Granola Grrrl is a gnarly branch on V-Grrrl’s twisted family tree. She is a yoga-practicing, peace-loving, yogurt-eating single mom. She likes simplicity but recognizes that getting to “simple” is a complex process. She’s on her way to Enlightenment but she’s got three boys in tow so it could take a while. Slide on your Birkenstocks and join her on the journey. Here are several favorite Granola Grrrl essays.
File this under the TMI category (Too Much Information), but I have some SuperGirl thong underwear. I like them a lot and I wear them when I’m feeling particularly sassy. Sometimes I feel like a poser, just pretending to be super anything. But thinking about it over the last couple days, I realized that motherhood has turned me into a SuperHero!
I multitask like nobody’s business. I can keep track of who likes what kind of jelly on their peanut butter sandwiches. I am amazed at my productivity, now, post-children, given 20 minutes of uninterrupted time (meaning not having to stop every 2 minutes to referee a quarrel or check to make sure that everyone is suitably occupied).
I have wowed stunned onlookers, my Jedi-like Mom Reflexes saving countless fragile objects mid-flight, out of the corner of my eye, on their way to becoming shadows and tiny fragments of their former fragile selves.
But what I find most entertaining, in a lame-party-tricks kind of way, is my ability to tell, merely by listening, exactly what is happening across the house. I can distinguish between different types of flatware by the sound they make banging on either the floor or another utensil (which I can usually also identify). Knives, spoons and forks sound different. Anything that sounds like glass is an automatic and immediate investigation, although I can also tell by the sound of the glass (even if it hasn’t been broken yet), whether it’s a lost cause. Water sounds different falling into the sink or tub than falling on the floor. I can tell how full the sink or tub is too. Orange juice sounds different from water. So does pee.
I know what different cries mean (didn’t we learn that when they were babies?); I know which ones will grow louder as the crier runs toward me. I can tell by the speed of the steps and the quality of the voice whether or not he will enter my airspace pursued by another child who is so furious he’s running in Stealth Mode, but not under Mom Radar. INCOMIIIIIING!
Moms are naturally just Supers (to be fair, I know some SuperDads too). We always manage to get everyone where they need to be, mostly on time, with important documents in hand (such as homework and/or the checkbook). We get everyone through the day, with minimal injury to ourselves or them. We make sure they’re fed (although sometimes I think they might move a little more slowly if I didn’t feed them so often ). And we do all this in addition to making sure they have clean laundry and a periodic bath.
So where do I fit my secret identity? Do I have one? Who am I when I’m not a SuperGrrrl? I think it’s all me. The work I do, the work I want to do, my yoga, my knitting, my reading... being a SuperMom is a part of it, but not separate from it.
And the truth is, it takes a village to make me Super. I have a team of specially trained colleagues, each contributing his/her own special skill. Sometimes we’re more like Mystery Men—a bunch of aspiring SuperHeroes struggling to figure out the best way to use our special talents. Sometimes we get it, sometimes we f—it up. Sounds like parenthood to me.
Just call me SuperGrrrl. And be grateful I didn’t put in a picture of my underwear.
© 2005 by Melanie Faulkenbury. All rights reserved.
I guess it’s better to get the confession over with at the beginning, so I can move on, right? Here it is, my dirt, my shame: If given the opportunity (and about $15K), I would go for elective surgery. In a heartbeat.
See, the problem is that someone my size and build cannot gestate and nurse twins (7+ lbs each) and ever expect her body to go back the way it was. I am back to my usual weight, but going from about 125 to about 190 and back, in a mere 12-18 months, sort of did a permanent number on my poor belly. They call it “twin skin”. It’s just sort of sitting there. Imagine the tummy of a 70-year-old woman. On a 33-year-old. Unfair? Definitely. My stomach just sort of hangs in a most unappealing way. As I describe it, my stretch marks have stretch marks. There is literally not enough good skin left to pull it all back together.
I envy and admire the bikini moms at the pool every summer. I want to wear low-rise jeans and not worry about my belly sneaking out to peek at passersby. I have worked hard to get fit and toned up again. I am doing a yoga-Pilates class this time. My abs are more kick-ass than ever, and my tummy is actually flat again. I don’t think it’s ever been like this. But no one can tell because it’s hiding under all that extra skin. Take it off! Take it all off!
And of course, when one discusses elective surgery, there’s always the notorious boob job. I just want my breasts back. I don’t have to have huge knockers. Just fix them a little so they don’t, well, look like a 70-year-old woman owns them. So maybe I won’t have to roll them up and tuck them into my bra by the time I’m 35. I thought I would just have them put back the way they used to be. Sort of small, but I like that. Then I remembered that I had as hard a time buying bras then as I do now, so maybe I’d just ask the doctor to enhance them enough to make bra shopping bearable (is that possible?)
I’m horrified at the very thought that I’d even consider such a vain idea. Why not just accept and love the body I have? Because I’m only 33. And suddenly single. It’s extremely hard to feel attractive and desirable in this body. I know that the man who would find me attractive really wouldn’t care. But I do.
I love my children, and I am very proud of my body for being able to easily carry, birth and nurse big, healthy babies; I’m a little disappointed at its ability to recover. Right now, I am starting a new phase of my life. I’m moving on in motherhood, and I love it. I am not an old woman. I still like sex. A lot. I’ve spent a long time learning how to do it right. And I’d like to have sex, for once, without worrying about what my body looks like.
Like Will Smith in “Men in Black” said, there’s “old and busted” and “new hotness”. I know I can never be “new hotness” again, but for Pete’s sake, I am certainly not ready to be “old and busted!”
One of the great things about living in Plano is that there are plastic surgeons everywhere. Ads in the haughty city magazine are about 2/3 plastic surgery clinics (the other 1/3 are cosmetic dentistry—go figure).
So screw holistic philosophy! Screw acceptance! Sign me up for the knife!
© 2005 by Melanie Faulkenbury. All rights reserved.
This story starts out in an all-natural way, and that’s good and becomes important later. PMS, after all, is all-natural, isn’t it? So I shouldn’t feel bad about what happens next.
I was restlessly hungry for at least two days. I imagined myself eating a variety of foods, but none of them tasted right in my mind. For me, PMS food consumption is based on way more factors than most people think. The food has to satisfy certain criteria, dependent on my mood or my hormones or some force of nature yet to be indentified.
I might need something sweet, salty, or sour. It might have to be soft, chewy, or crunchy. Any combination of those qualities. Note that “healthy” is not on that list.
After 2 days of trying out different foods on my mind’s tongue, I imagined cake. Chocolate cake. The little flavor beast in my mind perked up and gave a mew of interest. So I hauled out my cookbooks, and found a recipe for Hot Fudge Sundae Cake. One of my favorites. Decadent. Chocolatey. Substantial. NOT “healthy”. At all. Sure, I could have used whole wheat flour, but it’s just not the same. So I made it in all it’s un-natural, unhealthy glory. It was everything I hoped and expected it to be.
But now I’m afraid the Nature Task Force will be at my door to revoke my Granola Status. A posse of big, unshaven, butch women in peasant skirts and braless tank tops, barefoot with long braids in their hair.
In my defense, I’ll argue that I used organic milk, flour and sugar, and only the teensiest bit of oil; I used my Crock Pot instead of wasting energy by heating the whole oven but I doubt they will be swayed. I’ll plead that it was for my children, and that will only makes matters worse.
They’ll raid my closet and confiscate my Birkenstocks, declaring me unfit to wear them any longer. In a final plea of desperation, I’ll wail that it was Nature’s Curse that caused my lapse in judgment. A flicker of emotion will cross the women’s faces, they’ll exchange knowing looks, and the leader will push my Birkis into my arms and growl, “Don’t let it happen again,” and whisper conspiratorially, “Can I get that recipe? You said you used organic ingredients, right?”
Recipe follows:
HOT FUDGE SUNDAE CAKE (Crock Pot)
1 c. flour
½ c. sugar
2 T. cocoa powder
2 t. baking powder
½ t. salt
½ c. milk
2 T. oil
1 t. vanilla
½ c. chopped nuts
¾ c. packed brown sugar
¼ c. cocoa powder
1 ½ c. hot water
Spray inside of slow cooker with cooking spray. Mix flour, sugar, cocoa, baking powder and salt in a bowl. Stir in milk, oil, vanilla until smooth. Stir in nuts. Spread batter evenly in slow cooker.
Mix brown sugar, and ¼ c. cocoa in small bowl. Stir in hot water until smooth (it will be very watery). Pour evenly over batter in slow cooker.
Cover and cook on high for 2- 2 ½ hours, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Turn off the slow cooker and let cake stand uncovered for 30-40 minutes to cool slightly before serving.
Note: I use a 3 ½ qt Crock Pot. The larger ones may be able to take a double recipe. Vanilla ice cream is a must. Try Ben & Jerry’s (hormone-free, you know) to keep the Nature Task Force at bay. ; )
© 2005 by Melanie Faulkenbury. All rights reserved.
Who knows where or when insightful moments might hit us? I wish I did, because I’d certainly seek them out more often. Wouldn’t it be great if there was a bus stop labeled “Enlightenment”? I bet the fare is cheaper than we think.
Today, just for kicks, I decide to seek out a labyrinth I’d read about on the Richland College campus. It was built by students, as a community-building project. I hadn’t planned to visit it while I had kids with me, but it sort of works out that way this morning. I briefly explain to them the purpose of the labyrinth, that it is to be walked mindfully and quietly (anyone see the folly in explaining this to 8- and 5-year-olds?), to the center, then back out again.
Of course, Matt wants to make a race to the center, and is somewhat befuddled by the circuitous route he finds himself on. He skips over some of the bricks and grass that mark the gravel path, and finds himself hopelessly lost. I tell him to walk with me, and explain again that we are doing this in a mindful way, so as not to get lost.
Then I explain a little more about it. About how the labyrinth is sort of like our lives. How we can sometimes see the center, even when it seems that the path is taking us farther from it. How there is only one path, and no dead ends. And how, when we skip over important barriers , instead of patiently moving on and working around them, we can get really lost. He waits ‘til I am done talking, and then says “Ohhhhhh!”
We keep walking, sometimes in silence, with him stepping on my heels, and sometimes chattering and dragging me by the hand and making “Bat turns, Mom!” around the corners. At first, I think to protest; isn’t it supposed to be solemn and mindful? A spiritual experience? Then I realized that it is. If that’s what life is about, then the labyrinth is just like my life. Sometimes with all my kids stepping on my heels, sometimes with a couple of them finding their own way (successfully!), sometimes with them dragging me at terrifying speeds around the corners, and sometimes with me alone in my own thoughts and uncomfortably far from the center.
I imagine that every trip into and out of the labyrinth will lead me to a new center and back out again with new insight. Come to think of it, I guess I can take a bus to Enlightenment.
© 2005 by Melanie Faulkenbury. All rights reserved.