Love in the Time of Back Scratching

When she’s older, I hope my daughter remembers the back scratching.

Actually I hope she remembers all of the wonderful, caring, selfless things I do for her – like make dinner every night, paint her nails, “help” clean her room, take her to playdates, buy her clothes, do her laundry, color pictures, play Go Fish, take her to the ballet. But if she only remembers the back scratching and it makes her smile, that would be a good start.

Most nights I’m the one putting her to bed. We read a book, say prayers, then turn out the light – at which point she immediately asks me to scratch her back. Sometimes she also requests a song or a story, but always the back.

“If I’m very still and very quiet, mommy, will you please scratch my back?” she asks, anticipating the requirements before I can say them and turning her face to the wall so her back is pointing at me.

I’m always exhausted at this point in the night. Ready to be done with bedtime so I can have my own time to write, read, watch TV or (gasp) be with my husband. I don’t actually like doing bedtime because the whole routine just makes me tired.

But I cannot say no to the back scratching request.

When I was a kid, I loved having my back scratched. Okay, I still do. My mom, a pianist, never had long nails, but she had the gentlest touch and the patience of a saint. Sometimes, if I managed to randomly sit close enough to her hand, she would absent-mindedly start scratching my back simply because it was there and that was what she did. It’s a most ordinary and yet most intimate gesture.

One day, if Pippi is lucky enough to have her own exhausting little person to put to bed, I hope she’ll catch a memory of snuggling under her blanket with her soft, small back sticking out. I hope she’ll recall my weary fingertips running circles across her pajamas and her skin, through her fresh-from-the-bath hair.

And I hope she’ll know in that moment that – despite all the times I wasn't what she needed me to be – I have always loved her.

On Visiting the Plastic Surgeon

I lost another part of me today.

This time it was part of my back -- a dysplastic nevus that rated “severe” on the spectrum of atypical moles trying to turn into skin cancer. My dermatologist biopsied the spot a couple months ago and gave me the option of going to a plastic surgeon to ensure that it was entirely removed.

Being in a plastic surgeon’s office was a weird experience. The continuous video promoting various creams and injections didn't make me feel any better about my own 41-year-old face, which was free of its usual make-up. I found myself looking at other people in the waiting room and wondering why they were there -- breast implants, liposuction, face lift, dyspastic nevus? And then wondering what they assumed I was there for -- which, let’s face it, would be a boob job if they were paying any attention.

I took myself to the appointment after convincing my husband I could handle it on my own. The nurse had assured me it was a simple, quick procedure and I’d be fine to drive and carry on with my day. Just an inch-long incision in the upper left quadrant of my back, no big deal.

Except that once I was lying on my stomach on the operating table feeling the bizarre tugging sensation of stitches on numb skin, I started having flashbacks. Having had two c-sections, I’m all too familiar with that feeling that my skin has turned to thick, tough leather that’s being stretched, shoved and pulled in new directions. At least this time there wouldn’t be a newborn to take care of afterward.

The whole procedure took less than 30 minutes, including check-in and check-out paperwork. It wasn’t until after the surgery was completed and I was trying to pencil in the post-op appointment on my calendar that I realized my hands were shaking.

Guess this means I don’t have the stamina for that boob job after all.

Bird By Bird

250 words a day.

Over the course of 2014, that would mean writing [...pauses while she accesses the calculator...] 91,250 words.

Sounds like a lot -- and I guess it is -- except that writing the equivalent of a letter to the editor each day really shouldn't take all that much time. And maybe at the end of the year, all those words would add up to having something to say.

It’s like the StoryPeople print that I quoted on my meal-planning board a few years ago: “Everything changed the day she figured out there was exactly enough time for the important things in her life.”

I don’t yet know how to make that quotation real, but maybe this 250-a-day is a good place to start. Maybe carving out  smaller pockets of time will actually stretch the time farther -- spend less time worrying about not having enough time and instead just use all the bits of time that are there.

So often I put off doing things I want to do -- read Anne Lamott's new book, call a best friend, write a blog post, organize a closet -- because I think I don’t have time to do it all at once. What would happen if I savored small doses of all of those things in 10- or 15-minute bites instead of never getting to the big serving of a multi-hour block?

Maybe 2014 is the year to find out.

Christmas Traditions: Front Porch Pumpkins

Christmas traditions can be wonderful, conjuring up memories of happy times together with friends and family. They can also be stressful, piling up into to-do list items a mile long. The key to the successful tradition is to find the right ratio of enjoyment to effort.

Using that scale, my most favorite tradition is the Christmas Pumpkin. It requires almost no effort on my part -- all I have to do is not carve my Halloween pumpkins and leave them on the front porch until December -- and I get unending joy every time I look at my house.

What's a Christmas pumpkin, you ask? And how you can you get some with so little work? Well, you start by living across the street from Ms. Marty. Because the truth is that the Christmas pumpkins actually take a great deal of effort -- it's just that she's the one who makes it all happen.

It started with felt in 2009, when I accidentally left my pumpkins on the porch past Thanksgiving.

And then there were lights in 2010.

In 2011, she took it up a notch with this little crowd. Their song sheets are for "Silent Night," in case you can't tell.

2012 arrived all tied up in ribbons and bows.

 

 And just when we couldn't imagine what could happen for 2013...

Seriously, y'all -- that's eight tiny pumpkin reindeer led by a pumpkin Rudolph and pulling a pumpkin Santa's sleigh and his bag of toys. That one we had to bring inside to display on the table because it's just too cute. (And yes, the middle-schooler in me laughs every time my kids say "Look at the HO on the front steps!")

So, to recap, in case you want to implement this tradition at home:

• Step 1: Move across the street from Marty.
• Step 2: Buy an assortment of pumpkins for Halloween. Do not buy them too early and do not carve them.
• Step 3: Wait patiently.
• Step 4: Enjoy the brilliance. Be careful not to puncture any of the pumpkins.

Badassery

Today is my 41st birthday.

I started the day with friends at our neighborhood boot camp at 5:45 a.m. in a cold misty rain. This seems crazy, I know. But it's actually a good thing.

Going to boot camp, especially when it's cold and/or raining, makes me feel like a badass. Like I'm tougher than I thought I was. Like if I can do burpees and diamond push-ups and kickboxing crunches outside in the dark when it's almost cold enough to snow, then I can probably handle whatever else is coming at me today.

This is what I learned in my year of being 40: Every life needs a little badassery* in it.

Ordinary life can be a big heap of mundane scheduled into a whole lot of routine. Some of that ordinary can be wonderful -- my daughter's small hand in mine on the way into school, my son's wiggly eye brow when he tells a joke, my husband's secret code text telling me he's on the way home. Some moments, the every day is  total chaos -- too many practices, games, meetings, lists, demands and errands colliding into a pile. There are so many things I simply cannot do or cannot do well that the stress of it all makes me buckle.

But I'm finding that if I can carve out some part of my life to feel like a badass -- even just here and there -- it all seems closer to possible.

I've never actually been much of a badass. I tend to be the person who follows the path, does what's expected, takes the easy option. But over the past 40 years, some of my best experiences were those that caused me to summon up some extra courage and at least pretend like I had a little badass alter ego.

These days, I'm not likely to get my belly button pierced or live overseas for a year, so I have to look to smaller spaces to find my badassery. More often than not, it's boot camp -- or whatever alternate workout opportunity my boot camp friends lure me into. Like aerial boot camp, for example.

It started, as most crazy ideas do these days, with a Living Social deal. Some of you may remember the last time I purchased an online deal for a class. It involved a pole. There was only one class. There are, mercifully, no photos.

This time, there are pictures -- and they make me (perhaps unreasonably) proud.

I should explain that the "aerial" portion of aerial boot camp for beginners involves trying to climb heavy streamer-like silks that are hanging from the very tall ceilings. You start by gripping both silks in our hands, then wrapping one leg around the silks and looping it over that foot. Pulling your body up with your arms, you lift your other foot and trap the silks against the bottom foot and inch your hands higher up the silks. After unwrapping your bottom foot, you pull your legs up, loop your foot back in, pinch again with the other foot, and continue on up the silks.

That description makes no sense when I write down, but trust me it's even harder to actually do it.

The first class, I didn't get much higher than this:

The second class, I barely made it off the ground.

But the third class? Well, this photo was taken when I was on my way back down. From the top. As in, touched-the-metal-ring-connecting-the-silks-to-the-ceiling top.

By the time I got back to the floor, my heart was pounding, arms and legs were shaking, and hands were burning. But damn, I felt like a badass.

And if I can do that? Well, then I can sure as hell handle 41. 

*For real, y'all, that sounds like a made-up word, but it is in the Oxford now so I'm using it.

Sharing My Collection

I am a collector -- not in any official way, but more in my approach to the world. I collect family photos, my children's drawings and baby clothes, posters and tchotchkes from traveling, lots of books, letters from friends. I even collect actual friends.

Being a collector is part of why I write this blog. I like to collect ideas, stories, memories to share and revisit.

Letting go is not my strong suit.

When each of my grandparents passed away, I inherited pieces of furniture from their homes. Over time, I accumulated scores of items large and small between things I received directly from them and things I scavenged from my parents' attic.

Some of the furniture I took was purely functional. But many of the items hold personal significance. There's the picnic table that my grandfather built out of the hatch cover from an old ship -- he taught me to pick crabs at that table when I was a kid. It weighs a ton, but makes a quirky rough dining room table under the crystal chandelier from my in-laws. Or there's the antique sofa that my grandmother saved specifically for me, her only grand-daughter -- we recovered it in red corduroy to make it less fancy, but the curved feet at the bottom still set a grand tone.

But after years of taking in these hand-me-down treasures, our decor sometimes looks like we did all our shopping in the Dead Relatives Collection -- and there's only so much space for keeping furniture in our house.

So when we started talking about decorating Pippi's big girl room, I realized there were two pieces I was going to have to let go. One was a white dresser with glass knobs that had been in my room and my brother's room when we were kids and then in both nurseries when my children were babies. The other was an upholstered rocking chair that had belonged to my grandmother before serving as my reading chair in my teens and 20s and then my nursing chair in my 30s.

I considered selling them on Ebay or Craig's List, but never seemed ready to make the leap to post them online. Too much hassle. I thought about taking them to an antique store or consignment shop, but just couldn't bring myself to do it. No one else would think the furniture was as valuable as I did. How do you put a price on something filled with memories of multiple childhoods? It sounds melodramatic, but how could I haggle over the space where I rocked my children to sleep?

And then I found the Green Chair Project, a nonprofit organization co-founded by Jackie Craig and Beth Smoot in April 2010 to take quality donations from people like me (who have too much furniture but have a hard time letting go) and get them to people in transition (who actually need the items). The Green Chair makes the furnishings available for a nominal fee to individuals and families identified and referred by its partner agencies.

What makes The Green Chair different is that their warehouse is actually staged and decorated. It's not a pile of castaway junk that no one wanted, left behind for others to dig through. Instead, visiting The Green Chair is like wandering through any other furniture store or consignment boutique, allowing the recipients to shop with dignity as they furnish their home and create nurturing environments for themselves and their families.

I don't know who has my dresser and rocking chair now. But I like to imagine that somewhere there's a mom making a new life for herself and her baby, tucking away tiny onesies or snuggling together to nurse before bedtime. Or maybe it's a little girl who loves books as much as I do, happy for her own space to curl up and disappear into a story.

Letting go wasn't easy -- but somehow giving away the furniture instead of selling it seemed like the best way to honor the memories that have no price tag. Letting go created a new opportunity to be part of someone's next chapter. Letting go opened up space in both my house and my heart.

And I still get to collect the memories.

# 21

Since July, I've written two blog posts. I posted once in August and once in October. And one of those was a recipe.

That's pitiful.

In 2009, when I started this blog, I wrote 158 posts. In 2013, this post will make 21.

Back in May, I wrote about the incredible experience of reading at Raleigh's first Listen to Your Mother and promised myself I would start writing more regularly again.

Back then, I thought I would have more time to write starting this fall -- with both of my children in school now, I would finally have a morning or two when I wasn't in the office or chasing little people and I'd be able to focus on writing again. Except it seems that every week there are doctor's appointments and grocery lists and volunteer projects and office work that spills over and a messy house that doesn't self-clean -- and suddenly those two free mornings are spent.

Then Friday, the incredible Anne Lamott posted this on her Facebook page. Specifically, she wrote:

You're pursuing a creative call of some sort, now? You're not pretending that you are going to get back to writing, singing, dance, as soon as this or that happens--i.e. as soon as you graduate or retire, or your youngest leaves home? You're doing it NOW, badly, herky-jerkily, as a debt of honor? That is the bigger meaning of it all: creation.

So here I am, doing it now. Badly, maybe, but starting again. Maybe I can get to 25 before the year's end.

And you? You know who you are... Thanks for being here with me. Now I have to go and write some more. Hope to see you soon.

Photo: That's me with the top down, not just a gratuitous shot up my nose. Stopped, not driving, so it's totally safe.