“What do you do?”

“So, what do you do?” asked Claire, as she introduced herself to me in The Corner Bakery. Claire was one of my castmates in the Listen To Your Mother Providence show, which we would later perform around Mother’s Day.

“I am a mom and…uh…I write,” I said, as I squirmed inside. Swiftly, I shifted the focus to her.

“What do you do?” I asked her.

“I’m a psychotherapist in private practice,” she said.

Then, I am ashamed to say, I ran away from Claire. I used the pretense of placing an order for dinner at the register, just to avoid further conversation about my profession. She drifted back to our group.

Fortunately, Claire is a therapist, so she probably just identified me as just another potential client, ripe for the picking. I hope she forgave me for my rudeness.

“What do you do?”

This innocent question sends me into a tizzy.

It is so American, so East Coast, so necessary for new acquaintances to place us. They are simply showing a friendly interest. I know this, but the question still causes me angst for multiple reasons.

The question isn’t a problem for many people.

They are lawyers or doctors or teachers or nurses or software programmers or business owners or artists. They have a clear profession or work for an organization which sparks immediate recognition.

But for those of us who have yet to find professional fulfillment, and who have also left the workforce or scaled back on hours and responsibilities to raise children, this question presents an awkward dilemma.

“What do you do?”

For those of us who are mothers, but also have higher degrees, we find ourselves vulnerable to the judgment of others when we say we are home with our children, or that we have dialed down professionally because of the demands of motherhood.

In my particular case, the feelings intensify because I am still seeking my path.

“What do you do?”

The question makes me feel uncomfortable because the answer feels so amorphous.

Don’t get me wrong. I love being a mother. For some women, motherhood is enough. But for me, it can’t be my only profession.

I feel bemused about still searching for my professional calling. I just celebrated my 43^rd birthday, and I thought that I would be well established in a career by now.

I invested precious years of my life and hundreds of thousands of dollars in my education, and yet here I am, still knocking around, searching for the answer, and paying back student loans to boot.

Here is the other kicker: I have this crazy education that I’m not using directly. I rarely mention my educational background to new people because I feel embarrassed that I am not living up to my credentials.

With an English literature degree from Yale, an MBA from MIT Sloan, and a Master’s from Harvard’s Kennedy School, I’m supposed to be doing…I don’t know…something important. Changing the world. Making a difference. Running something.

Yale’s Harkness Tower

 

Back in my 20’s, I thought I knew what I wanted to do, and was focused and driven. But my ambitions did not work out the way I originally envisioned.

Instead of changing the world, I ended up changing lots of jobs, and later, lots of diapers.  There are proverbial poopy diapers in the workplace to change too, but after experimentation in many different jobs, I never found the right fit.

Now in my 40’s, I have changed tack. I am pursuing a creative path, writing and drawing and painting. It feels good and it feels right, but I still feel conflicted. I have trouble owning my creative side as a professional identity, because I trained to do other things that were more concrete, with a surer paycheck and more impressive title.

In my bad moments, I sometimes wonder if my education was a waste of time and money. Should they have given my precious spot at Yale or Harvard or MIT to someone better able to utilize it?

These are all famous schools that carry certain expectations and assumptions along with them, as a recent article from Slate points out with a good dose of snark: (http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2014/05/30/harvard_grads_say_i_went_to_college_in_boston_and_call_it_the_h_bomb_get.html?wpisrc=burger_bar) .

When you tell a stranger or new acquaintance that you went to one of these schools, you are playing a form of social Russian roulette.

Will they say something that will instantly stereotype you as a lock-jawed blueblood who casually drops Shakespeare quotes with a superior chuckle, or as a fashion-challenged, socially awkward geek who writes out the proof for E=MC² for downtime fun, a la The Big Bang Theory?

Or will they just nod and move on with the conversation, which is what you pray they will do?

You are loath to reinforce the perception that people from these schools are pretentious a-holes who need to tell you where they went to school, who then become a target of contempt forevermore.

You may also have the voices of family members ringing in your ears, who tell you about so-and-so and how they forget where they came from, and what horrible people they are today.

So you do everything you can to downplay it. You don’t want to be THAT person.

If you are female, a degree from one of these schools complicates dating. It takes a self-assured guy to absorb that information and not say something insecure and cutting when he learns of it, and to look at you for who you really are as a person and a woman.

When I’m with my former classmates, I’m cool. We are friends. We all understand the weight of expectation associated with these names, and how privileged and lucky we are. We know that we put our pants on, one leg at a time, just like everyone else.

We know that these stereotypes do not hold today in the way they once did, and many, if not most, of us are proof of that.

We know that there are brilliant people out there, far more intelligent than we are, who did not attend these schools. Many of them are our own parents. It keeps us humble.

However, if I am being honest with myself, I know that these hang ups are my own and no one else’s.

Even my innocent Pooh, who is only four years old and can’t tell the difference between a Harvard grad and a Heffalump, can trigger an embarrassed reaction from me on the topic.

Last year, when she was just three, we drove up from Providence to visit the Boston Museum of Science. As we were zipping along in Cambridge, the Charles River glistening in the sun, we passed Harvard’s elegant white spires and MIT’s iconic dome. I pointed them out, and told her I had studied at each.

Harvard

“Wow, Mommy. You went to a lot of colleges!” she said from her carseat in the back, shaking her little round head from side to side.

How did I feel in that moment?

I felt…wait for it…sheepish. Not proud.

I felt sheepish in front of a three year old, people.

What is UP With that?

MIT

A year later (i.e., now), I decided to take a hard look at myself. Why was I afraid to own it?

I concluded that it was simply out of my own insecurity and a deep suspicion that I did not deserve or earn this marvelous education, and that my admission was a fluke.

Yes. All three times.

Even though I had no money, no connections, was not a legacy, did not hire professional help to complete my applications, did the all the work for each degree, and even busted my butt to complete two Master’s degrees in three years instead of four.

Absurd, I know.

I then forced myself to look at the Pooh. If she had gone to one of my alma maters, I would want her to claim it and be proud of it. To say to herself and others, “This is mine. I earned it. Thank you. Thank you very much.” Just like Elvis.

Finally, I asked myself the following question: do I want her to remember me as someone cowering in a corner, ashamed to claim her educational pedigree, just for fear of what people may assume about her?

HELL TO THE NO.

I want her to be proud of me, and to think her mommy is a badass.

So here is my new resolution (which scares the bejeezus out of me): I am owning it.

No longer will I relegate myself to the unassuming shadows and say vague things about where I went to school or what I do.

Even though I am still finding my way professionally, I will call myself a writer and an artist. If it changes, so be it. Who the hell cares anyway? It wouldn’t be the first time. If asked, I will say where I studied without apology or qualification.

Because to apologize or hide would be a disservice to all of the inspiring friends, classmates, and professors I have had, and an insult to all of my hard work.

Because I owe to it my daughter.

And because most of all, I owe it to myself.

Block Island Organics sunscreen: product review

Disclosure: I received a sample of Block Island Organics Sunscreen in exchange for this post. All opinions expressed are mine and were not influenced in any way.

 

Finally, the sun is here after a long and snowy winter in New England. Regardless of complexion, we all want to take care of our skin to protect it. If you are a parent, you also want to shield the delicate skin of your little ones while they play outside and go to the pool or the beach.

The Pooh has fair skin, and my skin freckles easily. Since I recently celebrated my 43^rd birthday, I am starting to see wrinkles and crinkles on my face (ack!), so I have even more incentive to protect myself.

With these concerns in mind, I agreed to test Block Island Organics sunscreen in SPF 15 and SPF 40.

Block Island Organics is a Rhode Island based startup that makes sunscreen and sunburn relief lotion. It uses minerals and organics to formulate its products, and works to keep them within an affordable price range.

The sunscreen I tested is a lightweight, mineral based sunscreen, which omits many of the harmful chemicals found in popular sunscreen brands. The sunscreen comes in SPF 15, SPF 30, and SPF 40, and the baby sunscreen comes in SPF 30.

Block Island Organics sunscreen is:

• Non-toxic and lightweight
• Non-comedogenic
• Organic
• Vegan formulated
• Paraben free
• Phthalate free
• Nano particle free
• Artificial fragrance free
• Water resistant (40 minutes)
• Non eye irritating
• Not tested on animals
• Good for sensitive skin
• Made in the United States

After I received the samples, I waited for the weather to improve to use it (this is Rhode Island, after all). A few weeks later, the sun came out and gave me my opportunity.

The Pooh asked to go to the marvelous playground at Roger Williams Park Zoo in Providence. They have water play there, so even though it was a tad chilly, I busted out her bathing suit and a towel and grabbed our samples of Block Island Organics sunscreen on the way out the door.

We went to the changing rooms at the playground and applied it. Since it is a mineral based sunscreen, a little goes a long way. I dabbed SPF 40 in multiple spots on my face, arms, and chest, and rubbed it in.  It went on smoothly, and absorbed nicely with a pleasant smell. No heavy greasy feel.

I then dabbed it all over the Pooh and rubbed it in. My little sniffer girl said, “Mmm. Smells nice!” It does, sort of minty and fresh. The scent dissipated and we quickly forgot we were wearing it.

We went out to the playground, where the Pooh played and splashed in the various puddles, ponds, and sprinklers they had in the playground area.

I had no hat, so I wore sunglasses and hoped that the sunscreen would ward off new freckles on my face.

We played in the sun for the afternoon, and arrived home. Neither of us were burnt, or even toasted. Nary a new freckle to be found on my face. Neither of us experienced any skin reactions to the sunscreen.

I used the SPF 15 on another day when I went outside to plant flowers in my yard, since it was a mild day with minimal sun. I was equally pleased with the lower SPF. It was lightweight, non-greasy, easy to apply, and easy to forget I was wearing it.

My final word? Great sunscreen.

If you prefer products that are free of chemicals, due to family sensitivities and/or personal beliefs, I encourage you to pass over the Coppertone and try this out.

Block Island Organics sunscreen prices range from $23-$27 for a six ounce bottle. They often run sales and promotions, and right now, all of their products are 20% off for Memorial Day, bringing the prices down around $21-$24 per bottle.

They also offer free shipping for orders over $75.

You can order their products online (www.blockislandorganics.com) or find them in one of the following locations:

California

GetzWell Pediatrics
(415) 826-1701
1701 Church Street
San Francisco, CA 94131

Florida

Alys Shoppe
(850) 213-5550
9581 E. County Hwy 30A
Panama City Beach, FL 324133

Rhode Island

Koru Eco Spa
(401) 466-2308
232 Water Street
Block Island, RI 02807

Thank you to Block Island Organics for allowing me to review this wonderful product!

Happy summer, everyone.

Thou Shalt Not Yell

We all wish our monkeys came with manuals.

We make it up on the fly, test the wind with a finger, send up a prayer, and hope that our latest childrearing technique works. Discipline in particular is a tough one – we have to teach our kids appropriate behavior and limits, but what is the best and most effective way to do it?

Fortunately, we are moving away from corporal punishment as a technique, which relieves me, but this still leaves us with verbal discipline.

This past year, I’ve seen various online conversations and articles about yelling. Parents yelling at their kids and justifying it, yell-free year challenges, parenting experts advising against yelling, and some even calling it “the new spanking.”

It made me think.

Tiny people gradually learn self-control over time, and do so by pushing the envelope on behaviors that adults find maddening. Eventually, parents lose it, and they yell.

I am no different.

I try not to yell. I remember how it stressed me to be on the receiving end as a child and adolescent, and I work actively to curb it. But I am both human and fallible.

Sometimes, I hit my limit, so sometimes, I yell.

Certain kids, who are more obedient and docile, will stop a behavior when asked.

The more spirited ones will look you right in the eye, and continue jumping on the bed or barking like a doggie as you tell them to cease and desist, first nicely, then with more emphasis. They only stop once you’ve completely had it and begin to yell.

The Pooh falls into the second category of child, due to both nature and nurture: she is feisty and strong willed, and does not fear me. And, in spite of the fact that she often seems older than her years, she occasionally acts like a four year old because she IS a four year old.

She is usually well-behaved, but when something sparks her impish streak, or if she is tired, sick, or bored, she will start to work my nerves with a behavior she finds fun, and I find crazy-making.

For example, I ask her to stop running in circles, or unspooling the toilet paper roll, or poking at my squishy belly. If she is enjoying herself, she ignores me. Eventually, I crack, and yell at her.  It doesn’t happen a lot, but it happens enough.

The other night, she was taking her bath, where she loves to play and splash. I don’t mind the splashing, as long as she keeps the water inside the tub.

She asked me if she could dump a cup of water onto the bath rug outside of the tub. I told her no. I turned my back for a minute, and heard water pouring with a muffled sound into its furry destination.

I whirled around and reprimanded her for flagrantly disobeying me.  I cut her bath short and made her get out of the tub. She wailed at the injustice of it, but she needed to learn the consequences of her actions, so I held firm.

I dried her off, helped her into her pajamas, and she brushed her teeth.

Later, we snuggled in bed together, and read a bedtime story. She interrupted me in the middle of a sentence.

“Mommy? Are you still mad at me?”

Surprised by her question, I paused. “No, honey. I’m not mad at you anymore. Were you worried?”

“Yes. When you yell at me, I feel bad. It makes me feel sad.”

Scrambling to appreciate this conversation, and not screw it up, I took a breath to think.

“Sweetie, I am not mad at you anymore. But why did you pour the water onto the rug outside the tub, after I told you not to do it?”

“I just couldn’t resist. It was so much fun. But I don’t like it when you yell.” Big, sad eyes.

I thought for a minute, letting this conversation sink in.

“If you are being naughty and not listening, how do I get you to stop? For example, what if you are jumping on the bed, and I ask you to stop several times but you keep jumping?”

She looked at me, and said, “Just talk.”

“Talk?” I looked at her skeptically. “What if that doesn’t work?”

“Hug me.”

Totally floored, but anxious to keep the conversation going, I said, “So if you are being naughty and not listening, I am supposed to get you to stop by talking to you, and then hugging you.”

“Yes!” she said with a huge smile.

“Ok. We’ll try it.” I said. Meanwhile, I’m thinking to myself, Yeah, right, kid.

After making sure there was nothing else she wanted to tell me, I thanked her for talking to me so honestly. We gave each other a cuddle and a kiss, and finished the bedtime story. She fell asleep.

Back in my own bed, I thought over our conversation.

First, I couldn’t believe that she had the courage to ask me if I was still angry. How many of us are able to do that when we upset someone? Gutsy move on her part. I was proud of her.

I was also happy as a mom. I have worked for a long time to give her a safe space to express her feelings, no matter what they were, and to also keep the communication lines open. The conversation felt like an emotional slot machine payoff.

She spoke to me without fear, and proposed her own creative solution to a problem that vexed both of us.

However, in spite of the mental kudos I gave her for all of this, I had serious misgivings about her approach. Talk to her and then hug her when she was misbehaving? Really?

That said, my current approach was not getting optimal results, so I was willing to try hers to see what happened.

A couple of days after our bedtime conversation, we went to the mall. I wanted to shop for shoes, and she began to misbehave in DSW. I asked her to stop. She continued to giggle and play hide and seek in the aisles. I lowered my voice and asked her to stop. Finally, I dropped to my knees, pulled her to me, and hugged her.

She stopped instantly. I held her for about 10-15 seconds, and calmed her. We then left the store without incident. And also without shoes, I might add. But it worked, and I did not have to yell at her.

A week later, I was mending a hole in the knee of her leggings. She grabbed a spare spool of thread, and ran around the house, unwinding it as she ran and laughed. I told her to give me the thread, and she refused.

I yelled, “Give it to me!”

She yelped as if I had slapped her (note: never have, never will).

“Mommy, you said you wouldn’t yell!” she cried in emotional pain.

I checked myself, lowered my voice, and hugged her.

“I’m sorry for yelling and for hurting your feelings with the way I yelled. I promise to try not to do it again. Will you forgive me?”

She nestled into my neck, her tears wetting my sweater, and nodded. I held her on my lap and we both cooled off, arms around each other.

After a few minutes, she broke away.

Since then, I’ve had more opportunities to test this new technique of discipline by hugging.

Guess what? It works better than my technique of losing my cool and yelling.

Is the Pooh’s approach foolproof? No.

It is not foolproof, because I am a slow learner. Old habits die hard.

I slip up occasionally, and the Pooh reminds me of my promise. Day by day, I improve, but this ship is slow to turn. It is turning, though.

As parents, we are conceited enough to think that we are molding future adults. But if we are honest with ourselves, our children mold us as well.

An Unexpected Gift

After I took the Pooh out of her bath this evening, dried her off, and put her in bed to relax, she busted out with this impromptu speech:

“Mommy, you are the best.

You give me good tubbies.

You cover me with blankies after my tubby.

You give me good hugs.

You read me nice stories.

I love you so much!”

I misted up and managed to choke out, “I love you too, honey. You are such a great little girl.” I gave her a hug and a kiss, and hightailed it out of her room so she wouldn’t see me disintegrate.

It may be a marathon, but sometimes there are medals every few hundred miles.

 

RI Italian Tuna Salad recipe

If you know me, you know I LOVE FOOD. You also know that I love to cook. One of my favorite activities is trying out the regional specialties of any new place I visit or live in. I moved to Rhode Island about two years ago, and discovered a foodie paradise, with some hidden gems in everyday dishes.

This tiny state is passionate about food, thanks to the rich mix of people who settled here: French Canadians, Irish, Italians, Dominicans, Portuguese, and Cape Verdeans, as well as newcomers from Asia, Latin America, and Africa.

We also have Johnson & Wales University, which features a wonderful culinary institute. It even offers one-day classes to dilettantes like me.  As a result, we have a seemingly endless supply of talented chefs at our fingertips, especially in Providence.

But this post is not about the gourmet food trucks and the fab eateries here in Providence. I am here to talk about the less glamorous but tasty options. Some of the local, non-pretentious delights include the following:

Photo courtesy of Dels.com

• Del’s lemonade: A slushy lemon ice enjoyed in the summertime from trucks, convenience stores, and ice cream and lemonade stands. You can even buy packets to make it at home in the blender. (A Pooh favorite)
• Coffee milk: An alternative to chocolate milk, it is whole milk flavored with sweet coffee syrup instead of chocolate syrup. The creative cooks here also use coffee syrup for cocktails, desserts, glazes, and sauces. Dave’s and Autocrat are two popular brands. Dave’s is the gourmet version at $8-$10/bottle.  Autocrat is the version of the people at $4/bottle, and it’s the brand I keep in my fridge.
• Lobster rolls: A sandwich that features chunks of fresh lobster served in a white crusty roll, served either hot or cold.
• Doughboys: Dinner plate sized slabs of fried dough sprinkled with sugar. You can buy the dough at the grocery store and make them at home, or buy them fresh and hot from kiosks at fairs and sporting events.
• Pizza strips: Long strips of focaccia dough with marinara sauce on top, without cheese. Served room temperature, and available in delis, grocery stores, and bakeries. Another Pooh snack fave.
• Kettle corn: Freshly popped popcorn with a subtle touch of sweetness and hint of salt.
• Italian tuna salad: Tuna salad made with dark Italian tuna, olive oil and red wine vinegar. Found in delis and also made at home.

Photo courtesy of Autocrat.com

I married into an Italian family in Providence, so I am mostly exposed to the regional Italian specialties, which are different from the Italian dishes I grew up with in the Philadelphia area.

Although my taste buds were trained on Philly-style Italian dishes, I enjoy the Providence versions as well for the new takes on old favorites.

Today, I am sharing a simple recipe for Italian Tuna Salad with you, because 1) I love it and 2) it is easy.

To the Rhode Islanders who read my blog, it may seem silly that I am writing about something so commonplace, but non-locals will appreciate its fresh simplicity. It is a refreshing change from the typical American tuna salad you find that is loaded with mayonnaise and often lacking flavor.

You can eat Italian tuna salad over greens, on bread (preferably a crusty roll, but toast is fine too), on crackers, or straight. Your choice.

Important note: Pay attention to the type of tuna used. DO NOT use a can of standard tuna in water. It simply won’t taste the same. Use Italian tuna packed in olive oil – the meat is darker (do tuna have thighs?) and richer in taste. Here are some brands to look for, which you can either find in the Italian specialty section of your grocery store or in the canned tuna section.

 

Here is the recipe:

Italian tuna salad (2 servings or 1 serving for one hungry person)

Ingredients:

• 1 6 oz. can Italian tuna packed in olive oil (it should say “tonno” on the can – you don’t want chunk white albacore, and you don’t want it packed in water)
• Chopped onion – 1 teaspoon or so
• Good olive oil – 1 teaspoon or so, add more to taste
• Red wine vinegar – 2 tablespoons
• Celery – about half a stalk, chopped
• Pitted black olives, sliced – about 4-5 whole olives, sliced, or 1 tablespoon pre-sliced
• Salt and freshly cracked pepper

Instructions:

1)      Open can of tuna and drain off the oil

2)      In a small mixing bowl, combine all of the ingredients above with a spoon

3)      Adjust vinegar, salt, and pepper to taste

4)      Serve over greens, or on a hearty roll for a nice sandwich. Enjoy!

Optional add-ins:

• Iceberg lettuce: My mother-in-law adds chopped iceberg lettuce to the tuna for volume and cool crunch. If you add lettuce, just keep in mind that you should eat all of the salad the same day. Otherwise, the lettuce will wilt by the next day from the oil and vinegar.
• Capers: I added about a teaspoon of capers to the recipe on a whim – an excellent addition to the core recipe, if I may say so myself.

If you make this, let me know what you think of it in the comments below. And tell me about your own local Rhode Island favorites!

Special thanks goes to Angela D’Amico, my mother-in-law, who is always generous with her Italian recipes in spite of the fact that I am not a blood relative, ha ha.

Now, please excuse me while I go eat my sammich’.

Italian Tuna Salad