawer and couldn’t tell if I the contents held my undies or our dishrags. “That’s it!” I shuddered. Every woman deserves to know that the apparel covering up her crack isn’t going to be confused for a housekeeping item—it’s time to go shopping!
As an active mom of eight, I sheepishly debate between sliding into Wal-mart where I can casually tuck a few packages of Hanes Her Way into my cart or really throw caution to the wind and rush to the Mall where a real lingerie department carrying more than a one-crotch- fits- all line, in colors other than puce and taupe, awaits me! Is there really any question? The mall it is!
I arrived without incident where the smell of heavenly grease quickly wafted by—ummm, must be fried dough I quivered as I headed past the food court to the escalator (can’t ride one of those in Wal-Mart).
“Excuse me Madame,” said this very sultry giraffe (I’m sorry, but she was tall!) in the intimidating cosmetic department. “You look like you could use a makeover!” Wonder what tipped her off first, the fact that I was using concealer to cover up my roots or the red Sharpie I used as my lip liner?
“Sorry, but I’m on my way upstairs to shop,” I nodded towards the escalator. “Oh, new panties for you today?” Panties? Who the heck with eight kids wears panties? If I walk out of here with those today I could end up with nine kids!
I’m left with no choice--think I’ll go have that dough -boy and then head over to Wal-mart!
As an active mom of eight, I sheepishly debate between sliding into Wal-mart where I can casually tuck a few packages of Hanes Her Way into my cart or really throw caution to the wind and rush to the Mall where a real lingerie department carrying more than a one-crotch- fits- all line, in colors other than puce and taupe, awaits me! Is there really any question? The mall it is!
I arrived without incident where the smell of heavenly grease quickly wafted by—ummm, must be fried dough I quivered as I headed past the food court to the escalator (can’t ride one of those in Wal-Mart).
“Excuse me Madame,” said this very sultry giraffe (I’m sorry, but she was tall!) in the intimidating cosmetic department. “You look like you could use a makeover!” Wonder what tipped her off first, the fact that I was using concealer to cover up my roots or the red Sharpie I used as my lip liner?
“Sorry, but I’m on my way upstairs to shop,” I nodded towards the escalator. “Oh, new panties for you today?” Panties? Who the heck with eight kids wears panties? If I walk out of here with those today I could end up with nine kids!
I’m left with no choice--think I’ll go have that dough -boy and then head over to Wal-mart!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
State of the Union--Family Style
(March 2010 Villager / EG Mag Column)
Well, that’s always fun—listening to the President’s State of the Union address. Given one’s current mood, political preference or if we’re presently getting along with our spouse can many times determine if we like what we just heard or are shaking our heads and grumbling… “Haven’t we already heard that before?” I’m not touching politics with a ten-foot pole so rather than discuss the actual speech most of us just listened to on January 27th, I have become inspired to write my own.
This State of the Union, however has nothing to do with Wall Street, Homeland Security or International Policies—it is specifically geared to the people who I serve three meals a day to (no, make that about ten!) and who’s laundry I sort, wash and fold 7 days a week—my loving family.
As I proudly stood in front of my Presidential Seal--a makeshift poster board I had decorated with Betty Crocker boxes, empty toilet roll spools, a pair of dirty socks, a photo of my pre-mommy self, our upcoming Little League Schedule (that took up ½ the board!), and a few other incidentals that represented a “day in the life of” this family, I looked them each in the eye and humbly began speaking from my teleprompter—the magnifying mirror I use to help me apply my mid-life lipstick color—coral raisin—in a matte finish.
Mr. Husband, Madame Black Lab, and esteemed members who make up the eight Butler children--our Constitution does not declare that from time to time, the little woman—also known as your wife, lab’s best friend, and doting mother report in about the state of our family, but if it’s good enough for Congress, well—then it’s good enough for me.
While I realize you will all find it hard to believe, although things in your world seem to be near perfect, there are a few issues in “our family” world that need a bit of attention.
Domestic Issues
· Our Furniture—It is a pleasure to have a sectional sofa that is made in the United States, not China, but let’s all try to remember one thing—the stuffing that is gently dangling from the arms and the back of the recliner should be treated with the utmost respect. This fine piece of chenille needs to last your mother another 14 years---when our little Annie heads off to college. (And…it may need to accompany your father and I to a retirement community such as Shady Pines, so please, no more using it for art projects and the like.
· Going Green—Remember how excited you kids were to come home from school and announce all the earth-saving measures being taken at school to reuse, renew, and restore? I wasn’t allowed to throw out a single item that still had life in it. Well, I am pleased as punch to announce this family’s new recycling and conservation efforts, and I know I’ll have your full support and enthusiasm—just like you showed for school. The heels of all loafs of bread are now as important as the middles—please get used to it. I will happily unplug my blinking neon “The Kitchen is Closed” sign if you are willing to take 7- minute showers as opposed to 40- minute ones and will do so in the dark. Hand me downs in a large family are just part of the deal if we want to continue with the luxuries of electricity and grocery shopping—hey, I do my part, who do you think gets your father’s old leisure knits?
The Economy & International Affairs
· I’ll be brief. It’s not looking too good for our vacation to Europe this spring.
Health Care Reform
· Paid family member sick days continue to be a sore subject, specifically for a certain mother who tries desperately never to become ill, especially if it should interfere with her children’s lives—attending sporting events, helping with homework, providing taxi services at a moment’s notice, preparing hot, tasty meals 7 nights a week (stop rolling your eyes—they might not always be tasty but they do have a temperature), and of course, being available to be your private nurse when any of you take ill. Congress may not have come up with a way to give me a paycheck yet, but the speaker of this house has unanimously decided that my sick days can now be taken in a horizontal position and in the comfort of my Winnie the Pooh bathrobe.
In closing I would like to leave you with a few thoughts. We have just finished another jam-packed year in the Butler household—some of it difficult, some of it outrageous, (we only left one child accidentally behind at Sunday school and he’s no longer having nightmares, so for that I am grateful) but most of it was filled with joy. With the continuing challenges that lie ahead of us during this brand new year (a new driver in the family, six kids on eight different baseball teams, weaning me off the hot glue gun that I bought myself for Christmas) let's seize this moment – to start anew, to help with household chores, to never forget Mother’s Day and above all, cherish the fact that you belong to a family who loves, supports and appreciates you for the individuals you are, even though you’ve all decided those frozen meatballs in a bag are much more delicious than the ones I spend hours making from scratch. We’re all in this together, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Thank you. God Bless You. And God Bless every family in these United States of America.
Well, that’s always fun—listening to the President’s State of the Union address. Given one’s current mood, political preference or if we’re presently getting along with our spouse can many times determine if we like what we just heard or are shaking our heads and grumbling… “Haven’t we already heard that before?” I’m not touching politics with a ten-foot pole so rather than discuss the actual speech most of us just listened to on January 27th, I have become inspired to write my own.
This State of the Union, however has nothing to do with Wall Street, Homeland Security or International Policies—it is specifically geared to the people who I serve three meals a day to (no, make that about ten!) and who’s laundry I sort, wash and fold 7 days a week—my loving family.
As I proudly stood in front of my Presidential Seal--a makeshift poster board I had decorated with Betty Crocker boxes, empty toilet roll spools, a pair of dirty socks, a photo of my pre-mommy self, our upcoming Little League Schedule (that took up ½ the board!), and a few other incidentals that represented a “day in the life of” this family, I looked them each in the eye and humbly began speaking from my teleprompter—the magnifying mirror I use to help me apply my mid-life lipstick color—coral raisin—in a matte finish.
Mr. Husband, Madame Black Lab, and esteemed members who make up the eight Butler children--our Constitution does not declare that from time to time, the little woman—also known as your wife, lab’s best friend, and doting mother report in about the state of our family, but if it’s good enough for Congress, well—then it’s good enough for me.
While I realize you will all find it hard to believe, although things in your world seem to be near perfect, there are a few issues in “our family” world that need a bit of attention.
Domestic Issues
· Our Furniture—It is a pleasure to have a sectional sofa that is made in the United States, not China, but let’s all try to remember one thing—the stuffing that is gently dangling from the arms and the back of the recliner should be treated with the utmost respect. This fine piece of chenille needs to last your mother another 14 years---when our little Annie heads off to college. (And…it may need to accompany your father and I to a retirement community such as Shady Pines, so please, no more using it for art projects and the like.
· Going Green—Remember how excited you kids were to come home from school and announce all the earth-saving measures being taken at school to reuse, renew, and restore? I wasn’t allowed to throw out a single item that still had life in it. Well, I am pleased as punch to announce this family’s new recycling and conservation efforts, and I know I’ll have your full support and enthusiasm—just like you showed for school. The heels of all loafs of bread are now as important as the middles—please get used to it. I will happily unplug my blinking neon “The Kitchen is Closed” sign if you are willing to take 7- minute showers as opposed to 40- minute ones and will do so in the dark. Hand me downs in a large family are just part of the deal if we want to continue with the luxuries of electricity and grocery shopping—hey, I do my part, who do you think gets your father’s old leisure knits?
The Economy & International Affairs
· I’ll be brief. It’s not looking too good for our vacation to Europe this spring.
Health Care Reform
· Paid family member sick days continue to be a sore subject, specifically for a certain mother who tries desperately never to become ill, especially if it should interfere with her children’s lives—attending sporting events, helping with homework, providing taxi services at a moment’s notice, preparing hot, tasty meals 7 nights a week (stop rolling your eyes—they might not always be tasty but they do have a temperature), and of course, being available to be your private nurse when any of you take ill. Congress may not have come up with a way to give me a paycheck yet, but the speaker of this house has unanimously decided that my sick days can now be taken in a horizontal position and in the comfort of my Winnie the Pooh bathrobe.
In closing I would like to leave you with a few thoughts. We have just finished another jam-packed year in the Butler household—some of it difficult, some of it outrageous, (we only left one child accidentally behind at Sunday school and he’s no longer having nightmares, so for that I am grateful) but most of it was filled with joy. With the continuing challenges that lie ahead of us during this brand new year (a new driver in the family, six kids on eight different baseball teams, weaning me off the hot glue gun that I bought myself for Christmas) let's seize this moment – to start anew, to help with household chores, to never forget Mother’s Day and above all, cherish the fact that you belong to a family who loves, supports and appreciates you for the individuals you are, even though you’ve all decided those frozen meatballs in a bag are much more delicious than the ones I spend hours making from scratch. We’re all in this together, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Thank you. God Bless You. And God Bless every family in these United States of America.
Friday, January 29, 2010
What's Your Status
(My February Column for EG Magazine and The NK Villager)
Shortly after the last note of “Jingle Bells” had faintly drifted away from my favorite 24/7 holiday radio station, it dawned on me that the number of holiday greetings we received this year were down considerably and worse yet, most of the cards we opened did not include those highly anticipated “Holiday Letters”.
You know the ones—always written on festive computer stationery laced with poinsettias or jolly old snowmen wearing cozy wool scarves—sets the tone beautifully for what’s to come next—a lot of hot air touting how fabulous the individual or family had just sailed through the past year. (Ok, most of them.)
A typical one reads “Morton received his third MBA from Harvard as well as his pilot’s license while I received the broker of the year award from my real estate firm for the fifth year in a row, despite this challenging economy. It was a struggle, but our teenaged twins, Bart and Bella were able to graduate with high honors from high school a year early. Sven, our Major Domo for the past 15 years had to really kick it up a notch by serving extra high-protein hot breakfasts for them every morning so they could excel in both their studies and polo team duties. How we lived through it, I’ll never know!” You’ve seen versions similar, I’m sure.
But that’s ok—once a year I think we all deserve to blow our family’s horn a little bit. As long as we don’t blow out anyone’s ear drums in the process, what’s the harm? With the written holiday cheer way down, it leads me to believe that either our soft economy is to blame or………or is our infatuation with the internet these days the real culprit?
It all started quite innocently when the computer world was rocked with one of the savviest means of communication ever—e-mail. What a high it was to log on to your computer and hear those three zippy words “You’ve Got Mail”. (Remember the movie?) After we were hooked, there was no turning back and the journey into the cyber world continued to grow faster than dandelions on a dank summer’s day.
But it didn’t end there. Socializing on the internet was turned into a multi-million dollar industry with companies like My Space, Twitter and the most popular network worldwide—Facebook. Facebook is a social networking website that is operated and privately owned. Users can add friends and send them messages, and update their personal profiles to notify friends about themselves. For those who are privacy conscious, this type of social hoopla is probably not for you. I admit, at first, I was skeptical myself, but my how that has changed.
Little by little I started to reconnect with friends from high school, college, my dental days, and with family members that live all across the country, and in the process I’ve met new friends that I absolutely adore. For those unfamiliar with how it all works, there is a place on your profile page that allows you to post photos and your status (what’s on your mind)—as frequently or as little as you like. Let me give you some examples:
There is your “random” status facebooker that will post things as simple as “Tired”, “Indigestion”, “More snow!”, “In laws!”, “Mocha Cappuccino” and anything else that sums up in one or two words what is on their mind at that particular moment.
Moving right along we also have the “Play By Play” status facebooker that will log on the moment he awakens and will list everything he’s done, in specific order, from brushing his teeth, to finding a hair in his oatmeal to what time he will be leaving the house to buy anti-fungal cream (and where the itch is), shop for yesterday’s bake and then back home again to drain the puss out of his three-legged cat’s infected ear. As my kids love to say “TMI”—too much information!
Next up is the “Woe is Me” facebooker, who will post just how dreadful her life is going to which anyone with a conscience and a beating heart will comment back that things aren’t really that bad and the world really is a better place because she is in it.
One of my favorite status types are the “inspiring” ones. They will usually post an upbeat or thought provoking quote such as “Don’t ask what your mother can do for you, ask what you can do for your mother!” (Or something on those lines) Those types of status remarks leave me wanting to be a better individual.
And lastly, there are the “life’s a bowl of cherries” facebookers, which I believe yours truly would fall under. It took me a few months to get the hang of regularly posting my status, but I soon realized it was pretty neat to share what was going on in my world, as long as I could make it fun. Though I’m private by nature, there is something very refreshing about sharing the comical trials and tribulations of real family life—no one lives in a perfect world, but why not live in one where we can laugh a little each day.
Greeting cards may be down but that doesn’t mean our friends and family aren’t thinking about us and wondering how we are doing. Whether you facebook or not, why not be prepared. The next time someone asks “What’s your status?” what will you say but more importantly how will you say it?
Shortly after the last note of “Jingle Bells” had faintly drifted away from my favorite 24/7 holiday radio station, it dawned on me that the number of holiday greetings we received this year were down considerably and worse yet, most of the cards we opened did not include those highly anticipated “Holiday Letters”.
You know the ones—always written on festive computer stationery laced with poinsettias or jolly old snowmen wearing cozy wool scarves—sets the tone beautifully for what’s to come next—a lot of hot air touting how fabulous the individual or family had just sailed through the past year. (Ok, most of them.)
A typical one reads “Morton received his third MBA from Harvard as well as his pilot’s license while I received the broker of the year award from my real estate firm for the fifth year in a row, despite this challenging economy. It was a struggle, but our teenaged twins, Bart and Bella were able to graduate with high honors from high school a year early. Sven, our Major Domo for the past 15 years had to really kick it up a notch by serving extra high-protein hot breakfasts for them every morning so they could excel in both their studies and polo team duties. How we lived through it, I’ll never know!” You’ve seen versions similar, I’m sure.
But that’s ok—once a year I think we all deserve to blow our family’s horn a little bit. As long as we don’t blow out anyone’s ear drums in the process, what’s the harm? With the written holiday cheer way down, it leads me to believe that either our soft economy is to blame or………or is our infatuation with the internet these days the real culprit?
It all started quite innocently when the computer world was rocked with one of the savviest means of communication ever—e-mail. What a high it was to log on to your computer and hear those three zippy words “You’ve Got Mail”. (Remember the movie?) After we were hooked, there was no turning back and the journey into the cyber world continued to grow faster than dandelions on a dank summer’s day.
But it didn’t end there. Socializing on the internet was turned into a multi-million dollar industry with companies like My Space, Twitter and the most popular network worldwide—Facebook. Facebook is a social networking website that is operated and privately owned. Users can add friends and send them messages, and update their personal profiles to notify friends about themselves. For those who are privacy conscious, this type of social hoopla is probably not for you. I admit, at first, I was skeptical myself, but my how that has changed.
Little by little I started to reconnect with friends from high school, college, my dental days, and with family members that live all across the country, and in the process I’ve met new friends that I absolutely adore. For those unfamiliar with how it all works, there is a place on your profile page that allows you to post photos and your status (what’s on your mind)—as frequently or as little as you like. Let me give you some examples:
There is your “random” status facebooker that will post things as simple as “Tired”, “Indigestion”, “More snow!”, “In laws!”, “Mocha Cappuccino” and anything else that sums up in one or two words what is on their mind at that particular moment.
Moving right along we also have the “Play By Play” status facebooker that will log on the moment he awakens and will list everything he’s done, in specific order, from brushing his teeth, to finding a hair in his oatmeal to what time he will be leaving the house to buy anti-fungal cream (and where the itch is), shop for yesterday’s bake and then back home again to drain the puss out of his three-legged cat’s infected ear. As my kids love to say “TMI”—too much information!
Next up is the “Woe is Me” facebooker, who will post just how dreadful her life is going to which anyone with a conscience and a beating heart will comment back that things aren’t really that bad and the world really is a better place because she is in it.
One of my favorite status types are the “inspiring” ones. They will usually post an upbeat or thought provoking quote such as “Don’t ask what your mother can do for you, ask what you can do for your mother!” (Or something on those lines) Those types of status remarks leave me wanting to be a better individual.
And lastly, there are the “life’s a bowl of cherries” facebookers, which I believe yours truly would fall under. It took me a few months to get the hang of regularly posting my status, but I soon realized it was pretty neat to share what was going on in my world, as long as I could make it fun. Though I’m private by nature, there is something very refreshing about sharing the comical trials and tribulations of real family life—no one lives in a perfect world, but why not live in one where we can laugh a little each day.
Greeting cards may be down but that doesn’t mean our friends and family aren’t thinking about us and wondering how we are doing. Whether you facebook or not, why not be prepared. The next time someone asks “What’s your status?” what will you say but more importantly how will you say it?
Monday, January 4, 2010
Living with PPS--Post Purging Syndrome
(My column from the NK Villager/EG Magazine)
So, here we are, the end of the holiday season is still lingering in the air and 2010 is officially on our calendars. No matter how we managed to either celebrate or just barely survive the past few weeks, ready or not a brand new year awaits!
I’m not going to kid you, by the time I’ve hauled the last box of shiny ornaments back up those attic stairs, I’m more than ready to change gears and get back to basics like figuring out what kind of hair accessories I can still carry off as a 40-something mother so as not to embarrass my teenage daughters (or myself) when we’re out in public. Good news, though, that shouldn’t be a problem this year because now that I’ve been diagnosed with PPS—Post Purging Syndrome, if in fact I do choose to grab a cheesy pony tail holder for my tresses, I will know exactly where to locate it.
PPS is a real shock to the system. While PMS is a much laughed at (or feared!) topic of many, PPS is fairly new on the radar screen in the medical community. In fact, it’s so rare that those inflicted with it are facing an uncertain future for themselves and their families. I mean I know we can’t be the only household in town that has way too many broken pencils, expired coupons, empty gum packages and useless C and D batteries stuffed into several gadget drawers in the kitchen. And that’s only one room in the house! Go ahead, you can admit it, your secret is safe with me.
I’ll try to make this brief so I don’t scare you away too quickly. This past November, I started showing peculiar symptoms that I just couldn’t put my finger on. When my children left for school each morning I would scurry about the house scavenging coins for milk money from so many drawers, purses and black holes in the house that I asked for a metal detector for Christmas to turn it into a sport. When the bus rolled out of our neighborhood and I had actually beat the clock by getting them on it each day I would then go inside and take care of my daily business and I’m not referring to a few moments in the bathroom. I’m talking about cramming our freshly folded laundry into drawers that were already bulging with clothing that either no longer fit, was no longer decent enough to be wearing or in my own case was severely outdated—like all my jeans embedded with jewels and such from my best Ronco purchase ever, the BeDazzler.
As if feeling harried after scrounging for loose milk change or nearly spraining my wrists by wrestling with the laundry each day wasn’t enough to get my heart pounding, I knew my symptoms were becoming worse when I’d reach for something in my spice cabinet and find my trusty hot glue gun with a dust bunny attached or my 4-year old’s headless Barbies rather than the nutmeg or garlic powder. Little by little, I saw what was happening to me—I had gone from a super-organized (and dare I admit stylish) 25-year old bride whose biggest challenge each day was deciding which step aerobics class to take at the gym to a 40-plus married (and sadly a bit frumpy) “Little old Lady Who Lived in A Shoe and had so many kids she didn’t have a place to put anything” matron without even realizing it. Clutter had conquered my life and was now leaving me physically drained. If I recall, my doctor called it “Clutterbugitus” and the prognosis wasn’t good. The treatment plan called for either getting rid of all the extra stuff in each and every room, or prepare for many more years ahead of drowning in it. Side effects for years to come may include shortness of breath, uncontrollable perspiration and full blown panic attacks when the simple search for my wonder girdle or brass hair clips is challenged by a condition I have the power to control—without medication (unless wine counts!).
Once I was diagnosed, I set right to work sorting, chucking, straightening and de-cluttering every inch of the house. Room by room, drawer by drawer, closet by closet, hole by hole and yes that would include all my purses and every last tote bag innocently hanging in the mud room were tackled and reorganized.
Warning “Do” try this at home! A painful process, yes, but after I removed that first hunk of year-old Swiss cheese from behind the steak knives, got rid of all the mismatched Tupperware, put the Band Aids in the medicine chest instead of in my daughter’s dollhouse I started seeing that there is indeed something to that phrase—a place for everything and everything in its place—and my symptoms began to slowly disappear. I’m even starting to feel like that 25-year old carefree bride again (Ok, that’s going a bit far, I know!).
Though I’ve temporarily managed to skillfully kick my clutter habit, professionals have placed me in a high-risk category for slipping back into my harmful old ways—having eight kids could do that to a person. But if I take each day in 2010 with a “less is more” stride and don’t go through severe withdrawal symptoms the next time I reach for a pair of those gem-studded jeans I used to own, chances are I’ll be able to enjoy PPS for many years to come.
So, here we are, the end of the holiday season is still lingering in the air and 2010 is officially on our calendars. No matter how we managed to either celebrate or just barely survive the past few weeks, ready or not a brand new year awaits!
I’m not going to kid you, by the time I’ve hauled the last box of shiny ornaments back up those attic stairs, I’m more than ready to change gears and get back to basics like figuring out what kind of hair accessories I can still carry off as a 40-something mother so as not to embarrass my teenage daughters (or myself) when we’re out in public. Good news, though, that shouldn’t be a problem this year because now that I’ve been diagnosed with PPS—Post Purging Syndrome, if in fact I do choose to grab a cheesy pony tail holder for my tresses, I will know exactly where to locate it.
PPS is a real shock to the system. While PMS is a much laughed at (or feared!) topic of many, PPS is fairly new on the radar screen in the medical community. In fact, it’s so rare that those inflicted with it are facing an uncertain future for themselves and their families. I mean I know we can’t be the only household in town that has way too many broken pencils, expired coupons, empty gum packages and useless C and D batteries stuffed into several gadget drawers in the kitchen. And that’s only one room in the house! Go ahead, you can admit it, your secret is safe with me.
I’ll try to make this brief so I don’t scare you away too quickly. This past November, I started showing peculiar symptoms that I just couldn’t put my finger on. When my children left for school each morning I would scurry about the house scavenging coins for milk money from so many drawers, purses and black holes in the house that I asked for a metal detector for Christmas to turn it into a sport. When the bus rolled out of our neighborhood and I had actually beat the clock by getting them on it each day I would then go inside and take care of my daily business and I’m not referring to a few moments in the bathroom. I’m talking about cramming our freshly folded laundry into drawers that were already bulging with clothing that either no longer fit, was no longer decent enough to be wearing or in my own case was severely outdated—like all my jeans embedded with jewels and such from my best Ronco purchase ever, the BeDazzler.
As if feeling harried after scrounging for loose milk change or nearly spraining my wrists by wrestling with the laundry each day wasn’t enough to get my heart pounding, I knew my symptoms were becoming worse when I’d reach for something in my spice cabinet and find my trusty hot glue gun with a dust bunny attached or my 4-year old’s headless Barbies rather than the nutmeg or garlic powder. Little by little, I saw what was happening to me—I had gone from a super-organized (and dare I admit stylish) 25-year old bride whose biggest challenge each day was deciding which step aerobics class to take at the gym to a 40-plus married (and sadly a bit frumpy) “Little old Lady Who Lived in A Shoe and had so many kids she didn’t have a place to put anything” matron without even realizing it. Clutter had conquered my life and was now leaving me physically drained. If I recall, my doctor called it “Clutterbugitus” and the prognosis wasn’t good. The treatment plan called for either getting rid of all the extra stuff in each and every room, or prepare for many more years ahead of drowning in it. Side effects for years to come may include shortness of breath, uncontrollable perspiration and full blown panic attacks when the simple search for my wonder girdle or brass hair clips is challenged by a condition I have the power to control—without medication (unless wine counts!).
Once I was diagnosed, I set right to work sorting, chucking, straightening and de-cluttering every inch of the house. Room by room, drawer by drawer, closet by closet, hole by hole and yes that would include all my purses and every last tote bag innocently hanging in the mud room were tackled and reorganized.
Warning “Do” try this at home! A painful process, yes, but after I removed that first hunk of year-old Swiss cheese from behind the steak knives, got rid of all the mismatched Tupperware, put the Band Aids in the medicine chest instead of in my daughter’s dollhouse I started seeing that there is indeed something to that phrase—a place for everything and everything in its place—and my symptoms began to slowly disappear. I’m even starting to feel like that 25-year old carefree bride again (Ok, that’s going a bit far, I know!).
Though I’ve temporarily managed to skillfully kick my clutter habit, professionals have placed me in a high-risk category for slipping back into my harmful old ways—having eight kids could do that to a person. But if I take each day in 2010 with a “less is more” stride and don’t go through severe withdrawal symptoms the next time I reach for a pair of those gem-studded jeans I used to own, chances are I’ll be able to enjoy PPS for many years to come.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Happy New Year Stranger!
(My Column from the NK Villager/EG Magazine)
Her visit during the holidays took me completely by surprise. My husband, trying to help preserve the last remnants of my sanity, took the kids to visit his parents where the eight of them would carefully and patiently (ha ha) help to decorate their Christmas tree. Not able to recognize the sound of peaceful stillness, my body started to twitch a bit each time I tried to snuggle up on the empty couch with my book. That’s when my unexpected guest arrived, precisely as I was flipping pages and nodding off simultaneously.
I invited her into my home and she smiled as her cashmere sweater gently brushed against the fresh pine wreath that hung on my front door. “Ahhh, smells great in here…………did you just bake a pie,” she asks? “Be careful on that terrazzo tile, I’ve just washed and waxed,” I caution. “Tell me, how do you keep your entry way so pristine looking and so darn organized--I mean, I could just live right here in this room?” she gushed.
Before I can answer, she’s wandered straight into my living room and is stroking my extra plump chenille pillows. Her eyes dart straight to my mantle where I’ve artfully displayed several paintings--the soft glow of candlelight framing them perfectly. Next, she looks me over from head to toe and gleefully gives me a tight squeeze. We used to be inseparable, but haven’t seen one another in nearly 15 years right about the time I became a mother.
With so much to catch up on we head straight to the kitchen where I debate between offering her a mug of hot steaming tea or pouring us each a large glass of Merlot. The Merlot wins hands down, so we pull up a stool to my sleek, clean island that has nothing but a delightfully decorated miniature Christmas tree on it and we then toast our reunion.
“You still look the same,” she smiled. “Oh stop! We both know I’ve put on a few pounds during the past decade and surely you’ve noticed a few more laugh lines on this here face of mine,” I replied. “But you on the other hand are timeless. Your smile is still as carefree as ever and it’s obvious that you’ve kept up with your exercise routine all these years,” I sing back. With our pleasantries now exchanged, she slowly enjoys the fine wine we are sharing and asks, “Remember how we would sit on the beach and plan our futures—our careers, who we would marry, how many kids we would have, what our dream homes would look like,” she asked? I sigh and nod. “However did we become such strangers so quickly? “ asks my long-lost friend.
I sit and just stare at her. Her presence is very calming and I wonder, too, where she has disappeared to for all these years and what has prompted her return right before the New Year?
I begin to look back on the past 15 years and smile and say nothing--instead I direct her to the family portrait we have hanging outside our Living Room taken nearly three year’s ago before our eighth child was born. Even though I’ve kept a long-distance relationship with her over time, I thought she’d like to see with her lovely brown eyes what I spend most of my time doing—raising a family. The handsome guy in that portrait is my husband of 20 years, and no, not the guy I thought I’d marry when we would sit on the beach and throw Cheetos to the seagulls and discuss such dreamy matters. I met him on my 21st birthday when he had his teeth cleaned in the dental practice I worked in for 15 years, another change in course from the career I had planned for myself in the hot summer sun—that of a school teacher. Funny enough, with eight kids (my plans called for three!) I guess I got my own classroom after all.
She gives me a swift elbow to the ribs and begins to laugh. As she does I look over at my kitchen island and realize I can barely see the top of it because it’s piled high with family stuff and the box of that fine vino we were drinking is right in the center. I sense she wants to ask me something else but she’s now poking around by the mantle and straightening my collection of broken nutcrackers that are hiding the crookedly framed school photos that desperately need to be updated. And why are those plump chenille pillows now looking a bit frayed and tired? The prodding continues until my neck jerks upright and I see my 5-year old staring at me and yelling, “Mom, we’re home!”
I search the room for my friend but she’s gone again. Instead, my husband has returned with our brood and they are all anxious to tell me about their visit to Grandma’s. My book has since dropped to the floor and somehow made it’s way down the stairs into that stunning entryway of mine that is laden with shoes, mismatched socks and even somebody’s toothbrush. I am now completely awake in my dream house—the home I share with my family, and realize that I will never see that girl again, the person I was before I had kids, but I am not sad. A part of me will still always be her no matter where I’m at in life, and I can think of no better time than the start of a new year to reminisce on my leisurely past but to stay focused on the here and now with great anticipation of all the new experiences my friend and I will reflect on in another 15 years.
Her visit during the holidays took me completely by surprise. My husband, trying to help preserve the last remnants of my sanity, took the kids to visit his parents where the eight of them would carefully and patiently (ha ha) help to decorate their Christmas tree. Not able to recognize the sound of peaceful stillness, my body started to twitch a bit each time I tried to snuggle up on the empty couch with my book. That’s when my unexpected guest arrived, precisely as I was flipping pages and nodding off simultaneously.
I invited her into my home and she smiled as her cashmere sweater gently brushed against the fresh pine wreath that hung on my front door. “Ahhh, smells great in here…………did you just bake a pie,” she asks? “Be careful on that terrazzo tile, I’ve just washed and waxed,” I caution. “Tell me, how do you keep your entry way so pristine looking and so darn organized--I mean, I could just live right here in this room?” she gushed.
Before I can answer, she’s wandered straight into my living room and is stroking my extra plump chenille pillows. Her eyes dart straight to my mantle where I’ve artfully displayed several paintings--the soft glow of candlelight framing them perfectly. Next, she looks me over from head to toe and gleefully gives me a tight squeeze. We used to be inseparable, but haven’t seen one another in nearly 15 years right about the time I became a mother.
With so much to catch up on we head straight to the kitchen where I debate between offering her a mug of hot steaming tea or pouring us each a large glass of Merlot. The Merlot wins hands down, so we pull up a stool to my sleek, clean island that has nothing but a delightfully decorated miniature Christmas tree on it and we then toast our reunion.
“You still look the same,” she smiled. “Oh stop! We both know I’ve put on a few pounds during the past decade and surely you’ve noticed a few more laugh lines on this here face of mine,” I replied. “But you on the other hand are timeless. Your smile is still as carefree as ever and it’s obvious that you’ve kept up with your exercise routine all these years,” I sing back. With our pleasantries now exchanged, she slowly enjoys the fine wine we are sharing and asks, “Remember how we would sit on the beach and plan our futures—our careers, who we would marry, how many kids we would have, what our dream homes would look like,” she asked? I sigh and nod. “However did we become such strangers so quickly? “ asks my long-lost friend.
I sit and just stare at her. Her presence is very calming and I wonder, too, where she has disappeared to for all these years and what has prompted her return right before the New Year?
I begin to look back on the past 15 years and smile and say nothing--instead I direct her to the family portrait we have hanging outside our Living Room taken nearly three year’s ago before our eighth child was born. Even though I’ve kept a long-distance relationship with her over time, I thought she’d like to see with her lovely brown eyes what I spend most of my time doing—raising a family. The handsome guy in that portrait is my husband of 20 years, and no, not the guy I thought I’d marry when we would sit on the beach and throw Cheetos to the seagulls and discuss such dreamy matters. I met him on my 21st birthday when he had his teeth cleaned in the dental practice I worked in for 15 years, another change in course from the career I had planned for myself in the hot summer sun—that of a school teacher. Funny enough, with eight kids (my plans called for three!) I guess I got my own classroom after all.
She gives me a swift elbow to the ribs and begins to laugh. As she does I look over at my kitchen island and realize I can barely see the top of it because it’s piled high with family stuff and the box of that fine vino we were drinking is right in the center. I sense she wants to ask me something else but she’s now poking around by the mantle and straightening my collection of broken nutcrackers that are hiding the crookedly framed school photos that desperately need to be updated. And why are those plump chenille pillows now looking a bit frayed and tired? The prodding continues until my neck jerks upright and I see my 5-year old staring at me and yelling, “Mom, we’re home!”
I search the room for my friend but she’s gone again. Instead, my husband has returned with our brood and they are all anxious to tell me about their visit to Grandma’s. My book has since dropped to the floor and somehow made it’s way down the stairs into that stunning entryway of mine that is laden with shoes, mismatched socks and even somebody’s toothbrush. I am now completely awake in my dream house—the home I share with my family, and realize that I will never see that girl again, the person I was before I had kids, but I am not sad. A part of me will still always be her no matter where I’m at in life, and I can think of no better time than the start of a new year to reminisce on my leisurely past but to stay focused on the here and now with great anticipation of all the new experiences my friend and I will reflect on in another 15 years.
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