Eleanor Roosevelt

Last weekend we took a family hike. It was absolutely gorgeous and required just enough of me physically and mentally that I found myself completely engrossed in the task at hand. We trekked through terrain that alternated between rocky, muddy and icy until we hit the summit of Goodnow Mountain. We had just overcome a bit of doubt that we would ever find the firetower when we saw it.

“There it is, straight ahead,” Sean said to the girls. I could hear the relief in his voice. It was nearly 4 o’clock and the ascent had grown colder and colder. He didn’t want to have to turn back, but he’d been ready to do so to keep us all safe. We scampered the last hundred yards and plopped down for a triumphant picnic. Everyone was chattering and gasping at the view when I took a moment to really look at this landmark we’d been working toward. I knew in theory what a firetower was, but standing at the base of it and suddenly contemplating what it mean to scale the vertical finish line, I balked.

There was no need to go up. We made it to the summit, saw the view, give me my stamp and let me go. Except we weren’t done, the girls were looking up in wonder and every fiber of their little beings screamed, “I get to go up that?! SCORE!” I quickly made myself busy with cleaning up lunch and giving the dog water. “Mom, can we go up now?” Finley asked me. She was squatting in front of me, face flushed from the hike, cheeks chapped from the wind. I sighed, “I don’t know…”

“Please mom? Please can we go?” she asked. I said no, explaining that I just couldn’t do it, that I was too scared. “But I’m not mama. I want to go up there.” her lip began to tremble and I knew tears were coming. Hers and mine. Resigned, I dusted myself off and walked over to the base. I looked up. Damnit. I insisted that she hold my hand as we made our way up.

One flight; I was ok. The second flight Finley started to pull away from me, “Wait up, honey, hold my hand.” We moved up the second flight and then halfway up the third I began to shake. I tried not to look out the cyclone fence, tried not to focus on how open it felt, how high we were and how completely out of control I felt. “C’mon mom,” she said. I moved toward the next flight and the wind took hold of me. It was so strong. I was stuck. My hands were plastered to the step and I couldn’t move up or down. She started to move up and I screamed, “No!”

I couldn’t let her go and I couldn’t move. Something in her softened and she came back to me. She stayed with me as I crawl-slithered back down. I tried to keep myself from getting dizzy and panicky as I moved down. I apologized over and over as I moved. Sean came to me with Avery beside him. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said. He moved past shushing me, “It’s ok, babe.” He took Ave up as I took a spot on the massive rock summit. Fin sat beside me and waited. After my fear subsided she told me how much she wished we could go up.

I told her how scared I was and explained that I just couldn’t make it up and that it was ok. “We made it all the way up the mountain, we don’t have to go up there. We did a great thing and that’s enough.” She walked over to the bottom step and sat, looking up wistfully at Sean and Ave. I heard Sean and Ave up top, taking photos, looking out at the spectacle of the sweeping Adirondack view. I thought about how hard the girls had worked to make it up to the top. I considered explaining to people that I made it to the top but never went up the fire tower. I cringed.

I had to go up. I had to do it for Finley, for Briar, but most of all I needed to do it for me. Then I thought, “Amanda, you are out of your f*cking mind. You don’t have to do anything.”

“Ok,” I said.

“Ok, what?” Finley asked.

I swallowed, “Ok, let’s go up.”

She squealed and we moved to the first flight of stairs. “You have to stay with me, though. Ok, Fin?” She nodded, aware that if she wasn’t careful I’d change my mind. I went step by step. I kept my eyes on the step ahead of me and my hands on Finley. Every so often I’d have to tell her to slow down. The fences on either side of us seemed too low to have any hope of stopping us if we fell. “Honey, we could fall,” I got dizzy. I told myself to look at the steps.

As we hit the fifth flight of stairs the wind kicked in again and I think I gasped audibly. Sean called out, “Man? What are you doing?” I laughed violently, “I’m just coming up.” We kept moving, eventually passing Sean and Avery as they moved down the tower. When we got to the opening at the top I moaned. I placed both palms on the floor and literally pulled my body through. Finely started to move toward the windows, which to me, in that moment, looked like wide chasms through which she would fall. “Baby, stay here,” I yelped.

I took a deep breath of air and focused everything I had on a square of ply-wood that kept me from seeing how high we’d climbed. “I just need you to give me a minute and stay with me.” I scooted toward her and we met in a hug. “Here, let me take our picture.” I struggled to hold the phone up. I tried not to let my fear mar her experience. “Isn’t it great that we did it? We made it to the top!” She beamed and then melted into me. We were tired. I snapped a picture and then looked back at the opening. I asked her to stay with me. I went down backwards the whole way.

“Just look at the steps, Man. One, two, just keeping watching the steps.” I told myself. We went through the wind, we went through two, three, four flights of stairs and I caught sight of the rock. She was pulling away from me on the last run of stairs. “Slow,” I called. My feet finally touched the stone floor and I slumped to the ground. I smiled at Fin and then at Briar. I’d done it.

I leaned again the stairs and swiped to the camera on my phone. I flipped to the last picture and stared at the proof that I had moved past my fear and made it to the top.

I shake just looking at it, but instead of just fear, I also feel the rush of having endured the fear to get to the other side.

The pressure can begin for little girls with padding in bikini tops, being told they can’t be Batman and being “brave” for doing it anyway,  it continues through high school and college as as we look at magazines intended for us, which seem to perpetuate the idea that we should be pursuing eligibility for a Maxim hot list, even though most of those women are photoshopped. Then as we hit our 30s we’re criticized for trying to look too young, for looking too old, for not being sexual enough, for being too sexual. Our 40s? I’ll tell you in about 16 months.

I could rant and rant, or I could direct you to Ashley Judd’s brilliant response to the unrelenting speculation on her appearance. She didn’t have to do this, in fact this stuff doesn’t deserve more ink, but because she started this conversation, I really think we should keep it going. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life trying to look 22 all the while apologizing that I don’t.

It’s crap. Let’s throw their stick and stones back to them and say we aren’t willing to play.

Have a hand in it. Whatever your *it* is, see it through. Don’t leave it up to other people.

As I watch my girls, not yet bound by the manacles of “I-have-to-do-it-the-way-other-kids-are-doing-it,” I see what it is to keep hold of the reins of what is dear to you. They never approach a situation and look for something to be done for them (ok, maybe snacks and cleaning up). They believe they can do things, they doggedly pursue the ends that they seek. They embellish doll houses to make castles, they mix foods and drinks to create colors and tastes. They turn out lights to not kill the earth. They write letters to Peter Pan~

They believe, both in themselves and what they think is right. They don’t expect things to get done the way they want them by other people. They would never put all their hope in the basket of another person if it meant something to them.

If you want to support a cause, support a cause.*

Do it deliberately.

Do it directly.

If you want to help low income women, go to the most local source of help for them.

If you want to join a cause, do it at their door not as an add on at the check out.

If you want accountability, start with yourself.

I’m not saying that donation cans and branded, cause-related products are a waste. I am saying that if it means that much to you, then you damn well better take the steps to make sure that your effort, be it money, word of mouth or hope, go to where you want them to go.

Own the ends you seek.

*Susan died today. I will never stop carrying her message.

I would put on my Oakland A’s batting helmet, tucking my hair in tight, and then putting on my dad’s thick eyeglasses. I’d have to lean into the mirror very close to get the full effect because his vision was pretty bad. Then I’d clutch the towel tight under one armpit, take the glasses off first, then the helmet and I’d shake my head to get the hair to fall around my shoulders.

Sometimes I’d lean into the mirror further and try to wink as I turned on one heel to walk away all sexy-like. As you can imagine most times I cracked myself up and grabbed my clothes so that I could go roller skate on the deck as Tear for Fears played from my little boom box.

About a month ago I got an invite to go to a murder mystery party for Halloween. My character? Jenna Mopez. It was a huge stretch for me and, quite possibly, one of the most fun experiences I have ever had pushing myself outside of my comfort zone.

The crazy experience taught me a couple of things:

I don’t have to be anyone else. When I tried adopting someone else’s defining (or recognizable) traits, I realized how special my own really are.

It’s ok to wear whatever you like; fashion, however you interpret it, is meant to be fun.

Pool is not meant to be played while wearing a floppy hat.

A little bit of attitude can trump fear.

Pleather doesn’t breathe.

Us moms could stand to channel a bit of the diva from time to time to help us discover a stronger voice. Try it.

Ask.

Explain.

Listen.

Share.

Look.

Look twice.

Ask again.

Press on, because if you don’t, maybe no one will.

We all have vastly more power than we know, true injustice is failing to use it.

Your voice, evermore yours to use for good.

We were in maybe the 4th focus group and someone sat forward in their chair and said, “I don’t really care about the specifics of what it looks like or which area it may be most closely related to, all I ask, no, all I beg, is that it be aspirational. Make this about where we are going, who and what we could be, not just what is expected or what is already there.”

The news of Steve Jobs stepping down has me thinking. He has no doubt been a polarizing figure in some people’s eyes, for others he has been a virtual mentor, someone we’ve tried to emulate. Whether you are a Mac person or not, whether you have loved him or loathed him, he has dared to be aspirational and as such, he can be motivation.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

Yesterday I paused, today I am looking ahead and realizing I need to let my voice be stronger and my heart bolder. Tonight we colored with crayons and flung hula hoops at the night sky, tomorrow we’ll chase new dreams and go to sleep ragged and content from the pursuit so that in the morning we can again, wake hungry and unafraid of being foolish.

Second, devise things to pack for the littlest girl to make her feel like a big girl.

Third, pack 2 lunches that will satisfy the distinct eating habits of the older girls.

Fourth, make the littlest girl feel ok about not having a packed lunch.

Fifth, apply deodorant*

Sixth, make coffee and mutter under breath that coffee should always be the first order of business.

*Why this one so often gets delayed and delayed until it’s the last thing I do making me late defies explanation.

I could go on, but I think you get the drift. I try to pepper the to-dos with things that focus on grooming myself, but the latter half of June saw every-other-day-showers at best.

[Self: focus on the improvements]

This morning I decided to get a tiny bit gussied up. I put on a bright green tanktop and my go-to white skirt (go-to as in every time I wear it Sean whistles, compliments and generally looks at me with lovesick eyes). I dabbed on a bit of this and that to make my face look refreshed and then saved shoes for last. When I walked out to the car Finley squeaked, “Mom, show me your shoes!”

I tip-toed over to the car, opened the door and let her peek at my shoes. Her face lit up and she nodded as she said, “Oh, mama, I like those shoes. So bowy!” Her delight and my own pride at having managed to carve out the necessary time to dress up literally had me walking taller. When I got to work I replayed her exclaim in my head. I snapped a picture and then something hit me.

I can be bowy any time I want. My sparkle, passion, drive, whatever it is, is up to me. So while I might get dismayed that person x is charging forward with something that is equal parts preposterous and ballsy, their actions have no bearing on how bright my own star can be.

We get so caught up in what other people have, what they’re doing, or where they’re going that we forget that we can choose to drive or stall our own success at any given moment. Sitting in the light of this revelation I feel emboldened to shout the pursuit of my dreams from twitter, facebook, Google+ and face-to-face.

I am not ashamed of my aspirations, nor am I dubious about my talents.

Today I wish for everyone to feel the freedom to be unapologetically bowy.

We also have responsibilities. We have to figure things out. It isn’t always easy.

Borrowed from Trigger and Freewheel

But we soldier on because if we don’t, we never get ahead. You push at work, or in school, you refuse to give up on that water stain in the guest bathroom (do you know about coke?) so the same should be true for your eating habits. The pyramid most of us grew up with was kind of a joke, you didn’t really use it or remember it other than that the fats and sugars were up at the top. I think a lot of us forget that the top didn’t mean “eat a shit ton of this.” It meant, the point, the smallest amount. We also forgot how to enjoy treats, creating such a wave of enjoyment in adding little extras here and there until as a friend of mine once said, “I don’t know what the hell happened, but I began to think I deserved dessert every night.”

We can attack Michelle Obama for butting into the family dinner, we can discuss the merits of the new design, but what we cannot do is continue to deny our role in the issue of childhood obesity and in the pervasiveness of gluttony as the norm in our culture. The debut of a new chart to help people figure out what to eat, or what to feed their kids if they choose to not be told how/what/when to eat is a good thing—not because it will fix it. It won’t.

Food, our understanding of it and the ways in which we are bound by things like availability of fresh produce and income capable of purchasing it, is only one fraction of the plate. We need to move, use our bodies in ways that require neither a remote nor a snack. We need to demand more from ourselves and our routines than traversing the same rut. I admit that I have never figured out the formula to determine my BMI, I doubt I ever will, but I did quit smoking. I do choose running over walking, stairs over elevators, working out over pigging out.

I have a responsibility to teach my children how to live right, a gift inherent in that message is how to treat yourself. It doesn’t have to be with something sweet, because really, when you wait for something it is sweet. So today I am celebrating the sweet victory of someone finally caring and demanding enough to take a step toward making a healthier life more accessible to anyone.

]]> http://amandamagee.com/2011/06/my-plate/feed/ 2 http://amandamagee.com/2010/08/the-truth-is%e2%80%94/ http://amandamagee.com/2010/08/the-truth-is%e2%80%94/#comments Thu, 19 Aug 2010 00:04:10 +0000 amandamagee http://amandamagee.com/?p=1856 The truth is—

…there is time.

…you should say it.

…you do deserve it.

…no, it isn’t fair.

…your current approach isn’t going to change it.

…moving on moves you forward.

…they only win if you insist on defeat.

…I am glad you are here.

…you can—

(Finish it for me)

I wanted a dress that I could wear and honestly say, “This? This dress feels like a t-shirt, reads like an ensemble and lets me be me.” Ok, maybe I was really thinking, “How about something that won’t make me look like someone from Upstate trying to dress like their idea of a big city girl.”

Seriously, I’ve read the nasty posts about the shallowness of the attendees worrying about what to wear and the posts about sartorial obsession that impedes one’s ability to enjoy rational thought. I think all positions on the spectrum are valid. For me, it comes down to wanting to feel comfortable, that may mean one night I am going to wear my favorite, worn-in Lucky jeans that are too short so I roll them up or it may mean that for a rooftop party where I’ll know no one, I am damn well going to wear something that makes me feel like I am doing right by my crossing-something-off-the-bucket-list-self.

Anyway, I found perfection on the site in the way of a dress that blended simple and elegant with a cut that promised I wouldn’t be tugging or twitching. Here it is in microscopic reproduction for you.

I clicked through to the end of the purchasing process and selected Next Day Air to get it here in time to take to BlogHer. My palms were sweaty with spending so much to get it here quickly, but I imagined it would serve me well for events that followed. I was happy and my desire to prepare had been sated. The morning after I ordered it I obsessively checked the order. It stayed as an order for most of the day until finally I clicked and saw “Your order has shipped.” I was elated. I had a tracking number and, yes, I tracked it.

The box came today. I was astonished that the shipping actually worked. I waited to open the box until the girls were ensconced in a rousing episode of usher-the-youngest-wildly-and-dangerously-down-the-stairs over and over again. I carefully sliced through the packing tape along the top and prepared myself for the magic I’d envisioned since clicking “purchase.”

I waded through the inflated plastic, past the sweet summer dress and Frye shoes, to lift the dress. I was going to try it on and sneak down to the girls to surprise them. It looked a bit off as I caught the first glimpse of the Tracey Reese Frock! tag. As more and more dress emerged I felt the breath rush out of my lungs. It was the wrong dress. Very, very wrong.

My mind reeled. There was no making it work. This dressed looked like something I’d have to wear on a bet. Too frilly and fussy. The cut was sure to wreak havoc on my long torso, because honestly, even in the days of high waisted pants, my belly button never saw a waist band. Long. Oh and it was garish in its blahness, is that even possible?

There was likely no chance to send it back and have the right one shipped back in time. I cursed. Then I cursed again. Then I asked the world why this always happens to me. I snatched the packing slip and dialed the number for customer service or, as seems more appropriate, customer disservice. I tried to explain to the woman what I had ordered and what I received. She asked if the dress I received was a medium and I said that it was. She asked if it was Tracy Reese and again I said that it was. Then she said something along the lines of, “And what is the difference in the dresses?” I tried to explain while she searched the website. “The dress I ordered and the dress that is in the photo on my order confirmation which came from your store has tangerine embroidery.” There was clicking and she said, “So, you did receive a Tracy Reese Frock dress in a size medium?”

I began to crack. “Yes, a size medium but this dress is (my voice took on a very Debra Winger, girlfriend is crazy timbre) nothing, NOTHING, like what I ordered. It has a WOVEN belt and an ELASTIC waist. It is not a sheath.” It was at the precise moment that I lost it when the girls decided it was time to come up and conduct Operation: Break the Mom’s on the phone we must be quiet rule. I turned to give them the hiss, shush and evil eye and they responded with greater insubordinate enthusiasm. I shrieked, “Stop.” I felt and heard the operator recoil. I almost defended myself with, “I am not a bad mom and I am not incorrect about this order being wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.” I refrained and she scoffed, “I cannot even find the dress on the website.”

I took a deep breath, feeling about as calm as Jack Nicholson, and said, “Do you have an email address to which I can send you the images of the dresses to make this easier for you?” Sigh. “Unfortunately, no, I do not have a personal email address to use at this time to do that.” I took a deep, but ragged breath and said, “Is there any email address for anyone who might be able to help me?”

She directed me to the website, walking me gum-chewing step by gum chewing step through how to scroll to the bottom of the page, go to the right hand side….(I tuned out) and finally to the contact form. I almost self-destructed from the futility. The girls became quiet. My body slumped. “Thank you for calling, is there anything else I can help you with today?” I willed myself to hang up before I told her how she could help me. I cooed at the girls and began what I knew would be an unproductive interaction with the Lord & Taylor website. It’s been 9 hours since I wrote to them. I know that isn’t a long time, but it is when the window of time I have is less than 72.

Tomorrow I will be sending the whole lot back. The dress was, for whatever reason, not meant to be. And, as the cool air of tomorrow drifts in the kitchen I realize that all that matters is that I am here, I get to go to BlogHer and I will never, ever order another dress online again. But damn if I didn’t want that dress.