2013-05-25T21:38:44-04:00 Kitty Shea http://www.livebetteramerica.aol.com/author/index.php?author=kitty-shea Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Kitty Shea Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog// 2013-05-09T18:38:07-04:00 2013-05-10T10:58:10-04:00

Kitty Shea http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kitty-shea/
I didn't realize how lost I was until I found them, post-Mother's Day, at Early Childhood Family Education class. Kellee, the former military attorney, was surely early. Suzy, the cancer researcher, would have been on time. Lori and I, the emotional creatives, likely pulled in late. All of us lugging car-seat buckets of baby.

Bellies spilling over our mom jeans, we sat cross-legged on the alphabet rug, obediently clapping and cooing at our babies when the parent educator told us to. We graduated to leaving our tots opposite a one-way window and gathering, support group-like, to talk tantrums and potty training. We became tight, a unit, as did our kids. Sitting on untold park benches, beach blankets and pool chaises, we raised our children on a diet of shared sunshine and sweet structure. We joked that our names -- Kellee, Suzy, Lori, Kitty -- sounded like a high-school cheerleading squad circa 1980. Cheerleaders we were, raising each other up as we let go of the women we used to be and grew into motherhood.

As our children grew, we grew, and grew apart, the contours of our lives no longer following the same arc, what with demanding jobs, divorce, different schools and four kids for whom memories were increasingly their only glue. I didn't go looking for Jane, Kara, Brenda and the others: They were just there, in elementary school parking lots, on playground hillsides, at volunteer meetings. With my next generation of mom friends I commiserated about teachers and coaches and math curricula, but also discussed current events, exercised and went out for drinks, wearing lipstick, no less! We scheduled kid play dates from which all moms but the host would drive off -- sometimes quite fast -- to do our own things. Our dependency on the mom ranks was loosening, as was our children's on us. We were getting our lives -- ourselves -- back.

I spent this past winter sitting on hard bleachers with my new friend, Kelly with a "y," bemoaning our newbie high-school mom naiveté at not bringing portable padded backrests. We talked about our sons some, but they're no longer mysteries; they're strapping young men who tell us -- in no uncertain teenaged terms -- their needs, leaving us largely now to rediscover our own.

Come Mother's Day, I can't pay homage -- "momage" -- enough to my mom. But the day also belongs to my mom friends, to whom I send massive bouquets of light and gratitude. Thank you for being so kind, so solid, so there. Thank you for making me a mom in the fullest, funnest sense of the word. You did well by me. We did well by them. The bouquet is big enough, you know, to share with all the moms who raised you, too. Fill your vases, ladies.

Which moms in your past or present deserve a Mother's Day callout? Here's your chance.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog// 2013-04-12T11:53:09-04:00 2013-04-12T11:57:06-04:00

Kitty Shea http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kitty-shea/
I'm bursting to tell everyone everything: what I eat and don't, how what started as a diet has become second nature, what it feels like to crack both the code and the organic cage-free brown eggs. I can just hear my breathless infomercial. "You really should ..." "You need to ..." "You'd feel better if ... " Dinner-table evangelists hardly have time to unfold our napkins because we're so busy congratulating ourselves while judging and recruiting others. You'd think we were on commission. (Could I just say that human beings, as social animals, are wired to want as many people on our side as possible. Our obnoxiousness is primal.)

Thankfully, I've learned to limit my zeal to my mom and the curious few who pointedly inquire. We've all gotten "the look" or a lecture as we buttered a dinner roll or consumed its equivalent sin. "What? What am I doing wrong? The fat in the butter? The dairy? The white flour in the roll? The yeast?" Receiving other people's unsolicited dietary advice only tightens my grip on my fork and whatever's on it. How I'd love to fire off conversation-halting nutritional facts or research findings; instead, my mind turns to cornmeal mush ("polenta" to sophisticates) and I sulk.

Does such defensiveness mean we're closed to receiving potentially helpful direction? Or are the food police out of line? Eating is intensely personal; it's how we keep ourselves alive, plus it's hard to both get it right and experience its joys and comforts. Headlines about food and health, food and weight, food and mood are a scrambled alphabet. Vegetables seem to be the only universally endorsed foodstuff, but then come the asides about starchy vegetables or root vegetables or nightshades if you have such-and-such conditions.

Here's the deal: Everybody and every body is different. Our digestive systems differ in terms of efficiency and nutrient absorption and transport. Metabolisms differ. Genetics differ. Activity levels differ. States of health differ. Ages differ. And those are just the physical puzzle pieces. Lifestyle and desire further put us all at different places. And at different tables.

By accepting where others are at -- them, on their own, not in relation to us -- we open our minds and release from the conversation our need to be right. We trust them to their own timing and process, and entrust ourselves to practitioners who can tell us what belongs on our plate, period.

We make ours an open table at which food can wield it greatest power: bringing people together to break bread -- in its most literal or figurative sense.

To what degree do you welcome dietary suggestions from others or offer them yourself?

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2448997 2013-01-10T12:53:27-05:00 2013-03-12T05:12:02-04:00

Kitty Shea http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kitty-shea/
Ironically (or appropriately, depending how metaphysical we want to get), this amusing scene took place between the "Happy Holidays" heralds of December and the party horns of "Happy New Year." Courting happiness was, at the time, keenly on my radar as seasonally imperative. I had shopped, decorated, baked, gift-wrapped, donned velvet, hugged, air-kissed, worshipped and toasted, and all were perfectly nice. But there I was, in my bathroom of all places, with my cat of all "people," experiencing a sensation that, in its goofy simplicity, rivaled if not exceeded the happiness hype swirling about the calendar. I hadn't sought it, bought it or thought it, but easy, true happiness was mine in that moment. Ivy wanted to play!

Holidays and birthdays ramp up our happiness expectations to often unattainably high levels: to happiness with an uppercase "H" befitting the greeting card stanzas. When the tinsel and streamers come down, it's only understandable that our happiness meters need resetting. (Sometimes -- and you know this is true -- the greatest happiness arrives when the occasions end, but we won't go there now.) Our return to routine is a chance to recommit to everyday happiness and grab it in its lowercase forms; a chance to keep our inner votive candles lit, so to speak, as we stash away the candelabra.

My lingering smile about Ivy's paw swipe left me wondering how many other happiness hits I get on a daily basis but fail to notice, either because they don't rank up there with the biggies -- relationship or job happiness, say -- or because I'm too busy doing what needs to get done. Who has time to check in and ask "Am I happy today?" Are we even inclined to formally designate happiness as such when it's unattached to a major holiday or life event?

I decided to devote a day to dialing in and documenting whatever made me happy. Awakening to fresh winter white and stopping, actually stopping, to watch to my enormous hound make a snow dog angel: happy. Licking foam off the inner lid of my decaf latte: happy. Making plans to go ice-skating: happy. Bobbing my head and swiveling my seated hips to funky music while driving: happy. Seeing in my 85-year-old father's facial profile both my grandpa and Abe Lincoln, and appreciating that Dad's still alive: happy.

It wasn't even 10 a.m. Not one thing of significance had occurred, but a whole bunch of pleasurable "nothings" had. Granted, none of them changed Ivy's white blood cell count, but glossing over my fear and sadness was never the intent. Contradictory emotions can coexist. All were just happy occurrences that were happening anyway. By consciously recognizing them and assigning the label "happy," I had myself a sweet buzz going. And I liked it, liked myself, liked the day. I was happy. And it's mine -- ours -- to experience again tomorrow.

To what degree do you consciously think about whether you're happy? Any triggers or inspiration to share?]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2339217 2012-12-20T13:49:12-05:00 2013-02-19T05:12:01-05:00

Kitty Shea http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kitty-shea/
They come from a childhood shared with an imaginary friend (real ones, too). They come from a folder swollen with divorce paperwork. They come from an introverted nature that, once I've reached my interaction quota for the day, tilts toward solitude.

Mostly, my qualifications arise out of what has replaced loneliness in my life -- a daily hum of contentment and, often, outright giddiness -- and my discovery that low-grade, temporal loneliness may well be a box inside which resides a reliable antidote.

Have we not all been lonely at some point in our lives? Away from home and loved ones during the holidays? Recently broken up romantically and crossing that long, lonesome bridge between "we" and "me"? In nests empty of the children who for so long represented our primary purpose?

Being alone doesn't necessarily mean being lonely, just as being around people doesn't automatically erase loneliness. In fact, loneliness in the company of others is often more acute because our brains can't compute how it can exist there. Worn-out marriages. Friendships where we wait and wait to be asked "And how are you?" and acknowledged as owning a heartbeat. Crowded gatherings where everybody is feeling some "belong" vibe that has apparently skipped us over.

Whatever its genesis, admitting we're lonely can carry a tinge of shame, as if there's something wrong with us, as if the need for meaningful human connection is something we should be able to surmount with the right Saturday night plans or X number of Facebook friends or a hyper-busy schedule. It's important to disclose our loneliness to a professional or someone who knows us at "normal" and heed their assessment. Looking for a quick fix, however, can make things worse. Many an affair, so heady with meant-to-be potency at the time, was borne out of loneliness. So, too, are barstools occupied by lonely hearts. Loneliness boxes us into the mindset that its only remedy exists outside ourselves. But lonely people aren't good judges of character or magnetic social butterflies: Can you say "desperate?"

I've come to believe that, sometimes, we're meant not to dodge our loneliness but to dive into its box and explore its corners. Buddhism teaches "lean into suffering" and the military "head toward the fight." My loneliness only began to lift when I gave up trying to shake it and just accepted that I was at a lonely place in my life, entirely justified by my circumstances. It was a phase, and it would pass, but not without me dealing with inner stuff I would never have been willing to touch, had I not been forced.

Lid off, I folded back layers like tissue paper inside a gift box, revealing self-improvement tasks whose time was insistently now: enlightenment books I needed to read, stories I needed to write, behaviors and perspectives I needed to change. I saw fears that needed conquering and fun that needed having. I saw individuals from whom I needed to distance myself ... ironic, given that populating my life with people seemed the obvious counter to my loneliness. The more deeply I dug, the less lonely and more whole I felt -- like someone who could actually and authentically connect with people rather than just using them to fill her loneliness hole.

Waiting for me at the bottom of the box were an acquaintance who grew into a soul-level friend, as well as a new pal with whom I laugh more loudly than I can remember. I found a community of crazies like me who swim across lakes, plus a circle of colorful others. So full is their presence, so full is my presence, there's no room left in the box for loneliness.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2198093 2012-11-27T10:57:41-05:00 2013-01-27T05:12:01-05:00

Kitty Shea http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kitty-shea/
And then it's over, gone, both the season and the body reduced to a shiver, stilled by gray skies, oppressed under the blanket of seasonal fact. I'll be honest: A tiny part of me welcomes the pause, the dawn-to-dusk debauchery having left me tired and hungry. Largely, though, I manage to cling to my summer me until November, when early darkness drives me toward a different light, one whose radiance is contained only by a door. Opening the refrigerator, I reach for comfort foods to assuage my discomfort with the calendar before crawling under the comforter, the fridge door open all this uncomfortable time, my weight shifting from foot to foot and season to season.

The light takes me to a dark place. I skip first one and then another workout, my cold-weather athletic wear still in storage, see, and my kid needing help with algebra homework. (And we all know what a big help I am with algebra homework!) Day three's dodge ensures that my return to the pool/road/class/weight room will hurt, the dread of which extends my rest and recovery "day," singular, to four days. I passively change my status to weekend athlete.

Whereupon my thighs start to touch. And then rub. And then chafe. I feel my belly fold over the car seatbelt. My summer jeans dig into my crotch, their denim providing, at least and at last, tangible evidence that the problem exists outside myself. I pounce: "Our new clothes dryer sure runs hot; these babies shrank." "My tailor sure got sewing machine happy when she took these in." "Man, I sure was delusional when I bought these, thinking I'd ever fit in them."

I wasn't delusional; I was just my summer size and summer self.

Forced to dig out my forgiving winter jeans, I accept my flesh as real, a cue to begin highbrow justification. I call upon my inner physical anthropologist, who assures me that cream-filled bites and feeble butt-plants are but primal responses to nature's slowing beat. My body genetically knows to add padding for protection against winter's cold. The fall harvest is aptly timed so animals and humans can fatten up for winter. Early spring food stocks, after all, will be low when we lumber out of hibernation. So there! Winter weight gain isn't my doing; it's programmed into my being.

Trouble is, this anthropological cream pie exists only in my head and is whipped together independent of any proven science. Our ancestors didn't have light bulbs to extend daytime. Their heat sources didn't come with programmable thermostats. Bears can't go to grocery stores, which are now stocked year-round with fresh and processed foods.

My case crumbling, I pull out the big guns: the Old Testament, whose Book of Ecclesiastes assures that "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven." Enough said?

Ah, but righteousness is a mental exercise. My body is still heavy and my spirit heavier still. Making healthy choices is a breeze in the summer, but she who's doing the choosing remains the same. I'm the one making the choices that determine my weight, I mean, fate.

And so I hereby choose to honor the restorative gift that is winter; to rest well, eat wisely and read books under the covers. I choose to believe there's a winter "Whee!" out there for me, its own sweet spin on my summer esprit. Should its pursuit shrink my thighs, I shall skip around the kitchen in my summer jeans, opening the refrigerator door just long enough for its light to dance with my own.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1974115 2012-10-18T11:44:06-04:00 2012-12-18T05:12:02-05:00

Kitty Shea http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kitty-shea/
They're just there, our breasts, pleasing our partners, feeding our babies and giving us pause as we assess wardrobe matters in the mirror. Before we can talk breast cancer awareness, we need to consider how aware we are of our breasts, period. What support, beyond bras, are we giving the "girls?"

My experience being limited to one pair, I ask my gal pals -- Laura, Christie, Sue, Becca, Mary, Renae, Terri and Jan -- how they feel about their (as my mother cringe-worthingly calls them) bosoms. Selected solely on the criteria of being verbally uninhibited owners of boobs, our panel represents a near-scientific sampling: early and late bloomers, the well-endowed and small-busted, non-moms and the formerly pregnant, and a breast cancer survivor who's had reconstructive surgery. Like my middle-aged-lady tankini top, it's all the coverage you could want.

As topics go, breasts don't see a lot of sunlight; if they did, girls young and old would realize how, in American society, the sisterhood, at least as represented by my informants, shares a fairly universal experience.

When our buds start bursting in grade school or later, we discover that breasts are public domain. We get teased if we're busty. We get teased if we're boards. Boys snap bras. Girls taunt in the locker room. Dads and brothers make awkward comments, and we get bodily shy in their presence. Training bras only smash back the evidence for so long. We cross our arms or slouch to conceal the emerging show, retreating to the pages of the Victoria's Secret catalog or National Geographic to try to understand what's happening. In no time flat, we learn the power that breasts have over boys.

"I never had breasts until I was 50, or so it seemed at the time," jokes Sue. "Then, when I got them, I wished I could just take them off and send them on dates without me so I didn't have to go out with the nitwits."

Over time, those of us who desire to go out with the nicer of the "nitwits" learn to work our assets, growing into satin and lace and wire artifices that pad us out, push us together, perk us up and press out our headlights. Our pointed efforts to attract The One attract many: male managers who make "eye" contact with our chests, creepy geezers who ogle an eyeful, and decent men, the lovely majority, who are mannerly in their appreciation of the female form. Mindful that men divide into boob men, leg men and butt men, we melt when our chosen guy looks beyond individual parts and loves the whole of who we are.

Which, in one of life's great hilarities, often leads to breastfeeding his offspring, whereupon ownership of our breasts transfers to the baby. On one hand, nursing forges a bond; on the other, it furthers the sense that this part of our anatomy is more others' -- be it men's or children's -- than ours.

A women's clothing boutique owner, Laura hears it all as customers emerge from the fitting room to audit themselves in the three-way mirror. "If you ask a woman the least favorite thing about her body, she'll list at least three things," she says. Upper arms are trouble. Bellies are big concerns. Rear ends? Somewhat. "Ask her the best thing," Laura continues, "and she'll give you a blank stare." Unless a woman is in dating mode, thereby viewing herself through the men lens, or has had a mastectomy, breasts rarely make the list; they're just there.

And that's the problem. We condition our hair, exfoliate our faces and take our supplements, but few of us give our breasts their due by doing potentially life-saving self-exams on a regular basis. You can bet that breast cancer survivors and those in their circles are appreciative of their breasts. The rest of us would do well to similarly replace "thereness" with awareness.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1974552 2012-10-17T14:36:18-04:00 2012-12-17T05:12:02-05:00

Kitty Shea http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kitty-shea/
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