Bikini

I'm hoping the title of this post doesn't scare people away.  Because, really? What kind of interesting reading can this be for people? You either wear a bikini or you don't right? Do I really need to devote an entire blog post to the subject?

Turns out I do.

I'm going to turn forty next year.  I've noticed that on the beach, amongst my age group there are three different types of women: the ones trying to cover up all their "problem" areas with modest one pieces, tankinis, sarongs, and board shorts.  Then you have the proud bikini wearing mamas, who most likely  have the discipline to put in the hours at the gym to maintain their bodies.  And last is the group who'll wears anything they want- usually bikinis- despite the fact that they are far, far, far from anyone's idea of the Sports Illustrated Cover Model.

I'm usually in the first group, though I spent most of the past year half-heartedly trying to get to the ranks of the second group.  But for the latter half of my vacation, I forced myself to be in that last group, and I'm glad I did because I ended up making some surprising (to me, anyway) revelations.

But first let me take you back a bit.  When I learned last December that I would be vacationing in Hawaii this summer, I told myself that I was going to work hard and dedicate myself to getting into shape.  If you've been following this blog for any length of time, then you probably died of laughter before you even finished reading that sentence.  No one would be surprised, least of all myself, to hear that I didn't do it.  I didn't do it, and even worse, I sabotaged myself in the 3 months before I went and gained 5 pounds on top of the ten I wanted to lose.  (Why do I operate this way?  I don't know.  I'm sure the psychological reasoning is very Freudian and fascinating, but my interest in getting to the bottom of it is heavily blocked by the bottles of wine and kettle chips. It's hard to get past them.)

To get back to the story, I was a little disgusted with myself.  My friend had posted a picture of herself and her husband from their vacation in which she was wearing a bikini and looking fabulous. She was holding her husband's hand and grinning over her shoulder at the camera, while the sun created fabulous light that played on the ocean's surface in the background.  I wanted so badly for that to be me.  That picture was my inspiration and motivation for the entire time that I dedicated myself to my goal, the whole 4 out of 24 weeks of it.

Once on the island, it was with not a little self-loathing and bitterness that I unpacked my tankini and  my "slim fit" one piece, which, my friends, don't let the name mislead you, is not for slim people.  It's for chubby people who want to appear slimmer- and trying to pull it on is as much fun as trying to pull on a rubber corset (or so I would imagine, for those of you whose eyebrows just shot up).   I should also mention that snorkeling in that thing almost caused me to pass out since, even on land, it only permitted me the shallowest of breaths.  Underwater with a snorkel?  Fuhgettabouit.


Let me stop here for a moment and clarify something:  there is nothing wrong with tankini's or board shorts or one pieces for those people who like to wear them.  It's just that it's not a good idea to wear them when you're using them as a subconscious punishment to yourself.  And that's what they were to me.  I used to love the way I felt in a bikini.  I wore one almost everyday of every summer growing up- whether I was lounging in my backyard or at the beach.  I like gliding through water in one.  I like the way my back looks with that one string across the back.  I just like them.  And after I had kids, because my body was not the same, because my hips were wider and my stomach softer, I was ashamed of it.  So when I was pulling on the massively constricting one piece, or trying to swim around while a dumb tankini top kept floating up around my middle, I told myself that it was because I wasn't worthy anymore of a bikini.   In my head, I was protecting others from the horrible vicious sight of me in a two piece.  


How did I get to be so mean and critical of myself? 

One of my favorite people, Nora Ephron had wrote “Oh, how I regret not having worn a bikini for the entire year I was twenty-six. If anyone young is reading this, go, right this minute, put on a bikini, and don't take it off until you're thirty-four.”  I wish I had listened to her.  My metabolism is way past what it was at 34, and gravity is working it's weird magic all over my body, but I decided on that day, while there in Hawaii at least, I was going to be nicer to myself.  That meant forgiving myself for not looking like a bikini model.  It meant trying to push past all the cultural expectations and worries about what I looked like to others.  It meant joining the ranks of  that third group on the beach.  

So the next morning, I ditched the fam and ducked into a bathing suit shop where I bought a cute  bikini in my favorite color of blue.  Then I wore it.  I wore it despite my stomach that does a weird tri-foldy thing when I sit down.  I wore it despite my love handles.  I wore it even though my legs jiggled way more than I was comfortable with.  Did I feel great?  Please.  I can't lie.  It took a while to get over the self consciousness of it.  But I tell you what.  After ten years of swimming around with yards of extra material from tankinis and swim skirts floating up and getting in my way, it felt so good to snorkel in those blue, blue waters unencumbered by flappy board shorts or a waterproof corset.  And the bikini also gifted me with my most favorite souvenir of the whole trip: the tan line left by that one string across my back.

*Ideally, a blog post titled Bikini would contain a picture of me in said bikini.  This is the best I can do.  Swimming in a bikini was fun.  Lounging in a bikini was great.  Walking around a beach with my kids looking for sea turtles  in a bikini required shorts.  Sorry.  It's a bit of a cop out.  Maybe next year I'll write Bikini Part 2, in which I'll work up the courage to love myself enough to not care about being photographed while walking around in a two piece.  Then again, that probably won't be necessary since I fully plan to hit the gym at 5 am every day this year.   I'm going to get in shape.  It's going to really happen! I can feel it! 

(wink)   

They Say I'll Get Used To The Geckos

Evening Gilligan.

What's up, Skipper? 

Ginger, Mary Ann... hello girls.

Oh, hey Professor.

Can I take a moment of your little gecko lives here?

Listen.  I hear that you all like to hang around Hawai'in homes and that it's nothing unusual.  They tell me that you're necessary and that I should even be grateful for your presence since you do help to keep the bug population down.  In the spirit of vacation, I am prepared to be okay with that.

However.

If you all are to have free reign of the house during my stay here,  I feel the need to clarify some boundaries between us.  It's not that I'm necessarily afraid of you guys, it's just that your presence makes me feel a little......on edge.   Therefore, I've determined that our cohabitation for the next ten days will be a more relaxing experience for us both if we can agree on certain terms and conditions.  So if you'd all be so kind as to raise your front right...paw? Foot?  Reptilian claw?....and swear to the following:

I, (insert retro tv show nickname here) agree that under no conditions will I loiter in any of the following areas: underside of the toilet lids, on doorknobs or on doors in general (cupboards included), on drinking glasses, on pillows, in beds, nor in shoes. 

I promise not to jump, scurry, or make any sudden movements at all in the presence of any human beings, especially the one standing in front of you right now. 

I will not crawl on or above the headboards during the hours in which humans are sleeping....or on the ceiling above them.

If, in an instance where any humans are somewhat "trapped" in your presence (say, while they are using the toilet facilities), I will freeze and not move a muscle until they can finish their business and leave.  I will especially not make any movements toward them while they are in such an indelicate position. 

See?  That's not too much to ask, is it?    I am prepared to give you nothing but space and the upmost respect, as long as the conditions outlined above are followed.  It is, however, only fair to warn you that should there be a breach of contract amongst any you- ANY OF YOU-forgive me, but I will lose my aloha.  I'll lose my aloha all over the place.

Consider yourself warned.  I thank you in advance for your compliance.





*You'll be happy to know that not one single gecko breached their contract for the entirety of our ten day stay.  Respectful law abiding citizens, those geckos are.

Postcard

Well, hi.  I wrote the post below in Hawaii.  You know, Hawaii?  In case the thousands of pictures we bombarded Facebook with while there didn't clue you in, I was in Hawaii.  Honestly, it was mostly Mr. C who took most of the photos, I was just tagged in them.  So, don't blame me okay?  And in case you were one of those people who were like "Okay, we get it.  You're on vacation in the tropics, enough already!", you should know that Facebook didn't even get the worst of it.  We were way more obnoxious on Instagram.  You wanna hear something cool though?  Two of the dancers that Matt took pictures of at the Luau ended up liking his photos of them.  I guess they found them by way of the hash tags.  
And here I thought hashtags were just supposed to be funny little things that you add on to the end of a statement for comedic effect. #technologicallychallengedmoron#clueless#dork

See?  Like that. 

Anyway.  I was going to post this while still on vacation but I didn't for two reasons: one, there were some technological challenges in regards to the sound, and two, when the day was done, it was more fun to sit on the porch and enjoy a glass of wine with my parents than it would've been to sit at a computer and write.  So I saved it all in my head to post incrementally here from home.   If, after all the pictures, you can stand to read two or three posts about my vacation, I'd be so happy.  If you can't, well then I guess it's time to click away my friends.  Click away.

So here's the first post.  It was going to be a kind of "wish you were here", but now it's a "wish I was there".  

Thank you all for reading, by the way.   It makes writing these so much more fun.



Aloha, friends.  We are on our third day in Hawaii. Hawaii. My parents are treating us to an all expenses paid trip, which officially makes me a spoiled brat.  If that makes you like me any less, it may help to know that I'm a very appreciative and grateful spoiled brat.

We're staying in a beautiful plantation style rental home on the Big Island.   Every morning I wake up, I pour a cup of Kona coffee, sit out on the porch and enjoy a few moments of quiet time.  If you want, click play and stare at the photo for a few moments.  It's the closest I can get you to here.

 

An Interview on Day 2,555 of J's Life

J is seven years old today.   Here's our birthday interview.  Sorry about the scritchy morning voice and for snapping at the dog.  She was noisily licking her hindquarters and it annoyed me.  My patience is low when I haven't had coffee.
No apologies for J though.  He's perfectly seven today.

IMG 1968 from Tacy Cauthron on Vimeo.

Water Park Phobia

Well, we are smack in the middle of summer. For many people that means fun in the sun all day, every day.  For me, it means it's time to deal with my phobia.

I've had lots of experiences with other people's phobias.  I know how irrational they are.  I have a friend who is afraid of birds.  Every time I went to the beach with her, I got a full report every two minutes on the location of the nearest seagull stalking us.  9, for about two years of elementary school, was afraid of the wind.  My niece is deathly afraid of dogs, and I......

I am afraid of the water park.

It's not the slides.  I have no problem with the slides.  It's the water I'm afraid of.  More specifically, it's the idea of community water.

I can deal.

I can NOT deal. 

Everyone with all their sweat and hair and bodily fluids sharing water space makes me gag.  Furthermore, while I know that I'm supposedly the one with the irrational phobia, what I really don't understand is why everyone else is okay with sharing community water.  I can not describe the horror I feel when I see people sliding on their bellies along the floor of the wave pool, mouth open, eyes open, just swimming along.  There are unidentifiable floaties down there, people! I see them all the time.  Little brown things that sure, maybe, yeah could be a leaf..... but it could be something else infinitely more disgusting too.  Why are you all okay with that?

And why doesn't it freak people out that at any given time, there are at least 10 different people PEEING in that water?  I mean, ya'll are swimming and sliding around in water, some of which a short time ago, used to be inside someone else's body.  Their urinary tract, to be exact.  People are basically swimming in multiple urinary tracts.  Disgusting.

Also, the baby lagoon.  I can't figure it out.  Parents who'll run to wash off a pacifier within nano seconds of it touching a floor are okay with wading around in the baby lagoon with their toddlers! WHY?   I've had years of experience with the swim diapers, and trust me, they are not a guarantee against Code Brown.  Code Brown will occur, people.  It will and it does.  Get out of the water.

Finally, there's one last thing that bears mentioning here-the innertubes.  I know I said that it's the water I'm afraid of and it is, I swear it is, but the innertubes.....  they're all warm and squishy and they make those farting sounds when you get on them and sometimes they have other people's wet hair stuck on their sides.  Plus, you have to stick your butt down in the hole to float and sometimes your butt hits a warm spot.  (Lazy River, I'm looking at you.)

So if you see a mom walking on her tip toes in the shallowest section of the wave pool, it's me.  I'm minimizing the amount of skin to pool contact.

The lady laying like a plank across her inner tube in the Lazy River?  That's me too, actively avoiding warm spots while minimizing skin-to-public-pool-float contact.  It's one of my best moves.

And the nut job doing the deep breathing exercises while standing at the bottom of the kiddie slide to catch her child?  Yep, that's me.  Notice how I have the art of catching down to a science- lips sealed, head adverted to avoid the inevitable splash, a controlled rush to the side where the child is quickly deposited, and finally, a nimble jump out of the water that-if one is observing carefully enough- conveys just the slightest bit of panic.

I may look crazy, but know that in my head, you all are the crazy ones for being okay with swimming in a cesspit.

Thus is the rationale of the water park phobia.

Wedding Story

Do you guys remember that show on TLC called "The Wedding Story"?  It was on back in the Nineties when I was in college.  Man, I used to love that show.  Every episode highlighted an engaged couple who told the story of how they met, their courtship, and their proposal.  The last ten minutes was nothing but footage from their wedding and it always left me feeling like I had big old hearts dancing in my eyes.

Ah, memories.

Wait!  Do you remember the theme song?

And when the spark of youth someday surrenders 

I will have your hand to see me through

The years may come and go....

But there's one thing I know. 

Love is all there is when I'm with you.  

Corny as hell and I LOVED it with all my twenty something little heart.  I scheduled my classes around that show.

I was dumb.

Anyway.  Ten years ago today I was getting married.  My wedding was nothing like the couples' weddings on The Wedding Story.  Those weddings usually had a ton of pomp and circumstance. We, Matt and I,  were very untraditional.

For instance, we saw each other the morning of the wedding.  And look how itty bitty 9 was!  I could have put him in my pocket.

 

No fancy hair and makeup professionals came to doll me up.  My mother in law did my hair and I did my own makeup. 

I had trouble zipping up my dress. (A little math with a gestation calendar and my wedding date, and voila, the mystery of the stuck zipper is solved.)

 I had a fight with the florist.  The Wedding Story would have edited that out for sure, but maybe it would have been good fodder for Bridezillas.  I'll spare you the details, but you can rest assured that I've learned to live with the fact that somewhere in the Sierra Nevadas there is a random wedding florist who thinks I'm the world's biggest bitch.

C'est la vie.

Once at the Nevada Beach parking lot, waiting for the minister to show, I spotted my beloved all dressed up and ready to exchange vows with me.  He was standing next to his truck and I walked up to him, ready to receive any compliments that I, in all my wedding finery, may have inspired in his heart or soul.

Instead, he said "Hey babe!  Can you pass me that camera bag?"

And I will never let him live that down.  It's a permanent part of our wedding story.  Matt swears that he did compliment me, and he did- after I asked him to.  And that is how I usually have to get compliments from Matt.  When I really need them, I ask for them.  That's okay.  He does the dishes and helps bathe the kids, so I decided that it's something I can live with.

For now.

"Oh. Hey.  Pass me the camera bag."

So then it was time to start the ceremony.  We all stood under the shade of a big Juniper Pine tree and the minister began.

And do you know, it wasn't until recently when I was looking through pictures that I realized that Matt married me with his sunglasses on his head? 

You can see them if you look real close. 

I always thought that in this picture I was looking at him adoringly while we exchanged vows, but now I wonder if maybe I wasn't just looking at his sunglasses? 

That's okay.  The whole time we were exchanging vows, my nose was running.  I sniffled my way through the whole thing and tried to keep my head tilted back because I didn't have a Kleenex. 

Oh well.  

We sealed the deal anyway.

Later, at the restaurant we thanked our guests for coming.  I always laugh at this picture because it seems like for this shot only, every ounce of Hungarian Gypsy DNA in Matt's blood showed up.  

My tall, dark and handsome gypsy.  All he needs is a hoop earring.

And then the faux pas of all wedding faux pas happened.  

We cut the cake and the knife handle broke off with the blade inside the cake! 

There we are, knife handle in hand wondering what to do now.  Oops. 

(But doesn't my cleavage look fabulous? Hi girls! Miss you.)

Anyway, I figured that was some seriously bad wedding juju.  I knew we were headed for trouble.  Especially when the next day, the piece of cake we were supposed to take home to freeze for the next year got knocked over and spilled onto parking lot asphalt.  Double juju.  

You know what though?  Ten years, and I'm still waiting for that bad juju to catch up.  So far, we've been doing okay.  Life hasn't given us anything that's felt too unbearable. And when that day comes, when life does hand over a pile of crap for us to wade though, it's going to take more than some silly superstitious wedding juju to break down what we've built over the last ten years.  

But I'm going to keep my fingers crossed just in case.   

The Voices in my Head

Hey there!  Hope you all have eased nicely into summer.  Not to brag, but I think I may have had the easiest transition of anybody out there.  Matt took off on his annual Father's Day Camping Trip and I stayed behind.  As in, he took the kids and I stayed behind.

By myself.

Like, I didn't have to share the house with anyone. Or take care of anyone other than the dog. I didn't have to cook for anyone.  And while I didn't have to clean, I'll let you in on a little secret: I did it anyway.  Oh yeah, baby.  I cleaned.  Mama deep cleaned.  She deep cleaned goooooood.  She deep cleaned so good and-here's the best part-it stayed clean.  The house actually STAYED CLEAN FOR FIVE WHOLE DAYS.

I know.

I know!

Anyway.  Enough reliving the glory days.  They're all home now and the house once again looks like 4 kids and a dog live here.  It was great while it lasted.

So, officially, there are two reasons I stayed behind:
1)AYSO had one last registration for Roo, who will be playing soccer next year
2) I had some tutoring sessions scheduled.

The unofficial reason I stayed behind was:
1) I didn't really want to go
2)                                               

There is no number two.  I just didn't really want to go.

Listen, I am getting too old for this camping crap. And if we're really being honest, Matt and the kids probably have a better time when I'm not there.  As the official Family Funsucker, I make them do lame things like wash their hands and use hot water to clean the dishes.  So I don't think my presence was missed.  Besides, it's not like I'm of much help when I'm there.

See?  That's me "helping" last year.

Anyway, I didn't just get on here to brag about my five days o'solitude.  In fact, I want to confess something to you about those five days.  Something that took my by complete surprise.

I felt guilty.

It wasn't the kind of guilt where I felt like I was actually doing something wrong.  It was more of the kind of guilt where I worried what people would think.  I found myself justifying ridiculous judgements that buzzed around my mind all day like annoying little gnats.  Who was I to think I deserved five whole days to myself?  How dare I stick Matt with all the kids for such a long period of time? What if something happened to them and I wasn't there?  How could I let PG go to a camp where neither one of us knew anything about the people who would be taking care of her? (Did I mention that part?  Part of the trip was taking PG up for her second year at Hume Lake Wagon Train Camp.)

Isn't that nuts?

Ten years of Matt happily taking whichever kids were old enough off into the wilderness (and loving it enough to repeat it every year), and suddenly I was listening to my insecurities about whether that was okay.  Ten years of 9 going to Hume and having a blast- not to mention the fact that my mother in law, sister, cousins, and friends had also gone to the same camp and have had nothing but positive experiences- and now I was wondering if I was being irresponsible by letting PG go.

What's even crazier is that no one- NO ONE- had ever accused me directly of any of the above judgements, but here I was accusing myself.  Where did all this come from?

Well.  Obviously most of it is my own personal insecurities.  But those had to start from somewhere, so what was it?

I was pondering all this when my friend called.  She's pregnant for the first time and was calling me with a kid question.  (Also because she knows that I like to feel like an authority on stuff.  She remembers the bossy side of me from our growing up years and I love her for paying homage to it.)  She started the conversation with "I'd like your opinion on something because apparently people online are very opinionated-"

"Oh."  I interrupted, while nodding sagely. "Vaccinations?"

"No. Actually-"

"Breastfeeding then."

"No," she said. "Crib bumpers."

Crib bumpers? People are getting hot under the collar about crib bumpers.  Oh, my head.

And that's when I got it.  Those stupid voices of judgement that had been ruining my good time were judgements I'd heard from other people about other things.  None of them were directed at me but I'd gotten so used to living with the constant barrage of opinions that surrounds the world of parenting, that I'd internalized some of them.

Well, good.  That knowledge at least made it easier to throw those thoughts away.

Beyond that however, I had another realization.  The last few months I've made a conscience effort to live kinder and more graciously.  With this new epiphany, I realized that when I judge someone or something out loud- even when the things I'm judging aren't present- my words and actions plant themselves in other people's ears, like little worms.  And there they can feed off of other people's insecurities.  That's a really negative thing to throw out there into the world.

So I wrapped up the conversation with my friend.  (Yes, crib bumpers are fun when you're decorating your first nursery.  No, you are most likely not putting your child into harm's way by using them those first few immobile months.  Take them out when he starts rolling around, or sooner if you feel the need.  Yep, you're okay, I'm okay, we're all okay.  Yay!)

Then I enjoyed the rest of my time alone.

I visited a friend in L.A.

I read a really great book.

I had a wine party at the house with another friend.

I baked bread and took it over to my grandparents.

I hung out with my friend's girls when I needed a kid fix.

And through it all, my house stayed clean.





P.S.- And to go back to the crib bumpers for a sec- can we just stop it people?  Please.  Just stop it.