It’s part of my promise to myself.

I still couldn’t slow down my monkey mind when I woke up.  Teachers live bell to bell, and routine is in our blood.  Sometimes it feels awkward not to be going to work.  It feels like I should be doing something, anything, except deciding what to do with my day.

As I lay in bed long before dawn, I thought about how I got myself into this state.  Meditation wasn’t anywhere near an option – the only solution was making a list.  The act of writing down my worries, my stresses, seems to push me forward and make the unmanageable seem manageable.

As I padded to the kitchen, I thought of what I really missed about being a working mom.  Pancakes.  I missed making pancakes in the morning.

Much to the delight of my family, we were soon feasting on fresh blueberry pancakes – not our typical school day, for sure.  I started to settle.

The next longing came to me – taking my son to school.  I missed riding bikes together and sending him off on his day.

Certainly not as exciting for my son as pancakes, the cold, foggy trek cleared my head and provided me the clarity necessary to tackle the to-do list. 

I started to move.

Then I realized what taking care of myself needed to manifest in.  And I started to cook. 

First came the chili in the slow cooker.  Ground turkey browned on the stove, flavored with fresh onions and garlic.  Beans, celery, tomatoes and a beer completed the mix, and soon the house filled with the scent of dinner. 

I started to feel.

Next, oatmeal honey bread.  Warm yeast mixed with sugar and flax combined with flour, salt, oats and butter in the bread machine.  Two hours later the sweet aroma of bread layered with the savory chili wafted upstairs. 

I started to breathe.

As the clock rolled towards the end of the school day, I thought about one more thing I missed: being at home when the kids return from their day.  And that made me think of cookies.  I missed baking cookies.

Butter, flour, salt, sugar, lemon zest and lemon juice gently joined together into crumbly shortbread dough.  Pressed into a dish and baked for 50 minutes, the lemony goodness put a grin on my son’s face as he walked through the door. 

I started to smile.

When the day turned to dusk and the kitchen returned to order, I beamed at myself.  The simple act of preparing food not only nourished my family, but also nourished my spirit.  The treadmill seemed far away, the open arms of my home embraced me.

I jumped in. 

It’s the other promise to myself.

For the last decade, Iran has been down on Barbie.  Toy stores were banned from selling her, and Iranian children were discouraged from playing with or purchasing our genuine American girl for fears of the ‘westernization’ of Iranian culture.

This week, Barbie was banned.

Iranian police have swept into toy stores throughout the country and taken Barbie into custody, closing down the shops that were harboring the criminal.

Since Barbie was born in 1959, she has been an American symbol.  Her empire evolved over the years, and became an icon for American children.  However, American Barbie hasn’t been without her own controversy, and I kind of understand why the Iranians might be so interested in putting Barbie in the closet.  I know I was.

Many women feel that she is an incorrect and unrealistic image of females – of any age.  Personally, her curvaceous plastic body and painted on beauty queen smile always rubbed me the wrong way.  A child of the 70s, I didn’t grow up owning any Barbies-thank you, mom.  Naturally, when I had my own daughter I declared our house a ‘Barbie-free zone’. 

That lasted until about kindergarten, when it seemed as if every child invited to our birthday parties had visited ‘the pink zone.’  Barbie became the most popular gift choice of the elementary school set, so I instructed my daughter to thank them politely, and they went into the under-bed ‘Barbie box’.

I didn’t ban her from playing with them. If Barbie loving friend came over and wanted to drag them out, so be it.  The allure didn’t last, and shortly after the play date ended Barbie was boxed and returned to her proper place.  There were no tears or temper tantrums, and eventually Barbie was…donated.

I wanted my daughter to have her own images of what a real woman looked like, dressed like, and acted like.  My 5’2 body is more akin to Barbie’s little sister than any beauty queen’s.  My husband isn’t a beach-babe-surfer-type, although I do live in California.   I’m not the type to wear skin-tight clothing and heels to my middle school teaching job, nor do I drive a pink Corvette or live in a plastic palace.  And neither do my friends.

http://www.islamfortoday.com/iran02.htm

http://www.islamfortoday.com/iran02.htm

So the Iranian solution of ‘Dara and Sara’ as replacement to Ken and Barbie actually makes some sense to me.  I belive children and adults should have realistic role models.  The part that doesn’t make sense to me, though, is the militant banning and forcible removal by the Iranian police.  Haven’t they learned that which is unattainable often becomes more desirable? 

Maybe the police should take a lesson from this American girl.  Give the children role models that you believe in.  Banishment creates backlash.  Find a place for Barbie that keeps her within reach, but not too far away to touch. 

She’s only made of plastic, after all.

“Life is not complex. We are complex. Life is simple, and the simple thing is the right thing.”

 — Oscar Wilde

Sometimes we take the simple things for granted.  It seems like so many people spend their days racing around, trying to get from one place to another and steamroll whatever gets in their way.  

We consume, presume and resume in a never ending cycle.  Life feels like a treadmill, and when we take one misstep it spits us off, crumpled into the dirt.  

We search for the next best new thing, the next victim of our stress, the next issue to argue over.  

Today’s photo is simple.  Soft.  Quiet.  Close up.  To some it may look simply like snow on sticks.

 But take a closer glance. 

To me, it reminds me to stop, slow down, take a step in, and look.  

Listen.  

See what the world is offering.  

It’s simple.

I’ve always been a working mom.  I was one of those women who thought that I could do it all – full time teaching, ever present spouse and greet my kids after school with a tray of freshly baked cookies.

Life didn’t exactly turn out that way.

When my daughter was born, I was sure I could return to my 7^thgrade English teaching job.  It only would require a 60-minute round trip commute and leaving her home with her dad all day.  And, I could still breast feed.

Luckily, the sleep deprivation got to me, and I realized not all that was going to happen.

After six months home with her it was time to return to the classroom.  I settled on a 5^thgrade position that would allow me to work closer to home and have fewer papers to grade.  I could zip home on my lunch hour to feed the baby, zip back for the afternoon and be home in time to bake cookies for my husband.

Life didn’t exactly turn out that way, either.

Trying to time a feeding for the 10-minute window I had available didn’t sit well with my stubborn daughter.  The tears when I left didn’t sit well with my husband.  Fifth graders were sucking all my patience – they were so clingy.   And the cookies?  That was just a fantasy.

The following school year I tried something else – a 7^thgrade position in a town about 10 minutes away.  The plus side was the curriculum-my comfort zone-and my schedule-8-12.  The down side was the commute-15 minutes each way might have well been crossing the state line.  But she was growing up, and didn’t depend on me quite as much.  My husband mastered the art of the long walk to tire her out, and she adjusted.

Then life presented baby #2.

This time I gave in.  Stay at home mom I would be.  The pendulum swung, my husband took a second job, and I spent every waking moment with both kids.  I baked cookies-but he was too tired to eat them when he got home.  Baby #2 didn’t seem to know who this man was that stumbled into the house every night, too exhausted to play, laugh or go to the park.

Going back to work was at least familiar, if not exciting.  Teacherwolfe went into full gear.  I decided that the commute could be a time for myself, and found that by the time I got home mamawolfe had reappeared and was excited to re-enter the home. My husband left his second job, balance slowly reappeared, and so did the cookies.

Life never tasted so sweet.

It takes a lot of guts to be a female ski racer.  Imagine hurtling your body down 1000 vertical feet on three inch wide, five foot long planks over rock hard icy snow navigating a maze of fiberglass poles spring loaded to smack your body when you hit them.  All this is done in a glorified body suit in freezing cold temperatures and within 30-60 seconds.

Sounds like fun, huh?

When my daughter suits up for her slalom ski races this weekend, one thing I wasn’t going to be worried about was her underwear.  Seriously – she wears the normal racer gear – layers of long undies, thin wool socks, and a super padded top called a ‘stealth’ to avoid bruising her well muscled torso and arms.  When she leaves the start gate no one has ever asked what she was wearing under there.

But after yesterday’s news about Tina Maze of Slovenia being sanctioned from World Cup races due to suspicious ‘plastic underwear’, I’m beginning to worry about her racing future.

Ski races are won and lost in a hundredth of a second, making aerodynamics and wind resistance a huge factor in the competition – hence the skin tight speed suit.  But these suits aren’t completely wind proof, and that’s where Tina’s underwear issue comes in.  After placing second in her last race in Austria, officials accused her of having an ‘unfair advantage’ due to the type of garment she wore under her speed suit –  plastic neoprene underwear supposedly providing additional protection from the wind, thus giving her that extra ‘hundredth’ that might help her win.

The thing about ski racing, though, is that it’s really hard to measure that unfair advantage.  Unlike swimming or running, which always has a consistent race measurement, ski racing times and results vary for many different factors.  Every hill is different, and every course is different.  There is no set time or length for a ski run.  Course conditions vary from the first racer to the last racer and from men to women.  Weather can impede visibility, melt snow, or blow it into the face of the competitor. 

So to me, to accuse Tina Maze of an equivalent infraction to doping seems a tad excessive.  Ski racers do what they can to make it down the hill as fast as possible – better wax, sharper edges, a specific type of ski.  But I hardly think a ladies’ underwear is cause for sanctions.

Tina Maze via Official Facebook Fan Page

As for my daughter?  Well, when she waits in line to cross the wand and start her run, I’ll remind her that ladies NEVER show their undies to anyone.  It’s not their business.