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Thoughts

A most beautiful pain

December 3, 2015

I saw a man down on the ground fighting for his life. I was a passerby for one of the most gut-wrenching, heart-aching moments one family probably ever faced, and it won’t leave me. It seems the universe is peeking around every corner lately, sending me evidence that life is fleeting and fragile and fast.

We were about 2 miles into the Galloping Gobbler race on Thursday. I ran with Britni (who you might recognize from my half marathon posts) and my friend Jackie, who happens to be a nurse. We were coming up to a turn when we heard, “Get to your left! Stay to your left! To the left, folks! Keep to the left!” There was a group of people, likely some of them family, standing around and a bit of motion near the ground caught my eye. A gentleman, probably in his 40s, was down on the ground and another person was performing chest compressions. I’ve never seen someone in such a severe situation; teetering on the edge of life. Jackie calmly explained that there were already plenty of people assisting and as we made the turn she thought she saw his arm move. Shortly after, the ambulance and fire truck arrived. The rest of that day and each day since, I’ve thought about that man. I’ve thought about this stranger and imagined a scenario, not knowing whether it’s his truth. I imagine his family signing up for a fun race, maybe it was even their Thanksgiving tradition. I imagine them coming out on that beautiful, unseasonably warm morning, taking a group photo and smiling. And then the unimaginable just struck through them. I’ve asked around and heard he is alright, which is a huge relief, but I just can’t get the image out of my mind. Hundreds of people running around one man’s tragedy; A constant motion while one family’s life stood completely, startlingly still.

But like I said, the weight of life has been on my mind a lot lately. Researching a story, I recently visited a needleworking group. These women contribute intricate, hand-crafted blankets, hats and shawls to perfect strangers and want nothing more than the feeling of being needed and valued in return. I spoke with several of them one on one. I asked questions like, “How long have you been crocheting?” “Who taught you?” and “What’s the one piece you treasure most?” I looked into their eyes, the nucleus of their worn, wonderful faces, and I watched them relive the facts as they searched for answers. They recalled grandmothers and aunts, moments spent crafting precious blankets for first grandchildren, and time spent in the meditation of their craft after the passing of partners. I spoke about my girls and each lit up like they’d held each one of them in their arms. They would say, “Enjoy it, dear.” and “It just goes so fast.” and “Ah, bless you.” And I felt it. I felt how fast it is going to go.

We had several friends facing their first holiday without a parent or grandparent this year. When I sat down the other night to write about my own traditions, it wasn’t lost on me how so many of the people I loved were going to have to make new ones in the absence of their mom or dad. We take Christmas morning for granted. We do. We take our phone calls and potato salad recipes and hugs completely as they come without considering what an original treasure we have. One of our friends, who lost his mom way too young earlier this year, put out a beautiful post about how he’d come to realize that to avoid the pain of losing his mother, the gift of ever knowing her would have to be taken away, and so he would take the pain.

Last week I was helping someone work on a piece to remember their grandmother and it got me thinking about what makes us. How, in the end, we are truly composed of ten trillion tiny moments and a million memories. How we pick up and carry our children’s memories for them, before they are ready to hold onto them. I thought about the thread and fabric of a person’s soul and how it’s woven from people and words and laughter. That’s what really matters. That’s the good stuff that makes every worthwhile wrinkle and scar worthy of a story.

With the reality of loss constantly looming, all I can do is be thankful for this life. For the people who fill its hours and the gifts I have been given. I hope I can accept what I can’t hold on to and cherish the memories I can. I hope I can make waves and ripples of positive change. And mostly I hope I can be the kind of person who’s worth the pain, because receiving love like that is the most beautiful thing there is.

Thoughts

The Thanksgiving cadence

December 1, 2015

Tis the season for zero free time and a feast ’round every corner. Now, I am a creature of habit, so traditions are an idea that I can really get behind. I love how, every year, the agenda is relatively the same, but the details are subject to change on a whim. The framework of our turkey day festivities typically looks a little like this …

Thanksgiving Eve. 6:30 p.m.
We have a Friendsgiving with a group of Hank’s high school buddies. I was present the night the event was conceived. It was 2007-ish, before we were married. Before we had babies. Before the hangovers hung on for days. The bar scene On Thanksgiving Eve has always been such a trainwreck and we were just never into that noise. So, on that fateful pre-holiday evening, we went to Chuck’s instead. Let’s just say one of the guests slept with his head in a litter box that night and an annual event was born. These days, mini vans line the street outside Chuck’s suburban home and the only trip-inducing raves come from the little girls’ dance party upstairs. Things typically wind down by 10 o’clock (about the time they would start in our younger days) and the conversation is typically WTF (work, traumas, family).

Thanksgiving Morning, 7:45 a.m.
Three years ago, after noticing both of my siblings were signed up, I decided that I, too, would rise at the break of dawn and trot about with hundreds of my fellow townfolk at the Galloping Gobbler. It’s a 4-mile race that winds through a cemetery and I can tell you, that first year was rough. I remember starting out, at a stride even snailier than the 11-minute miles I log today, and my brother looked at me and said, “Is this really your pace?” I nodded, too winded to verbally confirm his inquiry, and he gave me a reassuring, “OK!” (Completely out of character for big Matt.) The course is serene but rolling. At the base of each and every hill, my brother would say, “Oh, this is the last big hill.” But it wasn’t. We reached at least 6 summits on that chilly November morning, but I did it. The next time, with Matt towering at my side again, I did it a little easier. And this year, with him and a few of our friends, I found myself feeling stronger, more capable and in a position to support other people. It’s such an invigorating start to a day that’s inevitably saturated with sugar and all that toxic, delicious temptation.

Thanksgiving Morning, 11:00 a.m.
After my go-to greasy breakfast sandwich from the golden arches, Matt drops me off at home. The chicks are always hanging out in their pjs eating donuts and watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I pour a cup of hot coffee, take off my running shoes and settle in for some cuddles and lip sync performances from up-and-comers perched on floats with dancing gingerbread men and Smurfs. We shower and get ready at a leisurely pace with the dog show on in the background.

Thanksgiving Day, 1:00 pm.
The eating commences. My favorites include but are not limited to: Corn casserole, dinner rolls with cheese slices and turkey on them, deviled eggs and pecan pie.

Day After Thanksgiving, 12:00 p.m.
This is when we typically pull out the totes and start decking our halls. If we haven’t formally met, allow me to introduce myself here. I am not that woman who adorns her mantel with tasteful, elegant snowcapped trees and precise scalloped garland. I don’t discriminate against multicolored strands and I rarely discard a keepsake craft. Each year I pack away more than I unpacked at the start of the holiday. I live for glued-on Rudolph noses and worn trinkets with my babies’ names written on the back. If there’s a clear space, I’m gonna cover it. There’s going to be glitter on the walls and blow ups in the front yard and if you can’t handle it then I can’t handle you during Christmas, soooooo …

Saturday After Thanksgiving, 6:00 p.m.
If, for some ridiculous reason, you want to experience a truly voyeuristic glimpse into my life, The Lighting Ceremony would be it. Growing up my father was Clark W. Griswold. The art of exterior illumination was handed down to him and snowballed over the years into an intense, extensive Christmas display that earned my parents the title of “The Christmas House”. His holiday spirit isn’t quite as bright as it was in its prime, but my mom still bleeds red and green and sneezes tinsel. So, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, she sets the dining room table with the special holiday dishes she’s had since I can remember, cooks a feast that embarrasses the week’s earlier attempts and we flip the switch that sparks the official start of the season. We gather out front while Dad scurries around matching female ends to male ends and calling out for extension cords. We clap and cheer and critique and point out what’s better this year than last year. Then we get in our cars and drive by the house on the highway (they live along the interstate) so we can honk … at a house … where no one is because we’re all in our cars. Anyway, that’s what we do. And it always feels like every feeling I have for my family condensed into one magical night.

So, those are my traditions. They are the smells and tastes and faces that make my holiday so warm and sweet. They are part of what makes me who I am and the woven cloth of memories I’ll hand on to the girls. You know, these girls …

Thoughts

#ManOnTheMoon

November 24, 2015

It’s so beautiful though.

Thoughts

My nail beds suck

November 21, 2015

The happy hour conversation was unexceptional with a few exceptions; soothing in its familiarity. We spent 30 minutes playing catchup and gossiping like little hens. This person married their neighbor. That person was snippy when they walked by at daycare. Then someone lit the match. “You guys, I’m having a serious breakdown. I look old.”

That was it. A giant finger had dropped into the room and tapped the first domino in an intricate arrangement of insecurities. The now-ignited wildfire burned for 20 minutes at least. From crow’s feet to the empty baby apartments surrounded by saggy skin to shortcomings at work to extra weight, we beat the shit out of ourselves, passing the boxing gloves around the circle like a fast-burning “cigarette”.

Remember that scene in Mean Girls, where they stand in front of the mirror and critique their reflections down to the nail beds?

Karen: God. My hips are huge!

Gretchen: Oh please. I hate my calves.

Regina: At least you guys can wear halters. I’ve got man shoulders.

Cady: [voiceover] I used to think there was just fat and skinny. But apparently there’s lots of things that can be wrong on your body.

Gretchen: My hairline is so weird.

Regina: My pores are huge.

Karen: My nail beds suck.

[pause. All look at Cady]

Cady: I have really bad breath in the morning.

Karen: Ew!

It was kind of terrible. The martinis and the dim lighting warmed us into this gross place of revealing every doubt and exaggerating every subtle flaw. But there’s very little truth to any of it. Where we see wrinkles around our foreheads, others see eyes that have crinkled and cried during furious fits of laughter or smiled a familiar grin at us a million times. When I look at my girlfriends I only see the things in them that I treasure and, I imagine, they see the same in me. But why we have to rely on each other to point those things out, why we are so blind to our inner beauty, I’ll never understand.

So, for the record, my stomach looks like a pound of Silly Puddy left out in the sun. My face is starting to crease and show the ups and downs of my 33 years. I have athlete’s foot. And I’m pretty sure I could pack my lunch in my pores. But would I trade the Puddy for my trio of princesses? Not in a million trillion years. Would I smooth a crease in exchange for one of those magical summer nights where the stories made me cry and the belly laughs echoed under a black bedazzled sky? Probably not. Clear up the athlete’s foot after I hand over my half marathon medal? Doubtful. Up my skin regimen time at the expense of a few extra snuggles? You know the answer.

Am I ever going to completely abandon my self-bashing tendencies? I don’t know anyone who’s entirely liberated from introspection, and I don’t think it’s healthy to neglect taking inventory every now and again. Heck, I just bought a Rodan + Fields package to try out last week. But I am going to make a conscious effort to celebrate a bit more than I chastise. Because the dings and dents in my armor were earned in glorious fashion, in glorious company. I should be proud of the places this body has taken me and the obstacles it’s conquered. I should rejoice in the meaning of every mark and the lessons carried through every line. This shell is a story, my story, and while no narrative is perfect, it certainly deserves some respect.

Girls’ night goal: More chat, less talk about being fat. Simple.

Thoughts

Giving a great performance

November 12, 2015

A friend who I’ve long adored and admired for her ability to maintain her sacred social life in the midst of motherhood, sent the sweetest text on my birthday:

“Happy National Holiday! I am so thankful for our friendship. U amaze me at how easy u make everything look. U are kicking ass at 33! I know this year will be even better for u!”

I put down my phone, smiled and had a little bit of a laugh. Isn’t that something … Just when you feel like you’re drowning, someone pops by to admire your breaststroke.

Of course, I didn’t respond. If I’d sent a text back, it would have been something dreadfully playful, pathetic and truthful like … “LOL, if by ‘easy’ you mean ‘chaotic like a kangaroo with her hair on fire’ you’re right on target, sister-friend!” or, “Bwahahahaha … That’s me! Mayor of crazytown, population 6.” (I always feel like I should count the dog.)

Because that is my truth. Regardless of what it looks like through the Instagram lens, honestly, do any of us ever actually feel like we’ve got this shit down? Is there ever a night when we crawl into bed, put in our bite plate (just me?), look at the clock and think, “Good heavens above, I freaking made it,” just in time to hear a knob turn and a little voice reach out of the doorway and down the hall for you?

It doesn’t matter how intentional you are the night before – go ‘head and lay out those clothes, mama … pack that lunch, girl … – those unpredictable little creatures in your house are still going to fall asleep on your brand new chair and pee like a horse hooked up to a hose. You’re still going to get asked to give a 20-minute presentation at the Monday morning staff meeting on Friday at 2 o’clock. There will still be carry-ins and all-about-me poster boards and bake sales and smelly vomit and dry cleaning you forgot to pick up.

If it ever looks easy, it’s because I am sparing you the saga of my microcosm. When we chat, I am giving you the highlight reel and leaving the messy parts on the cutting room floor. It might not earn high marks for transparency, though I’ll tell you if you ask, but it’s a helluva lot more enjoyable leaving out the tantrums and takeout than it is reliving the pandemonium play by play with someone who’s just trying to push off their own pandemonium. (At least when drinks aren’t involved. Over a couple of cocktails I’m spilling my shortcomings and preaching from the pulpit of failures and frustrations.) It’s like when you pass someone in the hall. “Hey! How are ya?” “Good! How are you?” “Good, thanks.” It’s all about sparing the messy parts. No one wants to hear, “Ah, shitty. My baby is cutting teeth and her ass is redder than a baby lobster, I’ve developed a tolerance to melatonin and I’m getting a zit that feels like a gunshot wound.” But, again, that is my truth.

And what of the text? I chalk it up to one woman telling another she’s killin’ it; even though that woman might know that the recipient of that text (me) rides the struggle bus most days. Sometimes we just need to clink our martini glasses, give each other a wink and acknowledge that the battle is real and, while we all have weak spots in our armor, at least we put up a good fight.

Thoughts

Birthdays kinda blow

November 7, 2015

On Tuesday I had a birthday. It was a day that marked the passing of 364 days since the last day I reflected intensely on and took inventory of where I was at in life. Now, full disclosure, I don’t own a birthday foam finger. That is to say, I’m not a big fan of them. It’s not that I despise getting older (“It’s better than the alternative,” my dad, Big Rog, would say), it’s the expectation and, ultimately, letdown it induces.

Look no further than your facebook wall. “Happy National Holiday!” “You deserve the most special day ever!” “I hope it’s epic! Go do something amazing with your girls!” It’s the LeBron James of calendar occasions. No single day can live up to that hype. It’s just not possible to artificially impregnate a specific, designated 24 hours with all the joys and surprises and rewards you’ve been wishing for all year, or the well-meaning, completely unattainable dreams that cascade down from your social circle.

But we try, don’t we? It’s OK to admit it … I’ll go first so you don’t have to. The embarrassing truth is, as our grown-ass heads meet the pillow on our respective birthday eves, we entertain impossible possibilities that awaken a childlike exhilaration and anticipation, the likes of which rival only Christmas itself. Then we try to talk ourselves down from the high … “Oh my gosh, that’s crazy to think that my boss is going to just send me home for my special day.” “OK, Courtney, they are not going to name a burger after you at Brava’s just because you got older.” “A 20-day getaway to an all-inclusive hut with a window in the floor where you can see fish? He would never!”

For me, the downright preposterous delusions drown out practicality all the way through mid-afternoon of my actual birthday, when I realize that this year, much like last year, will be marked by thoughtful messages from friends of the past and present, a handful of funny cards about farts and drinking too much (my favorite things) and vanilla cupcakes from Kroger with the whipped cream frosting. They are humble, delightful traditions, and they are mine. The truth is, contradictory to what this post might imply, I relish every small, special nod I get on November 3. I do. They just aren’t on the My Super Sweet 16 scale that I uncontrollably harvest a desire for from some disgusting place in the depths of my selfish, greedy subconscious. It’s a gross internal battle and I blame the aforementioned MTV reality series.

Perhaps most sobering, is the acceptance that there is no magic spell that befalls my home on that day. The girls still fight. The dishwasher still needs emptied. The laundry still needs put away. The workout still needs to get done. As hard as I silently send out wishes to my fairy godmother, the chores and the sibling conflicts just keep right on coming, like punches to a piñata at my mental fiesta. Again, the rational woman in me chuckles at the notion that anything would change just because of an event that took place 33 years ago. But the 7-year-old birthday girl cries a little bit.

I have friends who are great birthday people. They organize nice evenings out in celebration of their lives, and manage to mark the occasion year after year with the perfect marriage of merriment and modesty. But I shutter at the thought of planning an event in my own honor and instead choose to sit by and let it pass, all the while secretly pining for grand gestures. It’s not in my typical nature, I swear. It’s an annual internal display of obnoxious narcissism that I’ll never understand and can’t believe I’m owning right now. It’s not pretty and it’s not cute, but all of this ugliness is why I don’t care for my birthday. But I love everyone else’s.

(Editor’s note: Thank you so much to everyone who sent me a birthday message on facebook. It’s so thoughtful and truly one of the happiest highlights of the day.)

Now that we have that rant all neatly wrapped up, I’d like to take just a few bullet points to toast the things I actually managed to accomplish in my 32nd year of life. Some big, some small, all a hash mark to verify I was striving for something.

I dropped the butts. The mere fact that my smoking habit hung on as long as it did embarrasses me, but I won’t carry it on to 33. You’re welcome, lungs. And sorry about that.

Oh, did I mention I ran 13.1 miles? I might have already talked about the fact that I completed my first half marathon. I still can’t motha cluckin’ believe dat ish. Huge bucket list bullseye there.

I talked to you folks. The reality is, it’s not easy fitting this fun little writing project of mine into the gridlocked traffic jam that is our Monday through Sunday. But it’s a release. It’s a time capsule. It’s a priority because it proves I can still find myself at the crossroads of profession and passion. And I’ve kept it going for the past year, which was something I really wanted to prove to myself. I might only post once a week, but it’s still breathing.

Aluminum-free at 33. I put some persistent paranoia to bed and finally found an effective, healthy deodorant.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. I did the ballsiest thing I can remember myself doing in years, and switched jobs back in June. It’s been a road of small victories, lots of lessons and invaluable self discovery.

I fell for Emma. After years of Hank and I talking about the kind of parents we wanted to be and the corners of the world we wanted to take our kids, we finally took a step in that direction. We’re pulling our modest little popup around and putting pins in the map. It feels so good running alongside our adventures rather than just chasing them.

Thoughts

Screen shot through my heart

October 21, 2015

I love Instagram. I do. I love it. I’m 78 percent sure I am developing carpal tunnel in my right thumb and pointer finger (I wish I was exaggerating) from repetitive motions linked to technology, namely scrolling through social media, the most common of which being Instagram.

Often I come to a quote or image that moves me, usually from the likes of Deepak or the equally insightful Heidi Powell. Desperate to capture the impact of their wise words, I quickly screen shot the post only to come across it 5 months later as I do a massive image capture dump onto my laptop.

But these are too good to dump. I must share them somewhere and, for lack of a better place, that somewhere is here. I hope they move you to share or pin or maybe just pause for a moment. I also hope you don’t mind I’m going straight up screen shot style here; no Photoshop, no PicMonkey. Some nights I’m just all outta fancy.

Thoughts

If I were a girl

September 15, 2015

Oh holy crap, yes.

Thoughts

Follow the green ribbon

September 15, 2015

I’ve always been a fearful person. I don’t watch scary movies. I don’t go places alone in the dark. I don’t intentionally put myself in any scenario that resembles an opening sequence from SVU. At a very young age, I realized that I would forever be the one who checked to make sure the doors were locked and the garage was closed. I’ve been on a lifelong quest to find what goes bump in the night, much to my parents’ and now husband’s delight.<

If I had to trace my terrors back, there could be one tale that triggered some of it. And, truth be told, I’d forgotten about it until someone mentioned it at work a few months back. Boom! All of my preadolescent anxieties came thundering back. I honestly started sweating.

I remember it like it was yesterday. We were standing in the bookstore at the mall – back when people went to bookstores and malls – and my mom said each of us could pick out one book. I snatched a small book of stories. I don’t even remember flipping through it. I must have liked the cover.

Once home, I immediately went to my room and started pouring over the pages. And I came to this:

I’m not exaggerating when I say the following: 1) I was so scared that my mom finally tied a string to her finger, ran it down the hallway and tied the other end to my finger so I could tug it if I needed her, and 2) I didn’t watch this video, because I can’t bring myself to do it, so I hope it told the story accurately. I mean … what kind of sick person puts that in a children’s book?

But somehow I’d managed to move on with my life, until it was brought up during a conversation about things that scared the shit out of us as kids. Apparently I was keeping these feelings closer to the surface than I realized.

What’s your Girl with the Green Ribbon?

Thoughts

Long days and short years

September 10, 2015

I’ll be honest, today I feel very humbled and human. As a family, we find ourselves in the pits of a chaotic, frenzied new routine, that isn’t quite routine yet. JoJo’s in school, which means waiting for the bus and an extra stop at aftercare. Hank started a new job, which has him out the door with the babies by 7:10 and home after 5:30. My job is still fairly new, which means less flexibility. Between the long hours and homework and half marathon training and hormones, our household is in a bit of an upheaval. The hardest part for me is accepting the normalcy of the unbalance.

It’s hard as a woman who desperately wants to be everything for everyone to admit there are times I come up super short. There are times when all the “yeses” come back to slap me across the face. A quick commitment in passing, always ends up meaning stress in the final hours of a too-short day. And all of my promises have the heaviest impact on the girls. These moments – these precious, delicate moments – I’m missing because of a frantic, hamster wheel agenda make me yearn for peace in passing on other people’s pleas. I feel weak in my resolution to prioritize my little people. I feel like life is running me, rather than me running my life. I am twirling in a tornado of tasks and have lost sight of what makes my soul happy.

But in the midst of this choking fog, God gives us clearings when it counts. Sensing her mama felt flustered and fatigued, my sweet Sloppy Joan started putting on a show. She’s toying with humor and words and reactions and watching her brought us all together to laugh from a proper perspective. I get it, Big Guy, and thank you for the subtle nudge back to what matters.

I have to get control over my anxieties. These years won’t wait for me; they are dashing past me, only pausing for a second to become a memory. These people are the loves of my life and no commitment is worth sabotaging a single second of attention. It’s time to circle back to meditation and make a conscious effort to slow the pace I’m setting. Any suggestions for balance are welcome.

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