Braids

Thanks to Katniss's seemingly effortless hairdo, braids are stormin' the heads of our local teeny boppers.  My homgurl has locks like Rapunzel's so she's able to experiment with her hair.  I, sadly, have to wear a wig if I want to have braids like those pictures below.

P.S. Don't mind the garbage.

Weightier Issues

Dara-Lynn Weiss with her daughter, Bea, from the April issue of Vogue, in which Ms. Weiss wrote of Bea’s weight issues. (Picture and caption via The Times.)

Melissa Hayden, Swan lake

My homegurl is in the center, second row back. 

As a freshman in college, I experimented with extreme dieting as I watched my college roommate successfully puke-up and shed her freshman 15 before returning home for the summer. No one was more aware of my new weight gain than I.  And, at the time, I would have done anything to have the body I had nine months prior to entering college.  When I returned home that summer and expressed my concern to mi madre, she slowly spun me around, checking me from head to toe.  While nodding with approval she said something like: You look more gorgeous than ever.  I've missed you so very much, and I'm so glad you're home.  Had she said anything to me, confirming what I had been feeling about my figure, I may have spent my summer rekindling my relationship with my finger and the toilet.  Instead, I spent the summer eating fresh veggies from mi madre's garden and biking 6 miles to and from work each day. A change in my routine from sitting long hours in the library and classroom returned me to my usual weight. 

Last Sunday The Times published an article about Dara-Lynn Weiss, a mother, who after meeting with her daughter's pediatrician learned her daughter was, according to the BMI chart, obese.  Upon hearing this news, Dara-Lynn gave herself license to put her daughter, Bea, on a strict diet.  Cutting Bea's meal portions in half, monitoring the foods she ate while at school, and basically announcing through a bullhorn to family and friends that Bea was overweight and on a D-I-E-T, her daughter shed 16 pounds.  Dara-Lynn, after writing an article about Bea's diet for April's edition of Vogue, signed a book deal.  The media has both slandered and praised Dara-Lynn for her methods.

My first read of this article generated a feeling of wanting to meet Dara-Lynn at the back of the school fields, where I'd whomp on her dieting police boo-tay.  I wanted to squeeze her cheeks (the ones on her face) and explain: Bea is just getting ready for a growth spurt, and all those stored reserves are in wait for Bea's metamorphosis into becoming a beautiful young woman.  On the other hand, I was reminded that just the other day, I told my homegurl she didn't need to eat that second cinnamon roll she was reaching across the counter for. One was enough for my ballet girl, and I offered to make her a plate of carrots and cucumbers instead. This memory made me think to myself, "You're a monster compared to sweet Dara-Lynn.  After all, who made those tempting, butter-laden cinnamon rolls?  You did, you enabler. Then you made your daughter feel guilty for wanting another.  You should be tied and quartered for running your mouth like that. This wasn't the first time I had stopped her from eating something that could alter her shape.

You see, in the ballet world, no matter what anybody says, body size is EVERYTHING.  Just look up Balanchine body (a long, lean, and sculpted frame), and you'll get lists upon lists of what the ideal ballerina should look like.  While Hannah was auditioning for summer intensives, underneath the the description of each school there would be a warning like: "They only accept a certain body type." or "They are open to a more athletic build."  As my homegurl's mother, I feel like it's my job to help her maintain the healthy body that would put her in the running for becoming a professional ballerina.  But I fear some of the comments or looks I've made about her eating choices have translated into: Don't you dare reach for another handful of food. (You'll become fat.) I've never said it directly.

 Nobody else feels pressure to look a certain way more than she.  She dances with it for fifteen hours each week, then comes home to find her dancing partner (the ideal body) on TV, facebook, and sees it again in her friends who are already dieting because they feel "fat." To her detriment, she sees it again when her mother, the woman she admires and trusts, makes small comments in order to get her to change her mind about what she's going to eat. I've even seen her hurriedly put back what she was about to eat in fear of my disapproval.

Since reading the article I've talked to my homegurl about the things I've said.  She told me she's glad for the reminders because if it were up to her, she'd down an entire carton of cookie dough ice cream, each day, for the rest of her life.  But she also said that the a few of my comments have made her feel dumb and like I don't trust her choices.  I said I was sorry, and to never become a mother like me, and to please forgive me, if possible.  She forgave me or is in the process, I think.  I also reminded her that starving herself or barfing-up her food isn't an option, ever.

My mother, in all her life, has never said anything to make me feel my eating choices were unacceptable.  Instead, she always had a house filled with healthy choices and a few sweets.  As children, we were able to choose what we wanted to eat, and if we ate all the chips in one day, there wouldn't be anymore until the next shopping trip.  This made us learn how to ration the sweets and grow a taste for healthier foods. Dr. Kimberly Dennis suggests that the best solution for healthy living is, "Life-style changes, in tandem with pleasurable exercise and emotional care, ... have the potential to effect life-long changes for the better."

I'm a Rockstar

Last week our computer crashed, and we rushed it to the Apple store for repair.  After several diagnostic tests, the technician said we needed a new hard drive, and he was going to have to wipe our entire system.  Luckily we had backed up our computer a month before, so we were able to reload the computer with all of our files.  As I updated the computer, I took a trip down Memory Lane, looking at old pictures and videos of my homies.  When I came across this never before seen video of my homgurl,  I fell off my chair in a fit of laughter.  She made it about 5 years ago, and she said it took her many takes to get the song just right.  I told her that her video and her little voice will be vaulted in my heart forever.

In case you need the words so you can sing along, they are as follows:

I'm a rockstar; there's no doubt about it.

Girls' Camp: Shine On

I nearly flew to the moon and back when the stake asked me to be a part of planning this year's girls' camp. At our first committee meeting I said, "Next to helping to build testimonies, the most important thing about girls' camp is the T-shirt." The T-shirt has to be cool, cooler than One Direction. (Have you heard of this boy-band all the girls are crazy for?)

The ladies on the committee all agreed, and we decided to use the TOMS label as our inspiration for this year's YCL (youth camp leader) T-shirt logo.  We e-mailed our idea to the famous Amy Gregory of Inkd Designs, and she brilliantly created the two designs below for us to choose from.

Are you dying at how tuned-in to cool she is?  Way better than One Direction, right?

On a Scale of 1 to10

print via My Sister's Suitcase

Last night I asked Bryce, "If you could rate our relationship on a scale of 1 to 10, one being calling it quits time and a ten being time to write a book about how good we are together, how would you rate our relationship?"

Without thinking he said, "9.75."
"Really?" I said, confused. " I was thinking we were at a 5.0, maybe lower."

Previous to last night, an insensitive comment catapulted us into the depths of a five-day long argument.  Bouncing blame back and forth night after night, our argument climaxed when I marched into the garage, ready to hop into my car and drive west until I ran out of gas. (I would make Blythe, CA my new home.)  But instead of moving out, I marched back into the house, gave him the death stare, and resolved in my mind I would never say another word, ever, until he said: I'm sorry.  After all, he was the one who started it.  And I was the one who was going to keep it going, and win.

The next day, immediatley as he walked in the front door from work, he said it: "I'm sorry, Katy," his arm outstretched, his hand reaching for me, a peace offering for me to have and to hold.

I kept my distance, standing behind the kitchen counter, and with my arms crossed and hips out I said,  "Well, it's going to take more than that to show me you're really sorry.  You must also buy me an Easter dress from Banana and a bouquet of flowers from Trader Joe's." I couldn't finish my sentence without smiling.

"Done." He said, willing to do whatever I asked so he could bail himself out of being a POW in his own home.

"Just kidding, Bryce. You know I hate flowers." I said.

He replied, "Whatever you say.  I'm only a man trying to do the best I can."

Our fight went on for way too long, and I was the one who kept it going.  Although last night's assessment of our relationship was rather generous, our relationship normally hoovers above an 8 most of the time.  But due to some recent challenges, it's dipped below our normal, rock-steady score.  President Uchtdorf's advice to just "Stop it!" and Bryce's "I'm only a man," confession have inspired me to forgive quicker and let it go.  An attitude adjustment/lobotomy might help, too.  I'm hoping the next time we rate our relationship, I'll be the optimist and rate us at a 9.99.

P.S.  Go here for a free printable of President Uchtdorf's advice.

I Refuse

"Ma'am, do you know how fast you were traveling?"

"Yes, 80 mph."

"No, Ma'am, I clocked you going 90 mph."

"Officer, I had my speed set to 80 mph, come look at my cruise control settings. I wasn't speeding.  In fact, being that it's Saturday, I took extra caution to ensure I wasn't speeding."

"It took you quite a while to pull over. I followed you for at least a mile, and you didn't even notice. Please hand me you license, vehicle's registration, and proof of insurance."

I watched through my rear view mirror while he walked to his patrol car.  I was positive he wouldn't write me a ticket, especially since I explained I was only going 80 mph, not 90.  He was just checking to see if my record was clear.  He came back.

"Ma'am, when is the last time you've gotten a ticket?"

"Years.  I'm a careful driver."

"Have you heard of traffic school?"

What? Yes, but you're not writing me a ticket, are you?

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Well, I've got to call my lawyer (Bryce) to see if I have to sign that ticket.  I really wasn't speeding."

"Ma'am, you do not need to call your lawyer.  This is a civil complaint, not criminal."

"I won't sign it.  I wasn't speeding.  My car was on cruise control.  Come see. Look, what happens if I don't sign it?  Is it illegal?"

"Ma'am, listen, if it were illegal, I'd already have you in cuffs.  I'm just going to write "refused"on the signature line and drop this ticket on your seat.  OK?"

"OK."

"Have a good day.  Sorry for not signing the ticket," I said as he walked away.

He turned back and said, "You'll still have to pay for that ticket; you were speeding."

"I wasn't speeding," I said under my breath.

P.S.  You should always sign your tickets.  Your signature only means that you're aware of the complaint against you.  It's not a confession of guilt.  Don't be an idiot.

Your Moves Are Like Jagger

Mercy gave Josh, my littlest homie, this handmade card for Valentine's Day.  Hands down, it's the best card he's ever received.  I hung it on our fridge as a daily affirmation: Yes, Katy, your mothering moves are like the iconic Mick Jagger's. Strut into this day like you own it.  There isn't a job more important than that of a good mother.  You are that mother.

I try to be better than good, and I take my mothering seriously.  At night I lie awake conjuring plans.  I form mental lists and strategies of how I can provide the experiences that will make my homies successful.  In the morning, I carry out those plans.  I sub at all of their schools, so I know what's going on in their school careers.  I stay up late doing homework, packing lunches, baking cookies, finishing projects, tickling backs, reading scriptures, fixing broken hearts, and saying prayers that will carry them through to the next day.

You do these things, too.

When I climb out of my mind to observe how all the little things I do are adding up, I fear it's not enough.  I fear we're falling terribly short of where we need to go.  This fear is always bedded beneath all my planning, and sometimes its threats of failure are stifling, especially when I receieve affirmations that what I'm doing late into the night, after everyone is sleeping, isn't enough.

Just the other day, a teacher sent an e-mail explaining how my homie was not producing work good enough for his advanced math and English classes.  Usually I'm gangsta' tough when it comes to constructive criticism about my homies.  I don't get offended, and I immediately fix the problem--dishes done, move forward.  But on this day, the note left me dangling from my rope of despair: "I can't do this job a-n-y-m-o-r-e,"  I said, starring at the computer screen. "Your homies need a smarter, more disciplined mom. Remember how you only got a 20 on the ACT and you forgot how to spell jealous in the 7th grade Spelling Bee?  Now your poor homies are stuck with you; they can only be as good as you are, and that's not good enough.

These are horrible things to say and think about oneself.  But after I had a night to lie awake, cry and pray, I erased those thoughts and conjured up a new plan:  If it takes me sitting in class with him every day until he gets it, I'll do it.

The next day I marched into the teacher's class and wrote down all the assignments he needed to redo.  The list was long, so I said, "I would love to sit in here and observe.  I will come to school with him every day and make sure he's getting what's going on.  I love this boy so much, and I want him to know he can do math.  He feels dumb, and  he's struggling more than ever before." And then I lost it.  I started crying.  Crying. Crying. Crying.  "I don't want him to feel like a failure," I said, holding my face to stop the tears.  She reassured me that she wouldn't kick him out of her class and reaffimed that he is a smart, good boy.  I thanked her, dried my tears and drove to Sonic.

Each night we work on math and writing together, redoing the last two weeks he didn't understand.  I kiss his cheeks and tell him I'm glad he's my boy.  I tell him he's smart and that the Lord is with him always.

Here's a reminder, in case today you are hanging onto your rope of despair: