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Jul 1, 2012
The Katie Collins

Teenage Summer

My daughter spent yesterday in her room. A good chunk of today as well. She wasn’t in trouble. She wasn’t grounded. Her exile was by choice. Safe in her bright pink refuge with her stacks of “Pretty Little Liars” books, her Netflix queue of some Australian show about teenage ballet dancers, her iPod, and her phone she was in thirteen-year old girl heaven. School is out, summer theater and dance programs are still two weeks away and the girl, like some Victorian heroine has ‘taken to her chambers,” for the duration.

THUD! THUD! Oh now she must be dancing. I can tell from the banging on the living room ceiling beneath her room, and the telltale trail of single socks she leaves in her wake all over the house. (One sock on her turning foot helps achieve those multiple pirouettes don’t you know.) I hear the faint strains of a heartfelt Idina Menzel tune and imagine the soulful lyrical dance she’s creating above my head. I would knock on the door but I know to do so would only invite a put-upon “WHAT?” in response and any hopes of glimpsing the dance in progress would be dashed.

And so this is summer.

Last summer, if you were reading this blog, you may recall that the specter of the girl’s looming move to a new school hung over us like a dark cloud that kept us from fully enjoying the long hot days, as both of us, worriers by nature, were consumed by anxiety about the coming change. Neither of us handle change well, and let’s just say we were not at our calmest as Labor Day marched closer and closer. As usual our worry was for nothing, as the fit with the new junior high was a wonderful one and the year flew by in a blur of choir concerts, new friends, report cards, the school musical, field trips and all the sturm and drang of seventh grade dances. As the end of school drew closer I told myself over and over again how nice it would be this summer, when we both knew that at the end of August now lay a familiar routine in a school she loved. Yes this summer would be ‘our’ summer to be carefree companions. It would be ideal.


Except, what I didn’t count on was that while I was busy watching the year pass by, she was busy growing up. Turning another year old, and becoming…. a teenager. It seems like yesterday (warning! Cliché alert!) she was a five year old with ‘floaties’ on her arms at the condo pool begging me to ‘swim with me momma swim with me!” This morning she deigned to head to the pool with me and from my spot on the neighboring lounge chair I steal a glance at her. All five foot ten inches of her in her binkini, transition glasses darkened in the late morning sun, hair piled on top of her head, book in hand. “Stop looking at me.” She mutters, languidly turning a page and settling herself more comfortably in the chair. Bored with my magazine I contemplate two options – swim or break into the snacks. The dieter in me chooses the swim and I rise from my chair asking her if she’ll join me. “Maybe later,” she murmurs. As I enter the pool a neighbor compliments me on my grown up daughter, “I feel like I blinked and she became a young woman, she’s lovely!” I smile and plunge into the water for a few laps and emerge to see the girl in the shallow end announcing she’ll come in to cool off but has no interest in getting her hair wet or ‘really swimming.” I remember the long days of throwing dive sticks, making up silly water ballet routines, underwater handstands and looking longingly at my lounge chair and book wishing I could just relax for heavens sake. Well. Now I can. Except I can’t. Against all reason I want one more day with that stocky little girl with the overbite who splashed with me in the pool those first few summers of my new life as a single mom. I want one more night of begging her to please, please ,PLEASE put anything on the TV except That’s So Raven or the Suite Life of Zac and Cody, PLEASE. I want one more request for a cuddle and a song before bed. And I want one more Sunday morning in a little girl’s room full of Barbies and dolls.

Frankly this sentimentalism astonishes me. I don’t romanticize Liza’s childhood. I was ill equipped to be a mom and chafed at the chains of parental responsibility for years dreaming of a day she was more independent, more a ‘real’ person. This is the time I had been waiting for! For a daughter who was old enough to amuse herself, read for hours, pack her own bag for the beach, watch “real’ movies and TV shows with me, and eat something other than chicken nuggets. So why am I so sad? So wistful? Perhaps its because I know that this summer will be the summer she takes even more steps away from me. With every night out at the movies with her friends, with every casual “a bunch of us are going to walk to the sub shop for lunch” announcement as I drop her off at her theater program, with every text message, with every eye roll, the steps get bigger and bigger.

But as they say, ‘careful what you wish for or you will surely get it.” After all, this is what I wanted for that girl who clung to me and worried and needed me so very, very much. And in all honesty I have pushed her to make more plans with friends than with mom… so I really am OK with this new development (Really!). And Lord knows I don’t want her to grow up like me and spend every Saturday night watching TV with her parents (thank God for Love Boat and Fantasy Island is all I can say). Besides, I’m not SO old that I don’t remember how I used to escape to my own bright blue room with the windows that looked out over the ocean. How I too spent long summer days reading in my bedroom chair while the white curtains blew in the breeze, or recreating entire production numbers from Gypsy or Funny Girl with only my stuffed animals as audience members. I do get it. A room of ones own is a powerful thing- even for a thirteen-year old girl. So I go about my business. I read, I write, I run errands shouting only “I’m leaving!” or “I’m back!” through the closed door. I try not to perk up too eagerly when she runs downstairs for a bottle of water or a snack. Most of the time I’m granted a perfunctory “hey mom” before the blur of motion takes her back to her sanctuary. But sometimes I am permitted a brief hug or a kiss on the top of her head, or maybe even allowed to watch that new triple pirouette she’s now able to land, and I feel like I did in 7th grade when my crush used to actually acknowledge my presence in the junior high hallways. Giddy. Special. Wanted.

For so many years it has been Liza and me. An unbreakable team who’s gone through so much together to find the happy place we are at now. I loathe the thought of giving that up so soon. “I want more time” I pout to Kelly one evening by the pool (where Liza has declined to join us). Kelly teases me gently “didn’t you want time to lie on your chair in the sun? To read? To write? Now you have it! And besides she’s still as needy as ever…don’t worry.” For Kelly, the realist who watches us interact on a daily basis sees what my funk has not allowed me to. She sees the way the girl still calls for momma when she has a question, if she can’t sleep, if she can’t figure out what to wear, or if she needs to talk through a problem, or share a triumph. She stops me from romanticizing the past when the truth is those years were long and difficult. She helps me recognize this new development for what it really is: the start of something very special and long awaited. The start of a true Teenage Summer.

Feb 19, 2012
The Katie Collins

Soapy Shades of Gray

Recently I became embroiled in one of those classic Face Book arguments. You know the kind. Person A reads news story that upsets them. Person A makes displeasure known through a political status update. Persons B, C, and D agree with person A, then person E comes along and demands that person A admit they are wrong, wrong, wrong! Persons B, C and D respond with disbelief than someone could disagree with what is so clearly the “Truth” (capital “T”, intentional). Meanwhile Person A has gone to the grocery store and returns 110 posts later to find friends that range from college chums to local pals to cyber friends embroiled in a heated and emotional argument as well as multiple private messages from both sides of the debate asking “what is UP with your friend? “ If you haven’t guessed it by now I was person A. Good times.

I know, I know. I shouldn’t post anything political on Facebook, it’s just asking for trouble. But sometimes I can’t help myself. There are a few things I feel deeply and passionately about: women’s rights, access to health care, marriage equality, better education for our children, social justice. Ok, that’s more than a few things but you see what I mean. You see, I was raised in a household that prized political conversation and dialogue and with parents who taught me to stand my ground and speak up for what I feel is right, but to always be respectful of others’ opinions. Before the age of Facebook I was a regular on the debate boards of iVillage and Yuku where I was regularly schooled by some seriously smart women and savvy debaters – many of whom have gone on to be cherished ‘real life’ friends. And I live in New Hampshire, where political dialogue and debate is practically as much a part of our way of life as mud season and summer days on Hampton Beach. So it’s fair to say I know my way around a good political argument. But this most recent one (or two) on Facebook was different. On an Internet message board you may be clashing with someone who is just a screen name to you. In real life you may be debating someone you know well. You can read his or her expressions and body language and manage to have a great discussion without being personal or hurtful. But on Facebook, everyone is thrown together. The college friends, the former co-workers, the cyber buddies, the family members, the people who you went to kindergarten with for heaven’s sake. All arguing a topic on your ‘home page.’ Think about it. What would it be like if all those people were suddenly in your living room? As my daughter and her friends like to say, it would be “that awkward moment when” everyone you’ve ever known in your entire life shows up on your doorstep. And then you’re suddenly in the position of explaining to your friends on one side of the issue why you have friends on the other side of the issue and vice versa. Frankly it’s exhausting.

During the aforementioned debate that was sparked by one of my status updates, I interjected a few times to remind people to be respectful and polite even while disagreeing. After all, my friend on one side of the argument doesn’t know the deeply personal experiences that formed the opinion of my friend on the other and vice versa. But I know them both, and even though I may actively be disagreeing with one of them, they are both friends I cherish. To say that things got uncomfortable for me was an understatement. At one point, in an effort to explain that life is not always clearly defined, I tried to make the point that it is mostly “so many shades of gray.” Except I was typing too fast and autocorrect was in overdrive and my reply was changed to “life is soapy shades of gray.” Soapy shades of gray. This might possibly be the first time autocorrect has provided a writing prompt.

I’ve spent time exploring these shades of gray lately with some surprising results. A few months ago I ranted to a friend about someone who was very publicly on the opposite side of an issue very dear to my heart. Turns out she knew him and within minutes had emailed us both suggesting we get together. He instantly agreed and offered to meet whenever it was convenient. It was time to put my money where my mouth was. And I was frankly skittish. I wasn’t sure I was tough enough to actually meet and sit down with someone about whomI had an admittedly strong and not at all positive opinion. But my friend assured me that we would get along and that he was a great guy and that speaking one-on-one was a much better way to air my concerns than shouting at my computer screen. But still I wasn’t sure. I stalled. I hemmed and hawed, and ignored the invitation for weeks. But then something in me made me return the email and before I knew it we had a plan to meet for coffee. I figured we’d meet, we’d talk about all the ways we differed on this very important subject, and that would be that. What I hadn’t figured on was how much we would have in common, how nice he was, and how much we would enjoy each other’s company. Oh sure we talked about the “big important issue.” We talked about it a lot. And nearly four months later, we’re still talking about it. We still don’t agree, but that’s almost beside the point right now. I no longer see him as just “guy who is opposed to big important issue” and I would like to think that getting to know me has given him a new perspective on the “big important issue.” And now our conversations are just as likely to be about good restaurants, theater, our families, or the joy of a really good cupcake. Our friendship is unexpected, it’s funny, and it lives inside that soapy shade of gray that makes life so interesting.

This admittedly strange new friendship has taught me a great deal about the danger of seeing only the issue and not the person behind it, about snap judgments, and angry outbursts. And out of respect for this friendship and a few others I’m blessed with, I’m trying very hard to stay away from the inflammatory language that marks so many Facebook tirades. Do I still get angry? Of course! I get very angry and I get more than a little scared. But ranting to my computer screen and forwarding a meme isn’t going to fix anything. I have learned from my own missteps and my own hurt feelings how damaging words can be. We are not “liberrullllls’ or “repugnicans” we are not ‘”stupid progressives” or “greedy conservatives.” We are people and like it or not we’re all in this together.

Now, I know it’s a big tempting cyber world out there, and that it is still deliciously wonderful to post something from Huffpo or Fox to our Facebook pages, so post away! But there’s more to the conversation than that. Here’s my challenge. Find someone on the other side of a big important issue, and invite them out for coffee and listen to them. Really listen. You may not change their mind, they may not change your mind, but who knows? You might make a friend where once you only saw an enemy.

Feb 1, 2012
The Katie Collins

The Yo Yo

About six or seven years ago I had a conversation with a woman with whom I had a somewhat difficult friendship, a conversation that has replayed like a tape in my memory banks ever since. (For you kids that would be like a MP3 on my internal iPod). We had just discovered we had a mutual acquaintance, someone I was just starting to know, and my friend said “you know a few years ago she lost SO much weight and now she’s gained it all back and then some. I just don’t understand how someone can do that, I mean, once you’ve lost it why would you ever gain it back? I just don’t get it!” Loaded with judgment and scorn and a bit of the smug satisfaction that comes with knowing your arrow has struck the bulls-eye, her comment stung and I whispered, “because it’s hard.” But, lost in her rant, she didn’t hear me. The irony of the fact that the comment came from someone with her own substance abuse demons was not lost on me. What I should have done was tell her that a struggle with food and weight is every bit as real as a struggle with alcohol or drugs. That those of us for whom food is the drug of choice face our dealers not on shady street corners but at dinner parties, and barbecues, at meetings where bagels or cookies or sandwiches are spread out in an array as tempting as the glittering bottles of the local bar. What I should have done was ask her how she could judge another person that way. What I should have done is remind her that she was talking to someone who has trod the well- worn path between weight loss and weight gain and perhaps she should be more sensitive. But I kept quiet. For at that moment I knew what was happening to my own body, then a year or two out of a great weight loss and new level of fitness. The fat was coming back, creeping back in with every bite of brie and glass of wine, with every morning that I slept in instead of working out, and with every lick of my treasured chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream cones. The fat was coming back. The yo-yo was on its’ way back up the string.

For the past couple of years I’ve chronicled the story of my weight with jokes, self-deprecating humor and with a whole lot of defensiveness, but I knew my day of reckoning was coming. So this fall I finally bit the bullet and did something I never do. I looked at myself in the mirror. A full-length mirror. Without the benefit of clothing. And I looked long and hard. Then I looked at photo after photo of me from the summer and instead of looking at the family and friends with me, or the scenery surrounding me, I looked at the rolls of fat, the lumpy thighs, at the way my face seemed puffy and bloated. I thought about the cute summer dresses I can never wear (What? It surprises you that I look at catalogs of cute summer dresses?), and the roles I’m too fat to play and I faced it all. And I took a deep breath and plunged once more into the weight-loss breach with Kelly by my side.

That was sixteen weeks ago. I know this because at our Weight Watcher meeting this week we were given our sixteen week “Stay and Succeed” charms for our key chains. You’re green with envy aren’t you? Sixteen weeks and 28 pounds into my weight loss escapade (I flat out refuse to use the word journey) and I’m actually excited over the tchotchkes. Oh how the chubby have fallen. And yes, you read that correctly. I have shed twenty-eight pounds from my oversized frame, my rock star wife has shed thirty. And yet, tonight we looked at each other and burst out laughing… “who’d have thought we could lose this much weight and still be fat?” Kelly said. And it’s true. I love the well wishes of my friends, I love the kudos, and goodness knows I love the support, but the fact of the matter is, I’m not even half way there. True, I’m leaving the realm of obese and corpulent, but I have to lose another fifteen pounds to get to where I was just considered “fat” and another twenty after THAT to get to where I was when I was “slightly overweight.” If I get really ambitious I can try for another ten to get to the tippy top of what is considered ‘healthy” for my height and weight. Now I know you were told there would be no math, so I’ll add it up for you. That’s a minimum of sixty-five pounds and an ideal of seventy-five. Mother of God, seventy-five pounds. But that’s fine I own it. All of it. The size 20 pants and the XXL sweaters, the up and down look of judgment from the naturally thin colleague, the need to immediately put on my elastic waist flannel pajama pants when I come home from work, the sarcastic comebacks and pointed jabs I make at the accomplishments of my exercising friends (because after all it’s so much easier to mock than to face what’s in the mirror), even the two-year old comment that still stings from the woman who told me I got ‘too much support for being fat” and after all it really “wasn’t that complicated to just eat right and exercise,” and most of all the desire to just make it all go away with a really big bag of Sour Cream and Onion Ruffles. Yeah I own it all. Finally.

In some ways being back counting points and obsessing over how much one cup of cereal is feels comforting and familiar and I’ve settled into my routine of individually-sized servings of snacks and saying no to the weekly office pizza gathering. But there is one thing that’s making all this even more bearable… and that’s my wife. Because, let me tell you, if you too have run up and down the yo-yo string like I have, and if you find yourself once again facing the scale and saddling up for the weight loss ride (how’s that for some mixed metaphors?), then I highly recommend doing it with someone who makes you laugh. Because what keeps me going back to those deadly meetings every week isn’t the “tips on responsible snacking!” discussion or the “Bravo!” stickers, or even the key chains, it’s hearing Kelly unleash another brilliant one liner and watching a room full of people fall under her comic spell. When one earnest participant recently declared Fiber One bars a ‘treat,’ my wife responded with “only for your colon!” Forget the local open mike night my friends, comedy gold is happening at our Monday night Weight Watchers meeting.

Look, I’ll never be skinny. I’ve known that since I was eight years old. And honestly I don’t really want to be. A skinny Katie would be really weird. Thin isn’t in my future but maybe healthier and happier is. But for now I’m just trying to get through to the next weigh in, get that next little charm for my key chain, and keep that yo-yo from running back up the string.

Wish me luck. I’ll need it.

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