courtney.leach3@gmail.com, Author at Desperately Seeking Superwoman - Page 26 of 33Desperately Seeking Superwoman

Kids

In memoriam: Orange, Swimmer, Flower and Crawly the Ant

July 16, 2015

During my decade-long career as a journalist/marketing copywriter/social media manager, I have found myself on the creative end of some pretty interesting projects. Editorial content often requires interviews and photo shoots and behind-the-scenes tours, to really get to the guts of the story. As a result of these endeavors, I have accumulated an impressive array of trinkets and trophies: A bottle of water from a natural spring, green tea-flavored liqueur, leggings with faux leather patches on the insides of the legs, and, the gift that brings us to this post, a quartet of goldfish.

About a year ago, I was in the photo studio interviewing a coworker for a blog feature. Vases of goldfish looked on as I asked her to disclose what she carried in her handbag and what her spirit animal might be. Finally, in spite of my best efforts to avoid eye contact, someone suggested I take a fish home. “The girls will love it!” they urged. You see, these goldfish were orphans; leftover props from a fashion photo shoot, and if no one gave them a tank to call home, their future looked pretty bleak. Against all my better judgement, and just as my mother the animal rescuer taught me, I rolled up my cardigan sleeve and fished two little guys out of a flower vase. I later went back for two more.

Thrilled with their new friends, the chicks settled on the names Orange, [Fish] Swimmer, Flower and Crawly the Ant, respectively. They fed them a pinch of flavorful flakes when asked, and checked in on them from time to time. Everyone was thriving … until Monday night. It was the commentary every parent dreads from the day they transfer that $.25 pet from the bag to the tank. “Mom, that fishy isn’t swimming. I think he’s caught in that plant, Mama! He is! He’s caught and there’s blood on him!” Spike screamed with great concern. I looked over at Hank and he made the universal thumb-across-the-jugular gesture to confirm that we had, in fact, lost a fish. Now, before I go on to this next part, it must be said that my reaction was for my children, more than the free goldfish that had taken up residence in my dining room.

We said it was Orange (because heaven forbid it was Crawly the Ant you guys, seriously. Any fish but Crawly the Ant), and assembled around the potty for a proper burial. Henry played a funeral hymn on his harmonica, as the ladybugs gathered around the petite corpse of their former friend. He leaned down and grabbed the handle of the net, like a solemn pallbearer, and placed Orange in his final resting place. (Well, until he flushed him and then he really went to his final resting place.) The second the handle triggered the whirlpool, the girls lost it. Tears and screams of mourning. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t shed a tear. I really did.

Hank explained it was time for Orange to go back and swim with the big fish in the river. A few minutes later, after this concept had a chance to marinate in her mind, Spike spoke: “Mom, he came from the water, and we shared our home. He came from your work, but, Mom, this is how God made the world. He has to go back to his home so he can be alive again. But, Mom … how is there a river in our potty?” Really, truly, a valid question.

Before bed, she told Hank, “Actually, I think that was my friend Crawly the Ant. My sad face won’t go away.” And the next morning, that she “woke up in the middle of the night and there was a fish tank on the floor and Crawly the Ant came back alive and lived forever.” Grief is a process. This morning, we lost the rest of our school of swimmers. That pesky pH balance can really deliver a blow.

In honor of happier times, let’s look back on our first morning with our dear pets: Orange, Swimmer, Flower and, of course, Crawly the Ant. Thank you, dear finned friends, for swimming on the sidelines of our lives for approximately 375 days. You will be missed.

Thoughts

What I’m gettin’ myself into

July 15, 2015

In the last few months, I’ve unearthed a near handful of gems that have made my life smell, taste and operate better. And when you find that kind of goodness, the proper thing is to pass it along. This is not a sponsored post (I’m not quite there, folks). It is, however, kind of a mixed bag of treats, so follow along. There’s something for everyone.

1. Lifestinks deodorant.
The discovery of this antiperspirant, for me, was much like an archeologist uncovering a mastodon, or a couple from the Bachelor making it to the alter. It felt unlikely, but it was true. For years, the idea of applying aluminum to my underarms on the daily has driven me to seek and employ nearly every brand of natural deodorant on the shelves. They all resulted in the 1 pm stinkies, until I found her … the one. A friend turned me onto Lifestinks and I haven’t stopped powdering since. The Lavender regular strength is lovely, and justifies the price tag by promising a 9-months supply in each decanter. A little dab’ll do ya for the pits, and bonus, it doubles as dry shampoo.

2. Moscow Mules.
We’ll call it 4 years ago, I had my first copper cup of bliss at a quaint little watering hole called Congress in downtown Austin. One sip and I was sold. What was this bubbly ginger beer and where had it been all my life? The years tore us apart, but a trip to Put-In-Bay a few weeks back rekindled our boozy, unbridled love affair. The recipe is a simple prescription of vodka, lime juice and ginger beer. Feeling fancy? Toss in some mint or muddled raspberry and throw your mouth a party it will never want to leave.

3. House of Cards.
I am in a one-night-a-week binge relationship with this Netflix original. Now, I’ll be honest, a lot if not all of the bureaucratic jargon is completely over my head. (Damn you political science and your three branches of complicated terms and power players.) But Francis and Claire … how freaking fascinating are these creatures? The pair of them just make the show for me. They’re twisted in the most wonderful way and I just want to put on a stealth black jogging suit and gasp for air behind them down a dark trail. The Congressional pieces for me are just foreplay. Give me more of these weirdos getting all power wasted and disregarding basic human decency in exchange for titles and self gratification. Ah, the American dream.

4. Regalo Easy Diner Portable Hookon Highchair.
Hank found this puppy on Amazon and it has been a game changer. Initially, we wanted to keep it in Emma for picnic table dining. But now we’re slappin’ this sucker on every sturdy surface we can find. It’s stupid-easy to attach, wipes up like a shiny new penny and folds down into a handy little pouch. It’s a great solve for restaurants, visiting friends or something for the grandparents to keep around when the kiddies stop by.

5. Oh, and there’s that half marathon training. I’ve been getting into half marathon training …

Kids

Oh daddy dear: Surviving and thriving with all daughters

July 12, 2015

Due to our need to get the hell outta dodge, I missed addressing this on Father’s Day. But with the 34th anniversary of his birth upon us, I feel compelled to share why my husband was just the man to raise three little women, and what other men in his situation can gain from his approach.

the look.
I have known this gentleman for 14 years. I know what he’s thinking. I know what he’s going to say before he parts his lips. But I never knew what immeasurable, drunken joy looked like on him until I saw him lock eyes on JoJo the day she was born. I remember lying there, watching him dance between me and her … all pink and screaming and deliciously ours. A light came on in him that only fatherhood could spark. I saw it again when we had Spikey. And again with Sloppy Joan. Every time they do something endearing, I immediately turn to catch that organic moment on his face; that glimmer he gets only for his girls. It’s a certain smile and a sparkle, like his love for them is reflected back and captured in his eyes. As much as I relish these sweet glances, I know the chicks do just as much. They feel adored and accepted and encouraged to keep being themselves. When someone genuinely rejoices in your unbridled spirit, it puts wind in your wings. It makes them feel like they can soar.
Look adoringly upon your daughters.

owning it.
Given the choice of a baby blue toothbrush or powder pink, my husband will opt for the blushing brush. Why? Because he has embraced the company he keeps. He often jokes about how he’s taken to calling things, “cute,” the designated adjective in our dwelling. It’s not his fault, really. I used to work with this sweet young thing who said, “Gosh,” at the beginning of every sentence. “Gosh, Kate Middleton is the cutest.” “Gosh, I really want a juice cleanse.” “Gosh, Spike is seriously so funny.” And before you knew it, bing! bang! boom! “Gosh,” was part of my vernacular. It’s subliminal advertising more than a sign of meager manhood. But I appreciate that he’s all-in. He’s unapologetic. He is a grown-ass man who can paint some tiny nails and do a french braid like a boss and who says, “cute” … a lot. And, gosh, it’s so dang endearing.

a pile of patience.
God love this man and the patient soul he was given. I run at a very different pace and, unfortunately, there are times when I get caught up in the bullet points of my to-do list at the expense of the beautiful little faces behind the bullet points (a post for another time). But Henry takes the extra time. His watch stops for the small things and it’s a blessing to our babies.

high marks in the all-around.
It’s important to Hank that the girls be confident, well-rounded and adventurous. He thinks about what he wants to show them, and he always has their character at the heart of his plans. People have said, “He needs his boy.” But that’s kind of crap. He doesn’t need a boy to have someone to share interests or pass on the lessons his father taught him. JoJo, we’ve learned, likes to garden, fish and hike. Spike, likes mowing the yard and olives (their things right now). He curates theses special experiences based on the knowledge he has to share, the little people he sees in them and the women he hopes they’ll be someday. He respects their individuality, never limits them based on gender and makes them feel like he can teach them anything. It’s empowering and, while they will probably never be avid hunters or throw the winning pass at a Friday night football game, the book is never totally closed on a path they want to explore.

doctor dada.
Every home becomes a machine, with different people maintaining the function and feelings of the people and things that reside within the walls through different roles and reactions. As the sole man of the house, Hank’s roles cover a vast territory. He is the protector and the powerhouse. The mover of all heavy things. But, because his wife is, well, me, he is also by default the cleaner of all vomit and assessor of all wounds. Every crash, every splinter, every [gag] tick, is directly elevated to daddy’s attention. He always picks the right bandage, has the words to calm their hysteria and bears the blood and snot stains to prove his medical savvy. Every house needs a tough guy when the bike brakes fail and skulls collide, and he is certainly ours.

I know quite a few daddies who have been blessed with little women, exclusively. They all have these traits and more, and savor the gift they’ve been given. It takes a special guy to man up to the challenge of raising, not just girls, but strong, confident, capable girls. I tip my hat to my babies’ daddy and to all the fellas doing their part to make the next generation of gals fierce and freaking awesome.

Spike Speak

Marry-go-round

July 8, 2015

As days go, Monday was a big one for Spike. First, I received the following text from Hank:

Big news!
Desi is going to be an adult today and is getting married.
She’s marrying John Smith Lou.
And she’s going to wear a marry-er.

Desi, you might recall, is one of the key players in a little place we like to call Spike’s World. This was followed by a photo of Spike modeling said marry-er.

[Sidenote, but also worth mentioning: For over a year this curly haired child has been telling us tales of Kiyango, her noble steed. How her horse goes on the big boy potty, and sleeps on her floor. She even got a Christmas ornament with him on it. Well, our local Children’s Zoo welcomed a baby giraffe a few weeks back and sure as I’m craving a cupcake, do you know what they named that thing? Ki-freaking-ango. Can’t make this stuff up.]

At some point in the afternoon, things shifted from bridal to bicycle and Spike decided to get padded up and give her pedals a push without training wheels.

Safety first …

After just four practice passes with her dad, I came home to this:

The gang was pretty stoked.

I know, I know … JoJo is sportin’ some sweet winter jams and a woolly glove. Don’t be jelly.

So Says Sloppy Joan

The art of playing it off

July 4, 2015

Turn up your volume, and check out this video.

Now watch it inserting the following voice-over. (Yes, I realize this would be on another level if I had some sweet video editing skills, but it’s good for you to use your imagination. Keeps ya young.) Here we go:

[After standing up on her own for the first time.]
I did it!
[toot]
Gasp! I just tooted. Ugh! Man, I’m always doing that! OK … play it off nobody saw. Do, do do … Uh oh … I think they’re looking at me. Quick, turn around like someone fired the shot from behind.

Tune in Today

A great perhaps

June 18, 2015

Tune in today to see if she can … quit a really great job.

This Friday will be my last at the place I’ve worked for the past five years. Correction: precisely one day shy of exactly five years. I already shared an exhausting post about the dilemma this decision presented and, in the end, the cards fell in favor of the fresh start. [Gulp]

I have loved this job. Particularly the part where I got paid to write and hang out with a group of folks who humor my analogies and get rowdy at the Christmas party. This is the job that brought us back to our hometown. It’s the job I had when we welcomed both Spike and Sloppy Joan and found our house. I have shed tears of both grief and laughter in those offices, on more occasions than I can count. It feels like a corporate urban legend, but it happened to me: Somewhere between my first Halloween (where we dressed up for and performed a white trash wedding) and my last 3pm ice cream surprise, these people from work became a second family. Maybe it’s the sheer amount of time we’ve spent together, or maybe it’s just really good recruiting. I don’t know. But I know I got super lucky.

So, if I’m so damn happy, why leave? I have been so comfortable, and to me, that comfort is a blessing as much as it is a crutch. It’s a settlement in some ways. I imagine when that comfort is napping on the couch, and sees a challenge standing expectantly over it, it stretches its arms way above its head, rolls over and falls back asleep. It makes monotony seem so sexy and whispers that the unknown is simply “an inconvenient mess.” Truth be told, I just came to a point where I felt like getting off the couch. Starting over is practically paralyzing for a girl like me, but it’s better than lying down and spooning with a life unexplored. I am a creature of routine, 100 percent, but the routine can be numbing. And when you’re numb, everything starts shutting down. Am I scared? Hell yes. But the fear makes this whole thing really kind of great. But the people … that part tears my heart out.

While making myself and everyone around me insane with the excessive weighing of pros and cons, I was simultaneously listening to and loving “Looking for Alaska” by John Green. In the book, Pudge, an adolescent young man, goes to boarding school “to seek a Great Perhaps.” It was one of those art-imitating-life moments where I decided to take it as a sign (I needed a sign) rather than just a result of my number being pulled at the local library. This was my crossroads: Stay where I was for years and be perfectly content, or entertain the notion of a “Great Perhaps.” I chose the notion.

So, with a pocketful of treasured friendships, I’m turning in these keys I’ve used to write so many words and moving on to a brand-new adventure. And even though the air is thick and heavy, with familiar feelings of finality – like college graduation or that time a dear friend moved to Florida – people, throughout the whole process, have encouraged and empowered me to move boldly in the direction of my dreams. I always hated when folks said a career change was “bittersweet.” Seems so cliché and canned. But oh, how perfect the word is. The call for celebration is muffled by the exchange of melancholy goodbyes and promises to stay close; promises from the faces I’ve looked at in conference rooms and girls’ lunches, some for the past 4 years and 364 days.

This team has tenacity. It has amazing human beings, with talent and wit and heart. They are the people you want holding the scooper when shit goes down and the kind of people who pop up in the stories you tell for a lifetime. And the crux of this change is, and always has been, it’s tough as hell to leave a team like that. It’s so sad to walk away, but their astounding support has moved me along. And that, my friends, is the definition of “bittersweet.” It’s so freaking bittersweet it makes me want to throw up every time I think of that last walk out the door.

Hank and I are taking Emma and the kids and going off the grid for a week before my first day at the new gig. I wouldn’t want the fifty of you who follow me here to worry about where I went. Thank you, sweet friends and family, for humoring my insane introspection over the past few months, and Hank, for buying boxes of wine and building Excel spreadsheets with bars full of boring benefits crap. Stay tuned for this Great Perhaps, or perhaps, just something kind of great.

Until next time …

JoJo Just Said, Spike Speak

Diggin’ the dialogue

June 18, 2015

Kids say the darndest things, don’t they? I assembled a bouquet of beauties for your reading pleasure, and these sweet little snippets are just from the past few months. You just never know what’s coming when they open those little mouths.

“Mom, I have a horrible favor. I have to stay home sick with you.” – JoJo

“I had a dream that honeybees were on my bottom, and when I brushed my bottom they would fly around.” – Spike

“You know God, He is hummungus.” – Spike

“Mom! Mom, just turn the doorknock!” – Spike

“Yeah he do’s.” – Spike

“I’ve got food caught in my choke!” – Spike

“You are my sunshine, bologna sunshine …” – Spike

“Hi, Mr. Thompson! My Dad stinks … like a rat.” – Spike

“Mom, you know, that bunny had lots of honeys. And she would bring all her honeys to their home and, you know, that’s in a hole.” – Spike

“It bores!” – Spike

“Mama, are you running on the treadmelt?” – JoJo

“Dag nab it!” – JoJo

“I’m catching the wind in my mouth because it’s hot in there.” – Spike

“I don’t want to get my hiccups on you.” – Spike

“I’m sorry you can’t ride on my back. It’s messed up. Those sneaky kids.” – Spike

“My hair is ecstatic!” – JoJo

Kids

Bake me a cake

June 16, 2015

We spend a lot of time in this house discussing Spike’s World. I’ll spare you the daily buzz, and just catch you up on the most significant happenings in our curly kid’s imaginary neck of the woods. There have been a few exciting developments. First, she recently welcomed a child, named Junior Peace. And second, she became the town baker.

For weeks, we listened to Spikey brag about her amazing from-scratch confections. No matter what we were eating, even when we were feeding the dog, she inserted the commentary, “You know, I can make a cake without cake mix.” On and on it went. I mean, it got to the point where I 1.) really wanted a piece, and 2.) felt very insecure about my own abilities in the kitchen. And then one night, while I was downstairs hammering out a Kayla routine, Spike put her flour where her mouth was and whipped up a cake with no cake mix. Though Dada helped, I still expected a pasty, flavorless slice of sponge. But it wasn’t at all. It was a pillow of sweet, sugary bliss. We promptly piled berries and whipped topping on with abandon and laughed at how long we’d waited to partake in this glorious cake without cake mix.

Only after my blood sugar settled did Hank let me in on their secret. The cake with no cake mix was, in fact, a Busy-Day Cake recipe from Better Homes and Gardens. Since an actual recipe exists, I feel compelled to share. It’s great for summer, loaded with strawberries from the garden and a whipped cream made of every artificial thing you can shove into an aerosol can.

You just add a little bit of this …

And a little bit of that …

Mix together like so …

Pause for a dope thumbs up …

Lick the beaters bone dry …

And voila! You have the reason I will be fat forever. Cake!

Get it all in there …

Put your hands up and say, “Yea-ya!”

Here’s the Better Homes and Gardens recipe so you can get you some. Go ahead … treat yo self!

Thoughts

A deep post about decisions

June 14, 2015

How do you make a difficult decision? It’s a dilemma as old as freewill itself. You have one choice in your left hand and one choice in your right hand and, even though one might be heavier than the other, or prettier or more beneficial, it’s hard to see the answer when you’re holding the options too close to your heart.

I recently found myself in a two-month internal battle that began at a fork in the road. Contemplating a career change, I spent my waking hours jumping from prong to prong, second-guessing and weighing and over analyzing, until my head throbbed and my stomach ached. (It’s amazing what stress can do to your body.) A dear family friend said simply, “You need to walk, and you need to pray.” So I did. I strolled and I looked up to the clouds and tried to let my heart be as open as possible. I settled in to a guided meditation where you were instructed to ask yourself over and over, “What do I want? What do I want?” When my inner voice responded in a whisper, it merely said, “a cheeseburger.” Not the insightful nudge I was hoping for.

There was this great post by Lysa TerKeurst – who writes wonderful lifestyle pieces from a spiritual perspective on her self-titled blog – about decision making. She suggested, when analyzing a crossroads in your life, you take a walk along the banks of a hypothetical river. It’s important, whenever possible, to follow the flow of water to see what you will pass and where you will most likely end up, for every available option, and then compare the different journeys. Once you jump in the water, you don’t have nearly as much control, so it’s important to know where the current might take you. So, I tried to follow Lysa’s advice, and walk the riverbanks.

I waffled, almost hourly, between, “Get over yourself, this isn’t that big of a deal. People have much tougher decisions to make with much greater consequences every day, all around the world.” And the opposing, “Oh my gosh, if you pick the wrong job you could trigger a surge of misfortune so powerful your great grandchildren will feel its wrath.”

I love a good old-fashioned pros and cons list as much as the next gal, but with someone as hyper-analytical as me, it simply falls short and, in this scenario, the options were nearly equal. I reached out to my ghosts of managers past and gave them the details in exchange for council. I have to say, I have been blessed to work with some seriously kickass women. The kind of women who say things like, “Proceed with confidence,” and “Make it matter.” The kind of leaders who make you want to start a business with only the name picked out, or go braless just because it makes your dress look better and you don’t give a shit what people think. Those kind of women. And they all said it was time for a change.

The worst part about making one of these gut-wrenching decisions is that, the second you pick one option, the other slowly starts to look like that old boyfriend. You know the one. He chewed like a horse and the conversation was dull as children’s scissors, until he got a new girlfriend. Then he looked all shiny and sharp.

But the truth is, no matter what decision I made in the end, it would (and will) inevitably transform into my “what got me here.” A person’s retrospect is typically seen through rose-colored glasses. We justify things with, “If I hadn’t picked this, then I would never have done that …” And it’s true, to an extent. Every choice ignites a plot twist, or a freshly paved path or an unexpected stop. We embrace our present because we know no different and it’s impossible to go back in time and see the alternate storyline. We can send a “what if” out into the great abyss, but it seldom responds. All of this suggests it’s best to just avoid tripping over the things left behind, and focus the eyes forward. So that’s what I’m working on.

I’m now nearing the tip of the prong I picked. I made the decision, ugly cried to make it official, and am training my neck not to look back. It is time to proceed with confidence, and to jump into the roaring river and let the rapids take me where they will. Let the plot twist begin.

Spike Speak

There’s somebunny in there

June 12, 2015

Once upon a muggy evening, a curly haired little girl named Spike suspected there was someone hiding in a burrow in a compost bin. So, she took a closer look.