I remember the first time I drove through Woodland Heights, around the esplanade, down the tree lined streets with their unique and quaint bungalows. I had lived in Los Angeles for 15 years where neighborhoods were not about neighbors or communities, they were just where your house was located,where you drove to after work. My first few months living here were disconcerting. Walking down the street in the evening, people on their porches would wave and say hello. My neighbors introduced themselves to me, brought my garbage can in from the street when they brought their own in. When I lived in LA the only time my neighbor of five years ever introduced herself was when I ran into her one morning as the police were handcuffing her husband outside their apartment door. The first time I stood on the esplanade to watch the Lights in the Heights parade with its homemade holiday floats and families pulling their children in red wagons lined with Christmas lights, I cried. I cried because for the first time in my life I felt that I was living in a real neighborhood, I was part of a community.
The recent rush of construction in our neighborhood has got me thinking about the street I’ll be driving down ten years from now. I fear the face and personality of this century old community could be lost forever as our historic homes are slowly being gobbled up and replaced with these titanic “mcmansions” and mismatched condos that rob our neighborhood of light, space, personality. I wonder, is bigger better? In a world with dwindling natural resources and a society obsessed with buying more and more is it really responsible to build and consume instead of reuse and restore what is already here? This needless consumption not only is a visual plight on our streets but it contributes on a larger scale to the destruction of our climate and natural resources.I would like to also ask, is newer really better? The history of this neighborhood is the history of this city. The architecture of Woodland Heights is a living testament of the values of the people who built it. What does it say to our children about the future, about our legacy, if we so cavalierly throw away our past?
On our street, our house, built in 1950, is the newest construction on our block. My husband and I have spent the last three years restoring it to its original design. Through exhaustive research and meticulous restoration work he does by hand, we have replaced every light fixture, hinge, and door knob. We are far from done but it has been so rewarding to see the slow and steady change. Our restoration started when the original owners and builders of the house dropped by a couple of years ago. The house had changed so much after an 80’s remodel, they hardly recognized it. As they walked through each room, they recalled the original details with such love. They talked about how they raised their children here, where the crib had been, the spot in the sidewalk where they wrote their names and left their hand prints in wet cement, the squeak and slamming habit of the old screen door. They built this house with great detail and careful thought. It was not slapped together to be the biggest, the most beautiful or trendiest on the block. It was small (and still is) but they felt that brought them closer together. It was built to be a home, to fit into this community and become a part of it forever. It was after this visit that my husband and I decided to become a part of the story of this house and bring it back from the tacky gold tone doorknobs and cheap plywood counters to its former self. We have relied on local resources for our building materials such as the Historic Houston Warehouse. I feel good that we are recycling these materials as well as supporting Historic Houston. The work they are doing to conserve historic buildings is truly amazing. In the process of this restoration, where we lived went from being a house to becoming a home again.
A neighborhood is more than streets, blocks and rows of houses. A neighborhood is built of families, of common history, common goals and most importantly, a common future. The only way the personality, spirit and soul of Woodland Heights will persevere is if we come together to control the destiny of this place we call home.Every time one of these trendy, overbearing, mismatched dwellings is built on the bones of a historic home, we all lose. We lose light, we lose touch with each other, and we lose what drew us to live here in the first place. Every time I see another historic homes being scraped away, disappearing one by one and I ask myself, will these new, overbearing dwellings popping up in our neighborhood contribute to its history or irrevocably change it? What can we do? All I know for sure is what I’m going to do. I am going to become actively involved in speaking up for this community I have come to love. I will be displaying a dark green ribbon outside my house to show my support for the historic preservation of this neighborhood. I am displaying a green ribbon to symbolize that we, as a community, need to choose conservation over consumption, our common history over bigger, newer and trendier. I also will be supporting the Greater Houston Preservation Alliance, the Woodland Heights Civic Association and Historic Houston. I hope my fellow neighbors will do the same and together we can let these all consuming builders who are ripping away the past of this neighborhood know that this is our community and we like it just the way it is.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
I'm a liar....
I'm a liar. I'm admitting it. I've lied to my family, my friends, even to the moms in my play group. I'm confessing now. I'm ready to tell the awful truth.
I didn't plan to lie to people I care about. I didn't have a choice. I don't know if it was pride or fear that drove me away from the truth. All I know is I'm ready to set the record straight now.It started when my husband and I decided to have our daughter sleep with us when we brought her home from the hospital. I know, I know, everyone has their opinion on co-sleeping. Either you love it or you think it's the worst parenting mistake of all time. I had my great aunt look at me in horror when I told her the baby slept with us. I mean horror like I had said to her "Yes, we hang the baby by her feet from a hook in the ceiling every night. It's called bat style sleeping." She told me all sorts of terrible things that would happen, we'd roll over on her, she'd get smothered by blankets and the worst of all she said, shaking her finger at me, you'll never get her to sleep in her own bed.
Everyone has said that. Originally we planned to transition her into her own bed at 6 months, then it moved to 9, oh we'll wait until she is a year old. It was put off and put off and now at nearly two years old we admitted it was time to put her in her own bed. To prepare ourselves we watched every episode of Super Nanny, talked to friends, one of which told me how he had to take his child back to his room 134 times the first night.
So we prepared ourselves for her first night in her own bed. Well, I prepared myself because my husband so gallantly volunteered for the second shift, leaving me to lead the charge. So we got her the toddler bed, the stuffed animals, the pillows. I was like an athlete training for the big fight. I was preparing mentally, this was good for her, a first step in her independence. it was good for me as my husband and I would no longer be sleeping on the edge of the mattress while she stretched out in the middle.
As bedtime approached I admit I was nervous. She took her bath, we read a book and then I said in my most "this is no big deal" voice, "Now it's time for you to say goodnight and get in your own bed." my daughter looked at me, her forehead furrowed and she let out a little wimper. I was prepared for the full force crying fit to come but instead she walked into her room and got into her bed. I froze for a moment. It was a trick. Oh, she was a worthy adversary! She was going to wait until I turned off the light. Bring it on, I thought, Super Nanny has taught me well and I'm ready to stay up all night! I turned off the light and....nothing. I closed the door and nothing. I waited for her to come into our room and want to sleep in our bed but she never came. The hours passed as she slept and I stayed up, partly as a nervous mother but mostly to all the coffee I drank. I was ready for a battle that never happened. I was a general with no war to fight. She slept in her own bed all night and has every night since. I just asked her to do it and she did.
This is where my lie has come in. I haven't told this story to anyone until now. When the subject comes up they inevitably say "Oh, it was a big fight wasn't it?" and I reply with "Oh, it was horrible. A nightmare! I was up all night." The truth? I was scared to tell the truth. Who would believe me? It's a freaking miracle! I mean what two year old just sleeps in their own bed for the first time just because you ask them? I mean people would either think I was lying or I was bragging. I know my eyes roll every time I hear "Oh, little Joey already knows the alphabet and is working on his own theory of cold fusion." I don't want to be thought of as one of those annoying braggy parents. Also, is this a one time deal? Is this my one shot to get her to do what I ask or is this something that will work in the future? Is sleeping in her own bed her one concession to me or can I throw in a "Can you do mommy a favor and not walk into a Kroger to buy beer wearing nothing but a University of Texas bikini?" I mean, if this was my one shot I would have held onto this card.
So that is my confession. If you have heard my sad tale of the battle to get my daughter to sleep in her own bed, now you know it's not true. In the future you will have to take all of my bad behavior tales of woe with a grain of salt. I can hear the other moms talking behind my back now, "There is that O'Conner woman. She says her daughter is a real handful but I hear the truth is that she is a well behaved child who does what she is told."
I didn't plan to lie to people I care about. I didn't have a choice. I don't know if it was pride or fear that drove me away from the truth. All I know is I'm ready to set the record straight now.It started when my husband and I decided to have our daughter sleep with us when we brought her home from the hospital. I know, I know, everyone has their opinion on co-sleeping. Either you love it or you think it's the worst parenting mistake of all time. I had my great aunt look at me in horror when I told her the baby slept with us. I mean horror like I had said to her "Yes, we hang the baby by her feet from a hook in the ceiling every night. It's called bat style sleeping." She told me all sorts of terrible things that would happen, we'd roll over on her, she'd get smothered by blankets and the worst of all she said, shaking her finger at me, you'll never get her to sleep in her own bed.
Everyone has said that. Originally we planned to transition her into her own bed at 6 months, then it moved to 9, oh we'll wait until she is a year old. It was put off and put off and now at nearly two years old we admitted it was time to put her in her own bed. To prepare ourselves we watched every episode of Super Nanny, talked to friends, one of which told me how he had to take his child back to his room 134 times the first night.
So we prepared ourselves for her first night in her own bed. Well, I prepared myself because my husband so gallantly volunteered for the second shift, leaving me to lead the charge. So we got her the toddler bed, the stuffed animals, the pillows. I was like an athlete training for the big fight. I was preparing mentally, this was good for her, a first step in her independence. it was good for me as my husband and I would no longer be sleeping on the edge of the mattress while she stretched out in the middle.
As bedtime approached I admit I was nervous. She took her bath, we read a book and then I said in my most "this is no big deal" voice, "Now it's time for you to say goodnight and get in your own bed." my daughter looked at me, her forehead furrowed and she let out a little wimper. I was prepared for the full force crying fit to come but instead she walked into her room and got into her bed. I froze for a moment. It was a trick. Oh, she was a worthy adversary! She was going to wait until I turned off the light. Bring it on, I thought, Super Nanny has taught me well and I'm ready to stay up all night! I turned off the light and....nothing. I closed the door and nothing. I waited for her to come into our room and want to sleep in our bed but she never came. The hours passed as she slept and I stayed up, partly as a nervous mother but mostly to all the coffee I drank. I was ready for a battle that never happened. I was a general with no war to fight. She slept in her own bed all night and has every night since. I just asked her to do it and she did.
This is where my lie has come in. I haven't told this story to anyone until now. When the subject comes up they inevitably say "Oh, it was a big fight wasn't it?" and I reply with "Oh, it was horrible. A nightmare! I was up all night." The truth? I was scared to tell the truth. Who would believe me? It's a freaking miracle! I mean what two year old just sleeps in their own bed for the first time just because you ask them? I mean people would either think I was lying or I was bragging. I know my eyes roll every time I hear "Oh, little Joey already knows the alphabet and is working on his own theory of cold fusion." I don't want to be thought of as one of those annoying braggy parents. Also, is this a one time deal? Is this my one shot to get her to do what I ask or is this something that will work in the future? Is sleeping in her own bed her one concession to me or can I throw in a "Can you do mommy a favor and not walk into a Kroger to buy beer wearing nothing but a University of Texas bikini?" I mean, if this was my one shot I would have held onto this card.
So that is my confession. If you have heard my sad tale of the battle to get my daughter to sleep in her own bed, now you know it's not true. In the future you will have to take all of my bad behavior tales of woe with a grain of salt. I can hear the other moms talking behind my back now, "There is that O'Conner woman. She says her daughter is a real handful but I hear the truth is that she is a well behaved child who does what she is told."
Monday, April 26, 2010
Which Came First The Hen Or The Cock?
It all started innocently enough, as all conflicts do. I mean the Archduke Ferdinand planned an innocent Sunday drive and inadvertently started World War I , well, sort of. My point is that my husband and I planned to spend this past Saturday decorating our daughter's nursery/room. I say nursery/room because we planned on a nursery when she was born but the room was my husband office/car part storage facility. For the first year and a half of her life our baby had her crib next to a carburetor but now those things have been banished to the garage and she can finally have a room of her own. We've painted, we've purchased frilly and girlish decor and now it was time to put everything in place.
My husband is very handy around the house and using the tools that once occupied this very room, offered to put a shelf up for dolls and other knickknacks. So the shelves went up and I started to put out the little things. There was a porcelain doll her godmother had given her, a doll that belonged to me as a child and some miniature tea sets and figurines my mother had as a child. Among those figurines my mother so innocently passed to her granddaughter was the chicken family. The chicken family are little figurines of a hen, a rooster and three little chicks. I once thought they were adorable.
As I began to arrange the chicken family on the shelf I realized there was a problem. "I don't like this." I said to my husband. "The mama and daddy are facing separate directions. It's like they are separated." His reply was somewhere along the lines of "Who cares?" I think that partly came from the fact the chickens had taken up residence where he once had a Betty Page calendar hanging. Well, I cared. I wanted the chickens to be a happy representation of a family. I didn't want my impressionable young daughter to look up everyday and see two chickens in the midst of a separation while their three chicks had to choose whose coop they wanted to live in. I rearranged them once again and the chicken family relationship took another horrible turn.
"Now she is bowing to him! That's not right." My daughter would be seeing the hen bow in subservience to the rooster in her room everyday? Not in my house. "That's more like it." My husband chuckled. "There can only be one cock in the henhouse and the cock is in charge." Yes, all cocks think they are in charge of the hen house but if they were really in charge wouldn't it be called a cock house? I was determined that this hen was going to live in an equal, happy and functioning relationship. There was only one more configuration possible and this is where the chicken family saga went from bad to worse.
This is bad. "That's life." My husband said,
"Lead, follow or get it in the butt." What???
I amazed even myself in how the chicken family saga was upsetting me. Was I projecting myself into the chickens? I analyzed quickly. No, I don't think so. I'm in an equal, happy relationship. I'm just in a relationship with someone who has no regard for the rights of ceramic chicken figurines. My husband is a great guy, but obviously not perfect when it comes to chicken rights. I tried several more times to rearrange them but to no avail. In a desperate last bid I put the hen on a book which raised her to eye level with the rooster. That's all I could do for her. She has to do the rest for herself and I guess, that's life.
My husband is very handy around the house and using the tools that once occupied this very room, offered to put a shelf up for dolls and other knickknacks. So the shelves went up and I started to put out the little things. There was a porcelain doll her godmother had given her, a doll that belonged to me as a child and some miniature tea sets and figurines my mother had as a child. Among those figurines my mother so innocently passed to her granddaughter was the chicken family. The chicken family are little figurines of a hen, a rooster and three little chicks. I once thought they were adorable.
As I began to arrange the chicken family on the shelf I realized there was a problem. "I don't like this." I said to my husband. "The mama and daddy are facing separate directions. It's like they are separated." His reply was somewhere along the lines of "Who cares?" I think that partly came from the fact the chickens had taken up residence where he once had a Betty Page calendar hanging. Well, I cared. I wanted the chickens to be a happy representation of a family. I didn't want my impressionable young daughter to look up everyday and see two chickens in the midst of a separation while their three chicks had to choose whose coop they wanted to live in. I rearranged them once again and the chicken family relationship took another horrible turn.
"Now she is bowing to him! That's not right." My daughter would be seeing the hen bow in subservience to the rooster in her room everyday? Not in my house. "That's more like it." My husband chuckled. "There can only be one cock in the henhouse and the cock is in charge." Yes, all cocks think they are in charge of the hen house but if they were really in charge wouldn't it be called a cock house? I was determined that this hen was going to live in an equal, happy and functioning relationship. There was only one more configuration possible and this is where the chicken family saga went from bad to worse.
This is bad. "That's life." My husband said,"Lead, follow or get it in the butt." What???
I amazed even myself in how the chicken family saga was upsetting me. Was I projecting myself into the chickens? I analyzed quickly. No, I don't think so. I'm in an equal, happy relationship. I'm just in a relationship with someone who has no regard for the rights of ceramic chicken figurines. My husband is a great guy, but obviously not perfect when it comes to chicken rights. I tried several more times to rearrange them but to no avail. In a desperate last bid I put the hen on a book which raised her to eye level with the rooster. That's all I could do for her. She has to do the rest for herself and I guess, that's life.
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