kim's blog

The Joys of Being a Mother AND a Daughter

Sat, 22 Oct 2005 12:36:08 -0500

Grammy: So, whenaya gonna let him go in the kitchen?

Me: What, are you his PR agent?

Grammy: No, no. I was just curious.

Me: When he knows that if he touches the stove it will burn him and if he eats Cascade it will kill him. Why, do you want him to make you a fruit salad?

The Best PR in the Business

Tue, 02 Aug 2005 23:28:11 -0500

Now the kid loves to put a name to everything - and he can. He's quite half-verbal as he can say half of almost every word that identifies an object in his world. Today he was looking at the overspilling magazine pile. He identified Queen Latifah's "pens" (lipsticks) fairly correctly, as they are sitting in a coffee mug, much like the one on my desk. Then he looked at an old issue of Oprah and pointed and said, "Pwa" and I said - who is this, sweetie? And he said, "Pwa" and me and the babysitter looked at each other and she said, "everybody knows who Oprah is." And we haven't really watched her since we stopped nursing which was about 16 months ago.

Later on, when my mother was here, I brought over the magazine, because he often has beginners luck, and I asked him who is was and he said, "Pwa."

My son knows who Oprah is. That's scary.

The Difference

Mon, 25 Jul 2005 12:28:32 -0500

This morning my suspicions about the Stephane Marais line were confirmed by another makeup artist mom (it's awesome!) who was kind enough to send me some feedback on it and also to confirm that it truly is wacky being a makeup artist and a mother. With the former you are building up, creating perfection, moving toward serenity (emotionally and physically) with the latter you are embracing, or crying over, chaos and everything constantly falling down. The difference between applying liquid eyeliner - with its concentration, its call for a steady hand, keen eyesight and managed breathing not to mention an artistic vision - and watching someone aim a spoon filled with applesauce generally in the direction of his mouth is huge. Keeping it together and letting it all fall apart, that's my life.

All moms, I suppose, have these huge, elastic hearts that have to open in the presence of their children and then have to close shut when they are dealing in professional situations. My open heart always gets flayed when I misplace it on the makeup counter at work next to my brushes, to the left of my foundations. I have loved my work, I have enjoyed and respected people with whom and for whom I've worked. But love? Ouch. People you love always hurt you anyway. It's a double and triple insult if you work with them. Maybe that's why I haven't jumped back in with the same gusto. Actually, to be corrected, I've been trying to find the best work that suits my being a mom and a makeup artist with great big gobs of gusto. I've definitely found my balance in private clients, weddings and tv - pretty much what I was doing before with the addition of the once-a-week shoot with Noah (who just won a competition, hooray for him) and then this little thing here I call a website. But it's hard opening and closing like that all the time.

Doing makeup is such an initimate job: you deal with people's self conceptions, their fears, their histories and their souls. It's the same when you're a mom. The difference lies in a simple question: if you had to choose someone to pee/poop/vomit on you by accident, who would it be?

Mom/Save the World Post - Nothing About Makeup In This One

Wed, 01 Jun 2005 08:34:54 -0500

Yesterday I took the kid to the playground. I may have mentioned how much I hate the playground. I am no social politician and kids can be mean and although the moms can be nice, where I live, not so much. The sprinklers were on and there's nothing the kid loves more than some water comin' down. So, of course, I let him go under despite the fact we had no change of clothes and his shoes could have gotten ruined and he had a ball. I'm always in favor of fun over propriety. There were, not suprisingly, a bunch of obnoxious older kids controlling the spray, getting it all over me and their friends and loads of screaming. It was really fun for him although some of the older kids screaming was a little startling for him at times. And then there was this one girl who was in her bathing suit, sitting on a full pail and splashing the contents into the area that she was sitting over the pail into. Er, her crotch. I thought, well, I guess that feels good to everyone, trying not to judge, but really being uncomfortable. Then she ran around, and came up behind me and?nestled into?me?and I felt slightly honored. Kids, I wanted to say to whomsoever would listen, they feel safe with me. But then her nanny tapped me on the shoulder. Don't worry about her, she's artistic. Autistic.

And then I saw it, the flapping hands, the focused but far away look, the barrelling through people, the lack of awareness or I should say lack of connection to her surroundings. I was impressed that she could be around all those other kids in a full playground. I was impressed that her mother let her out of her sight. Then I thought of my friend Kyra, whose son has Aspberger's Syndrome, which is on the spectrum of autism?but not as severe. Fluffy can relate to his world and he's verily a genius, but socially, he's not interested. There is something about?not being able to decipher?faces and what they do?that makes them very scary and so he prefers not to socialize with anyone. That's not exactly it, but it's a version of it and there are, of course other aspects - the not sleeping which has had Kyra awake almost around the clock for a lengthy four years. But she loves her son and she's not a depressed person, so she is dealing with it in the most pro-active, positive, hopeful way I could ever imagine anyone dealing with anything. She barely has any?time for herself and yet she manages to write, garden, make jewelry, to crafts projects, stage political?events. I can't imagine it. If I had her circumstances, being who I am, I would be crying non-stop, trying to figure out how this was my mother's fault. She is just a stronger, sunnier person than I am. I wanted to go up to that nanny and ask for her parent's number and see if they were doing all the things Kyra is doing for her son. If they were doing all the research, changing her diet, giving her enzymes and vitamins, taking her for the many different kinds of therapy, putting her in the best possible care. I started crying in the park for her,?fully?understanding the circumstance of having a child that cannot connect to?other kids.?Here I have this kid who, so far, is pretty normal. What am I ever complaining about? I saw her strength, her courage, her beaming love, her brilliance. You just never know what people are going through even though you might be seeing them through it. Empathy can be theoretical or it can be experiential. I have innate empathy, but until I saw this little girl, I really could never understand what my dear friend is going through.

Nobody gets off from this life without any bumps and bruises (except for the kid, who I will be encasing in glass very soon, so nobody can hurt him or I will have to kill them).? I think to some degree or another, we all need comfort. Or maybe not. Perhaps some of us just need more stuff. But I'm more in favor of a human connection. Please, please, don't let people down when they need you most. Reach out to someone else today. Really imagine what it's like to stand in the shoes of someone who is in pain. In Judaism, it's called Tikkun Olam, and it means repairing the world. That's what you can do to make it all really beautiful today.

What If...

Wed, 25 May 2005 22:29:22 -0500

The ape-faced adult daughter of a famous woman was initially very nice to me when we both had newborns but then spent an hour with me and decided for reasons unbeknownst to all of us that she didn't like me and, in fact, was the leader of the Mean Mommy Brigade? Would I write about it in my blog? And what if I saw her tonight at an informal party and she had to be nice to me because I am friends with the hostess. Would I tell you her name in my blog?

No. Because mean people never get nice. They only get remorseful and kiss-assy as a manipulation tactic to maintain their power. Which she did and I held my head up with integrity and answered her questions and thanked her for her fake compliments about the kid politely. But I was gloating. She has to look at that ape face every day and I get to look at mine. Meaning: she's a bitch and I am nice. And I like it that?way. I'm not going to change.