I keep my photograph albums in my cedar chest. Dozens and dozens of albums, all crammed full of pictures. Beautiful pictures of my beautiful children. . . pictures I loved. . . pictures that were calendar-quality!!!!! Pictures of my babies, and of my toddlers, and of my preschoolers, and of the first day of kindergarten. . . pictures of birthday parties and skating parties and picnics, and playgrounds.

Mostly, pictures I hadn't seen in years. Some of them? I'd forgotten they even existed.

That's why I was so excited when I got my wireless digital picture frame last Christmas. I'd wanted one desperately ever since I first saw one on display at Sam's Club.

As soon as it arrived, I opened that cedar chest, got out all of those wonderful pictures, started scanning them, and then I put them all on my FrameChannel account.

I took the frame out of the box, wrote down the serial number, and typed that in on FrameChannel. Bingo.

I've got over eight thousand pictures of my beautiful children in a random, looping slideshow, on my wireless picture frame.

It's the showcase of the living room. Nobody can walk past it without stopping and watching for ages. The frame even plays my Mp3's, so I've got a soundtrack to the memories of my life running 24/7 on the back of my piano.

This isn't an advertisement or anything. It's just a statement about the most awesome material object in my house.

When I stand and watch my wireless frame, I am watching my children grow up before my very eyes. I also see my parents, my siblings, our vacations, our pets, and, and, and. . . you name it. If it was precious to me, there's a picture of it on my wireless frame.

The sensation is indescribable. When I look at all of those pictures that had lain hidden for so many years, the sensation is just simply, well, indescribable.

My kids are in their twenties, but not on the back of the piano. There, any time I want, I can see my babies.

My parents. My brother. My sisters. All ages of them.

Any time I want.

If you are looking for a gift for someone you love, you might consider a wireless or digital picture frame. Seriously, if my house caught fire and all the humans and cats were safe, I'd run back inside for that frame. It's like another family member, because it's ALL my family members.

I love it. Sometimes, late at night when nobody's watching, I look at it and cry. Not the bad kind.

Posted by Mamacita at 5:54 PM | | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

Little wonder that our students are so confused about what they're "supposed" to look like these days. Teen magazines that used to give us ADVICE about our appearance are now telling kids that unless they look like (insert talentless celebrity here), they're hideous. AND, many kids have no home backup to instill some self-respect and common sense, so they believe this stuff. Many of the mothers who are supposed to be the voice of reason, believe this stuff. Sad but true. . . .

Trends come and trends go. Rubenesque women used to be the epitome of feminine beauty. Adult women built like eleven-year-olds (Twiggy) were popular. Breasts are flattened by a board placed strategically under the underwear and tied into place. Breasts are bigger. Breasts are pointy. Breasts are smaller. Hems are high. Hems are low. A waistline is hidden. A waistline is enhanced by a corset so tight a woman can't even put it on by herself; she needs a winch fastened to the bedpost, later spelled wench and transformed into a person. How empowering it must have been, for women to finally get clothing they could put on all by themselves!

Now, supermodels are built like concentration camp prisoners, and the walk down the runway looks a lot like the walk to the Belsen showerhouse. * These women look like a sneeze would blast them backwards like a bullet from a gun.

(You know, Victorian men must not have seen very many naked women; otherwise, why and how could a man have possibly believed women were supposed to look like a wasp?)

There were fancy schools in Victorian England that had a rule that each young woman must have a 17-inch waist, just like Scarlett O'Hara.

It wasn't just in England, either. Laura Ingalls Wilder (one of my many literary idols) writes that her mother reminisced to her daughters about how, when she was married, her husband could span her waist with his hands. This, while advising her daughters to wear their corsets even while sleeping or ". . . what your figure will be, goodness knows."

Mothers nowadays dress their small daughters in clothes that a high-class prostitute wouldn't be caught dead in. I am, more and more, thinking that school uniforms might not be such a bad idea.

At the turn of the century, schoolgirls wore pinafores over their dresses to help keep the dress clean, but also to hide the curves and allow the girls to be children a little longer. Remember Anne Shirley, Diana Barry, Jane Andrews, and Ruby Gillis? (Oh, I hope you do!) Emily Starr? Marigold Lesley? Pat Gardiner? They all wore pinafores to school every day, and after school, too. When the pinafores were removed for parties, etc, these girls looked like young women, but because they were still girls, really, the pinafores were worn all other times. Anne Frank, at 13 or 14, still referred to herself and to Peter VanDaan, who was 16 or 17, as "children." Now, there are "mothers" - and I use that term lightly, and, in fact, it's part of a compound word - who put skimpy, suggestive clothing on their innocent children and expect the world to approve and the perverts not to look!

"Ladies," - and I use THAT term loosely, too - if you allow your child to go out in public wearing Daisy Dukes with "Bootie Cutie" embroiled across the butt, you don't have far to go to find the pervert in this picture. It's YOU. Are these the same "mothers" who wear tight, short, revealing clothing and then get all astonished and furious because people are "looking?" Probably. Stupidity reveals itself in many forms.

People have always done ignorant things to their bodies in order to conform to society's current popular trends. That means, there have been stupid people for generations!

Big booty used to be all the rage, and emphasized with bustles. Now, a big butt is a sign of sloppiness and obesity, and whether or not her butt looks big is something most women worry about daily. Fear of a butt that's large enough to actually sit on comfortably sends otherwise sane and intelligent women to the liposuction clinic to get all that sucked out, that they might be "beautiful." Balancing precariously on a protruding tailbone doesn't seem either attractive or comfortable, but that's how supermodels have to sit these days because they traded their cheeks for a check.

Tiny feet were a symbol of rank. High-born Chinese women suffered intense pain all their lives, and had to be carried because they could not walk normally on the new-born-size buds that were what had become of their feet. Women used to lie about their shoe size, because small feet were, and still are to some people, a sign of beauty. Now, a woman who wears size eleven or twelve shoes isn't the exception at all.

Hands were to be kept soft at all costs. Soft, smooth hands indicated servants to do all the work, which indicated money, which indicated good marriage fodder.

There are so many silly interpretations of beauty that I could never go into them all in one post. Besides, I don't want to.

Clean, kind, honest, ethical, intelligent, humorous, witty, and brave. What outside feature could possibly outrank that? I suppose really shallow people would disagree, and I have a hard time overlooking my own, shall we say, "shortcomings" in the beauty arena, but truth be told, beauty fades and these other qualities are merely enhanced.

Oh, and while it may be true that the old standards of feminine beauty were set by men, I honestly believe that now, women set the standards for beauty. I also believe that women are not very nice to each other when it comes to what's "beautiful" this week, and what's "passe."

Remember Marilyn Monroe? Remember how beautiful she was? Size 12. Elizabeth Hurley has been quoted as saying, "I'd kill myself if I was that fat. . . she was very big."

I'm not finished yet. I also believe that we women need to start pointing and laughing at 79-pound toothpicks sashaying down the fashion aisle in between bouts of rehab, instead of throwing our money at them and their keepers: the jokers who get rich because somewhere, a woman spends a hundred thousand dollars on a half-yard of fabric, two safety pins, a button, a necklace made of real diamonds that looks like it was strung by an Alzheimer patient on the front porch of a nursing home, assisted by a four-year-old, a hat made of 19 cents worth of purple felt, a feather, and an old rusty key, and shoes consisting of a paper-thin sole, a ten-inch heel, and a single clear plastic strap across the top, in which one cannot walk. As long as there are women who will buy this hideous, overpriced scheisse and wear it, there will be women who pretend to believe that it's beautiful.

What we need is someone to stand up and say, "The Emperor is naked." Because, my friends, he is.

*I am NOT being disrespectful here. I am being descriptive. It's a visual thing.

(Previously published on Scheiss Weekly)

Posted by Mamacita at 5:45 PM | | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

I have a cherished memory. I was in my early twenties and working in New Brunswick at a summer English language program for adults. Students came from all over the world (but mostly from Quebec) and lived in residence on a university campus.

The staff, most of whom were young, lived in residence with the students and were (in addition to teaching all day and coordinating recreational activities) in charge of patrolling the halls at night to ensure that only English was being spoken (every student signed a contract to that effect and agreed that if they were caught in violation of this rule three times, then they would be sent home. I have never heard of a university based program to be as tough as this one. But it worked). Most of us loved the work but it was intense, exhausting (the hours were very long) and, at times, very stressful. And it was exactly the environment that fostered strong bonds between staff members.

One evening, most of the staff were told that we could have an unexpected day off. At eleven o'clock that night, a bunch of us piled into two cars and drove all night to a friend's cottage (stopping only for gas and to take pictures at the world's longest covered bridge). We arrived at dawn (I couldn't tell you where exactly, but it was beautiful), and a few of us immediately went to put on our suits and go play in the rapids. I remember laughing and playing in the cool water as the sun came up, then crashing for a couple of hours on the cottage floor. Later that morning, we all went for a paddle and I remember drifting lazily in the sun (I am still a very lazy paddler).

We left after dinner that night, to be back in time for work the next morning.

I have lost touch with all of my friends from that day but the memory remains a special one, as a time that I was joyfully living right in the moment.

I was feeling a bit sad the other day as I reflected that I am unlikely to ever have that kind of experience again, what with responsibility, health and (let's face it) age all working against me.

But then I realized that such joyful moments occur routinely, I just need to remember to be open to them. And my kids help a lot with that.

A couple of weeks ago, S. had his birthday party. This was the first such party he wanted in years, so we agreed to go all out and have it at the movie theatre. They were such a nice group of kids and had a great time being silly together! And as I looked down the aisle and took in nine enraptured faces (we saw the new Indiana Jones movie. Good fun), each kid balancing popcorn on skinny knees, I realized that I was having one of those moments. Pure joy.

Cross-posted to Not Just About Cancer.

Posted by Laurie at 7:41 PM | | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

As I've told you before, I'm an only child.

As a matter of fact, my mother and grandmother were only children, too.

Aside from the whole "small family reunion" thing, a downside to all this only daughter-ness is that I don't always know how boy children work.

My oldest child is a girl. I've been a girl. I "get" the girl thing.

The boy thing?

Not so much.

My middle child, a boy, is nearly 12 years old, and my oldest is a girl.

She's 13 and is a very dominant personality. It is impossible to ignore her, and sometimes I get so caught up with her, that I forget he's growing up, too.

Earlier today, he responded extremely rudely to something I said, so his punishment was that he wasn't allowed to go to the store with his dad and brother to pick out a movie. He had to stay in his room instead.

He is also very, very, very, very, very bull-headed, (has been since he was a wee child) and he still didn't respond appropriately to me when I went to talk to him.

Did I mention the bull-headed part?

Anyway, I went back and explained to him yet again why he was being punished, and yet again he responded inappropriately.

Here I was trying to talk to him to finish it up and let him out of his room, and he would have nothing of it.

I walked away wondering if the hospital had given me the wrong child 11 years ago and then it dawned on me: he's nearly a teenager.

I guess he never ages in my head since I'm often caught up with his sister. Then, I'm surprised when something like this happens and I remember he's no longer 8 years old.

I recognize that I need to do something about that, but I may just toss him out the window, instead.*

Yep, he's almost a teen.

(* No teens or pre-teens were harmed in the making of this post. It is a joke. I wouldn't throw him out the window, who would mow the grass, then?)

Posted by Busy Mom at 7:37 AM | | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

Part One (in which running is harder than walking)

Yesterday, my oldest son and I went running.

He is a couch potato and I want him to get fit and get moving.

I used to be a runner but stopped shortly before my surgery in 2006 and have not run since.

S. balked at this proposal at first but I stood firm. Then we saw Run Fatboy Run and he came around (he adores Simon Pegg. And the 'slacker turns long distance runner and gets the girl' theme really appealed to him. Whatever works, I figure).

We did Week One of a beginner's run/walk programme. We ran for one minute and walked for two minutes for a total of twenty minutes (we also did ten minutes of walking to warm up and cool down on each end). Even though I walk almost every day (and sometimes quite briskly), I really felt it (I was also running in a pair of really crappy old shoes which I threw in the garbage when I got home). It's hard to imagine that there was a point in my life when I was able to run for more than an hour and that I once finished a half-marathon.

And S., who had started by saying that he can walk faster than I run (which is true), was panting pretty hard at the end and asking "are we done yet?" Every few seconds.

Still, we both agreed that it was hard work but not overwhelmingly so (I even think that S. was a little proud of himself) and that we would keep at it. I told S. that I expect him to finish the programme with me (in ten weeks we will be running for twenty minutes in two ten-minute increments) and then he will be off the hook.

By then, I am hoping that we will both be addicted.

He was asking yesterday about running a marathon. I think it would be fun to do a 5k together.

We'll see.

On Friday, we will go out and do it again.

Part Two (in which I am pretty)

It was well past D.'s bedtime last night when he asked if he could 'do' my hair. I couldn't resist.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved having my hair brushed. This hadn't happened for a very long time. My hair hasn't really been long enough for years and when it was, there wasn't anyone in my life who was interested in brushing it.

D. set to gently brushing (he was standing on the bed as I sat on it). As he worked, he would make comments:

"Tell me if I hurt you."

"S's hair tangles because it is curly."

"Your hair is like mine and S.'s is like Papa's."

"In the light, your hair looks golden."

and

"I like your hair, Mama."

After brushing, it was time to add some adornments. We both loved the end result:

I have been growing out my hair since it started growing back after the Adriamycin. What you see is the result of almost two years of persistence (I am sure that the current treatment regimen has slowed progress, too).

Recently, I have been thinking of giving up. I had very short hair in the months before my diagnosis and I keep coming across photos of myself with short hair in which I think I look pretty good.

But after last night I don't want to cut it any more.

And I've invested in all these cute little clips. Who knew I could wear them all at the same time?

Cross-posted to Not Just About Cancer.

Posted by Laurie at 1:50 PM | | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

Summertime sure has changed since I was a kid, back when dinosaurs ruled the earth. In the summer, I would leave the house right after breakfast and I wouldn't return until Mom called us to lunch. (Each neighborhood mom had a distinctive lunchtime call. Nobody ever got confused until the people with the parrot moved in across the street. Stupid parrot quickly learned to mimic every mom on the block, and we kids were constantly running into the house asking "What do you want?" and the answer would be "Why are you here? I didn't call you!")

All the moms knew that if any of us chose to behave poorly, anywhere in the neighborhood, the MomPolice would instantly put a stop to it and notify the wrong-doer's mother. Every mom was everybody's mom. The village kept us civilized.

After lunch, we were all off again, riding our bikes all over the neighborhood, climbing trees, playing kickball in Becky's back yard - the biggest back yard on the block. We played there even when Becky wasn't home; all back yards were open source back then.

We came back home again only when it started to get dark; we ate a late supper, took a much-needed bath, watched The Beverly Hillbillies, and went to bed. All the summer tomorrows promised to be just as exciting as the first day!

Were we fat? Nope, although there was always one fat kid, usually nicknamed Porky or Chubs or some such politically scandalous thing nowadays. Were we afraid of strangers? Nope. We were warned about taking rides or candy from strangers, but a stranger would have to be insane to try and kidnap one of us; the screaming and tattling would have begun before his foot hit the accelerator. Remember what happened to the child molester in the novel "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn?" Yeah, I'm all for it. Get him, ladies!

Nowadays, kids are rarely allowed to leave the confines of the house, let alone their own yard. Kids on bikes are watched all the way up the block and all the way back. Go AROUND the block? Heaven forbid.

Kids in summer, nowadays, watch a lot of television and play a lot of video games and do a lot of computer surfing. The trees are too small to climb even if each one didn't have a little fence around it. Other people's back yards are private property.

Your kid wants to play ball? He's put in a structured program run by adults. Your kid wants to play outside? He'll get DIRTY, and wouldn't you rather watch a DVD, and here, have some cake. Kid wants to go someplace? You drive him. And he watches tv in the minivan instead of looking out the window.

I know there are real dangers out there, dangers that were always there but which seem magnified these days. Our kids need to be taught to protect themselves and each other. But parents, let your kids fly free and occasionally out of sight on their bikes, and let them navigate their own neighborhoods, and let them get filthy and hungry and turn off the damn television set.

Give your kids an empty bottle and tell them to fill it with lightning bugs. Send the kids out in the yard to find four-leaf-clovers.

I know! Give them some CHORES to do! Oh, imagine.

And once a week, send them to Steve Spangler's website to sign up for the experiment of the week.
Help them do that experiment. Make it a family affair. There's even a link for special summer activities for kids over there right now.

Whatever your kids do this summer, try to have them do it outdoors whenever possible.

Just a few thoughts from an empty nest mommy who misses her bicycling days almost as much as she misses her kids.

Posted by Mamacita at 10:22 PM | | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

My two sons are five years apart.

When D. was born, this proved advantageous. S., who wanted to impress his new little brother, was able to do many things on his own and keen to help with the little one.

Five years later, the age gap presents more of a challenge. A five year old and a ten year old will always be likely to have very disparate interests. This fact is exacerbated by the differences between my two boys and the fact that my youngest knows exactly how (while simultaneously feigning innocence) to get under his brother's skin.

D. is an extremely social child, while his brother is more introverted. Ever since he was tiny, S. has been able to happily amuse himself with a toy, game or book. Not so, D. who always wants to be at the centre of things.

We have been encouraging D. to play on his own (and we have absolutely forbidden him to announce, "Someone needs to entertain me!") but there are times when we force encourage the boys to play together. This generally involves a fair bit of arm-twisting (or, on occasion, bribery) to get the older one to consent. Especially since we explained that this did not mean he could just turn on the TV and leave the room.

For a while, whatever game we would suggest or D. would want to play, S. would try and get his little brother to agree to hide and seek. We became suspicious one day when D. came to report that his brother had been hiding for a very long time. We found him deep in his closet with a flashlight and a book.

One day, this strategy back-fired.

On that occasion, D. had a friend over. S. once again suggested that they play hide and seek. I think he was actually keen to play that time (he is often much more interested in little kids when they are not his brother) but, as S. hid, the little kids quickly lost interest.

Some time later (it could have been as long as forty minutes), the younger boys having moved on to another game, we heard S. calling from somewhere upstairs, "Is anybody going to come and find me?"

You can read more of my writing at Not Just About Cancer.

Posted by Laurie at 11:00 AM | | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)