I was wrong.

As is almost always the case when I leap to conclusions about how something in parenting is going to be, Finley proved me completely wrong. Since the first time she donned pjs instead of a nightgown she has insisted on buttoning the shirt herself. These little girl pajamas do not come with buttons made for little fingers. Tiny, fragile and often to too small to stay fastened within the button holes, the buttons wiggle out from between her pink little digits. So often I’ve waited, expecting frustration and defeat.

Instead she pops her little face up, the sheen of bath time still present, and she says, “I can do it.” Her tone is calming, reassuring and matter-of-fact. I sit back and watch, beyond impressed that she has chosen this thing to do herself and grateful that I haven’t steamrolled past her willingness to keep going and just done it myself. The buttons don’t all come easy, sometimes she realizes that she has gotten off course and that the top is gaping, other times she decides she’d like to start at the top and not the bottom. Her ability to reset and begin anew with undiluted focus and optimism can make my cheeks burn.

How many times a day do I puff up my cheeks and expel a massive whoosh of disappointed, annoyed breath? How often do I let the naysaying in my own mind prevent me from conquering that which only seems impossible? Lately I’ve taken to using this buttoning time to reflect on how much I can do if I just harness a little bit of Fin’s attitude of “I can’t not do this.” I think that as I store memories of her like this, I’d like to try and offer her a few of her own where she sees me smiling and working through until I get it right.

I like it, always have. Every once in a while I see people complaining that they don’t get it. There is a lot to get confused by online, but Pinterest shouldn’t be one of them. You just get an account (if you need an invite let me know). You’ll set up “Boards”:

Install and drag the Pin It” button to your bookmark bar:

And then when you are on a site; anything from a blog to a store to a business, click Pin It. This will bring up all the pinnable images from that page. Some sites don’t work, but many do:

After you select your image, you assign it to a board:

And write a caption:

I adore it, not for anything related to what I do at work, but for the quick, easy chance it offers to curate things. Some people use it to dog ear the corners of virtual shopping pages:

Some people use it to catalog crafts/DIY projects they might tackle one day:

You can find inspiration:

Stuff for hair:

And for skin:

Art:

Love:

There is no right or wrong way to do it. I curate thoughts, making each pin an aspiration, a reminder or a dare. It pleases me in a way that saying the right thing at the right moment, overcoming obstacles or rising above something does.

For whatever reason, when I started I opted not to use punctuation, and so it is that my pins look like thoughts I dashed off, or at least that’s how I think of them. At the end of the day, Pinterest is for you, not for business, not for popularity not for anything other than a place to stow things that make you smile.

Isn’t that refreshing?

Happy pinning!

]]> http://amandamagee.com/2012/01/pining-to-pin/feed/ 8 http://amandamagee.com/2012/01/shot-of-light/ http://amandamagee.com/2012/01/shot-of-light/#comments Fri, 20 Jan 2012 17:31:02 +0000 amandamagee http://amandamagee.com/?p=3090 I’ve always loved light.

It’s kept me company in the hours when sleep hides.

It’s hidden so that I can listen in the dark.

It’s blinded me with beauty on the lake.

It’s shone down on us as we’ve colored together.

It’s danced outside my window and made me smile.

Light

It’s the feeling in my heart when I let my joy cast stronger shadows than my sorrow.

This morning I dropped Finley off at the door. Her bag was packed to stay for lunch and her hair was pulled back to her exacting specifications.

“First the pink one mom, and then goes the green, the purple, the ‘nother green one and then an orange, not pink, orange.”

I moved my fingers gingerly through her hair, careful not to snag any hairs along her neck and draw tears. The elastic bands were looped around her fingers, little lassoes of expectation. As I gathered the sections of hair she sighed contentedly and craned to see her reflection. Tiny pricks of tears threatened at the corners of my eyes as she beamed and nodded in satisfaction.

“Don’t forget these,” she said proffering three garish, fuzzy bands with cascading strands of diamond shape beads.

“Ok,” I said, “which one?” She looked at me with comedic dismissiveness, “All of them of course,” she said swinging her pony tails behind her. I added them all and she declared herself ready to go.

I lifted her out of the jeep and one of the teachers came over from the door. “Hello Finley!” She chirped. Fin preened and whispered a shy, but extremely pleased, “Hi.” I asked if it would be ok for her to stay for the after-session. “Of course,” the teacher said. Finley looked up at her as she held out a hand. The look on her little face was so wide open and trusting it caught me by surprise. It’s not a look she directs at me. A part of me needed to pierce the moment, reinsert myself in what matter.  I mentioned her hair and that she had dreamt up the style herself. “So pretty,” the teacher said. Finley’s smile stretched from ear to ear and her eyes opened even wider. She was joy personified and it cut right through me.

My emotions roiled—so much hope in that one little face. I wanted to put my hand on the woman’s shoulder, to implore her not to let us down.

Acknowledge how significant this is, deserve her trust, respond to her delight. Be the person she thinks you are, if just for these few hours.

I kept my hands to myself and knelt down to kiss Finley. “Have fun, honey.” I drew the words out as if to accompany her to the door. She softly called out, “I will mama.” And then they were gone.

Climbing into my car I willed myself not to cry. Did I really need the extra two hours to work? Should I scratch it and pick her up at the regular time? As I approached the exit to the parking lot I realized how selfish I was being. The look on her face was not fear, it was pure anticipation. There was no thinking that I was failing as a mom or choosing work over parenting. She’d been skipping through the house all morning singing about getting to go to lunch bunch and asking if we’d seen the lunch she was taking. This was not failure on my part, it was achievement on hers.

The leap of faith in dropping her off was equal parts trusting it would be as exciting as she’d hoped and crossing my fingers that in coming home to me there might be some chance of her looking up at me with that same wide open, brimming-with-joy face.

Here we were a year ago –>  January, 17th, 2011.

The questions are going to get tougher and the stakes are going to get higher as we confront race, politics, sexual orientation, mean girls and shady boys. I think we can all do our part and honor people like Martin Luther King Jr and so many others who fought for equality.

Let’s.

Avery falls asleep first each night, her dark hair swims around her, while her body stays in the position it was when she first drifted off to sleep. When I lean in to kiss her she is still, but as I push up from the bed she always turns into her pillow and murmurs, “I love you mama.” I tap the feet of the fairy that hangs in the window and whisper, “Thank you for watching my girls.”

This space is magic, steeped in the wonder of little girlness, with pieces of memories; from sparkles to skipping stones, that are handled with reverence and purpose in unpredictable cycles. For me they wink with accomplishment—a walk we took, a headband we gussied up at the dining room table with hot glue and jewels, a keepsake of mine that made it across the country and through the years to be tended to by three doting girls. Remnants of a younger me come to nestle on my shoulder as I sway between them.

Near Finley I smile, as I kneel her face turns toward me and her lips meet mine and her arms slip around me, it is her default position and it undoes me. Tendrils of her hair brush against my skin and the still-baby-soft plushness of her cheeks presses on my face, filling the hollow contours of my face and everything but the intoxication of holding my last baby flutters away.

Briar sleeps the thickest, her pale skin glows and strands of sandy blonde hair and dark lashes cast shadows. It’s in these moments, when the rivalry of being the oldest, not being the baby and her needing to lead are quieted, that our relationship pierces me. The echoes of my own personality that resonate in her sometimes make us clash.

“Don’t worry so much.”

“B, don’t try so hard.”

“Be still, my love, you are enough.”

The soft dawn light seeps through the shutters and as the last vestiges of sleep cling to my senses, she is the only one, before sisters and before knowing how excruciating it is to tend to school yard hurts or acknowledge that I can’t do it all. We hover in first-born infatuation, all buoyed with promise and bliss.

I trace her lips with my finger, I can hear the husky sound of her voice, the inimitable lilt and the way she would use her whole body to say things. I lower my head to tickle her brow with a butterfly kiss, knowing that she won’t wake up. She turns away and I watch, trying not to mourn the absence of puffy cheeks and dimpled, chunky thighs. This turning away will grow, our clashing will build, it is a part of the choreography of our destiny, awkward though I’m sure I’ll make it. I find a measure of grace in knowing that I can tiptoe through to this place, my eyes slow with sleep, and my baby still at hand.

Tears threaten and she turns, rosy lips purse, bangs flutter and then, “Morning mama. I felt you loving me.”

And we smile.

Ugh. My iPhone camera was set to take my face. Does that ever not horrify? Yay for goggles.

Then I snapped a picture of the night, but it didn’t translate.

Then I held a spectacular yard sale after sliding 65 yards backwards and on my belly. Then there were the snowboarders who were stopped-in-the-middle-of-no-where-in-the-dark-and-oh-by-the-way-I-can’-stop. But in the end, I still had a total blast and will do it again. Although I may hope for slightly warmer weather and natural snow so I don’t have to ski into gusts of machine-manufactured-snow.

How’s 2012 going for you? I recommend that when you make an ass out of yourself do it in the dark and in 18 degree weather, fewer people catch it.

]]> http://amandamagee.com/2012/01/wednesday-at-west/feed/ 2 http://amandamagee.com/2012/01/revealing-hope/ http://amandamagee.com/2012/01/revealing-hope/#comments Sun, 01 Jan 2012 18:18:41 +0000 amandamagee http://amandamagee.com/?p=3044 A woman I have a deep fondness and admiration for, Susan Neibur, posted something this morning that has stayed with me like a strong beam of sunlight after a swim in the cold lake.

Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come,
Whispering ‘it will be happier’…

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

I certainly had my share of disappointment in the past year, but as the Tennyson quote rings in my ears, I realize that the voice of hope is my own. Any chance of seeing the world in a brighter way is not going to come from the laughter of my children, though that is sweet, or the supportive hand of my husband or unwavering support of my parents. Hope is mine to enjoy or ignore.

When I woke up this morning, the house filled with friends and errant wisps of the previous night’s merrymaking, I saw the mark of good decisions. Every corner shimmered with the energy of laughter and contentment. The sunlight streaming through the windows didn’t illuminate dust, it cast golden pools over vignettes: a board game and grape stems; baby dolls and blankets; dog toys and slippers—joy shared.

Later, after our guests left, we took turns at the gym. It was simple, energy out, more energy in. Naps. Laundry. Lasagna.

Wishing you hope and all the wonder that comes with it.

Pocket fulls of sunlight and a heart of gratitude.

Our tree twinkles at home and the weather is flirting with snow. I am under the weather, but grateful. I have friends who are looking out for me, family who has gathered ’round and my spirit is lifting. I am ready to let the sorrows of this year rest so that the triumphs and laughter can rise and soften the files of 2011.

Also, I can finally say that the site is live for our shop here in downtown Glens Falls. I am responsible for the words (and typos if you find them, sigh) the designs were all a collaborative effort and a whole lot of fun.