Mom is Just a Nickname

During my alphabet game in January, E was for Easter Bread.  I talked about the tradition of making Easter Bread and the memories I have from years past.  Last year, I approached the baking of the bread with some trepidation.  This year, making it has helped drag me back from the fog in my mind.

Last night and this morning, I’ve once more attempted to re-create this long standing family tradition. I had to ask my parents for the recipe again (for about the hundredth time!). I’m not sure why I always lose it. I have a notebook to keep family recipes in. I have no excuse for losing it all the time! I had to call my mom as I was starting to clarify something on the recipe. But otherwise, I did it without her help!  I think my anise seed wasn’t as strong as I’d like it, but the texture is good.  Overall, I’d say this batch has been a success!

Now, to make everyone drool, I’ve got pictures of this year’s baking marathon! Click on the pictures to see them bigger!

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for passing on this family tradition. It’s means a lot to me, to dig my hands into the sticky dough and think of the generations of my family that have also stirred and kneaded and rolled and shaped this dough.

Renee, at 21st Century Parenting talked about how she was making a new baby carrier. I thought I’d show some baby sling pictures of my own, for the fun of it.

X riding in the Hug-A-Bub carrier I borrowed from a friend. The learning curve was high, but once I figured how it worked, this style became my favorite baby carrier. Toph called me Obi-Wan whenever he saw me putting it on. heh.

I loved the style of the sling I borrowed so much, I asked my inlaws to make me one of my own. It quickly became my favorite way to keep the monkey close. The great thing about the wrap slings is that they distributed X’s weight so evenly through my shoulders and hips, I could carry him for long periods without hurting my back. I carried him in one of these slings when we spent three days at Disney in 2004, when X was 4 months old!

I wish I’d discovered this kind of sling much earlier in my parenting career.

I began taking Spanish in seventh grade. We were required to take a certain number of Foreign Language credits from junior high up through high school graduation. It seemed a natural thing for me to choose Spanish for a number of reasons: being part Spanish, having a VERY Spanish last name, having a grandfather who spoke the language.

I quickly found out that it was not my strongest subject. I had to work hard to get even a B in Spanish. Although I caught on fairly quickly to the writing and reading aspects of learning the language, SPEAKING it was my downfall. Even in English, I preferred the written word to the spoken. I suppose it makes sense that that also applied to Spanish.

For some reason, I stuck with Spanish throughout high school. I was in love with the language, I was determined to make myself fluent. The mediocre grades were not for lack of trying.

When I looked at colleges, I didn’t really give a thought to their foreign language programs. It wasn’t my strong suit, and I didn’t expect I’d do more than take the basic classes (if I couldn’t test out of requirements).

Somehow, Spanish became my minor. I took every class offered, I tutored students at lower levels, I helped the Spanish professor a lot. I continued to get just average grades.

I became frustrated with my lack of fluency. Truthfully, I think I was heartbroken that a language I had come to love so much did not come easily to me, ever. I think I’m still sore about it now, ten years later. Now, I have to add a certain bitterness that I let all of that determination and learning time go to waste. The only thing I use my Spanish for now is to read books in Spanish to my children.

Yesterday, while doing some cleaning and sorting, I ran across some coloring pages that I’d printed up before we moved to Jacksonville. I had never gotten around to splashing color on them, so they stared up at me in stark black and white. They were mandalas that I had found online. Last night, I colored the one pictured at the beginning of this post. It took me nearly two hours to finish, if you can believe it. It’s not even that big!

This morning, J is still home sick, though she’s feeling significantly better than she did yesterday. As soon as Toph left for work, I began to hear the cries of boredom. So, I handed her the other mandala I had printed up so long ago. That, of course, made X clamor for one of his own. So, off on a Google search I went, since I was all out of coloring pages – mandala or not.

I found out that the first mandala, which is pictured above, came from June Moon’s free coloring book. I also found a whole bunch of other wonderful coloring pages, which are conveniently summarized at Activity Village.

The cries of boredom are quiet now. My children are rediscovering the once lost art of coloring. They sit on the couch, still in their pj’s, each with a lap desk in front of them. There is a big box of crayons squeezed in between them and a stack of printed coloring pages sliding off the back of the couch onto their heads. They are coloring, cutting and enjoying themselves. Just as I remember using crayons and paper to create colorful images as a child, I see them doing the same.

And it reminds me that life is good.

I was told from the time I was very small that we are each unique, like a snowflake. Ihave my unique way of thinking about the world, of relating to the world, of existing in the world. I seem to crave being unique, at least on the inside.

Throughout childhood and the teenage years, I just wanted to fit in. I was different, in ways I couldn’t even explain. I was more serious, more studious, less inclined to break the rules or even to bend them. Yes, I was a “goody two shoes,” whether I meant to be or not. I was the quiet, polite, shy girl who rarely spoke unless spoken to; the one who desperately wanted to be like the others but couldn’t. I was the quiet little wren going about the business of building a nest, whilst the colorful parakeets chirped and flitted around my head.

I wasn’t always like that; moving to a new state when I was in third grade seemed to encourage this behavior. Before moving, I was a chatterbox. I remember being punished with clothes pins on my nose in Kindergarten when I talked too much. They didn’t stop me, though. I liked the way my voice sounded when my nose was pinched! Moving took some of that ability to gab out of me, I guess.

I still don’t feel like I fit into the crowds around me, usually. I am still more serious than most – I’d rather discuss books I love than the latest reality t.v. show; I’d rather talk about spirituality and religion than fashion; I’d rather try to understand politics than the latest video games. That’s just the way I am.

Sometimes I want to do something wild with my appearance, to really advertise the ways I feel different. But I still have that overriding need to fit in; to melt into the crowd. Now, I’m not so sure that it has anything to do with wanting people to like me. Maybe it’s more that I don’t want anyone to notice me.

I like being unique. I apparently don’t like to advertise it. Strange the things you learn when you type out a post about being unique.