Dearest Jeep Jeep…

The next Mom before Mom prompt: What kind of car did your family drive? What played on the radio? Where did you sit? Take us on a road trip.

If I could say anything about the cars I remember my family driving, it was that they were all kind of hideous and they all had names.  I can also tell you that the last car my father drove was an early 90’s Chevy Lumina. Baby blue. License plate DEZ808. It haunted my dreams for years after his death. I don’t know why- he didn’t die in an accident, but that car drove around in my dreams. The car was spacious but ugly, and the one memory that sticks out from this car was the time we were on our way to a major swim meet and I threw up all over the backseat- including on the backs of the front seats. Oops. No one was mad, in fact I think my parents chuckled. It was that, or throw me out of a moving vehicle, I suppose. I remember getting cleaned up and my Dad putting sawdust down in the car to absorb both the liquid and smell.

There are many cars that shaped my youth, and the people who drove them, too. In all the cars we listened to country music with my Dad. The old stuff, that then, was barely new. My Dad was a smoker, but stopped when I was about 4. I don’t remember him smoking in the car much, but I do remember scolding him for not wearing a seat-belt. It didn’t change much, but I remember it. My Mom listened to a lot of what would now be called soft rock. I loved it. Billy Joel is my stranded island artist. We also listened to Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune and the news. I loved being such a grown up- but I hated the static. In my sister’s car I always listened to the newest coolest stuff- she’s 7 years older than me, so her driving was a big part of my growing up. She was the first one to let me sit in front- as long as I didn’t tell Mom. We listened to Pearl Jam and Dave Matthews. Every car we had, had a car phone that got terrible reception and had a GIANT microphone attached to the visor for hands free talking. My sister was the first one to have CDs play in her car through a tape and a cord the connected in the cigarette lighter. The CDs would skip terribly, but that was OK with us. Her sunroof let fresh air blow in and I was one of the cool kids when I was with her.

We didn’t road trip often, but I was always getting picked up by different people in different cars: my grandfather or grandmother. My Mom or Dad. My big sister. We drove to the shore a lot. I loved the beach, but remember nothing of the drives that truly stands out. I know we loaded the cars up with buckets, shovels and sand from the year before. I remember the year my brother couldn’t get the door closed on the van when we were in a second story Ocean City rental. I could have sworn he was yelling Stuck but with s lisp. He wasn’t. But road trips as a kid are not something I can remember defining my youth.

My maternal grandfather drove a 1987 Chevy Celebrity. Why do I remember the year? I have no idea. Perhaps the same reason I remember Ali Greber (now Bibler)’s home phone number, or my parent’s car phone numbers from the early 90’s. It was just something I remember about that tank. I also remember the bench seat and how much I didn’t like having to move with the driver during an adjustment when I got to sit in the front seat. I can’t remember the radio, but I’m assuming that just meant it was all talk. There were those hot silver buckles in the summer- there was even a middle seat in the front. My grandfather would pull the large padded arm rest out for me to sit on so I could be up high, then we wrapped the lap belt across me and fastened it. Safety first? The entire car was one shade of navy blue or another on the inside, and the exterior a shiny metallic navy. It was pristine. My grandfather drove the speed limit and always made me buckle up. There was the car accident my mom and I got in after my grandfather died and she drove his car. A woman blew the light at the intersection West Moreland Avenue and Blair Mill Road in Horsham. She claimed she still had a yellow light. No chance. My knee hurt. The police came. My Dad came, and so did the woman’s husband. Standing in the 7-11 parking lot, the husband attempted to speak to and blame my mom for jumping the light, my Dad asked him if he wanted to dance. I remember this being one of my first lessons about physical encounters: If someone talks too much, most likely, they aren’t going to hit you. Needless to say, the police were not impressed. The men were told to relax. And what of the Celebrity? It had very minor damage, seeing as it was literally built like an army tanker. Eventually we sold it and my Mom got something else. There will never be anything like the memories of seeing my grandfather come pick me up at school. His big boat of a car pulling into Meadowbrook’s round-about. Him, always dapper, in slacks, leather (freshly polished) shoes, in a sweater with a collard shirt underneath. Sometimes, wearing a beautiful plaid fedora. Not one you can buy now- something more special and far more intricate than what graces the shelves today. His parted and combed, perfectly white hair peeking out from below the brim.

There was my paternal grandmother’s car… It was white. I have no memory of what it was, and really it left no impact. The driver, however, left quite the memory. In her beige orthotic shoes, Harriet drove with two feet. She didn’t learn to drive until after WWII, when my grandfather taught her. She was terrible. She put turn signals on half-way through the maneuver, if she bothered at all. She hit more curbs than she missed. She constantly adjusted her seat and there was always a new seat pad behind or beneath her to help her get closer to the wheel. It’s a mystery as to why my parents ever let any of us get in the car with her, except that they truly believed what didn’t kill us would make us stronger. The one thing I knew as a child about driving, I learned from my grandmother: USE ONE FOOT! I also thought that you HAD to have a steering wheel cover because the wheel would burn you otherwise. Turns out that lesson was incorrect.

My Dad had a Mitsubishi Starion. It was a toy car. Silver, sleek and hot. Literally. The darn thing caught on fire while on the highway more than once- never with anyone but my Dad in it. Dad kept it for a while. It was a pretty cool (figuratively) car. What I remember most are the nights he came home with black on his hands. He would be at the sink in the “blue” (the whole room was BLUE) bathroom and scrubbing at his hands and arms telling me it was just a small fire- he put it out easily- and me envisioning him on fire like a stunt man. I thought he was such a brave guy. There were late nights on the way home from Flyers’ games, driving on 95, that we would listen to doo-wop Sundays on 98.1WOGL as I fell asleep in the backseat.  I remember going to church for Easter and my mom putting towels down on the leather seats because they were so hot they would burn my legs. The black leather made squeaking sounds as I slid across it. I don’t think I could put my feet on the seats, but I was allowed to climb on the car… strange. I even look confused about it:

Mom had the most hideous car ever. Her name: Brittany. I don’t know why… and I have no idea why I remember this except that it’s a ridiculous name for a car, but she was a mid-80’s Nissan Stanza Wagon. In brown. Not beige, gold, mocha… brown. I just remember this as a precursor to the SUV. It was higher than most station wagons, and had a roof rack (man, I miss skiing). It was 4WD- I remember because there was a red button. I pushed it a lot. Although it was really, really ugly and I don’t have a particular story about it, this car is something my memory holds on to. Perhaps because of this awesome picture (below), or maybe because it was a time when we were all family, still. I tend to throw a lot of things away… memories, however, I hoard.

And finally, Jeep Jeep…

Jeep Jeep was awesome for many reasons. One: 4WD and a plow. In the winter my Dad got a plow, and I thought we were awesome! It was yellow, and I don’t think we got a ton of use out of it, but with our big driveway and the township’s lack of responsiveness to our street in storms- I’m going to say we were small town heroes for a day. This thing was an interesting buy for a number of reasons… I’m not entirely sure, but I don’t know that it had doors- or maybe just the locks were bad, and it definitely didn’t have seat belts. It was stick shift that didn’t like to shift, so only my Dad could force it into D and P drive it. The windshield wipers may have just been pieces of metal scraping at the last hopes of life- masquerading as distant cousins of wipers that once were. The Jeep made its way around the driveway, but I don’t have many memories of it out on the road. My Dad wasn’t a fan of the seat-belt for himself, but as far as I remembered, the car couldn’t drive unless we were all buckled in- so this might have been a driveway only car for us kids.

Finally, there was the GT Beretta. It was a two-door in cherry red with black trim. The handles pulled sideways from next to the window. It was my sister’s first car, but my Dad drove it for a year before her… to break it in, I suppose. I have 1.2 million memories of this car. My sister drove it into college, after all, when she then drove my first car to break it in before me! But the most vivid memory of all is the time my grandmother left the car door open in a rain storm. There was a foot of water in the car by the time my Dad saw the ajar appendage of the vehicle from the upstairs windows. Bucketing out the water and laying down baking soda proved to save the car and leave it drivable for years to come, but the tears that were shed are forever in my psyche.

There’s a lot to be said about what shapes us as adults. Why we are who we are, and which of our actions will impact our kids the most. I wish I more road trip memories, and could remember why I loved the hideous Nissan named Brittany… alas, they are just cars. Just trips down my literal memory lane.

Welcome to my room…

Welcome to the second prompt in the Mom Before Mom   series. I am so excited to introduce myself to you before you would have ever known me… and to reconnect with my younger self. Let’s begin… or continue.

What did your childhood bedroom look like? Give a tour. How did it change as you matured?

My parents bought the house in which I grew up in October of 1984. I came in November. I always had the same bedroom, the last room on the right, though now a newly renovated home has made way for a slightly different layout, it is still the one room where I feel I find the most solace. Whoever said you can’t go home was wrong.

Growing up I had my own bedroom, complete with a platform bed my father built me . As I matured into an opinionated 7 year old, my room became a giant poster of me. I hung posters, filled shelves with art projects and crafts (I have always loved crafts), and taped pictures of JTT and Johnny Depp to my walls. These were the Winona/Depp days, where I filled my spare time outside of the gym (I was a competitive gymnast for 10 years) drooling over Home Improvement and Edward Scissorhands.

Flyers’ hockey + JTT + sand art + crafts + tween beauty products + tchotchkes + Bar Mitzvah junk = oh my! And yes, that Whoopi poster IS from Sister Act

After a family tragedy, I was offered a “new” room. A fresh start in the form of new furniture and a bigger bed. My dad re-stained my mother’s childhood bed frame and bureau in whitewash. I have always loved the look of rustic beach homes; the ones that look like the furniture is 100 years old, but it’s actually brand new from Pottery Barn. I had my mom’s things from her girl-hood, though, her beautiful solid-wood furniture became my own. My walls were painted a pretty periwinkle and the lampshade, valance, curtains and bedspread were Laura Ashley. It was the most girlie I’d ever been, or will ever be in my whole life. But when my Dad passed away in 1998, the trend of over-cluttered shelves and walls adorned with pictures from my life, torn from skater magazines or stolen from my sister (she had some really cute friends) continued into my high school years, waning only after my 17th birthday into a room with intricate stories and special moments separated by picture frames and scrapbooks.

This clutter mimics the clutter, confusion and turmoil in my teenage years. How I managed to stay an excellent student? I blame my awesome mom.

I feel like this time, when I learned to separate things, was also the time therapy began to work for me. I guess this is a deeper look into my life, than just my bedroom, but my bedroom was such a reflection of my mind. I had pictures in my bedroom from all walks of my life. My happy young years, before I turned 6 and my brother passed. Then the years after, when my Dad’s beard began to gray and my mom was worn. The months after my brothers were adopted. The joy (and sleepless nights) in the eyes of my parents and sister. The years that passed slowly, painfully after my Dad was gone. The years I turned on my own mom. The pictures in my room were not just taped on, they were mod podged to the walls. Clinging for meaning, a time-stamp of who I was and where I’d been. Loss, pain, overtly-sexual images of Abercrombie models I’d dreamt of kissing, next to pictures of friends who abandoned me after my depression set in. After I cut all my hair off and dyed it purple, gained 20 pounds and lost 35. Boyfriends came and went physically, but in my room they were glued to the wall, forever 15 or 16 or 17. Telling me they loved me in trade for heartbreak.

Somehow, my mom helped me tear all of those things down. From the walls, to the ceiling. We re-carpeted, repaired punched holes and torn out sections of wall from my glue. We repainted my room. It was like making over my soul. In the interim, I had broken the bed frame that was once my mother’s. My bed became just a metal-frame beneath a full mattress and box-sping, covered by flannel sheets and a cosmic red and blue flannel bedspread. I had sheer white curtains with the cosmic pattern in silver on them. I’m not sure why I picked that, except I  subconsciously love space (I didn’t realize this until a few months ago when even Dave was out-nerded by my desire to watch more space shows). Either way, when I came home from college, my space was different as I was an ever changing college student, but it was always my room.

D. Brady (now Love) hanging out with me (c. 2003) in my less adorned, but more adored bedroom

Since the renovation, the room is more sterile. Nothing in it really belongs to me except my American Girl, Molly, and Bear-Bear, my May Stick from my 8th grade year at Springside- all of which are shoved into one of the closets (now the room has two closets!). There are some books on the shelves that will become Addie’s, but the bed spread isn’t mine, the mattress is too comfortable to be something I could afford and the pillows are king. The bed frame is a magnificent piece of furniture that was custom-made and amazing. My mother’s bureau is still in the room, with the same drawer liners I put in as a child and the same piece of custom glass my Dad had cut to fit the top, and that makes the room safe. However, it’s the music box that makes that room my room. There is an antique key wind music box that plays multiple songs, my favorite of which is Auld Lang Syne. It’s worth thousands to a collector, but it’s the one thing in my house that I always wanted (and the grand piano!). That music box, the size of a small hope chest, is my childhood.The first time I entered my bedroom from my youth, after the remodel was done and the house as my mother wanted it, I found this giant box atop an antique cabinet in the space where my bed used to be. My husband, a musician, could not believe his eyes when I lifted the lid and wound the box. He fell in love with it in that moment, as much as I had as a child.

My childhood remains as it always will, in shambles. There are times I wish never happened and people I wish were still here. Friends I never wanted to make and those who are still drifters in my life. But, the one thing that remains true to me (as much as it can in a home that’s not mine), is my bedroom. It’s not a guestroom, or somewhere others are welcome to sleep or watch television. My mom did not make it a craft room, or somewhere to store old sweaters. The dogs do not snuggle into the bed, and the closets always have empty hangers waiting for my family to hang their clothes. My room is not what it used to be, and neither am I. As an adult, the bedroom my husband and I share is not what I want it to be. The furniture is Ikea and the floor unfinished. My closet is small, and I’d love a few more feet, but that is my work in progress, and I’m sure it will change as I mature; Just as all the rooms in my heart- though they stay the same, they change too.

Our little nest, just as we like it… for now 🙂

Highlights of my day…

Every mommy needs some time for themselves… even if that time is with their baby.

With Addie is tow, I headed to The Gallery Salon in Providence to be color treated by Mrs. Sara Marsh. After washing my hair for the first time in 4 days the night before, I came equipped with a cute baby and a terrifying bun-ish hairstyle. I knew once I sat in her chair, that I would get just what I needed- some pampering and good conversation.

Bring on Sara and The Gallery. A beautiful salon with all of the ooohs and ahhhhs mom needs and the natural environment that is sure to amuse, not over stimulate, the babe you may have to bring with you. Sara’s Wednesday was open, and she asked Addie’s schedule to be sure that we would not disrupt her; this was a time for me to relax, after all. We settled on 10:15am, which was perfect! It was the perfect timing for Addie and me to wake, shower, eat, and for me to pump. As we entered the salon, Sara pumped up the AC for Addie’s temp-sensitive body and turned on the music to a non-deafening, but enjoyable, level. And we were off!

As Addie drifted off for a nap, we chatted about what I wanted, and decided to go with the same colors we had at my last visit (embarrassingly too long ago). I would have the same highlights I’d gotten on the last time to match Addie’s hair color; a beautiful reddish sun-kissed look. Addie’s hair brings me back to my youth. I’m sure you know that time: When you smelled of the lotions and sprays you had time to apply and your eye make-up didn’t disappear into the fine lines that have encircled your peepers. Make-up? It’s the stuff  you used to put on before you turned your head to the left and smelled the faint stench of milk and vomit.

I adore being a mommy, but sometimes I need some pampering.

Just as Sara placed the last foil in my hair, Addie alerted us she was hungry! No problem! Offering up the lovely, plushy, leather couch (SO comfy), Addie and I opted to stay in Sara’s chair at her station. It was very comfortable and with the foot rest and perfectly placed padding, we settled in well. As I processed, Addie enjoyed her milk… just see for yourself:

As if Sara were blessed with the most perfect timing clock, Addie finished eating just as I was finished processing! Moving to the washing station, I settled into another comfortable chair, complete with a strong foot rest- a super fancy recliner, if you will. As I bent my knees up, Addie rested against my legs watching Sara work and being amused (read: smiles brought on by funny faces), as I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warm water and luxury shampooing.

We moved back to the station where Sara was 100% OK with Addie staying on my lap and watching herself in the mirror- she even offered a towel to protect Addie from my falling hair, which I declined (I just blew the hair off Addie). Finally, onto the drying!  Addie loves the hair dryer (and vacuum), so she was not alarmed by the sound and perhaps even enjoyed it. By the end of the blowout, Addie had peaced out:

And, my highlights and blowout look great… even the NEXT day!

The best part mommies: Sara will work with you to get, not only your current desired look, but where you want to be until you can get back to the salon.  Can’t get out every 6 weeks for your hair? Me neither. Who really can these days? Sara gives me a cut and color, every time, that is manageable for everyday wear, and color with a perfect grow out, even if I can’t get back in her chair for a few months (yes, months!). For just over $100, Addie and I were treated to an afternoon of comfort and pampering- totally mom friendly!

And, Sara does a mean trim for men, too!

Let’s be honest here, Addie whimpered, cried and fussed a bit in the 3 hours we were there, but no one was upset by her, in fact I got nothing but smiles and coos her way. Makes a mom feel better about disrupting other people relaxing- good thing she’s so darn cute!

Visit Sara’s webpage at SaraMarshHair.com to learn more about her, get some pricing and contact her for your appointment today. I promise you, you will not be disappointed.

*I was not compensated for this review. All opinions are my own, and are based on a multiple visits, two with a child under the age of one.

The Gallery Salon
31 Governor Street
Providence, RI

Mystic

A day out!  …and what a day!

Addie and I went to the Mystic Aquarium to meet some new friends, and it was amazing.  Addie got loved on by some very adorable little ladies (babies are not an interest of the boys!)- and as she gets older, I know she’ll love playing with her new friends, while mommy got to talk to some parents who told me the truth: she’ll be fine!

The day started out rainy and gross, and I was nervous having just Addie with me. I feared the rain was an omen. I have to admit sometimes it’s hard to be a tattooed mom with less than $100 to your name and a hubby who is always at work. I feel like a stereotype. Like I provide everything Addie needs, but still seems like we’ll never be able to keep up with the Joneses- and why should we try? But there was not a judgement to be made- all that anyone saw was the precious little Addie. And later in the day the sun came out, reflecting how I felt on the inside (warm, not sweaty).

I finally got to talk to a mom I’d met online, and she showed me such a strong spirit- what she has watched her daughter go through could bring you to tears, but she smiles and offers nothing but the happiest and best words. And her little girl? If she doesn’t make you smile, you’re deaf- she will tell you everything you’ll ever need to know about life, without ever taking a breath: the world is good, and riding on the flume is the best part of any water park (when you meet the weight requirement, that is).  I also spoke with a couple that reminded me so much of Dave and me that I found myself blabbing away to them, wishing we lived closer and then calling Dave when I got in the car and bragging about how beautiful their girls are. Then there was the littest cutie, who couldn’t take her eyes off Addie- so much love coming from a 4 year old filled me with such warmth. There were stories of surgeries and sleep issues, advice about anesthesia and the first day of school, and the final word: breathe.

Best advice I got was from a dad who reminded me so much of my own- he loves his little girls and it shows! He told me that Addiewill do what all the other kids do, she’ll just do it in her own time.

There is no rush in life. I often lament that as I child all I wanted to do was grow up so I could do whatever I wanted… now all I want to do is throw on my goalie equipment and do two-a-days until school starts, and then get a pop-quiz day two. What happened to youth? It’s wasted on the young. As an adult mom, I plan on savoring everyday that I have with Addie and enjoying her milestones. Maybe she will walk at 12 months, and maybe not til 30. Who cares? She’ll walk, she will run and until then, she will smile each and everyday. I’ve spent my days since 1984 going from one thing to another, hurrying up to finish things that should have been savored and trying to be ahead of a game that isn’t a game. Life. You can’t really win something that you make up as you go along.

Addie rolls over, smiles at silly noises, holds her head up, pulls my hair and gabs away all night when her daddy gets home! She’s doing pretty darn well at her life… and she’s made our lives complete!

Thank you to all of the parents for answering all the questions I had, loving our beautiful Addie and sharing your experiences so openly.  I feel confident that we can and will have the best care, friends and love we could ever ask for for our Miss Adelaide.