Tag: family

Ouray Beauty

On By aftheadIn Uncategorized8 Comments

Damp and smelling of hot springs we made our way to the concert in the park.  Music and a sno-cone tent had lured us away from the warm pool.  My daughter and I were both overdressed for the weather in our jackets, but underdressed in our lack of underwear and shirts.  We had decided that wearing our swim suits under our clothes would just be “too soggy” for the rapidly cooling evening.  My husband’s damp swim trunks looked enough like shorts that he blended in. The band we didn’t know played music we did know.  We swayed to the music at the edge of the crowd while my daughter attacked her bright blue dessert.

Ouray is a mountain town, and there were distinct groupings of tourists in their “Ouray” and “Colorado” souvenir clothing and locals in their Patagonia, Mountain Hardware, and skinny jeans.  Tourists were not wearing skinny jeans, because no fabric is flexible enough to allow for anything beyond breathing in those jeans: completely impractical for anything but standing and looking cool.  Sprinkled between the tourists and locals were the traditional concert-in-the-park attendees.  The requisite braless old lady, somewhere between 45 and 95, hula hooped in the front row.  She briefly attracted attention of many wondering if her breasts would be exposed during her gyrations, even though no one really wanted to see them.

My daughter was marveling, “Why doesn’t everyone give straws and spoons with snow cones?” when I noticed a woman weaving her way through the crowd.  Well, I actually noticed her coat.  I am a coat aficionado and this was a spectacular specimen.  It hit her mid-thigh and was made out of some chamois colored leather or perhaps waxed canvas.  The material had a slight sheen and accentuated her ordinary movements as she nodded at this person and hugged that one.  In the fading sunset her coat glowed and looked so soft that I longed to touch it.  Laughing, she tossed her head and her long earrings sparkled beneath her asymmetrical black pixie hair.  It wasn’t a haircut in response to aging or motherhood, but just the haircut she should have.  When she bent to swoop up her son I noticed her jeans – not skinny like the cool people – but soft, medium blue, body skimming, practical and perfect.  They just brushed the top of her bare feet as she stood, cradling her boy on her hip.

She was beautiful.  It wasn’t that she was thin.  It wasn’t that she was well dressed.  She was both of those, but what made her beautiful was that she was impeccably herself and she was fully and completely present in the space she occupied.  I wasn’t the only person who noticed her, although I may have been the most intent observer.  As she would stop to talk to a group you could see the people nearby pausing in anticipation of her arrival.  When she left a group they would watch her go before resuming their conversations.  It was as if a spotlight followed her and the crowed brightened where she was.  She was magnetic.  I could spot her in an instant either due to her personality or the ebbs and flows of the crowd dynamics moving around her.

Never close enough to make eye contact or to be graced with a smile, I left without meeting this woman.  As I closed my eyes to sleep that night I imagined a life for her.  She owned a little boutique shop in Telluride.  She lived in Ouray in a house she inherited from her grandmother, and she loved the quaint mountain town.  However, as a savvy businesswoman, she knew the real money stayed in Telluride, the richer of the sister towns.  Every year women traveled from all over the world to spend thousands in a single shopping trip so they could look “just like her.”  She catered to them, fawned over them, impeccably dressed them, and under her attention they became beautiful.  Huge packages would arrive at their homes containing entire new wardrobes selected by her hand.  The rich women would take out each item and lovingly remember how they felt that day in Telluride.  Unfortunately, none of them could capture the same confidence they felt in the shop, because the shop owner didn’t come with the clothes she sold.  The memory of beauty didn’t wane so those wealthy women would return year after year to rekindle the feeling, and every year they found it under her gaze.  

I fell asleep wishing I could travel to Telluride and wondering what coat she would select for me.

Hiatus and Compromise

On By aftheadIn Tickles my afthead, Uncategorized10 Comments

Oh my dear blogging friends, I have missed you.  The insanity of May flowed into the craziness of June and my poor blog suffered.  In hindsight I should have told you all I was going to be missing from this space, but alas, I just went and left no forwarding address.  Now refreshed and full of stories from a week’s vacation I return ready to blog again.

For starters, let me just say I have finally figured out this “vacationing with a child” thing.  Now, 8+ years of parenting has taught me that the second I utter such words that hubris will destroy me leaving me in the land of horrid vacations for years to come. I shall not be daunted!  I believe this knowledge will endure!  The key to successfully vacationing with a kid is… duh duh duuuuhhhhh…. compromise!  Let’s look at some pictorial evidence from my recent Tour de Soutwest Colorado, shall we?

In order for child(ren) to enjoy the seven mile hike to Lizard Lake, you must first incentivize them with a gnome home contest.  Then, when the whining and complaining part of the hike begins you may be lucky enough to notice a bonanza of snail shells (What?!?  In Colorado in the mountains???  It’s like Mother Nature was on the parent’s side) which will lead to the creation of a snail-shell-walkway which will result in a champion gnome home.  Everyone is happy, especially the gnomes.  Tune in, because I am certain this home will be featured on gnome HGTV for years to come.

Oh, not more hiking.  We adults love hiking, and somehow we think if there is a waterfall at the end the children will like hiking too.  That may work for you, especially if the hike is short and the waterfall is amazing like this one is, but maybe, just maybe, giant inflatable pool toys are more amazing?  Try coupling the success of passing a swim test with an hour of “Water Ninja Warrior” competition – where your child legitimately crushes you on 6 of 6 obstacle runs. (She’s over a foot smaller than me, how was I supposed to fit?  And don’t get me started on her strength to weight ratio….)  The whole way up to that waterfall there will be nothing but joy, especially if you couple the hike with really great rocks in the path.

Oh dear God. You are not done hiking yet?  You want to hike to a cave?  A dark creepy cave?  Well parents, just stick a horseback ride on the front of that cave hike and let Yuma the horse do the majority of the hiking for you. Sure, you won’t be able to walk for a couple days while you develop real understanding of the term “saddle-sore” but your kid will love every minute of the ride there, and then might even surprise you by being the only family member willing to follow the guide “just a little farther into the cave.”  Try not to hang your head in shame while you let your kid go spelunking into the depths of a cave with some guide you met less than an hour before.  She’ll probably be fine and besides, your butt hurts too much to crouch.

EVEN MORE HIKING?!?!  What are you insane?  Is this a death march or a vacation, I ask you?  Well, if you can hike in a creek and, I don’t know, pick up even more cool rocks then maybe you can squeeze one more hike in.   Note: we may have failed on the rock portion of “take nothing but pictures and leave nothing but footprints” goal of hiking, but that’s okay, because you are done hiking now, right.  RIGHT???

Let me tell you, at some point you have to put your butt down.  Sure the top of the sand dunes are very tempting, but that sand is hard to walk on and after awhile there is so much of it in your ears you can’t hear the pleading, “Can’t we just go a little farther?”  Fine, go a little farther, but me and your backpacks of water and snacks are staying here, far away from the sand ledge of death – which somehow didn’t claim my family (or any other lives) during our trip.  You go on to the top.  I’ll wait for you, even without any rocks to gather.


 

No more angry holidays

On By aftheadIn Uncategorized11 Comments

I had an amazing, beautiful Mother’s Day.  I ran with a dear friend.  My daughter made me a sweet card and gave me some yarn so I can make her a hat for when she goes to sleep away camp.  She picked out not-itchy yarn to guarantee she will wear it.

I spent a few blissful hours alone before my mom and I had our traditional buy flowers until the car is full then buy some more shopping trip.  This is a picture of her car before our last stop where we bought three more flats of plants.  (She had one on her lap and one under her feet by the end.)  We decided our million dollar idea is to build a double-deck car plant stand.

We went back to my house, unloaded the car, and picked up my daughter.  Then after a quick visit with the grandparents little Afthead and I headed home.  I cooked dinner, and we enjoyed our evening as a family.  There was a card on the dining room table with my name on it.  At bedtime I said, “I’m going to open this card from Daddy and then let’s get ready for bed.”

Daddy said, “Oh, that’s not from me.  It’s from my brother and sister-in-law.”

My head explodes.  My husband and I have this fight at least once a year.  We’ve had it on Mother’s Day, my birthday, Valentine’s Day and our anniversary.  He has a variety of lame excuses such as he didn’t know he was supposed to buy me a card or he forgot or whatever, but at least once a year he totally ruins a holiday for me.  I know it’s going to happen, so I’m mad at myself for letting it bother me, but I feel like I’ve given up so much.  I don’t expect a present.  I don’t expect flowers (because I have plenty, thanks.)  I don’t want chocolate.  I don’t expect breakfast in bed.  I expect a card which is available at any grocery store, card store, book store, and even most convenience stores.  When you can’t even bother to get me a card it’s like a giant middle finger raised with a “you don’t matter at all” tacked on top.  My husband knows this.  I am not a shrinking violet when he forgets the card. We have been together for twenty years, but this year I gave up.  He is never going to remember the damn card.

I went to bed furious at myself for letting him ruin my great day and at him for forgetting the card, again.  I made plans to run off with the cute lifeguard at the pool, or the cute bagel store guy, but when I woke up I tossed those ideas and solved the problem: I went to Target and bought my own cards.  There was one decent Mother’s Day card left, so I got that.  I picked up 4 birthday cards, a few generic “I love you cards” appropriate for Valentine’s Day, our anniversary, or just because he loves me. I bought some “I’m Sorry” cards, because he really freaking needs those.  I got some blank cards.  The Target bag was full of cards, and when I got home I handed them to him explaining that if he couldn’t even manage to open a drawer and sort through these cards I really would kill him.

He wasn’t offended.  My husband is aware of his shortcomings, but he was smart enough to have a card of his own waiting for me.  A “thank you” card because he figured that was what he should have said on Mother’s Day, and because the grocery store was out of Mother’s Day cards.  I may have to pick up a few more “thank you” cards for him.  It was a nice sentiment.

Explaining Irony to a Child

On By aftheadIn Uncategorized8 Comments

Recently my daughter asked me one of those head scratching kid questions.  “Mom, what is irony?”

I don’t know about you, but ever since Ms. Morissette released her hit single “Ironic” I have had a hard time explaining the difference between bad luck and irony.  Rain on your wedding day?  Not ironic.  Behold, last night provided me with the answer to the wee Afthead’s question.

Upon realizing that she had a cut on her foot –  that didn’t hurt at all until she saw it – little Afthead went to get the box of first aid supplies.  This was unusually independent of her.  Normally wounds require drama and snuggling and mommy’s attention.  However, as the wee child got her stool and reached up to the top shelf of the linen closet tragedy occurred.  A can of pain relieving spray tumbled down bonking her on the head.  I came running when I heard the clatter, but before the tears could start I assessed the situation and exclaimed, “This, this is ironic!  Remember when you asked mommy what irony was and I couldn’t explain?  You getting bonked on the head by pain spray is ironic.”

Amazingly the definition was enough to stop the tears and launch us into a conversation about other ironic first aid situations.  Getting a paper cut opening a band aid.  Getting an infection from a germ on the outside of the antibacterial spray.  Apparently irony is best explained in terms of band-aids and boo-boos.

My parenting mantra?  Sit on your hands.

On By aftheadIn Uncategorized16 Comments

If you could hear inside my head you would hear the mantra repeated over and over.

Sit on your hands.  She’s doing fine.

Sit on your hands.  You already know how to sew.

Sit on your hands.  She is feeding herself and who cares if there is applesauce in her eyebrows?

It takes literal physical restraint for me to let my daughter do it herself sometimes. I see her struggling and I just want to reach out and help her, to get her past the hard part, to do it for her, but I don’t.  My hands start to move from my side toward her and I stop them.  It is the hardest, most important parenting lesson I teach myself over and over: she will only learn to do it for herself if I stay out of her way.


Friday night she decided she wanted to learn how to knit, again.  This will be the third time I have taught her.  Each time I have knit to show her, then sat behind her and knit with her hands over mine, then sat on my hands and let her knit, and by knit I mean drop stitches, make stitches with an accidental yarn over, created twisted stitches, knit the same stitch twice and finally give up in frustration.  So we put the knitting away for another time.

This time we started the same way, but at the end of the night when she had eight stitches, instead of the twelve I cast on, and a couple of large holes in her work, she didn’t get frustrated.  She just said, “That’s okay.  This one is just practice.”

Then she put her work down, kissed it, and said “I’ll see you in the morning knitting!”

I didn’t pick it up for her.  I did not go back and fix the mistakes.  I walked past the five rows on her needles and saw what I might be able to teach her to make her work better but I did not do it for her.  I sat on my hands, because I already know how to knit.

Saturday she picked it up again.  Now she has three holes and fifteen stitches, but five inches of something that looks like knitting.  She’s so proud.  She wants to take it to our friend’s house today, because that mom is a knitter too, and she wants to show off.


We hauled out my first knitting project, a lovely burnt orange…thing, and looked at my holes and my wonky first attempts next to hers and talked about why they were different and how they were the same.  As she watches me finish my first adult size sweater she understands that I started, twelve years ago, with something that looks just like what she’s making now.

“Mom, you’ve only been knitting for twelve years.  If I start now, imagine how good I’ll be when I’m your age!”

It’s true, but she’ll only get that good if she does it for herself and I keep sitting on my hands.

There is a tiny girl

On By aftheadIn stories14 Comments

There is a tiny girl.  Her story is not my story, but her parents.  Her parents are my friends and like most children of my friends she got a hat when she entered this world.  A hat with a poof as big as her head.

IMG_4544_medium2
She got sick in her second fall and after days and weeks and months of horrible tests the worst imaginable diagnosis came back, but that is their story, not mine.
It’s winter now and my hands have longed to help my friends.  We bought them meals, but I wanted to do something personal, so I cast on a hat.  A bigger hat with a tiny pom pom.    A hat with a brim, because it is cold this January and my friends are so cool.  Their daughter needs a hat to keep her warm this winter.  Her parents need a hat that tells them their friend still thinks about them and cares.  I hope it isn’t too big, because the tiny girl may not have time to grow into things, and that is the tragedy.  There is a tiny girl, and soon she will have a new hat knit with love and sorrow and friendship for her, her family, for all they have endured and all they have yet to endure.

Afthead Hannukah 

On By aftheadIn Uncategorized2 Comments

I’ve finally recovered enough from my gum surgery to post again.  Thank goodness, because I almost missed blogging about Hannukah!  

Mr. Afthead and our daughter lit the candles before leaving to watch the University of Denver hockey game tonight.  (I wasn’t invited because I’ve yet to stay awake past 9:00 since Thursday’s surgery). We don’t do any presents for Hannukah, so the tradition is just about lighting the candles.  Mr. Afthead’s father is Jewish, so we aren’t:  Judaism is passed on through the mother’s side.  Our celebration is cultural and not religious.  As someone who didn’t grow up with this celebration, I have grown to love the moments of quiet calm for eight nights during this busy season.  

It’s also a touch point every year to measure how much my daughter has grown: this year she can light the candles from the middle candle, the shamash, and recite the prayer herself, in Hebrew.  By next year she may be able to even light the shamash herself.  

Happy Hannukah to any of you who celebrate and happy holidays to everyone from the Afthead family!

The First Thanksgiving

On By aftheadIn Uncategorized8 Comments

My first Thanksgiving at what would become my in-laws house.  I didn’t know it at the time, but their son would become my husband and I would give birth to their first grandchild.  Early family dinners are filled with such tension.  I wanted to impress them.  I wanted them to like me.

When I sat down, there was a marvel at my place.  A soup bowl filled with mashed potatoes.  At my home we serve our potatoes in a huge bowl that barely contains the almost 10 pounds of buttery mashed goodness, yet there is always bickering because everyone wants their fair share for the meal, and leftovers.  A curse on whoever leaves potatoes on their plate Thanksgiving day.  This pre-portioning solves all the problems.  My in-laws are geniuses!

We pass the food and fill our plates.  I take my fork and dip it into my potatoes.  Not as good as my parents, but edible.  I try another forkful.  My future husband leans over and whispers, “Those are for everyone.”

I have double dipped my fork in the soup bowl of potatoes meant to be shared with seven people.  Meekly I take a smidgen and pass to my left.  Then I get the “gravy” which looks like pan drippings with giblets floating in it.  I pass it on without dampening my dollop of potatoes.

It’s a wonder I stayed with him after that meal.  It’s a wonder I ever went back for another Thanksgiving.

“The End” Part 2 – The Heartstrings

On By aftheadIn Uncategorized9 Comments

I’ve often thought that there is a magical moment when something really good happens in my life and I’m the only person who knows.   It’s a special time, when the good news is all mine.  No one has reacted in a way I didn’t expect.  No one has said anything weird, or worse, mean.  The good news is a flickering glow that is all mine.

That was how I felt on Sunday night when I finished my book.  I started crying as the last words were typed.  Not a big sobbing cry, but just tears welling up.  A happy cry.  A sigh of relief cry.  A quiet amazement cry.  These people and their story that had been rattling around in my afthead for so long were out.  Their story was done, or at least the first part of their story was done.  I knew what happened.  They knew what happened.

I wrote “The End.”  I saved the story.  I backed it up, twice.  I calculated how long it took for me to write the book, and wrote down how many pages and words a little piece of paper.  I’m bad at remembering numbers, and if someone cared enough to ask how long my book was I wanted to have that information at hand.

I imagined how I would tell my family and friends the big news.  Who to tell first?  What will I say?  Should I be dramatic or off-hand?  Will they hug me and spin me around in excitement, or will they cry themselves?  My husband is on a different continent.  How will I craft the text that will be the first thing he sees when he wakes up in England?  Subtle or over-the-top?  I imagine the happiness each person will express.  Everyone will be as proud and elated as I am.

However, I am not the center of the universe and the real world doesn’t work like the little movie in my head, so before I started telling I turned towards reality.  I knew everyone would be happy for me, but in the way you are happy for someone else’s good news.

So I started.  Some people were distracted by their own life and their own situation.  Some reactions were weird.  Maybe they always wanted to write a book, but have never managed to get the words down on paper.  Maybe they just had a friend die.  Maybe they are hurt that I’ve been writing this book for two years and never mentioned it to them.  For whatever reason, they are a different happy than I imagined.

There is a flip side.  Some friends and family were happy in cool brave ways.  They said things I don’t experience outside of my deepest darkest center.  They joke about when my book will be made into a movie, like The Martian.  Of course I harbor such ridiculous dreams.  Heck!  I even have a song picked out to play during the opening scene, but I would never say that out-loud.  I want to shush them, lest they attract the attention of fate who wants to squash my hubris.  They offer knowledge and information to move me onto the next phase: sites, magazines, friends and family who can help me publish.  They want to read my book.  They tell me I inspire them.  These will be my first readers.  They are the ones I will hand a huge pile of paper and say, “Tell me what you think.”

My favorite was my daughter.  She told people, “My mom finished her book.  She read me a part once.  It was about the Wizard of Oz.  It was really good.”  I love that she understands that this is a big deal and that she knows it is special that she got a sneak peek.  Only she and my husband have glimpsed the pages of the book.  My kiddo is proud of me.  Who doesn’t want that?

Once I told all the people I walk around with in the real world, it was time to tell my blogging friends.  Really, I held out telling you because I’ve enjoyed my few days of imagining how I would tell you and how you would react.  You are in the arena with me.  You are all writers and whether it’s your quotes, your own novels, fiction, stories, or humor you are putting out there, you putting it out there too.  You are the ones who read my short story and were so wonderful and generous with your likes and your comments.  You made me brave about being willing to make something up in my head and share it.  You are the ones who will read the bits of my book that I will scalpel out in a few weeks.  The good bits that aren’t quite right for the final product.

I turn to you, just like my in-person friends, and ask, do you know what I do next?  It’s time to move to the next beginning!  Thank you for coming this far with me.  I finished my book!!!  Eeeek!!!

Sob!  My kid doesn’t need crayons? 

On By aftheadIn Uncategorized17 Comments

Okay, a slightly misleading title there, but I was looking at the third grade school supply list (my daughter is headed for second grade) and I scrolled to the end.  No crayons.  There I was being a good working mom friend to a coworker whose child is starting kindergarten at our neighborhood school.  She doesn’t have the supply list yet, so I sent it to her.  Yay me.  I got curious about what other grades need, was scanning along, and sob!  I’m crying.  Literally crying at work because next year my daughter won’t need crayons. How is that possible?  Where did the crayon years go?  How can they almost be over?
I love crayons.  Here’s a picture of the shelf above my desk:


See crayons!  I’m the age equivalent of 36th grade and I still use crayons at work.

Children’s lives go by so fast.  Everyone tells you to enjoy the moment or it will slip away.  Well let me tell you, I’m going to enjoy the heck out of the crayon moments from now on!  Off to get some new paper and coloring books.  We’ve got just over a year.
<sniff>