Stop Apologizing

“I don’t believe in twisting yourself into knots of excuses and explanations over the food you make. When one’s hostess starts in with self-deprecations such as ‘Oh, I don’t know how to cook…,’ or ‘Poor little me…,’ or ‘This may taste awful…,’ it is so dreadful to have to reassure her that everything is delicious and fine, whether it is or not. Besides, such admissions only draw attention to one’s shortcomings (or self-perceived shortcomings), and make the other person think, ‘Yes, you’re right, this really is an awful meal!’ Usually one’s cooking is better than one thinks it is.” Julia Child

This passage from My Life in France really stuck with me. Maybe because, like most women, I overapologize. Someone will bump into me in the street, and I automatically say, "I'm sorry." Ironically, when I’ve done something wrong, it’s hard to apologize, but when I’m falling short of the expectation to be the perfect mother, homemaker and woman, I can't keep the explanations in my mouth. “I’m so sorry the house is a mess.” “I’m so sorry dinner isn’t ready yet.” “I’m so sorry I don’t have vegan cupcakes made from raw organic ingredients for your child.”

When I read Julia's above thoughts, I realized it is annoying to have to reassure someone that they are okay, so why should I put guests in that position?

With my antenna up about this issue, I started noticing it in other people. I have shown up at a friend’s house, who said, “Oh my god, there’s cat hair everywhere, I haven’t dusted in weeks, and oh, God, that's my son’s dirty underwear in the corner.” I definitely would not have noticed any of those things had she not pointed them out. Even if I had, I certainly am not inclined to judge anyone else’s housekeeping, and if I am, isn’t that my problem?

So unusual is the unapologetic host that she makes quite an impression when she does appear. A friend reported to me how, twenty years ago, when her son hurt himself on the playground, an acquaintance invited them to her house to bandage him up. The house was disastrous—dishes piled in the sink, toys and clothes strewn everywhere, outrageously messy—and the hostess didn’t apologize or explain. According to my Grandmom, my cousin Adelaide was always happy to host a party, no matter the state of her home. “She would have dustbunnies the size of cats, and they didn’t bother her in the least.” 

Both incidents were reported with admiration, disbelief - like how could you possibly be relaxed and unbothered by other people seeing your mess? I'm working on this skill, and because I have a living tornado, in the form of a toddler, I get plenty of practice. I can straighten up the house five times a day and still have a disaster scene. Why bother?

So, fair warning, if you're coming over for dinner, you might find a messy house and a mediocre meal, but you'll also have a happier, more relaxed hostess. And aren't you coming over to spend time with me, not to judge me? Maybe I can inspire you to worry less about your dustbunnies, and then your mess could inspire someone else. Let's start a chain of unapologetic imperfection.

Juggling Act

A tired cliche, I know, but I really do feel I've been juggling many balls in the air over the past few months. I've been working part-time, writing essays, planning a writing workshop, mothering Daniel, considering a return to my legal career, experimenting with screenwriting, and yes, I recently returned to my second novel.

So I haven't written many blog posts, and I'm trying to not feel guilty about it.

What I have written is posted at 4 Broad Minds - thoughts on Mother's Day and mothers-in-law. I hope you'll come visit me there.

Celebrate Women!

It's International Women's Day, how should we celebrate? How about showing some love for a woman in your life? Send your mom a card, buy your friend a mocha, text your sister a loving thought. Every woman I know works hard, juggling many responsibilities and roles. We could all use some extra kindness.

And for all the ladies out there, here's a radical thought: show yourself some extra love today. Give yourself permission to sit down for thirty minutes to read a book or magazine. Linger over your dinner. Eat dessert. You deserve it.

Hooray for women!

Taking My Time

How I feel when I'm hurrying

“What are you giving up for Lent?” was a question commonly discussed in the St. Bernadette's cafeteria. Usually I would give up chocolate or Doritos, maybe Coke. I hadn’t practiced the Lenten sacrifice in decades, but last year, my friend Claire told me she was driving in the car without any music or news for Lent. She liked the idea of a short window to try out a new behavior, like an experiment.

Claire's take made sense to me, so last year for all of Lent, I drove the speed limit. I felt much calmer in the car, less focused on other drivers’ behavior, more open to noticing hawks soaring or trees budding or clouds drifting. After Easter, I relaxed my restriction – driving 55 on the highway is excruciating – but find that most of the time, because it helps me enjoy my day, I respect driving laws.

How I feel when I'm taking my time

 This year for Lent, I’m slowing down in general. The inspiration came from a speaker who started her talk by saying, “I’m going to take my time. That was something I was never given permission to do as a child.” This idea stuck in my head. My parents are not “take their time” kind of people. If there is one more activity they can squeeze into a day, they do it. And God bless them, it seems to work fine for them. (Except for the occasional missed cruise ship.)

I also fill my days completely. Do I have five minutes before a friend arrives? I’ll put in a load of laundry and wash the dishes. Ten minutes before Daniel will likely wake? I’ll write a draft of an essay, check my email, and call the portrait studio about ordering those wallets. Yes, I’m efficient, but many days I feel harried and stressed. I hoped that by slowing my pace to a jog, I might enjoy life more.

Since Ash Wednesday, I’ve caught myself rushing many times each day: changing my son into his pjs; tugging the dog along on her leash; speed walking to the bathroom at work. My writing teacher observed that maybe if I wrote more slowly I’d be able to read my own handwriting. Wow. I’m in too much of a hurry to write legibly.

The first real test came on Tuesday, when I woke up later than planned, and had a doctor’s appointment.  But when I noticed the stress, I took a few breaths, gave myself permission to take my time, and accepted that I might be late. The frenzy might have saved me a few minutes, but it would have made all of them unpleasant. I let Daniel dawdle a bit over breakfast, drove the speed limit, and breathed through my anxiety. With very little traffic, and a prime parking spot, somehow I arrived at 9:45 on the dot, and much calmer than frantic Julie would have had.

The gift of awareness is realizing I have choices. Oh, I’m hurrying again? Okay, I don’t have to do that. So I guess, in St. Bernadette’s terms, I’m giving up rushing for Lent. I think Sr. Mary Bertha would approve.

Superwoman is Fiction

Last Thursday, as I drove to the car dealership, I sang out loud, “I’m super woman,” to the tune of “I’m Every Woman.” You’d think by now I might recognize the pride before the fall, but no, I didn’t. I congratulated myself on waking up, meditating, feeding everyone, and getting out the door in time. My packed schedule continued all day, without incident until 5 PM, when Carl came in the door.

“Sorry, I just heard your message,” he said.

I noticed he did not have the rolls or horseradish sauce I’d asked him to pick up on his way home. He plopped onto the couch and said he was exhausted, had body aches, and feared he had the flu. Did I feel sympathetic? No. I felt something more like fury. I was tired too. And now what were we going to have for dinner, and how was I going to get to my writing group on time, and who was going to entertain the very energetic toddler?

I huffed and sulked, then took the dog with me to pick up the things for dinner. An hour later, as I took our sandwiches out of the oven, Carl asked if something was wrong.

“I’m irritated,” I said.

When he asked why, I sighed, then thought about it. I wanted to blame my bad mood on someone else, namely him, but really, once again, the problem lied within. I had taken on too much that day, causing me to feel completely overwhelmed at the smallest obstacle. "Why don't you sit down for a few minutes?" he suggested.

Thank God I married someone who can remind me how to stay sane. When I get stressed, everything I know about staying calm flies right out of my head. But I knew he was right. I needed a few quiet minutes to calm down.

After just a few deep breaths I realized it wouldn’t matter all that much if I was a little late for the writing group. I remembered that I could ask Carl to finish the laundry and put Daniel to bed. I remembered one of my mantras, “I have all the time I need.”

Anytime I start thinking I’m superwoman, I’m in trouble. Some days I am quite amazed at what I can accomplish. But that level of energy is unsustainable for me, unless I take time for self-care. I don’t know if superwoman needed to meditate, eat well, exercise and rest, but I do.

Cracks are how the Light Gets In

“Mi corazon está roto. Roto.” My heart is broken. Broken. These were the only words I could summon, in speaking with my host parents in Mexico, after learning that their son had died, suddenly. On December 26. Of a heart attack. At age 36.

Nine days later, I feel a bit calmer. Somehow, my mind has accepted that Roje is dead. But I also know that my heart has acquired another fissure, one that will scab over, and hurt less, but will leave a lasting scar.

I find comfort in the idea that cracks are how the light gets in. Just today, when I entered the library and heard a screaming infant, I felt compassion for her and for her mom. Before my own struggles with parenting, I probably would have thought, “God, can’t you make her shut up? This is a library. People are working.” But the difficulties of motherhood have cracked me enough to make room for compassion and empathy. Though I wouldn’t have chosen postpartum depression or a colicky infant, I can see that good did come from those struggles.

  

The idea that God can bring good out of anything is different than the idea that everything happens for a reason. I just re-read an article by Christine Marie Eberly about this distinction and found it very helpful. When someone says “Everything happens for a reason,” the implication is that God chose this suffering for us for some reason we don’t understand. That concept of God doesn’t work for me. I prefer St. Paul’s notion that God can bring good out of whatever happens to us. Anne Lamott says she pictures Jesus saying, “You’re hurting. Me too. You’re angry. Me too. You’re heartbroken. Me too.” That’s a God that I can believe in.

I hate that Rogelio died. And that’s my right. I never would have chosen this for his wife or his parents, or his small children. But there it is. We cannot control when or how our loved ones die. I don’t know how good will come of this, but I have to believe that it will.

Thank you, Roje, for your friendship, your love. Thank you for your beautiful children, your example of kindness and generosity. I am a better person because I knew you. You will always be my brother. Te extrano mucho mi hermano.

Baking, Part 2

This is the cake

This is the toddler on cake
Any questions?

If you haven't already tried the yogurt cake recipe from Bringing Up Bebe, see the previous post and give it a try. Suggestion from baker extraordinaire Carolyn: use the recipe to make muffins instead of a cake. She says it makes them brown all over, which sounds awesome. Also, they probably won't be liquid in the middle, as my above cake was.

I continued my brownie experiments too (and I wonder why my jeans are feeling tight). This brownie recipe is AWESOME, and really easy. Almost as easy as making brownies from a box. And so much tastier. I used Ghiardelli cocoa powder, which probably helped.

Anyone have a favorite Christmas cookie recipe they want to share? I'm going to have to track down Aunt Dotsie's cream cheese cookie recipe. That is my all time favorite. I'll share it here if she lets me.

Happy baking!