Commonplace

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A Commonplace Life.

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-Amy

A Gift (to Myself)

Thank you for all of the birthday love. I'm overwhelmed.

It was a day like any other with a few special touches mixed in.

There was an unscheduled pediatrician visit and an ear infection. There was Saturday business to attend to: haircuts and visits from neighbors. I baked a cake (what's a birthday without cake) and we ordered in dinner and ate in our pajamas. There were no dishes to wash and no diapers to change (thank you Niall). The phone rang maybe fifteen times—old friends and relatives wishing me well.

And there were these. Forty of them.

And facebook posts and email messages too numerous to count.

I felt very loved.

And a I gave myself a gift. It's a work in progress but I'm feeling ready to share it.

From now on, please visit me here.

I'm excited about the next chapter in my journal-keeping adventure and the places it might go.

If you want to come along for the ride (and I hope you do), you'll need to update your subscription or bookmark.

Thanks for visiting.

Bring It On

Today is my fortieth birthday.

Lately I've been getting lots of "forty isn't so bad" and "you wouldn't want to be thirty again, right?" Truth is though, I wouldn't want to be thirty again and I wouldn't go back to twenty for all the tea in China. 

I spent too many years to count feeling unhappy with what I saw when I looked in the mirror. My imperfections glared out me in a blaze until I shielded my eyes and looked away. Every day.

The rampant malcontent among young girls in American culture is not news. I am only further proof of it's existence. 

Something changed for me though, somewhere in the years following my divorce — long after my first born was in school.

I started to appreciate the lines in my face for the stories they told. I looked upon my body with wonder and awe for how it nurtured my children. I began to admire my unruly hair for it's distinctly identifiable silhouette. And I stopped looking away.

I don't wear much makeup or color my hair. I hardly remember to put on earrings and I live in comfortable jeans and sweaters.

And I still feel beautiful.

Not every day. But most days. I believe it comes from inside and it is a reconciliation of sorts. A true understanding that beauty is individual. (It helps not to read magazines or watch too much television as well.)

I don't envy the mother of girls the monumental task of imprinting this understanding on their babies. My mother told me I was beautiful every day and yet I didn't believe her until I was well into adulthood. No one ever made me feel less than, but I still wanted to be more. Why was that, I wonder.

I'm finished with it now though and I'm welcoming my next decade with open arms.

Thanks for visiting.

My Journey

I haven't written all week. I'm having trouble focusing the multitude of ideas that keep appearing in my mind's eye into anything sensible.

I drift off while cooking dinner into an essay about aging.

I slip away while changing a diaper—composing sentences about inspiration.

It's not the curse it was in school—this lack of focus. There is a blessing to be found in it. To have so many different places to go.

Harnessing the ideas into accomplishment is a challenge I haven't conquered, however.

For years I accepted it as fait accompli. You can't teach an old dog and so forth. But that doesn't sit comfortably in the pit of my stomach. How can I tell my son—who struggles with strikingly similar issues—that there are strategies, there is help, there is support—if I don't believe the same for myself?

Perhaps it's the milestone in my life that will occur tomorrow (when I turn forty) that has me looking at what is left. Not what has come before.

So I will write the essay on aging and compose the paragraph on inspiration — and so many more. Eventually.

I will put one foot in front of the other as it were. And forge ahead on the journey to my best self.

Colors of My Day

Yellow.

This vase was a wedding gift and it lives on our mantle. Niall put it there, on the end next to the window, because he said he likes how it catches the light.

Me too.

And yesterday's color:

Blue.

If the shot was a bit wider, you'd see all the toys that usually live in that bucket spilled all over the floor.

Things that are exciting me today:

Counting down to Inauguration Day.

Niall is taking the day off and we are attending brunch at friends'. Quinn is too young to appreciate it but Jake is pretty excited. (Nothing like inflicting one's views on our children.) He seems to understand the significance and we're hoping to be present in a moment that is certain to become something we look back upon.

In the evening I'm planning to attend the opening of The Obama Show at Eyebuzz in Tarrytown. I don't know whether I'm more excited to see these in person, or to meet Tara who is one of my favorite bloggers.

Watching Jake perform.

Any mother knows what it feels like to watch their child be happy. It's an indescribable feeling that affirms your entire being.

My son has struggled, more than any ten and a half year old should, to be happy. He continues to struggle still. But when he is playing the keyboard or singing on stage, he is as happy as I've ever seen him. I love to witness this and tonight and tomorrow I will.

If you missed any of my video posts of him, you can watch them here if you're so inclined (he's the little one).

Making new friends.

Kathleen at Mamas Always Write has an insightful and honest style that encourages me to write. I have been compelled by her 'prompts' since my first visit. It only solidified my interest in her when I found out that she lives in the city of my heart.

Stephanie at The Letter's Edge writes with a straightforward and quirky voice that is just a little self deprecating and I want to have a cup of coffee with her. She has has recently posed a question that's got me thinking: what would you do if you knew you couldn't fail? I'll be guest-posting on her blog and addressing that question later in the month.

Meeting both of these women and reading their accounts of motherhood, career decisions, marriage and creativity, further confirms my suspicions that I am not alone.

What is exciting you today?

Thanks for visiting.

Pearl's Recipe Box

I can't remember how I came to have

this box.

It belonged to my grandmother, Pearl and has been in my possession for years.

Pearl died died in 1986 when I was seventeen. Her husband, my grandfather, Fred, died when I was six. After that she married once and moved to Montréal from New York City for a brief time. When she returned, I remember her as being sad. During my high school years I had dinner with her once a week in her apartment on East 73rd Street. (I think it was Tuesday nights.) She always cooked for me. The meals were basic and delicious. One dish that stands out in my memory was something she called Chicken-in-a-Pot. Her salad bowl was wooden and before loading it up, she was in the habit of rubbing it's inside with a garlic clove. She had embossed green glass goblets that we drank our water out of and velvet upholstered dining chairs. She once showed me the scar from her mastectomy. My mother was furious, but it didn't bother me. I'm told I look like her.

I don't know exactly why I've let this box sit closed for so long or what compelled me to finally open it, but last weekend I did.

I knew it was her recipe box but I was unaware of exactly what treasures lay inside.

The papers were yellowed and musty and almost too brittle to unfold. The writing, familiar and foreign, only partially legible. Niall suggested that perhaps my father (her son) would be able to decipher the codes.

She collected recipes on little bits of clues about her life. One written on notepaper from The Hotel Webster Hall on Fifth Avenue in Pittsburgh. I like to assume that she was visiting my father who went to college there. Another written on a page torn from a date book marked — Thursday, April 30, 1964. The year of my parents' marriage. Still more written on old checks and curious receipts. 

The recipes fall into three major categories: Jewish cooking, recipes passed along from friends and those cut out from newspapers. Some fall into multiple categories.

Among the Jewish recipes I found:

Easiest Potato Kugel
Cauliflower Pudding
Matzo Brie
Charoses For Seder and Kneidlach for a Meat Meal (New York Post Monday, April 1 1968)
Potatoe (this is how she spelled it) Soup
Potatoe Pancake
Sour Cream Pancake
Mother's Matzo Balls

Some of her friend's recipes:

Pot Roast - Miriam
Baked Chicken - Lois
Chocolate Cake - Ruth
Chicken Fricasse - Irma
Goulash - Mrs. Schaer
Veal Cutlet - Jenny
Veal Loaf - Esther
Cold Slaw - Faith (Faith, I suspect, is my mother)
Dip - Ruth
Cake - Edith

There were also multiple recipes for types of 'moulds' (also her spelling) including: Beet and Horseradish Mould, Apple Mould and Strawberry Mould. I vaguely remember these being all the rage in the seventies.

A list of recipes I hope to try one day:

Sunday Morning Coffee Cake
Cheese Cake
Chocolate Bar Cookies
Icebox Cookies
Banana Cake

(Notice a theme?)

Here is something she called

Cookies Charlotte

1/2 pound of butter
1/2 cup cream cheese
4 cups flour
1 cup sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 egg yolks (put whites aside and brush on top of cookies)
1 teaspoon vanilla

Roll into shape of salami (Yes, that is exactly what it says. Salami.) in wax paper and chill for about two hours. Cut cookies. Brush on egg white and sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar or chopped nuts.

I never did find the recipe for Chicken-in-a-Pot.

Thanks for visiting.

Scenes From A Wednesday

Caroline over at Burrow House is hosting an impromptu color week. A one week project with no real commitment is right up my alley.

We started on Tuesday and the color of the day was: green.

Have you ever been to New York State in January? There's nothing green here except the pallor of the general population's skin. I gave up before the sun set. I did, however, dream in green. I dreamed that I was standing at the kitchen sink in my childhood home chopping peppers and parsley. I noticed a green ceramic plate on the counter (this plate actually exists in my current home but never did in that one). I suddenly realized that the sun was setting and that I was going to lose the light. I had to find my camera before the perfect 'green shot' disappeared. I can't tell you if I ever captured it or not.

Today's color is: red.

At first I thought I might just link to this photo from my last post. Obviously a cop-out but red nonetheless. On second thought, I was up for a little challenge. If I sat around waiting for color to come to me, it might only happen in my dreams. So I went for a walk. It's sixteen degrees today so it wasn't a long walk, but it felt good. And guess what I found!

Some green.

Thanks for visiting.

Morning Light

I get up early.

Thoughts of what's coming always draw me out of bed. As I imagine them to be at your house, mornings are a whirlwind around here. Get 'em up. Get 'em fed. Make the lunches. Don't forget the homework, contact lenses, bus notes, gloves. You know the drill. 

So I get up before everyone else and spend a few minutes.

The calm before the proverbial storm. 

Of course there's coffee and checking in on my favorite blogs. Until recently there were the papers as well. (It hasn't been the same for me since news-gathering became a digital habit.) There was dog walking... but no more. Now it's just me and the cat. We warm the house for the others. We gather our strength for the rush. (Mostly I gather my strength and she sits on the back of a chair and watches the sun rise.)

At 6:15 a.m. I usually feel as if I can accomplish anything. The day lays in front of me with endless moments I plan to fill with finishing. I will finish cleaning the bathrooms. I will finish the dishes, the laundry, the bills. I will clean my closet and file that stack of papers. I will finish everything while devoting my full attention to playing with my toddler.

At 6:37 a.m. it seems possible to finish everything.

But I never do.

Tonight, in a moment of feeling unsuccessful, I will remind myself of the things that did get finished.

When Jake got off the school bus, there were warm cookies waiting for him—never mind if the dishes were still in the sink. When Quinn took his nap, his diaper was clean, his belly was full and he was wrapped up in a quilt that I stitched for him—no matter if his jammies were still in a pile on the floor. When he bumped his head while we played, I scooped him up and kissed it until he laughed—it's okay if the toys still sit where we left them. When Jake wanted to play a new piece for me on his keyboard, I sat and listened to it over and over—no one minded eating dinner a little late. And when everyone was sleeping and the quiet finally settled back around me, the house was a mess and nothing was set for the next morning but I didn't mind.

At 6:04 a.m. tomorrow, it'll all seem possible again, and maybe tomorrow it will be.

Thanks for visiting.

2009 - 001

I've finished my first quilt of the new year. The pattern is Amy Butler's Belle Quilt done in a mix of fabrics, but I couldn't tell you what they are. I just pick the ones I like and go from there. I started making this as a holiday gift for my sister-in-law but quickly decided that it wouldn't be leaving my home. For one thing, it's pretty specific. You'd have to really like whimsy and bright to like this and I wasn't sure she would. For another, I just wanted it. Don't worry though, she got something lovely. (Of course, with all of the late-night-pre-holiday-crafting, there was never really a good photo op, so you'll have to take my word for it.)

I don't have much experience with appliqué but in keeping with my impulsive nature, I decided to jump right in. I really love the bold graphic effect of the giant circles on the pieced squares. All in all a fun pattern and I think a pretty successful quilt. It's a good feeling to finish something and be really pleased with it instead of highly critical.

I tested it out yesterday by curling beneath it with a cup of something hot (it's not as romantic as it sounds - mostly it was theraflu) watching the kids play. Jake was home from school because of icy roads and it was chilly in the commonplace house. But the new quilt served it's purpose. How could you be grouchy while wrapped in those colors?

Thanks for visiting.

Battle Scars

Have I told you about how big my baby is?

Quinn was born seventeen months ago (five weeks premature) weighing in at just under six pounds. Not bad for a preemie. Right? Today he weighs thirty pounds. Just to help paint the picture here, you should know that I'm five feet two inches tall and weigh about one hundred and ten pounds. The point being that I am heaving around a human who is almost a third of my size. I'm wrestling him into his high chair, his car seat, his clothing - to say nothing of his diapers. (Why do they fight this so?) It shouldn't come as a huge surprise that I have developed a few war injuries over the past year.  One in particular that I can't kick. I've got DeQuervain's Tendonitis in my hand. This condition is so common among women who have recently given birth that it is sometimes called "new mom's syndrome." (Vindicated! It's not just me.) It's basically an injury that comes from the repetitive act of picking up your baby. It's pretty painful but I've been able to manage it with injections of cortisone. Until now.

My feelings about all of this are two-fold.

First, I'm in awe. I can hardly believe that I fed this gigantic person from my breast and nurtured him out of the NICU and into a size 2T.

Second, I wish there had been more time to hold him. (Isn't that always the way with mothers? The bittersweet emotions about how fast it all goes...) I wore him on my body in one sling or another for around ten months but he just got too heavy. I bought hip carriers and mai-tais and tried every method known to woman, but our size differential was just too great and I gave up and put him in the stroller.

Every time I lift him now, it hurts, and that's not okay. I need to be able to hold my baby who still needs holding.

I've decided to have surgery. It's minor and the success rate is around 99%. So I should feel better. After two weeks in a cast and who knows how many more of physical therapy.

As for those slings and carriers — they're up for grabs. If you would like one, or know of an organization which distributes them, please leave me a comment.

Thanks for visiting.