Mom, Mom, Mom #41: Knitting is the New Me

Here’s my latest column for the Alameda Sun, scheduled to run today, January 28, 2010:

On Thanksgiving, a friend handed me two knitting needles and some yarn and showed me the basic knitting stitch and I started. I didn’t tell her that I couldn’t knit, that I had tried to, years ago in Ireland, only to submit in failure. I didn’t even say, “I can’t do this,” which is what I usually tell myself when it comes to being crafty. I just sat next to her on the couch among the group gathered in the living room and started. It was easier than I remembered. And, I enjoyed it, because we were just sitting and talking about how fabulous the meal was and how full we all were, but I was doing something. It was a revelation that I could be productive and accomplish something while seemingly just sitting there, not running around in a frenzy and without the aid of a computer. I took the wool home and made a short scarf. I’m thinking of hanging it somewhere in the house like businesses do with their first dollar bill.

It’s been two months and I’m still knitting. I’ve made a few scarves and I’ve almost completed a pair of fingerless mittens. Okay, so I used the wrong yarn (yarn has weights! Who knew?) and I can’t quite get the thumb right, but I am not afraid to pull it all out and start over, a lesson that is well taken in life as well as knitting.

I’ve been completely swept up by this knitting. It has astounded my family and friends, who know too well my previous crafting exploits. It amuses my Dad because my Mother took up crocheting when I was in college. There are drawers and closets chock full of her creations in my Dad’s house still, years after she’s been gone, doilies and afghans, too many to really use. We kids already have many samples of my Mother’s prolific handiwork and now my Dad doesn’t know what to do with the remainder.

I don’t quite know why knitting has worked for me at this time, but it has given me hope for my future. Maybe there really is a season for everything and I haven’t learned or done all there is to learn or do for me specifically. At 20, I wasn’t ready for knitting, but 30 years later I am. What didn’t make sense then is crystal clear now. Yes, I know, it paints a stereotypical picture of the old lady sitting, knitting. I just need a rocking chair. My mother seemed so old to me when she started crocheting, but I think she was just a few years older than I am now.

There are many differences between my Mother’s crocheting and my knitting. My sisters and I thought it was fine for her to crochet, but we had no interest in learning how to do it. Today, there are many nights when two of my girls pick up needles and knit along with me. With Web sites like Etsy.com (a place to buy and sell handmade items) flourishing and the economy tanking, I think crafting has experienced a resurgence and my kids are more accepting and willing to jump in.

More important for me is that I am starting to believe that there’s more out there that I can try. Maybe something is happening in my brain as I age that’s allowing me to do things I couldn’t before. Maybe I could really learn a language now. If I can figure out a knitting pattern—incredibly convoluted with strange symbols and abbreviations—maybe my brain has shifted enough for me to take on Italian or improve my very weak and rusty French.

I am thinking about some of the physical things I could never accomplish before but might try now. (Another of the differences between my Mother who was housebound and severely physically limited and me.) Oddly, surfing comes to mind and not the kind you do on the Internet. In fact, I’ve started a list of activities that I’ve either tried before, like knitting, or never tried, of things I can say, “I can do this.” Just because I started.

Mom Mom Mom #39: You’ve Got Your Hands Full

From our garden - Mary Lee Shalvoy 2009

This ran in the September 24, 2009 issue of the Alameda Sun. They edited it a bit, but here’s the original.

You’ve Got Your Hands Full

When my three girls were very young and we were still married and living in northern San Diego County, we lived in a house in a development that sat on a ridge above a golf course. Our street was actually a very long, winding circle that weaved through the entire neighborhood.

On nice days—and let’s face it, most days are nice in San Diego—I would strap the girls into the long triplet stroller, baby in the front, twins each in the second and third seats, and push them the 2.5 miles around the neighborhood. As in most housing developments, the homes were nearly identical. I think there were two models—a tudor style and a non-tudor style. These homes were built in the late 1970’s/early 1980’s and the primary differences were the yards. Each yard had a different shape and landscape.

On these excursions, the girls and I would pass one house on the circle with a particularly gorgeous front garden. The gardener was a master. Throughout the year, she displayed a gorgeous array of seasonal plants. As we passed, I pointed out colors and flowers to my captive audience.

One day, as the gardener was gardening, I shouted out a greeting and my envy. How I always wanted to garden and how beautiful it looked. How my grandfather grew up on a farm and how he, too, had a garden that he timed to have something blooming from the dwindling snows of early spring to the first frost of fall.

“Well, thanks, but this takes a lot of time,” she shouted back. “You’ll have time to garden someday, but you have your hands full right now with those little flowers.” The girls waved and the baby woke up and made some noise, letting us know that it was time to go. Now.

“You have your hands full” has been mentioned to me more than a few times since I’ve had my daughters, but the association between raising kids and gardening really hit home this summer.

We planted crops this year in big container buckets in the small backyard of our house here in Alameda. We started from both seed (beans, carrots, cucumber, herbs, zucchini) and plants (tomato). We used a mix of regular soil and Miracle-Gro. We bought a new hose to water, and, damn the drought, we watered every day. It was thrilling to see the young green sprouts; the girls fought over who was going to water each day.

It took some time, but the original gusto and excitement of our urban victory garden lost some of its luster as the summer wore on. Maybe it was when we left for our east coast trip. Maybe it was the cold summer weather when we returned. I do think the neighborhood critters had something to do with it. As soon as any of the fruit, especially the tomatoes, were just ripe enough to pick, they would disappear. One morning, I found a large, juicy, half-eaten tomato on the ground. Now, there’s school and activities that steer us away from the containers in the yard.

What really got in the way, I believe, was the lack of knowledge about how does a garden grow. Why are the leaves brown and shriveled on one plant, but not the other? How do you know when to pick carrots if you can’t see them ripen? Why does only one cucumber grow at a time? My kids have completely lost interest and I am just frustrated.

It takes time to grow and nurture a garden, as it does to raise children. With kids, there are so many unknowns, but as soon as they can talk, they help you out with the process. Tomatoes don’t talk, yet, and there are thousands of variables in the success of their growth. Yes, there are resources, but I realized that the master gardener of our neighborhood in San Diego was right, it takes a lot of time to work a garden. You need to fully invest in the success of each plant for a garden to truly thrive.

The same can be said for kids. My investment right now, as it was 12 years ago in San Diego, is still in the growth of my family. Even though they’re older, they still need me and I am still excited by the sprouting of their minds and lives.

I will have time for a garden some day. Maybe by then, the tomatoes can help me along.

Mom Mom Mom #38: Home Again

A day at the beach in New Jersey.

This column runs in the August 27 edition of the Alameda Sun. Comments are always welcome, here or on Twitter!

You can Go Home Again

We made our annual trek to the east coast again this summer, the girls and I. Although it was our third summer vacation east of the Mississippi in a row, this time it was different. This time we spent either every day or part of every day with family. Depending on your perspective (and your relationship with your own family), that kind of trip could be a heavenly experience or a harrowing one. For me, it was a little bit of both.

Usually on these vacations, we spend most of the time with friends and let the family see us coming and going, literally. The real difference this year was that my brothers and sisters and I found our way back home together with our father at the same time. It’s a rare occurrence—the last time we were all together was at my mother’s funeral 11 years ago. A lot has happened since then and I didn’t want my girls or me to miss this opportunity.

We covered a lot of ground during our trip. We caravanned up to Vermont to see my younger sister and got a quick taste of her family’s country living in a beautiful, pastoral setting. With her infinite hospitality, she managed to entertain 18 people throughout a very rainy day. Then we headed back to New Jersey, spending a good chunk of the remaining time driving from the New York to the Pennsylvania borders and down to the shore. In fact, one day, six of us packed into my Dad’s Buick to drive 200 miles, never leaving the fourth-smallest state in the union, to meet my father’s first great-grandchild (a girl, of course!) and then to see more cousins.

It’s amazing the dynamics that happen when you reunite with your family. I guess I should limit that statement to just one person—what happens to me. I return every year thinking that I have changed so much, seen so much, been through so much and I think people, both old friends and family, will see that, notice that I’ve changed and grown up into this fabulous person. What I noticed was that as soon as I land, I turn into an awkward teenage girl all over again, all the benefits of my age and wisdom quickly dropping to the wayside. It took a few days for me to realize this and I had to really shift my awareness. I am not a teenager anymore. This time, when I left the east coast, I left feeling like a grown up.

I wonder if it’s true for families that don’t separate. If I saw my brothers and sisters every day here in Alameda, would I still turn into the awkward teenage girl that I become now when I see them all? Or, if I hadn’t left New Jersey, would I be the same person I am today?

I don’t believe that people really change that much. Things happen to you—college, marriage, the deaths of loved ones, the birth of children, divorce, illness, careers—but what changes inherently? I often wonder if it’s all of your successes and failures that determine who you are or if it’s who you are that determines your outcome. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.

Thinking back over the journey, I can’t help but think, “Wherever you go, there you are.” The good news is that this time, I have realized what triggers the emergence of that awkward teenage girl and am learning to be the Mary Lee she has grown into. It’s a lesson I want to somehow teach my girls. That you are just you, a combination of all ages of you, and maybe it’s not all that bad.

Mom, Mom, Mom #36: Make it Harder

It’s been a busy time. Here is the latest Mom column, that ran in the Alameda Sun on Thursday, April 23, 2009. Here is the link (in case you’d rather read it on the site). As usual, I welcome any and all comments.

Make It Harder

Just the other day in the car, I caught the end of a broadcast of City Arts & Lectures on KQED. Somebody was interviewing Malcolm Gladwell, the best-selling author of such books as Blink and Tipping Point. In his latest book, Outliers: The Story of Success, he explores how luck, skill and hard work affect your chances at success.

I didn’t hear the entire interview, and, unfortunately, there is no podcast or MP3 version of the discussion online, so I can’t listen to it again to get direct quotes. We will have to actually listen to NPR to hear the interview again.

Gladwell was taking questions from the audience and during this time he actually had an “a-ha!” moment. He was talking about how 30% of all entrepreneurs had been diagnosed with serious learning disabilities at some point in their lives. He pursued this statistic to say that it was because of their desire and willingness to work hard to overcome their challenges that these people succeed in business (and life). He gave several examples of this situation and noted that these people have learned the right skills (delegation, oral communication, etc.) to get ahead. (On the flip side, the same percentage of people diagnosed with learning disabilities end up in jail, but let’s stick to the positive here.)

Gladwell went on to say that maybe if we make it difficult for our kids, purposefully give them some hardship to overcome and work through, it would be the best education we, as parents, could provide. To paraphrase, he said that maybe our country’s educational approach should shift from trying to provide as much as possible to our students, to taking opportunities away from kids in order to help them become successful.

His comment made the audience laugh, but he challenged them to stop laughing and actually take in the astounding thought. By not providing more to your children, actually giving them less and making life harder, you might help them grow into successful adults.

It became my own “a-ha!” moment and offered a sense of relief for always feeling that somehow I am a bad parent. I think it’s natural that parents want to make their children’s lives better than their own. We want to give them opportunities we never had, eliminate the struggles and hardships. Some people actually call it progress. Think of the parents who survived The Great Depression. They did not want their kids to endure the same hardships. At the same time, great things happen because—just as Gladwell noted—people pushed and worked through hard times, resolving in Scarlett O’Hara fashion that “This will never happen again!”

In my case, I have carried some strong guilt about the divorce and the effect it has had on my daughters. It was at that moment in the car, I shared the epiphany with Gladwell. Maybe having to deal with their parents’ divorce offers my daughters a hardship that will help them develop skills left dormant if they lived with married parents. With any luck, it will be organizational skills culled by living in two separate homes. But, based on the state of their bedrooms and the constant driving back and forth from house to house picking up forgotten items, that hasn’t manifested yet. Or, perhaps they will develop exceptional people skills refined by having to negotiate terms at each location.

It’s a long list of possibilities and the thoughts made my day brighter, but it’s clear I haven’t figured all of it out yet. In the meantime, I am going to enjoy the rest of their childhoods and keep watch, acknowledging a step forward when they overcome obstacles on their own.

Mom, Mom, Mom #28

My editor Julia Park Tracey over at The Alameda Sun said that this one has a new, edgier tone. What do you think?

And, after you read this post, please go and buy Relentless Pursuit:  A Year in the Trenches with Teach for America, by Donna Foote. It’s well written and an interesting comment on the current quandary in US education. 

This is scheduled to run in the May 22, 2008 issue of the Alameda Sun.

Relentless Pursuits

Since the heat wave hit Alameda last week, I spent most of the weekend fighting a losing battle against an army of uncompromising and relentless enemies:  ants. With kids and animals in and out of the house on a regular basis, I refrain from using Raid (though it works so well) and maniacally spray Windex everywhere, though I am not sure it’s any healthier than the Raid. 

I consistently lose against the ants. I have tried paprika, cinnamon and baby powder (all so messy); I have stakes outside the house. Sometimes I just squish each and every one of the little bugs individually, which gives me an uncharacteristic amount of pleasure. I am fighting the good fight and losing the battle everyday.

Lately, this conflict has grown increasingly personal since I have been actively working on the notion of becoming vegan. Well, sort of—I’ve actually been actively eating as a near vegan. For a most simplistic definition, being vegan means that you don’t eat the meat or any by-products of animals—like eggs, dairy, even honey. Vegans don’t wear leather or fur. Near vegans aren’t as strict, wearing leather and maybe eating honey.

Vegans usually live by a certain life-respecting code. According to the book, Becoming Vegan by Brenda Davis and Vesanto Melina, the Vegan Society has a six-pillar credo for living “the compassionate way,” one of which is “harmlessness with reverence for life.” Thus, the conundrum of my ant war. As I stood at the kitchen counter, gleefully squirting blue poison on each and every ant, using my thumbs to smoosh the errant soldiers, a realization came over me:  I am killing. It’s a definite no-no in the vegan world. What’s a near vegan to do when the kitchen is crawling with ants?

My near-veganism has been building over the past few months. It all started in January, when one of my teenage twins watched me prepare to roast a pork loin for dinner one night. A nice winter meal, I thought, Little did I know that it would be the catalyst to drastically change this little family’s life.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a pork roast,” I answered.

“No. What is it? You know, like what is pork?” she pursued.

“Oh, it’s pig,” I slowly replied. Until this point, I did not like to think about where my food came from. If it wasn’t looking up at me, it was fine for me to dive in, carve up and chew. I had to pass on a dinner 20 years ago on a vacation with friends in the Bahamas, when six plates of fish (completely untouched, from head to fin, with eyes gaping up in frozen terror) made me run from the table.

The words “it’s pig” slapped my daughter in the face. “Oink, oink,” she said, slowly realizing aloud: “and chicken is cluck, cluck and beef is moo.” Her distress was palpable. She immediately turned to the font of all knowledge, the Internet, to get some advice. She couldn’t eat the roast for dinner that night and has not eaten a morsel of animal meat since.

I followed her lead and tracked her progress through the Web, first reading about vegetarianism, next watching horrible videos about meat production and the treatment of animals and, well, you get the idea. When my youngest arrived home from her Catholic school a few weeks later announcing that she was going to be meatless for Lent, the dye was cast. Further confirmation for focusing on a plant-based diet came after reading the fabulous Skinny Bitch, by Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin, and Michael Pollen’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma.

But, back to the ants. The Vegan Society advises the paprika approach, or some herbal oils. Maybe I will try the oils (less residuals), but I’m thinking I need to work on the aspect of me that found a certain joy in the killing of the tiny creatures. Even being a near vegan is about more than just the food.

Another relentless pursuit is a book written by a friend and family member, Relentless Pursuit:  A Year in the Trenches with Teach for America, by Donna Foote. In the face of the proposed Measure H, it’s a timely and interesting look at the state of education in poorer districts, but you can’t help applying some of the distressing facts about the state of education right here in Alameda. More about that next month.

 

 

Mom, Mom, Mom #27 (or a thing about The Sound of Music)

Hi, All~

I am really not writing too much lately for my personal byline publication–only this column for the Alameda Sun. It’s just the way things work sometimes. I am trying to focus on marketing/sales/business development work for a couple of business clients (helping bill.com CEO Rene Lacerte craft his blog at asklacerte.com and working with the folks at ELA Consulting Group.

This column is scheduled to run in the April 24 edition of the Sun.

Here’s to Lollygagging, Dillydallying and Dawdling! 

There is a scene in The Sound of Music that I never noticed before until just recently. The classic movie was on cable TV a few weeks ago, in a crazy kind of every night marathon, and the girls and I caught different parts on different nights. I have watched this movie, in its entirety and in bits and pieces, hundreds of times. Literally.

The Sound of Music was the first movie I ever saw in a movie theater. I was five and my parents had seen the movie and thought that the kids should see it, too. (It was a true story about Catholics, after all.) So, my Dad took the four older kids on a Sunday afternoon, while my mother stayed home with the baby and cooked a roast. I remember sitting in the balcony of an enormous, old-fashioned movie theater, next to my father (a rare treat in my childhood). There was something called an “intermission.” The best part was that we each got to pick a box of candy for ourselves. I remember coming home to Sunday dinner and feeling very happy and grown up, because I was allowed to go as a “big kid.” I really don’t remember much about the movie then, but my Mother bought the soundtrack and played the record over and over again.

So, I have fond memories of this movie. As an adult, I understand its strengths—hmm, let’s see, music, singing, romance, cute singing kids and puppets, drama, history (sort of), a happy ending, it’s even based on a true story (although the real Maria Von Trapp was never very happy about how her Captain was portrayed).

This last time I watched it, though, something different captured my attention. It’s the scene when the Captain is telling The Baroness that he cannot marry her. As the couple stands on the balcony of his huge mansion, Maria, his-true-love-the-governess, is wandering around the estate. She ends up sitting on a bench near a gazebo that plays an enormous part in the love lives of the women of this family. I suppose Maria is thinking about what she’s going to do next. She doesn’t really want to be a nun and she has no place to go. She seems to be just lollygagging, meandering around on the grass deep in thought, until she somehow makes it to the bench.

This time watching it, it really bothers me. What the heck was she doing? Wandering around, just thinking? Who has the time to do that? I certainly don’t, and for a minute, sitting on the couch next to my youngest daughter, as I folded the jeans that had just come out of the dryer, I am consumed with envy for a woman in a movie that was made more than 40 years ago. Suddenly I realize why:  I cannot remember what it feels like to lollygag, to just wander around thinking.

How did I get here? Even if I had the time to just sit and think, which I am sure I do somehow, I don’t think I could. There is too much to get done. I am doing laundry as I write this. I get up and clean up the sink between paragraphs. I switch over to my other jobs and deadlines when I feel I’ve made some progress on this piece, in order to slowly make progress in the other work. I do food shopping as I drive around town managing the basketball/soccer/dance carpools. When I walk, it’s with a purpose—it’s for cardio strength and exercise and weight loss, or to catch up with friends that walk with me. I eat lunch while reading the paper. It’s a rule in our house (a mostly un-adhered to by anyone but me rule) that if there’s laundry in the dryer, you can only watch television if you are folding, too.

This scene of Maria, deep in thought, deep in a dawdling kind of mode (because I believe in real life she would have had some kind of chore to do or kid to put to bed), has actually had an effect on my own life. Now, every once in a while I actually stop and think, instead of careening through life, moving from task to task.

Was it always this crazy? Maybe it’s just the time in my life; I need to hurry now and get a lot done (like paying the bills and feeding my very hungry children) so that when I am older I will appreciate down time. I tell my kids to hurry up all the time, get their work done, go to practice/lessons/games, etc. I hurry them along and they are so occupied that often, when there is nothing planned, they are caught off-guard. “What do we do now?” they would ask me when they were younger.

I’ve decided that maybe I need to show them how to build that down time in their own lives so they don’t end up like me, jealous of a fictional character in a Hollywood movie.

So, here’s to the practice of lollygagging and pondering, meandering and dawdling. If you see me aimlessly walking down the street one of these days, just lost in thought, please just smile and wave. Maybe you can do it, too.