Rapid Fire Recs: March 2023

 I have actual grown-up type tasks to complete (on the computer!  Freelancing!  Like a person who persons!) but sharing funzies and happies is so much easier.

Here are some mid-March must-shares:

1.  TV: Daisy Jones & The Six on Prime

I listened to this as audiobook, and immediately read most of Taylor Reid Jenkins' books.  If you like a 70s aesthetic, might want to put on some flare jeans in your 40s, or just have watched a Laurel Canyon documentary, this is a good show for you.  Sure, there's some light drug use (easy breezy pill-popping, amirite?) and your usual rock n' roll hedonism (but tastefully done!), but it's a good yarn with a great soundtrack. Plus Elvis' granddaughter as the title character is pretty perfect.

2.   Memoirs:  Spare by Prince Harry (ghostwritten by J.R. Moehringer) and All My Knotted Up Life by Beth Moore

Well.  I plan on printing out a few pages of each and using them to teach memoir.

This is probably my favorite type of writing as people are endlessly fascinating.  I borrowed Spare from the library as it felt a bit over-indulgent (even as a royals reader) to spend the money on a "royal tell-all". It did tell, but man did it SHOW as all young writers are exhorted to do.  It was masterfully curated by the author J. R. Moehringer, so much so I've reserved his memoir. The book is surprising and sad-- how a true family business affects children and how it warps familial love and loyalty.  I tore through it. And well: Team Harry.

MS. BETH MOORE.  Put some respect on her name.  I tease, but this woman has been through the social media fire and walked through some very vocal misogyny and just plain bashing like... a Christ follower.  Like someone with grit and integrity and humor and foibles and love.  Her memoir reads like a non-fiction novel: the details of her childhood are evocative and tangible.  She does not recount the unspeakable details of her molestation and abuse, but leaves no doubt of her scars.  I plain love her as a mentor in the faith and if you don't like it, I'll fight ya, bro.  (I'll hold my piece and my pocketbook and just root for her, but know I'm writing a strongly worded email in my mind.)  She is especially tender and candid as she talks about her marriage and the effects of PTSD on her husband.  Man, the gospel HOLDS in her life.  May that be true of me.

3. Yum yums: Snacks are a love language.  No new discoveries, but I'm enjoying Dot's Pretzels and Justin's Salted Dark Chocolate Caramel squares.

4.  My spring soundtracks are Ben Rector and Dave Barnes-- sunny optimism with a touch of snark and nostalgia.  Listen to the acoustic version of Ben Rector's song "Range Rover" for giggles.

5.  Cute clothes: As the mother of a 13-year-old daughter, I've re-entered American Eagle.  I snagged some light wash flare jeans for $20 on their app and even got the ship-to-store option.  All the tiny baby 000 sizes are sold out, but some woman (me) wanting to hop on the trend can still snag some 90s throwbacks.

I hope you are wearing your own equivalent of high-low fashion on this cool St. Patty's day.  I've got my $6 kelly green Target tee under my well-worn Old Navy cami and some fast fashion dangly daisy earrings and I'm feeling rull good.

Mothers

My mom made things.  She made my life beautiful.

 

She has been gone almost 3 years, and only now can I see looking back how she colored every detail of my life.

 

My own daughters are now 13 10, and 4. My oldest, the free spirit. She inherited some raw artistic ability to create. She’s tenacious and single-minded in her pursuits, be they cookie sales for her band class or a strategy to start a small online business of her creations that she would love to invite you to jump into this exciting ground-level opportunity.

 

All these big ideas can exhaust me as they typically are presented around 9:30 p.m. and require my immediate action the next morning around 7:30 a.m.  That is, when I’m attired in my faithful #fuzzypinkrobe and socks, before the first restorative sip of a hot beverage.

 

So.  She’s me, and I’m my Mom.  Hi Destiny.   I’ve been expecting you.

 

You see, Linda Anne Creed Campbell did say you’d introduce yourself to me in the form of a version of my younger self.

 

Linda, Melissa, Sarah.  Gang’s all here.

 

As I was saying: the big ideas.

 

I was trying to attend to my dreamer’s big plans and offer some guidance—then I remembered a fall weekend decades ago when my mom painted us girl each a pink, decorative shelf.

 

My dad took his Dawg daughters to the big game (FL-GA weekend; the Dawgs won in this late 80s Dooley reign) and Mom stayed behind and painted.

 

She got us a small, pegged wooden shelf; a place to hold and hang our treasures.

 

Mom painted them, shined them up with lacquer, and added our first initial and affixed a wooden heart.

 

They were simple, and ours.

 

I accepted mine with mild apathy I'm sure, but did allow it to be placed on my bedroom wall where I hung my honor roll medals and house key.  I was about ten with all the sophistication that accompanies the age.

 

I was a fairly happy and secure kid, and had no idea that not all kids had moms who would devote an afternoon making something beautiful for her daughters.  She did it because she could—because it made her happy.

 

I don’t have my mom’s exact artistic skill, but my daughter does.  And it makes me miss her and wish she could be the one to encourage my 13-year-old’s passion. 

 

My mom poured out her life for us.  I knew it a bit then, but I wish I could tell her today. 

 

So I’m telling you.

 

Bite you tongue (just a bit) when your mother has some advice to share.

 

Stand back and let her mother you.

 

You are one of the lucky ones, to be so loved.

 

Mom and the child with her middle name, Sarah Anne in 2012

Daughters

 

 My oldest daughter is thirteen, and I helped her get ready this morning. We both tend to be hibernating bears in our approach to the morning hustle, but she was already dressed and eager to get on the bus.  Today is her chorus field trip, and she was decked out in her formal dress: black, sequined and sweeping the floor.

 

She permitted me to pull back her hair into a clip and accepted my offer of large, faux diamond studs.  I dabbed an extra bit of concealer on her nose, shared an almost-dried out mascara wand, and dug around for my natural color stick, the one that will help her chapped lips.

 

We’ve tentatively brokered a new way of interacting with each other in the last few weeks.

 

This daughter, like any child, holds a unique place in our family dynamic.  Second born, oldest daughter.  Artistic, creative, independently minded.  Like one of my favorite chocolates—firm shell with a melting center.  She’s old enough to have some bruises from others and as a fully-fledged adolescent, surprisingly observant about the foibles of human nature.

 

Sarah is a separate entity from me.

 

It’s wonderful and leaves me vulnerable.

 

This young woman, my child; this one is my worry stone.

 

I fear she is the child that didn’t get the full measure of my adoration.

 

She is wedged between the complete immersion that comes with a firstborn and the caboose babies that received a bit more undivided attention from their mother.

 

She is my smack-dab in the middle of (near-crippling-but-don’t-exaggerate it-be-cool) postpartum anxiety and ignorance that my toddler son was not developing on track.

 

I have one core memory of Sarah as a baby.

 

She is on my lap, her full head of hair on end, and we are singing and laughing.  That is my default memory of her babyhood.

 

That year with two children under 2 was just hard.

 

Nothing earth shattering about it.  Fact.

 

Now, she is thirteen.  I’ve grown, too.  I joke that my bandwidth has stretched to the levels of Elastic-Girl from the animated movie The Incredibles.  I can make my body into a parachute and catch anyone and almost any disaster.

 

Last year stunk emotionally for our merry band of travelers.  It just did.  Puberty and autism are challenging and confusing and a bit sad in moments.

 

It’s a new year.

 

Life gonna life no matter what, but we have taken it in stride.

And I can see my kid.

 

Our quiet times together, usually before bed, have often been neglected or rushed in this new season.  But with some persistent chiseling, she’s shown me some of her cards.

 

I’ve gained a bit of relational capital.

 

And she let me fix her hair.

 

And I let her borrow my shoes.

 

And she’s not the 4-month-old on my lap any longer.

 

But we can still make each other laugh.

 

 

 

Julia Rose

Our family was blessed with a new member this year, and I want to jot these impressions down before my brain completely turns in its two week notice. I'm struggling to keep up with all the myriad details of family life, from silly things to when Red Ribbon week is, to cancelled appointments and which kind of soup I meant to order from Chinese takeout (Alex just buys me both kinds now because he is a smart man and values harmony).

We had a baby.  She is beautiful.  I cannot credit how I in the world I am fortunate enough to have each of my children and to have these stories to share.

After passing my due date with Julia, all my midwife had to do was gently remind me that going past 40 weeks might not be wise as someone of advanced maternal age and we scheduled an induction then and there for the next morning.  Throughout Julia's birth, Holly worked with me as a teammate to achieve a safe and peaceful birth for Julia.  With the end game being a safe delivery, our hope was to start labor with pitocin and then see if my body would continue contracting regularly to allow me to labor and deliver in a birthing tub.  Safety and common sense come first with both medical professional and mom, and I am so thankful that this gifted midwife took care of me and my child.

Being the good rule follower I am, I ate one last "my parents are taking us out and I'll never cook again" meal, and headed for home.   I diligently worked through the laundry stack before turning my attention to birth prep.

When labor started on its own with my older daughters, I furiously hung pictures in the nursery and dusted every surface in the house.  This time, folded laundry was the nesting impulse I obeyed.  

My midwife suggested using a breast pump to start contractions, so I threw on "Baby Mama" as a nod to my 2008 self just beginning in motherhood and fired up the pump.  I used it on and off most of the night, pausing for a 1 a.m. nap, but never got contractions going that would last consistently.  (My advice: go to sleep the night before an induction. Duh.)

I checked in the hospital at 4 and got back to my room about 6:30 a.m. as it turned out to be a busy morning for births.  I began the pitocin drip and employed the usual labor gambits: walk the corridor, sit on the bouncy ball, and my technique of choice: hug the headboard.  Since induction artificially begins contractions, instead of starting out 15 minutes apart and gradually coming closer, the contractions come much more quickly and intensely.  

This is wear the rubber meets the road in labor and where pain relief is needed.  As I hoped to deliver in the water, I needed a way to focus my mind to get through these intervals, so I quickly scanned my brain for a mantra.

As a child, I would recite hymns as I fell asleep to combat fear.  Without analyzing it at the time, I remembered the verse about God delivering his children "with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm."  These two phrases carried me through the next phase of labor.  I also asked Alex to turn on Christy Nockels' album Be Held: Lullabies for the the Beloved which encouraged me greatly.  One song in particular on the album speaks to me as a mother entitled "Always Remember to Never Forget".  

The part that makes me catch my breath:

It's just that this world is hollow 

And it wants to swallow

Any memory of who you really are

Always remember to never forget

When you look in the mirror, the answer is yes

Yes you are pure as gold, yes you are beautiful

So always remember to never forget

(Always remember to never forget)

I've never cried when my children have entered the world; I'm just so profoundly relieved and spent.  But this song and its message got me.

After a few hours of serious contractions, Holly asked me if I felt ready to get into the water.  I felt that I was and after one last tour of the hallways for grins, I was able to de-tether from the drip and get into the birth pool.

My midwife worked so hard to give me the birth experience I desired while problem-solving as the inflatable tub had punctured in the last delivery and the replacement had not arrived.  The top ring of the pool did not inflate and she was worried about the pool not being deep enough to fill, but she soldiered on and made it happen.  I think my complete obedience to any and all requests made by the medical staff and going quiet in labor ("entering my mind palace" as I joked to Alex later) worked in my favor.  

At this point, I noticed something special.  There were four medical professionals in the room: two L & D nurses, my midwife, and a resident on her ObGyn rotation.  All four sat around me as Holly coached (told) Alex to sit by my head and hold my hand.  Immediately as I sunk into the water, I relaxed with the warmth.  Nothing is a magic bullet in labor, but it was a welcome relief.  Several minutes passed quietly as the women all encouraged me.  I clutched Alex's arm within an inch of my life and Julia began her descent.  Holly instructed me to move my hand close to the birth canal (sorry, not sorry) to feel her head.  This is the most frightening and intimate moment of labor.  I was crying out in pain, face contorted.  I was instructed to push and did so.  At this point, I knew that moving to my knees to deliver would be optimal, but I was so tired from my movie and pump marathon, that I stayed in a reclined position (and got quite a sore back later).  I pushed again as the nurses audibly cheered me on and Julia's head emerged.  Holly guided her body out and with a "Julia, be born!" from me (I can be bossy, too) out she came.  

These moments, that first moment of being safely delivered, are what I've learned are called "thin places,"  a place where the veil between heaven and earth feel a bit thinner, and God's goodness and mercy are tangible.  The gift of being alive, and receiving a new life, are stark and palpable.

This is why humankind keeps moving forward.  These thin places.

I was able to spend several minutes in the water admiring my new baby, catching my breath and just flat out relieved.  I've joked that I would've loved an alien if it came out of my body, just as long as it did indeed come out.

Next comes that intimate medical stuff that I'll bypass, but where my sweet, nurturing midwife (who massaged my feet with scented lotion in labor-- seriously) was in total boss mode.

The cord was cut, baby began nursing, Mom got some clothes back on like a respectable citizen, and the rest of the family could be invited in to meet Julia.

Big brother and sisters wore their prescribed shirts and I gave the girls necklaces for our new sorority of four.

Five weeks of life have passed in a blur as they always do.  Julia is sleeping in her bouncer next to me, pitifully lovely with a full blown case of baby acne.

This time will pass before I want it to like it always does.  Too soon, I will do or say something to my new child that I'll regret wounds her.  There will be problems bigger than baby acne or spit up.  

But if I've learned anything, I'll keep watching for the thin places.

Welcome to the world, beautiful one.  Welcome, Julia.

2017, Gangnam Style

I won't even make a snide remark about how I've not written a thing since December 2106.   Life's full and writing hasn't been a priority.  But I stole a few hours away to go to Barre class (oh, I work out now, it's a whole thing, tra-la-la) and then on to use up a Kohl's card and redeem my Kohl's cash 'cause I'm a suburban lady and I OWN the Kohl's game.

So I did something for myself, by myself, and some funny thoughts surfaced and enough time has passed to soften the embarrassment factor...but you're gonna have to wait til the end of this post.

January:  HAMILTON!  HAMILTON!  HAMILTON!  Just you wait!  We saw the show and it was a masterpiece, full stop.  For all the clips I watched and times I listened to the Original Cast Album (yes, I'm a pseudo-theater snob it seems),  the show lived up to and surpassed the hype.  Seeing the the character interactions and nuances of the performance made the experience so much richer than listening alone.  If you enjoy musical theater, American history, or both,  I highly encourage you to catch the nearest show when the touring cast goes out this year.  At the end of the show, I felt the same sense of awe and reverence I feel after a stirring sermon or time of worship.   It was that good.

 We had a great weekend in NYC, visiting the 9/11 Memorial, trying some fun eateries including Tavern on the Green (charming), and I decided that I never again need to experience the authenticity of a subway station.  It's convenient and affordable, but so is Uber.  And Uber is much less likely to smell like urine.  I'm a snot and that's fine.  Also, being accosted every 10 paces in Times Square? Nah, I'm good.

February:  2 words: Ew skit!  The things we do to amuse ourselves and maybe make teenagers laugh so they'll listen to our stories and keep listening to the gospel.  (Yes, of course I wrote the script.  Of course I did the Running Man and almost feel off stage.  I'm a housewife with frustrated dreams of fame and glory. You know I'm all in for a skit.)




March-April   We signed the girls up for T-Ball (Rach) and Softball (Sarah).  Both girls are pretty good hitters, but less enthusiastic fielders.  Sarah mostly enjoys chewing her glove. while Rach proudly scoops up some balls near 3rd base.  (Is she the 3rd base catcher?  Is that the right term?)  Both kids get a full uniform, we get parent buttons and shirts, which really is the whole point at this age.  J's league did not get off the ground this spring; hopefully, Mom can make the stars align and get the girls' dance and a potential gym class for him on the same night, in the same part of town.  Stranger things have happened.

http://shop.malynlogic.com

Over Spring Break, we visited my sister and brother-in-law and their new baby, Emily!  It was a blast.  Lots of Instastories made that J replays daily, fun trips to museums and parks, and baby snuggles without the 18 year investment and life-long worry!

May:  Choir, Baseball, Ballet, and a Wedding.  Basically, I'm uploading a lot of my iPhone clips to increase my chances with "the cloud" and bookmark potential graduation and wedding video material.  I like to be organized.  I have also watched some old clips  from a few years ago and I'm kicking myself that I have not uploaded every cute clip of their entire lives, oh-my-gosh-two-year-olds-are-precious-when-you-only-watch-a-30-second-clip-of-them-and-don't-do-diapers-anymore.  Anywho, Cat's In the Cradle and all that jazz.  WHY CAN'T BABIES GROW UP BUT ALSO ALLOW FOR TIME TRAVEL TO PLAY WITH THEM AGAIN WHEN THEY CAN'T PRONOUNCE WORDS PROPERLY?  (I know, grandkids. Still.)

Hang around for that long ago mentioned embarrassing story. It's after these video clips.

Sarah's Speaking Part in the Spring Musical

Rachel, The Motivational Coach with help from Shia LeBouf

Which brings me to that anecdote involving my brother-in-law's wedding and living life Gangnam style.  My brother-in-law, Brett, and his new wife, PN, were married last weekend, joining their Vietnamese and American cultures and families, which required two ceremonies.  The Vietnamese ceremony was in the morning, the traditional wedding ceremony that evening, and by 8:30 p.m., we were ready to chow down on some delicious food and giddy up on the dance floor.  After the first dances, the floor was opened to guests and Gangnam Style beckoned me.  Like a bullet from a gun,  I bolted my way to the happy couple, making the "ride 'em cowboy" hand motions and corresponding gallop.  I was high on life, in my mind every bit of the "Hey, Sexy Lady!" the song highlights.

And then I noticed my legs were wet.

And then I slowed my roll.

I did the awkward, "I've run out of moves" move.

I edged my way to the wall and found the ladies' room.

I dropped my used and abused Spanx in the trash and rejoined our table, well, commando.

For the first time in my adult life, ever, I was without proper underpinnings.

My husband knew the moment I left the dance floor what had occurred.

As I told a friend, I took away two life lessons:

Never leave home without spare underwear, and know your limits.

But you know what?  Sometimes you have to be foolish, whether just to yourself, or to a whole bunch of people on the Internet, because life's too short to take yourself so seriously all the time.

I wish I had the same boldness in all areas of my life that I do when I'm charging onto a dance floor, weak abdominal muscles from labor and all.

#yolo