susan hayward photography

Birthday Party

My husband is the party planner in the family. That's why he pretty much planned our wedding reception. If that had been up to me, we would have stood at the window of a McDonald's drive-thru instead of in a traditional line, and handed out french fries as"finger food." Instead of cake, everyone would have received a miniature ice cream cone. So when it comes to birthday parties, our kids know who to consult. And that wouldn't be me. In this case, father knows best. (Well, in many cases my husband knows best. Just don't tell him I said so.)

 

To start the party, my genius of a husband made a maze out of the leaves covering our back yard. Each kid put a bandana over their eyes and took a turn walking through the maze while friends guided them by yelling directions from the finish line. Then it was on to a donut eating contest, where party goers tried to devour a donut hanging from a string--without using their hands. After that, it was inside for a game of tootsie roll grab. Working in teams, the kids used chopsticks to fish out candy from a bowl full of styrofoam peanuts. Finally, instead of cake, we served donuts that the kids decorated using marshmallows, candy corn, chocolate chips, mini m&m's, and their imagination. When everyone was sufficiently hyped-up on sugar, we sent them home. Everything went so well, I told my husband he could do it again next year. Or maybe we should just rent a McDonald's.

 

 

 

All photographs copyright Susan Hayward Photography.

Please ask for permission before taking photographs from my blog. 

Have a Good Monday!

I know, I know. I said I wasn't going to shoot pictures of candy corn so I wouldn't eat any more of it. I couldn't help myself, especially when I started to manipulate the candy and added a bit of nature. However, I couldn't shoot any more pictures after this one because I ate the props, except for the leaves and that seed thing in the middle, of course.  

I hope this picture brightens your Monday. Since I have officially sworn off candy corn, feel free to eat some for yourself and for me too. Just don't tell me about it. 

Bellatrix is in the House

Bellatrix arrived yesterday morning. Unannounced, uninvited. Unexpected. Unwanted. I finished exercising, then headed for the bathroom as usual. And lo, there she was. “Crap!” I said to myself, aloud. ‘Crap, crap, crap.” Luckily the kids didn’t hear because we’ve asked them to stop using that word so much. It gets a little embarrassing when your eight year-old yells “What the crap!” out in public, say, in the women's restroom at Barnes and Noble, where you've forced him to go because your husband is not there to take him to the men's room, and where a ninety five year old woman is washing her hands at the sink. 

But if there’s one good thing about having a period in a houseful of men, it’s the fear factor. When my husband came home from work, he didn’t smell anything cooking, which meant that I hadn’t started dinner. Not that unusual, to be honest. Instead, he found me in the bedroom, shooting pictures of flowers, rubbing my back and moaning. At once, he offered to help me with dinner. He is well versed in period etiquette. Or maybe he just has a keen sense of personal survival. 

During dinner, our middle child absent mindedly picked up and slammed down his miniature skateboard on the table. My fallopian tubes felt about to burst and my uterus pulsated with alien energy. The constant clack-smack, clack-smack of the skateboard against the table grew louder, like I was in a bad dream and that very sound was what drove me to commit various crimes that, in my right mind, I'd never even consider. Or at least never admit considering. I took the skateboard and flung it across the room. Luckily my husband has excellent reflexes and swerved to the right as it whizzed past his head. Without even pausing, my husband looked at the boys and said, “Watch out. Mom’s not feeling well." 

My youngest put down the noodle he was holding between his fingers, peering through it like a penne pasta telescope. “Sick with what?” he asked, studying me for familiar symptoms.  

“Mommy sickness,” my husband told him. The two older boys nodded. The youngest thought this one over, shrugged his shoulders and picked up his noodle again. The boys can't figure out what to do with me when I’m like this. They know that something mysterious happens in my body every month, but they’re not sure what. And I don't think they want to know the details.

“Why don’t you go lay down?” my husband suggested.

“You know, I think I might,” I said, heading to the bedroom.

(This is what I feel like during this time of the month. Although, I don't eat a lot of greens when Bellatrix comes to visit. She prefers dessert to vegetables.)

And so there I was, alone in bed, a heating pad on my lower back and a hot sack of rice on my belly. Outside, everyone else worked on a project. As I was preoccupied with my "mommy owies," they decided to have man time, complete with power tools, nails, and a hammer. From what I could make out, they were constructing a rack for firewood. I heard the saw ripping its way through something, hopefully not a finger or an arm. The saw stopped and I heard my husband’s voice, then the sound of metal grinding on cement. This meant that someone had lost interest in the project and was riding his scooter up and down the driveway. Probably the youngest, who (hopefully) would not have been allowed to push the wood through the saw. He often wanders inside at times like these, seeks me out, and asks, "Reading time?" in his cutest voice. Often he'll be holding a Beverly Cleary classic or if he really wants to get me, a Roald Dahl. But not this time. The scootering sounds continued, the voices of all three kids mingled with my husband's. A truck started up somewhere, and from the garage I heard the saw again. I didn’t know what was going on down there exactly. And I didn’t really care.

But I did know what was going on inside of me. Smoke spewed from the haystacks of my girl factory as Bellatrix cackled her orders. Frankly, I was ready to close up shop and go home. But there's no stopping Bellatrix when she's in this mood. So I closed my eyes, telling myself to dream of good things like licorice whips and lollipops. Alas, my mind dropped into darkness within seconds, without any images of sugar or carbs. In less time than it takes to sing the chorus of "Flowin' Down the River" Bellatrix shook me awake and told me to go clean up the kitchen. Or maybe that was my youngest. 

Now as I write this, I imagine what I should have dreamed about. I see my face smashed into the leg of an old pair of pantyhose, pointing a squirt gun at a convenience store cashier. "Just give me the hot chocolate and no one gets hurt," I tell the kid behind the counter. "And throw in a maple bar while you're at it," I add. 

Later, I see myself in court, explaining my motive to the judge. "My son, he was playing with this little skate board thingy, slamming it against the table over and over and over, like this." I take a tiny skateboard from my pocket and demonstrate finger Ollies, repeatedly whacking the thing against the desk in front of me.  

The judge stares at me over her designer reading glasses. "Skate board thingy?" she says, her voice raspy like my fifth grade teacher, a smoker with ashtray breath and a Jersey accent. She raises her gavel as if to announce, "Guilty as charged." That's when I blurt out, "Bellatrix made me do it." I begin to cry, wonderfully dramatic, heaving sobs. "Plus, I had really bad cramps." The judge pauses, considering my sentence. "Temporary insanity," she rules, striking the base with her gavel. She stands, and points to the guard. "Get this woman a heating pad and a chick flick," she tells him. I smile and wipe the tears from my cheeks. She smiles back, digs something out of the voluminous pocket of her robe and throws it to me. I catch it in my handcuffed hands and look down. It's a package of instant hot chocolate--with marshmallows. 

   

Hello, my name is Susan and I'm a carboholic

This morning I have a carb hangover. For weeks I’ve abstained (mostly) from sugar and breads. Why would I do this to myself? Because when I eat those things, I can’t stop. I’m like an alcoholic. In Stephen King’s memoir on writing (at least I think that’s where I read it), he describes the alcoholic philosophy. When people asked how much he drank, he answered, “All of it.” He couldn’t understand how someone could pour themselves a glass of alcohol and not finish every last drop. Not only would he finish the glass, he would finish the entire bottle. It was all or nothing for him. When it comes to carbs, I can relate.   

So when my husband offered me a Brach’s caramel last week, I hesitated. I knew that if I ate just one, that could open the floodgates to yet another season of sugar-addiction that would inevitably end in a zit eruption, bloating, perhaps some gastro-intestinal distress, joint pain, and general crankiness that will end in a full-blown panic attack when faced with trivial decisions like what to make for dinner or what pair of overalls to wear with which t-shirt.

I was also aware that my resolve to give up carbs had been slowly deteriorating in small ways. Whereas in the beginning I had been able to feed my family French bread without actually partaking of it myself, lately I had gone to toasting slices of my “special” sprouted-grain bread after each meal, slathering ever more all-fruit jelly and butter on each slice, trying to convince myself that the cardboard bread I was eating tasted every bit as good as the artisan loaf my family had devoured with dinner. I found myself watching the kids eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with intense interest, salivating at the thought of the high-fructose corn syrup-laden grape jelly and smooth, sticky peanut butter in my own mouth. The worst was when my sister brought over little bags of Halloween treats for the kids. She gave us three bags exactly, which should have insured that I wouldn’t eat some myself. But it was like leaving a can of beer on the counter and expecting the family alcoholic to pass it by, unnoticed. Eventually, I sniffed it out. 

It was while cleaning the family room that I found one of the bags on the floor, its contents spilling out on the carpet. I picked it up, and a piece of candy corn fell out. When I peered inside, I smelled the sweet buttery scent of caramel popcorn. “Maybe just one piece,” I told Myself. “Yeah, right,” Myself said. “You know exactly what that means. One will turn into the whole bag.” I spied the candy corn on the floor. “What if I just ate one of those?” I asked Myself. I remembered last year, when I made a daily trek to the grocery store to buy eight pieces of candy corn to satisfy my craving. It seemed better than buying a whole bunch, because I knew that I’d eat the entire load if I did that. And I’d do it in less than an hour, no doubt. But right then, standing in my own house, having abstained from the temptation to eat sugar for weeks, I thought I deserved a reward for my efforts. So, even though you can practically see the germs on my carpet, I picked up the candy corn and popped it in my mouth. “Don’t do that!” Myself said. But I didn’t listen.

The sweetness exploded on my tongue. Little things in my brain—I’m not sure what they’re called—shot off tiny fireworks of pleasure. Sugar! Glorious sugar! my brain sang to myself. I missed you so!  I chewed slowly, attempting to prolong the experience. But candy corn is actually pretty small and can only last for so long. So I ate another piece. Then another. And before long I had fetched a bowl from the kitchen and emptied the whole bag into it, then proceeded to eat the whole thing all by myself. After a few minutes, all that remained were specks of caramel corn in the bottom of the bowl. “Can’t let that go to waste,” I said to myself. So I picked up the bowl and tossed back the crumbs into my mouth. And that was the beginning of my demise. 

Pretty soon I was eating large bags of yogurt raisins for lunch and nibbling on licorice while cooking dinner. Then it was bread with my soup and saltine crackers for snacks. But the worst was yesterday, when I made seven batches of granola laden with brown sugar and honey. I made the mistake of telling Myself to sample some of it, just to make sure it tasted all right. “Don’t lie to yourself,” Myself said. “You know as well as I do that you’re just going to nibble this all afternoon until you feel sick to your stomach.” This gave me pause. In fact I had planned on snacking on my granola while I made it. Throughout church that morning I had envisioned standing in the kitchen, the comforting smell of sweet things baking permeating the house, snacking on freshly made granola, which if we’re going to be honest, is really oatmeal cookie dough in disguise. In my vision I was smiling and happy, like a cow grazing in a pretty green pasture. “You be quiet,” I told Myself. Myself scowled, then retreated to the back bedroom, leaving me to my decadence. 

Sure enough, I didn’t stop with just one taste. I nibbled and noshed until my stomach cried for mercy. I was so full by the time dinner rolled around that I couldn’t even look at any food, granola or otherwise, let alone eat it. So I retreated to the back bedroom for a nap. When I opened the door, there was Myself, waiting for me. “I told you so,” Myself said smugly as I clutched my stomach and groaned. I lay on the floor and closed my eyes. My stomach felt distended, stretched beyond its capacity, filled with empty calories, which, at that moment, felt full of lead. “Just let me die in peace,” I begged Myself. Then I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

They say that, in moderation, carbs cannot kill you. But “They” don’t know me. I’d wager to say that if someone left an innocent little bag of candy on their kitchen counter, “They” could walk past with nary a thought. But not me. I’m a carboholic. Give me a whiff of one grain of sugar and pretty soon I’ll be ransacking my kids’ room looking for stray bits of candy in their sock drawers. If you don’t believe me, just ask Myself.

PS

I had thought to photograph some candy corn to accompany this post. But that would have been too dangerous. I'm sure you understand.     

Wild Boys

A few people have expressed concern about my post detailing my son doing a bike trick over his little brother's body. I get the feeling that to some, it was an irresponsible act as a mother. I've fielded phone calls and heard rumors of neighborhood friends getting in trouble for hanging out over here. These things have not bothered me. Much. 

I'm not a complete idiot--I could see the danger factor as well as the cool factor of playing Evil Knievel. Just to put your mind at ease, I should let you know that after taking the pictures I told him that that was the last time he should do such a thing, however cool it was. "But nothing happened," my son said. 

"Yeah, this time," I pointed out. "The more you do it, the more careless both of you will get, and the more likely something bad will happen." My son thought about this for awhile, then nodded in agreement. His little brother, his trusty assistant, merely hung his head and said, "Rats."  

So those of you who are getting ready to call Social Services, relax. And those of you who want to see it again, you're out of luck. But don't give up hope. Wait a couple of days and they're sure to come up with another, equally dangerous shenanigan. 

 
 

Getting Ripped with Jari Love

Three of Jari Love's workouts. She has lots more on her website and Amazon. All of them are good, too.

I have tried various exercise regimes in my time. First there was the Twenty Minute Workout, a television show that featured three women in leotards bouncing around to upbeat music. I tuned in daily on my grandfather's old black and white set, thundering my way through the exercises with determination bordering on obsession. 

Then there was a health club, where the owner took one look at me and said, "You'll probably want to talk to our nutritionist." I took his advice. Turns out that eating Peanuttles and curly fries from Arby's was making me fat, not a genetic predisposition for adipose tissue in all the wrong places. He suggested my sister and I try a weight machine regime, which we did, laughing and joking the entire time. Things got so raucous that we were nearly thrown out. That's when I decided to go back to aerobics, this time in a mirrored classroom with a male cheerleader for a teacher. He was good--motivating but not in an in-your-face sort of way. And his workout did work out. The aerobics, combined with a new way of eating, helped me to lose thirty pounds. 

In college I jogged six mornings a week. When I got a job and could afford something fancier, I went back to aerobics. When money ran short, I returned to jogging. And then my body started to systematically break down, telling me in subtle ways that it wanted some variety. 

That's when I found Essentrics (see last Tuesday's post) and Jari Love Get Ripped DVD's. I had heard that weight training would be good for my bones, but I had no idea how beneficial it would be for my spirit as well. I'm one of those people who can fall asleep during yoga and poop out during Pilates, but weight training wakes me up without wearing me out. It's changed my metabolism for the better, which is a bonus considering my energy level declines with each passing year--and I didn't have much to start out with. And it makes me feel strong, especially in my upper body, where I've always been scrawny. Now I have little muscles to go with my skinny arms.

Jari Love's videos are hard, but not impossible. Love offers variations on the exercises for those of us who have bad knees and hips, and the students in the class work with different weight loads so you don't feel like a wimp if all you can lift are three pound weights. Also, as an instructor, Jari Love is serious, not be-boppy like some of the other video instructors. When she says, "Come on, make it burn," she's not smiling. Because it is burning. A lot. But in a good way. 

So three mornings a week I pop in a Jari Love video and huff and puff my way through an hour of lifting, squatting, and push-upping my way to a ripped physique. Jari assures me that I will not "get big and bulky"; rather, I will end up toned and lean. So far, she's right, although I will contend that my stomach will always feel big and bulky, no matter what I do. But that might have more to do with an addiction to hot chocolate and candy corn and less to do with Jari Love.   

Smile

Chizuko is my friend from college who now lives in Japan with her husband and son. Last week she sent me this picture:

 

Chizuko wrote me an email about appreciating the small things, like looking at stars, walking hand-in-hand with her son, and opening a pint of ice cream to find it smiling at her. Luckily she sent a photo of this ice cream smile to me so I could enjoy it too. And now I'm sending it to you.  

Chizuko is one of those people who can make delicious lemonade when life hands her lemons. I, on the other hand, am not. When life gives me lemons, I assume the sour puss face, infecting everyone around me with my gloom. And then I wonder why the house feels so morose. 

This reminds of a story that Angie, another friend, told me that illustrates the point: One day a woman woke up and found that she only had three hairs on her head. "What should I do with my hair today?" she wondered aloud to herself in the mirror. "I know!" she cried. "I'll braid my hair." So she carefully braided her three hairs and went about her day in good spirits. 

The next day she woke up with two hairs. Again, she looked at herself in the mirror and asked, "What should I do with my hair today?" She thought and thought, and then snapped her fingers. "I know!" she cried. "I'll part it down the middle." So she parted her hair straight down the middle and smiled the whole day long. 

The next morning she woke up and discovered she had but one hair left on her head. "What should I do with my hair today?" she asked yet again. This time the answer came quickly. "I know," she said decisively. "I'll put it in a pony tail." And so she secured her last strand of hair in a tiny elastic and looked at herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that. "Lookin' good," she told her reflection. 

The next day she woke up and found not a single hair on her head. "Thank goodness!" she said with relief. "Now I don't have to do my hair!" 

Hopefully you're having a good hair day. If you're not, tell yourself to have a good day anyway. It's all in how you look at it. 

And if that doesn't work, go buy some ice cream. 

Family Photo Session: Mary and Mike

What do you get when you take a mom and a dad, four teenagers, a dog, and a field on a crisp autumn evening? Fun family pictures, of course.

Thanks to the Hatch family for a really good time. You are a beautiful family!

Note to Self: The Diva Gets Her Picture Taken

The new tampon (even though it's been around for years). Meet my friend the Diva Cup. 

Note to Self:

When you hear about a re-usable menstrual device called a Diva Cup, you immediately order one. When the Diva Cup arrives, you marvel at its genius. It looks like a small silicone baby bottle nipple that you can insert and remove, wash, then use again. Plus, it has measurement markers on the side so you can gauge your flow. It takes some getting used to, but pretty soon you’ve sworn off tampons forever. 

When your hips start to feel stiff and achy on a daily basis, make an appointment to get some x-rays, just to make sure you’re not permanently broken. On the morning of your appointment your period starts. Simply tuck in your beloved Diva Cup, thinking all the while how clever you are to conceal this from any one. After all, so deep in your body, no one will ever know it’s there.

When the x-ray man sets you up in front of a white background and tells you to stand this way and that so he can take a picture of your hips, you never once think that the Diva will end up in the frame as well. But as it turns out your bones are quite photogenic. And so is the Diva Cup. 

When the doctor calls you to the back room to look at your x-rays on a viewing screen, you stare at the lower half of the picture. There’s your Diva, nestled in your Nether Regions, half-filled with a dark liquid. 

“Oh, look there’s my Diva Cup,” you almost say. But you manage to stop yourself in time. It would be one thing to tell a woman, “I’m in my period, and that apparatus is just a menstrual cup.” But men don’t like to talk about these things. And really, you don’t enjoy talking about these things either. At least not with someone who doesn’t know what it’s like to leak every month while simultaneously loving and hating everyone and everything in your life.

Just pretend it’s not there,” you tell yourself. Maybe he doesn’t see it. But how could he not? There it is, in black and white, an upside-down tulip in the desert of your uterus. The doctor peers closer at the screen, clack-clacking as he moves the mouse across the ghostly bones. Pretend that you and the doctor are merely looking at a Georgia O’Keefe painting, and the Diva Cup is just there to balance the composition of the skeleton in the middle of the picture. It’s like a piece of driftwood or a special rock.

You are reminded of a Curious George story in which George swallows a puzzle piece and the Man with The Yellow Hat takes him to the doctor for some x-rays. When the pictures come back, sure enough, there’s an unidentifiable object in his stomach. “Now let’s see. . .There is something there that should not be,” says the doctor when they examine the X-rays.”’

The Man with the Yellow hat continues: “Why, that looks like . . . I think that must be the piece that was missing in our jigsaw puzzle yesterday!”

Likewise you envision your doctor saying this, his brow furrowed, his expression mystified. “Well, well, well,” the doctor will say. “What have we here?” he’ll lean into the screen, zooming in on your Diva Cup.  “My Gosh, Woman! What is that thing?”

Just when you think the doctor is finished examining the x-rays, he says, “Let me just look through these again to be sure.” The machine hums. The mouse clicks and clacks as he scrolls through each picture. You look at the ceiling, your feet, the pictures on the wall. You breathe quietly, silently praying that he’ll finish up and you can go home and snuggle up with a good book and your favorite heating pad. The doctor pauses at the image of the front of your hips, which is also the best picture of the Diva Cup. You attempt to watch him to see if he’s looking at the strange thing in your body or at your bones. It’s like having a huge zit on your forehead that people can’t help glancing at when you’re trying to have a conversation. “I have a big zit on my face,” you want to say, just so you can both stop pretending it’s not there. But you can’t say that here. At least not about this. 

The doctor leans in closer to the screen. “Hum,” he says, shuffling from one foot to the other. You want to laugh. Or cry. Then you want to hit delete or control-Q to quit the whole thing so you don’t have to explain what’s located in a most private part of your body, your Valley of the Unknown, the Dark Cave of Bellatrix. And now it is immortalized (much to your horror) forever in your files. Secretly you hope the office will catch on fire and your pictures will disappear with them.

“All right, I get it,” you want to say. “I’m turning into the Tin Man. Can we turn that thing off now?” 

Later as you’re driving home, you imagine the whole office crew gathered around the x-ray, trying to guess what’s inside you. Patients waiting in the lobby will eavesdrop on their conversation, hoping for a juicy morsel that will become a dinner table story later that day. They will imagine many things, some of them disgusting, some of them improbable, all of them embarrassing. 

“I think it’s some sort of Tupperware,” the desk clerk will say. 

“Baby bottle top?”

“My guess is an IUD?” another person will guess.

“Nah, too big,” someone with experience in these things will say.

“Could it be. . .a tampon of some sort?” a female will suggest. Collective sounds of recognition then, as they all realize that they’ve just walked in on you in the bathroom, figuratively speaking. 

You feel naked. Of all places, this area of your body was supposed to be private. But this is the thing about going to the doctor: Doctors can see parts of you that you can’t. You have no secrets, not even in the privacy of your own body. 

Farewell to Gourmet

Gourmet cover photograph by Roland Bello. Food styling by Susan Spungen.

So I was happily perusing photographer Nicole Hill's blog when I came upon the news that Gourmet magazine is getting the ax. I've been despondent ever since. Not that I'm a gourmet cook, but I read this magazine and salivate over the beautiful photographs on a monthly basis. It made me feel like I could cook the recipes if I wanted to. Or I could just read about the food and pretend that I had just eaten a good meal, even though usually I look at the current issue while snarfing a sandwich made with questionable lunch meat.  

If it weren't for Gourmet, I would not know about photographers like John Kernick, Ditte Isager, and Romulo Yanes, whose photographs have served as my inspiration for many a shoot. I also would not know Jane and Michael Stern, a foodie couple who travel the nation in search of a good meal (my idea of the perfect retirement). Every time I read their Road Food column I want to hop in the car and drive to some far-away locale to have lunch in a diner where a waitress named Ronda will take my order. 

And what would I do without editor Ruth Reichl's letters? It was because of this magazine that I read all of Reichl's books, which also inspired me to find a source for local, organic produce. (See my blog page listed as "All Season's Market.") You know what the worst thing is? It took me a year to decide to treat myself to a subscription, and now it's gone kaput. I only have ten issues to my name. If only I were not such a tightwad, I would have subscribed sooner. 

Conde Nast, the publisher of Gourmet, also put the kabosh on some bride magazines (not a big loss, if you ask me) and Cookie, a parenting magazine with some cool pictures, but totally unrealistic ideas for children. Take, for example, one issue where a toddler modeled a sports jacket that cost somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred dollars. Yeah, right. Like I'm going to spend that much money on clothing for a person who has no bladder control and could spew his dinner all over his designer outfit with nary a thought to the cleaning bill. Somehow, I think parents will survive without this publication. 

But Gourmet is a big blow. According to Time.com, Conde Nast decided to toss Gourmet due to advertising losses. Seems that rivals like Rachael Ray and The Food Network attract more non-food advertising. And though Gourmet has won three National Magazine Awards, it's expensive to produce. With a recession on, even big guys like Conde Nast pay attention to the bottom line and make cuts where it makes the most sense. I get it. I really do. But I don't like it. 

The thing that bothers me most is the idea that the recession has affected everything, even my favorite magazine--a magazine that's been around for nearly seventy years, mind you. If a publication like that can get the boot, anyone and anything's fair game in this messed-up economy. Along with a sense of stability, the recession has now stolen my sense of fantasy. (I guess a lot of people can say that, but for different reasons.) I escaped to Gourmet to get away from thoughts about the recession. Sure, it's known as a "luxury magazine," geared more for those who love to travel and eat good food, and who have the means to do so. Though I'm not in that category, I still loved pretending I was. But apparently even the wealthy have stopped buying frivolous things like well-designed, well-written magazines. Now we're all about practicality. Soups instead of steak, and tater-tot casserole instead of cassoulet. These things are not new to me. Gourmet, on the other hand, was. 

The only thing that consoles me is the thought that I still have Martha Stewart. 

For now, anyway.

Toning Workout Extraordinaire

I've been out of the running club all summer due to hip and quadricep tightness and pain. Because I thrive on exercise, it's been a challenge to come up with something that would keep my shape and give me a physical release. I've tried yoga. I've tried pilates. I've tried cycling on a stationary bike. None of them could quite compare to the benefits I enjoyed from running. Also, they didn't work to keep the effects of daily desserts off my body. Pretty soon, my jeans weren't just tight, they cut off my circulation at the thighs. 

So I pulled out my Essentrics videos. Essentrics is taught by a former ballerina, Miranda Esmonde White. You might recognize her from the PBS series, Classical Stretch. Her method of toning uses stretching and lengthening of the muscles, which creates a long, lean dancer's body. Some of the moves are from tai chi, some are from ballet, and some Esmonde White came up with on her own. I have found that, combined with fewer desserts, this workout really does make me feel better about my body. Some of my areas will never be flat, while others will never be big, but overall, my figure feels tighter and stronger. 

If you suffer from joint pain or want to tone your body quickly, try these workouts. They only take 30 minutes each, and they are relaxing because they loosen up your entire body. I would think they'd be great for those who've just had a baby, too. While the baby sleeps, you can simply put on the DVD and exercise in your jammies and bare feet. Then you can fall asleep too!

You can order these workouts online here http://www.essentrics.com

    

The workout on the left is taught by Sahra Esmond White, Miranda's daughter, and was designed to appeal to a younger audience. (Actually, the moves are the same, but the class participants in the DVD are younger.) It's sold under the Essentrics title.

The workout on the right is under the Classical Stretch titles. Both are designed by Miranda Esmonde White. 

PS

I wasn't paid to write this post. I just happen to like these workouts and thought some of you might, too.  

 

My Baby

I can’t believe my youngest is already eight. It seems like just last week that I was laying on a hospital bed, waiting for him to leave my body already. We had come to the hospital early that day, absolutely sure that the baby was going to come—and excited to get the whole thing over with. But then, after a dozen hard contractions, everything stopped. It was like the baby got distracted and decided to stay put after all. When my midwife asked if I wanted some drugs to get the labor going again, I said “Sure, why not?” I had never had pitocin. It seemed like a good idea at the time. When that first dose didn’t take, she asked me if I wanted more. “What the heck,” I replied nonchalantly. I was too cocky, you see, from having given birth without drugs the second time around. Little did I know that a double shot of petocin can send you reeling through a black hole of pain and confusion so deep and dark, that you think you’ll never make it out the other end alive. I would have asked for an epidural when the drugs kicked in, but I couldn’t even speak, only scream. I was pretty sure that I was dying. And there came a point that I wished I would, just so the pain would stop.

“You can do this, Susan,” my midwife encouraged me as she crouched at the end of the table, watching my progress. I stared at her as my body writhed and the baby rammed its head against me. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!” I screamed back. And I meant it. The kids' head felt huge—much bigger than I could manage. But the baby wouldn’t listen to that nonsense, and at last he came out. He was beautiful, long and lithe. And his head was ginormous.

As I held him in my arms, he looked up at me with wonderment and confusion, like someone had just turned on the lights while he was in a deep sleep. I smiled at him. Then I looked at my husband and said, “I’m never doing that again.”

And I haven't. Not for eight years, now. But sometimes I miss holding a baby. Sometimes I miss the feel of a tiny hand in mine, the whispy hair against my cheek, and the fuzzy little footsy jammies. Maybe that's why I was willing to crawl into bed with my youngest last night when he suffered from a headache. I held him in my arms, remembering all those nights when he was an infant and it was just me and him, sitting and rocking in a dark room. He is so much bigger now. His hand is no longer tiny, his hair is getting thicker, and he tells me he doesn't like footsy pajamas any more. I guess what my mother said is true. They do grow up fast--so fast that sometimes I want to give them a speeding ticket. I've waited so many years for them to not need me so much. But as it turns out, I want them to slow down, now. I want them to hop in my car and drive in the slow lane for many more years to come. 

My son turned his body to face mine. I stroked his hair as he whimpered quietly. Light from the street lamp outside his window fell on the bed in a pattern of lines, illuminating the cartoon animals on his bedspread. From across the street I could hear a scraping sound, our neighbor removing frost from the windshield of her car. I heard the careful closing of a car door, then the low hum of the engine as she pulled out of her driveway. "Do you want me to leave?" I asked my youngest son. His eyes flickered open, looked at me, then closed. 

"No, stay," he said through a yawn. I smiled to myself. Then I pulled him closer and rocked him to sleep. 

On Lost Marbles

I've been meaning to address this topic for some time now. Only, I also wanted to shoot some pictures of marbles to go with it and had no time to do so. Yesterday I finally had a few hours to kill before dinner (note that I didn't say I had to kill something for dinner. I had spent the entire day on Photoshop and called my husband to say, "I am not making dinner tonight. Let's eat out." And just like that, I was off the hook. I highly recommend this practice for those days when you just can't face the kitchen. Which is almost every day for me.). So I gathered up my kids' collection of marbles and spent the afternoon laying on the cement driveway, shooting pictures.

Now, about marbles, and how we tend to lose them. (Note how I said we, meaning you and me. I'm assuming you're losing it as much as I am.) Last week a post about the creative habit prompted Michelle to write her thoughts on the subject:

I am developing creativity right now by randomly folding clothes in unique patterns rather than my traditional folds. I try different shots at throwing the diaper into the pail to keep up my athletic skills and you just don't know how I might configure that marble run for my three year old to test his 47 marbles on today. Watch out creative world! I am a Mother today! My painting may come back to me tomorrow as I draw images on the calendar to help my toddler who cannot yet read or to create a responsibility chart to hold my children accountable. : ) I am creative in how I find time for myself while singing one to sleep and nursing another - all while praying in my heart for a little less swelling in my ankles.

When I read this, I wasn't sure if Michelle was serious or not. Although it made me laugh, it also made me stop and think. Michelle has just given birth for the fourth time. In her former life, she was an event planner, but currently she is a stay-at-home mom full time. Michelle is intensely creative, talented in a myriad of ways, and a genuinely gifted people person. Now, you might think she'd have to give all that up--at least for a time. In the usual sense, you'd be right. Michelle no longer plans big conventions or receives a regular paycheck. But she has managed to find ways to keep her non-mother personna limber. Folding clothes in unique patterns is something I might try, though I've made it a personal policy not to fold much of anything. Practicing basketball skills by shooting diapers into a basket is a clever way of approaching a poopy task. And the marble run does use a lot of grey matter--and I'm not talking about the kind of grey matter that's been stuck to the carpet for the last year. As a mother who could never design a train track as well as my husband, I can tell you that designing these structures takes a ton of brain power. Maybe parenting does not involve wearing power suits, commuting to work, or displaying your work in a gallery (not much demand for sculptures made of meatloaf). But it is all about creativity, when you think about it. Why, nearly every day I have to fabricate responses to questions about math and science when my kids ask me for help with their homework. Turns out, I've been honing my skills in fiction without even realizing it. And talk about multi-tasking! Singing one kid to sleep while nursing another, all the while thinking of something else entirely? The average man cannot fathom it. If you can do this, surely you have developed a bionic brain, all without the help of scientists or your six-million dollar boyfriend. 

One of the problems with feeling uncreative is not realizing what creativity really means. As Amy Dacyczyn, author of The Tightwad Gazette says, creativity is the process of creating, not the product. "Creativity is nothing more and nothing less than solving a problem in an original way," Dacyzyn writes. As there is no shortage of problems, you  will have hundreds of opportunities to practice
 your creativity in the next year, if not in the next week. And if you are an artist/mother  without any time to practice your art because you have chosen sleep over painting, know  that all is not lost. Quite the contrary. You are working your brain in different ways that will  inform your art when the season is right to return to the studio. In Escaping into the Open:  The Art of Writing True, Elizabeth Berg reminds us that “in order not to cheat yourself, you  have to make writing [or whatever your pursuit] a high priority…but you have to live the rest  of your life, too; you have to allow room for all that makes you you, for all that feeds you. In my mind being more than a writer means you're more of a writer.”

So the next time you get depressed thinking about how much more you’d rather paint a mural than do the dishes, remember Michelle running lay-ups to the diaper pail. Then dip your hands in the water with the grace of a synchronized swimmer and shout, “Watch out creative world! I am a mother today!”  

The Influence of Women

Sometimes when I think about what exactly I've accomplished in the last thirty seven years, a few things come up: Two college degrees, a collection of books, a few car wrecks, two kitchen fires, a few years of post-partum insanity, a whole-hearted but unsuccessful attempt to become fluent in Russian, a smattering of years living abroad, some time spent teaching my religion as a missionary in a foreign land, a handful of published work, a pile of photographs in the basement, and acne that appears to be eternal. These are things that will disappear when I die (except maybe the acne). Most of them nobody cares about already, including myself (aside from the car wrecks, which I'm sure my mother still cares about, seeing as how one of the cars was hers. Sorry, Mom.). But there are a couple of things that will last beyond me: the people in my life, namely my husband and kids. 

Now don't get me wrong. I don't believe I've got a corner on the good karma market just because I have a good marriage and good children. I'm lucky to have these people in my life and quite often wonder why God liked me enough to send them my way. What I'm saying is that relationships last a lot longer than stuff. So maybe that's where the greatest potential for good is. And just maybe that's where my time and focus should be. (Moment of irony here. As I write this, my kids are playing the Wii in the next room. Can you say neglectful mother and misplaced priorities?)

In college I took a class on feminist history and spent four months incensed at the injustices inflicted on women. There was the inability to vote, the view of women as property, the banishment of women from certain occupations, the unequal pay when they did manage to get a job,and the oppression and devaluation of women who stay at home to raise children. I vowed to never marry and have children because those women who did so didn't seem to have much influence on the way things turned out. Or so I thought. Somehow, I thought that becoming a fashion photographer would have much more impact--as if the world would be a better place knowing that stirrup pants were out and Guess jeans were in.  

But as it turns out, a lucrative career has nothing to do with how much influence for good I can have. Take, for instance, my mother and my sisters, who are neither rich or famous. Yet through the years they have made me who I am through their example. My mother is a genius at sewing, yet I admire her more for her ability to make every occasion special with handmade cards, ribbon-tied candy bars, and heartfelt conversations. More than once I've called her for advice and she's told me a story about how she asked Heavenly Father for guidance and received it, prompting me to drop to my knees and pray, too. And then there's my sisters. There are qualities in my sisters I try to emulate--not because they've told me to, but because I want to be more like them. My sisters have the ability to love screaming two-year-olds, infinite patience and charity with special-education children and supernatural powers of organization. My sisters are the kind of women little kids who are lost at the mall would naturally gravitate to, knowing that they would somehow make everything right again. As the youngest little lost child in this family, I can tell you that they do make everything right again. More than once they have rescued me from the pit of despair and discouragement. In turn, hopefully I've done the same for them. And for others, too. 

There are women on my husband's side I also admire for their strength and faith. And there are women I see in the neighborhood who inspire me to be a better mother by how they nurture their own children. Even women I don't know give me hope in humanity by the way they treat others. I look up to these women not for what they have or what they look like, but for who they have become because of--or in spite of--their personal history. What better influence can you have than to make people want to be better just from watching you? Isn't that the power to change the world?   

So today as you go about your business, whatever that may be, consider the influence you have on those around you. Know that how you treat a person today will last far longer than a moment--it will last for generations. Consider the possibility that a kind word, a forgiving heart, and a well-timed hug can make a person believe in the possibility that everything really will be all right after all. And that, my friends, is more than a pair of Guess jeans could ever do.  

  See yourself as the Lord sees you, as daughters of God with limitless potential to influence the world for good. 

~(my summarization of a quotation by President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Ensign, September 2009, p. 5.)

Special thanks to models Kayla and Lilly Rawle, two influences for good in the lives of many.