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Thoughts

Warrior in training

March 2, 2016

The Lord has an interesting way of moving and manipulating the universe in order to speak to us sometimes. In my case, today it was through Glennon Doyle Melton. Have you heard of Glennon? I hadn’t, really. I mean, I knew of her blog, Momastery, and had read a few posts as they turned up in other people’s feeds, but I wasn’t a devoted follower. I am now.

I’d been agonizing over what to post on here this week. So many people were kind enough to share with me their own private struggles with anxiety after I wrote about my trip to the ER last week, and everything I put together in the days following felt petty and unimportant by comparison.

The thing is, I shouldn’t have even been there today. Just 48 hours ago I had no plans to be in that auditorium, in that audience, in that seat or at that frighteningly relevant talk. A friend/co-worker mentioned that Glennon was coming yesterday morning and said it was that afternoon at 2pm, and I should join her. I, unfortunately, had a meeting at that time and wouldn’t be able to tag along. But, as fate would demand it, leap day had her thrown for a loop and the lecture was actually March 1. I was available, there were tickets left, and I just had that feeling. You know that feeling you get when stars align and your heart pushes your head aside and you just kind of go with it because the whole thing feels bigger than you and very destiny-driven? Like your second date with the man you married … or the time you picked up a cyclist with a flat tire and it turned out to be Dave Matthews or …. This was that on a smaller scale, but still, it was whispering to me.

So, today, on the first day of a brand-new month, there I sat; 15 rows back from Glennon Doyle Melton giving a casual chat about, what else, anxiety, depression and the mentally different. She, it turns out, is a recovering addict, who has battled bulimia, anxiety and the lowest of the lows. She has emerged on the other side, an accomplished author, speaker and advocate. I will never be able to appropriately convey her stories or the comparisons she gave that turned on parts of my mind that I didn’t even realize were dark, or her passion for peace and self-acceptance, but I can sure as hell try. These were some of my favorite moments, and what I took away …

On being an anxious person.
In preparation for her talk, she took a shower at the hotel and then began going over her notes. She got so anxious about the public speaking, she started sweating and had to shower again. “But that’s what we do. We just keep showering and keep showing up!”

On truth tellers.
The Momastery founder is known for her brutally honest accounts of her struggles and full-disclosure (for the most part) approach to her work. And that’s a characteristic she shares with all folks, even the fellow mom at the park who inquires about her day. “We have a sign,” she said, making a slashing motion across her neck, “Craig will say, ‘Gosh, Glennon she’s just trying to push her kid on the swing.'” But she explained that her over-sharing and offering an honest account of how she’s feeling in the moment or through her writing is no different than someone who cuts themselves or eats too much or drinks too much or refuses to eat. They are saying how they feel and that something is off by hiding in a small place or habit where they feel entirely safe. “We’re all truth tellers. Just in different ways.”

On the mentally different.
Glennon shared a story about her Great Uncle, who worked in the coal mines where there would often be high amounts of toxic, dangerous chemicals. The workers would bring a canary, which had a higher tolerance for the harmful elements, down with them. When the bird stopped singing, they knew it was time to leave because it was too dangerous. If they stayed too long, the canary would die. “The longer I think about this and learn about this, I just know that some of us are canaries.” But instead of assuming those who notice what’s wrong or have heightened sensitivities should be silenced or sent away, perhaps, she suggests, they should be celebrated. “I mean, maybe we’re just the ones paying attention. There’s certainly a science and a poetry to it all.”

On pain.
Many of us live under the false notion that pain will kill us. We treat it like a hot potato and often run from it, pass it off to some unsuspecting bystander through hurtful exchanges, or push it down as far as it will go so we can’t see it, smell it or taste it. But the truth is, pain won’t kill us. In fact, Glennon believes it does the opposite. “If you can sift through a crisis, you’ll often find you’re left with some sort of treasure.”

Everything we need to change or grow as a human being lives inside of pain.

Shortly after her marriage fell apart, she found herself in a hot yoga class. When the instructor asked her what her intentions were, Glennon, boiling over with raw, violent sorrow, simply said, “My intention is to get through whatever comes next.” The teacher told her just to sit still on her mat. So, she did. For 90 minutes she sat in the silence and anguish of her own personal pain. At the conclusion of the session, the instructor looked at her and said, “That is the journey of the warrior.”

“Pain is a traveling professor,” Glennon said. “Wise people invite it to come in and teach them.”

On parenting.
At one of her talks, Glennon had a concerned mother stand up and ask what she could do for her quiet 8-year-old son. “Give me 3 words to describe the kind of man you want him to be,” she said. The woman responded that she would love for her son to be kind, brave and intelligent. “All of those things come from pain,” Glennon explained. We spend so much time shielding our children from what we think will hurt them, and overthinking every word we say to them, but really all we can do is show up, every day, over and over and over and over again, and offer to walk through their pain with them. That, she suggests, is what will make them the strong, kind men and women we so desperately want them to be.

“It is not your job to fix your child’s pain.”

You can watch Glennon’s TED talk here and I 120% suggest that you do. Make time for it. Settle in for it. You won’t regret that you did. If this is what mentally different looks like, than I’m all in.

Thoughts

The parent trap

February 22, 2016

I felt the rage bubbling up from my toes, like fiery, spitting lava poised to take over the unsuspecting, sleepy towns below. No one in the meeting saw my point; and my point was more than just valid, it was the resolution. I parted my lips and a harsh bite of passive-aggressive participation lurched out before I could retrieve it. I had to neutralize the situation quickly. “I mean, I guess I don’t know what I’m talking about, really,” I continued without thinking, “They treat me like a mushroom; keep me in the dark and feed me shit all day.” That was the first time I realized I’d grown into, not just my father’s daughter, but my father.

When I discuss my folks with people who’ve never met them, I really try to offer a description that does them justice. They are the revenue-generating leads in a daily reality show on a station that not enough people get, in my opinion.

Dad is the love child of Frank Barone and David Letterman. He’s that guy who remembers jokes that take 30 minutes to tell and has an analogy for absolutely everything in his back pocket at all times. Some of my favorites include, but are not limited to:

We’re off, like a herd of turtles.
That went over like a pregnant pole vaulter.
I’m finer than frog’s hair.
[When someone toots] Your voice sounds different, but your breath smells the same.
Even a blind hog finds an acorn every once in awhile.
Like a fart in a skillet.
And that’s the name of that tune.

The funny thing is, even though he’s said each of these (and so many more) one-liners at least a trillion times, my mom still giggles like a smitten girlfriend every single time he says them. It’s one of the reasons they’re so magical together.

While the guy can be endearing and light-hearted, he also has a short little fuse that’s always on the brink of imploding. Don’t get me wrong, my father is a gem. He would give you the shirt off his back, but take our Friday night euchre games, for example. He is always one trumped ace and one ask of who led what away from a controlled cursing fit. His hair gets a little wispy and his eyes get loose and agitated and he lets out an exasperated sigh and JC-bomb in one impressive, labored exhalation. On occasion he throws a little chuckle in with the exasperation to let you know he’s annoyed, truly, but it’s all in good fun. When I would come home from college for holiday break, I would inevitably call Rog at 2 o’clock in the morning to retrieve me from the neighborhood watering hole. The drive home would be a delicate dance of him harnessing his annoyance and me quieting my drunken verbal diarrhea. But always by the next morning he was retelling the early morning events with a forgiving twinkle in his eye. He’s like a giant Sour Patch Kid and I find it best to just bite in and enjoy the sweet rather than dwell on the pesky sour pellets.

He’s a beast of habit and brutally defensive, which is pretty tough when you’re dealing with our immediate family; a cast of unforgiving sarcastic smart asses. He despises being critiqued and that’s pretty much all we do when we get together, laughing hysterically at the expense of each other, one sibling or parent at a time. But above everything and anything else, Dad is a protector. He didn’t get involved often when I did ridiculously stupid things growing up, but when he did it was because I scared him. He loves big. He was a writer. He makes me laugh. He drives me crazy. He doesn’t settle for “good enough”. He is the example I measured every man against in my younger days.

*****

On a 70-something degree day, with the windows down halfway, an unapologetic force much greater than myself entered with the sunshine and filled the car. It overtook my limbs – gaining control first of my left foot, then neck and finally my right hand, which began patting in a rhythmic cadence against my thigh to the 90s pop beat. I was humming and tapping and abandoning any regard for street cred or general stoplight decency. That was the first time I realized I had grown into, not just my mother’s daughter, but my mother.

If you take everything I wrote above and flip it from black to white, you have my mother. Of all the people in this world, I think she gets me the most. To help paint the picture, I’d say she’s a hybrid of Lucille Ball and Nora Griswold (Clark’s mom). She trips over blades of grass and has fits of laughter that literally paralyze her. She likes to snap her fingers, tuck her lips in tight and shake her ass to Cher and Dolly. She’s patient and curious and unbelievably supportive. I often call her the Olivia Pope of mothers because the lady is a fixer. Give her a land line, internet connection and a pair of magnifying glasses and she will doctor up your dilemma in 30 minutes flat.

My mom was never the mom who french braided my hair and threw incredible theme parties. That’s just not her. She’s a buyer, not a crafter. She would never come clean my house but she’d sure as shoot find someone to come do it at a great price. She showed me that it isn’t necessarily selfish or cutting corners to outsource the tasks you don’t enjoy. Sometimes it’s just a prescription for sanity and more quality time with your friends and family, and that’s more important. She makes a mean ass potato salad, never sweats the small stuff and starts at least 2 of her hypochondriac-ridden sentences every time I talk to her with, “I was reading this article, and …”. I can’t imagine my life without her if for no other reason than she laughs at all my ridiculously dramatic stories. The biggest joy is watching her with my kids. I can’t imagine anyone better suited to be a Grammy and the girls simply worship her.

The stories I could tell you about this gal … like the time she wrote a heated letter to “President Busy” (a type-o meant to be “Bush”) … or when she ran through a field screaming in horror over the snake relentlessly pursuing her (her shoelace) … or the time she attempted to clear a horse jump on foot, hooked her toes and face-planted on the other side … would all make you wet yourself, but it’s all just part of the charming package. No one laughs at her quirks harder than she does and it’s taught me that spending time feeling embarrassed is a tired waste of feelings.

I have her hands. JoJo has her hands. I love that I see part of her with me every day and as I type this post.

******

So, why the sap-soaked love letter to my folks? Well, it all started the other day when my brother sent a picture of Mom. She was helping him demo some walls at a building they own and, though he told her not to use the crowbar, she did, got it stuck in the wall and lost her grip as she struggled to remove it, falling to the ground. Typical Marilyn. Instead of helping her up, my brother took a picture of her first to document yet another graceful display from our beloved matriarch. Typical Matt. The image tickled my memory and reminded me of how I misjudged the location of my desk chair just the day before and fell to my knee before rebounding. “You guys,” I’d said, “I’m turning into my mother.” And it occurred to me that we’re all just slowly, day-by-day, trait-by-trait, habit-by-habit, fall-by-fall, becoming our parents. Maybe we always were our folks, but we hadn’t really settled into ourselves enough to see it until now.

Somewhere between my first exasperated rant to my own children about the simple act of turning off a light when they leave a room and the sixteenth time I torched dinner on a busy weeknight, I learned to stop grimacing about the progression, and start giggling. I mean really, there are worse things. Actually the things my mom used to do that mortified me as a cocky teenager are now the most endearing to me as a mother myself. And it’s not like I can deny it. I’m blinder than a bat (Mom), I curse like an old pirate barmaid (Dad) and I have no grace at all (Mom). There has to be some advantage in knowing what all those traits look like 30 years from now thanks to them. I have a crystal-clear view of what’s coming – every stumble, every rant, every handicap.

When I warned my folks this post was coming, their responses were as predictable as a crotch clip on America’s Funniest Home Videos. Mom just laughed and made some comment about falling down all the time and Dad sighed in anticipation of the impending character attack. When I offered more of an explanation of the premise in an effort to calm his concerns, his eyes stabilized. “You’re talking about the parent tape,” he said. “Sure.” I responded. “It’s the idea that you’re exposed to these mannerisms and words in such a constant frequency that eventually they infiltrate your own mannerisms and words.” (He knows a little bit about everything and his mind is a steel trap = another reason I love my dad.) Exactly. So science has beat to the punch here. Those intelligent bastards.

Evidence from the past few years would suggest that my particular parent tape has officially infiltrated my camp. The changing has commenced. From telling the same story 3 times to the same person, always with the same gusto as if the events just transpired, to demanding to see Jeopardy so I can make fun of the dweeby college kids, I am embracing the transformation to a full-fledged version of the people who raised me.

And it doesn’t stop there. I see winks of my parents in my JoJo. I can actually picture the torch of traits being modified ever so slightly and then passed on to the next klutz in line. Poor girl. Never stood a chance.

Thoughts

What I’m gettin’ myself into Vol. 3

January 27, 2016

1. Honestly, I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to discover Girls. It has all the ingredients of a big, delicious Courtney cookie: Super awkward moments, brutally honest and uncomfortable conversations and tons of self-deprecating humor. When Hannah’s coworkers filled in her eyebrows, I pushed all my chips into the pot. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m a sucker for a series about girlfriends. Maybe it’s that Lena Dunham’s character reminds me of my college roommate Sarah, who has a special place in my heart. Whatever the case, I blew threw the first season on AmazonPrime like a cop with a dozen donuts. Of course, that’s just the shot of narcotics they inject to get you hooked and then you have to buy the rest of the seasons. I’m stalled at the third episode of season 2 waiting for my dealer to get it together. 2. I’m in the final stretch of my third Whole30 and at a time like this one is likely to start grasping at straws when the sugar demons start to taunt. My safety net arrived in a bright gold package of dried nanners from Costco. These things are so good, you guys, and I ate so many of them that I damaged my dental work. Literally. I had a tooth ache for 24 hours, which was my mouth telling my hand to drop the freaking bag and step away from the bananas. It took my husband finally calling me out for me to admit that I was replacing my sugar-sugar fixation with a dried fruit one. But I love them. I am a minion. 3. I’m not going to post monthly pictures of my new tops or stretchy pants –no one needs to see that – but I will say I’m surprised how fast I fell for Stitch Fix. I went in as a skeptic. I have wide hips, bigger thighs, leftover mother pudge, but I got swept away in the mob mentality. Admittedly, there have been some major misses. But there have been more hits, and who doesn’t like a surprise box of clothes every so many weeks? It’s such a treat. My one gripe would be the prices. I sent one shirt back (price tag $115) with the comment, “You don’t know me, but I laughed when I saw the cost of this top. Nothing is that cute.” I got a new stylist on my next box. But sticker shock aside, I’m digging my new duds. It’s worth it to give it a try just once and I’ve found that when I ask for “a little bit funky but functional with lots of pattern” that’s when the party really begins. 4. Speaking of clothes, I am one of those stereotypical Midwestern suburban women who puts a much higher value on the perfect pair of sweats than I do skirts or stilettos. After 3 decades of options that were too tight, too itchy, too big or too short, I have found the one. The pair. The only sweatpants any person who takes their bra off and put their pjs on the moment they get home from work needs. Victoria Secret’s Boyfriend Pant is where it’s at, ladies, and you can take that to the bank because I know my casual clothing. Honestly it’s like having two fleece-bellied monkeys clinging to each of your legs. Plus, there are so many colors you can have a different pair for every day of the week. 5. As I’ve aged, I’ve learned the importance of investing in better quality cosmetics. And since the day I started to embrace that realization I’ve had the Urban Decay eyeshadow palette pinned to Pinterest board. Could I justify spending $50 on lid paint? No. But then Christmas came around. Could I justify having someone else spend it? Maybe. The UD Gwen Stefani Eyeshadow Palette is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on and ever put on my eyes. I love the hues and I only dip my brush in it’s sensational circles on super-special occasions. 6. On my last edition of What I’m getting myself into, I declared my love for Parks and Rec. And a big part of that was Tom Haverford. So when I saw Aziz Ansari had his own show on Netflix I was optimistic but careful not to be too optimistic. It’s like when I watched Meet the Morgans after a Sex and the City marathon. It just changed things between me and SJP. But that definitely didn’t happen here. I adore him more, and differently. This is a side of Aziz that feels more organic to his true personality with Tom Haverford playing peek-a-poo in the rare scene. I knew it was true love when, after concluding the available episodes, I felt that same emptiness I felt after I finished Friday Night Lights or got all caught up on House of Cards. Here’s hoping Master of None comes back for Season 2.

Thoughts

The toughest lessons

January 12, 2016

It’s been a hectic and emotionally exhausting week. I’m 7 days deep into a Whole30, which tends to make me antisocial for a spell and overly reactive, and I spent like 48 solid hours filling out my Bachelor bracket. But trumping that, there’ve been some brutal life lessons in our household as of late. It would appear that 2016 has come in like lion … one with sharp-ass fangs and Freddy Krueger freaking claws.

Heaven.
The good world up above gained a precious soul last week when Hank’s Grandma Monie walked through the pearly gates. She deteriorated quickly after a fall about a month ago. For as long as I’ve been in Hank’s life, Monie struggled with her hearing, mobility to some extent, and memory. She put a lot of weight in being social, volunteering and teaching, and she always kept a sense of humor about her age, but I know she often felt smaller and unimportant because of her handicaps. I pray, and believe, she entered into heaven through a most-electric sunset, with a bounce in her step and a smirk on her face. That her husband and great grandson were there to greet her, and she danced with all the friends who went before her.

As much as I’ve struggled with death myself, talking to the girls about this kind of loss strangled me with anxiety. There is no handbook, no guidelines, on how to walk your child through this life truth. Admittedly, I don’t know how to get through it as a 33-year-old woman. They had just gone to visit their great grandma, so when we told them she had passed away and gone to heaven, it was a bit of a shock, bring about some mixed reactions. JoJo started sobbing. At 6, I think the finality of it registered with her little heart. “It’s OK,” Spikey answered. “Because she went to heaven and then she gets to start her life all over. It’s sad that she died, but it’s OK she went to heaven.” Eventually JoJo put her energy toward drawing pictures for Grandma Monie to take to Jesus and things calmed down a bit. I was a mess.

The biggest dilemma, as I’m sure anyone who’s been through this can understand, was the funeral. Do we take them to the viewing, or just to the funeral but not the burial, or to all of it, or to none of it. Given my fear of death and tendency to avoid anything uncomfortable or emotionally wrenching, my gut call was to have them stay with mom and not be exposed to the harsh reality of true loss just yet. An attempt to preserve their innocence just a little bit longer. But in Hank’s family, death was treated as a natural part of life. Just as people will enter this world, they will leave it. It is sad but not scary. It is reality and they are looking to us to see how to process that reality. We have to set the example.

We decided to take them to the viewing so they could say goodbye. Spike was so brave and timid and wonderfully naive. Her confusion was in why Grandma was still here when we told her she’d gone to heaven. The concept of a soul at the age of 4 is as tangible as it is elusive. JoJo wasn’t sure she wanted to go up once we got there. “That’s OK,” I said. But eventually she followed, standing behind me, peeking only for a moment with confusion and fear. It was a face I’m confident I would have made at her age in this situation.

Talking through the loss of a family member, and turning my face toward it out of my concern for the girls actually made accepting the loss of a woman I loved a little easier. Now, as we work through the grieving process, I don’t know for sure how our little ladies feel about death, but I know we handled it the best we could. We talked about Grandma and why we loved her. And we will speak of her often to remember her. That is how we will honor Grandma Monie and the footprint she left on our hearts.

The Law.
Every other week we have Big Breakfast – a fitting name for the gathering though I can’t for the life of me remember who officially came up with it – at my folks. My entire family shows up in pajamas to shove Dad’s famous dippy eggs, pancakes and cinnamon rolls down our pieholes. Eventually the 10 grandkids disperse to torture each other and make messes upstairs, out of the adults’ sight, while the grownups sip coffee and retell stories we’ve heard 8 trillion times.

Things got a little exciting this week. “Mom!” Spike exclaimed. “JoJo just called 9-1-1!” “She what?!” As soon as I stood up to go hunt my eldest daughter down, the phone rang at Mom and Dad’s. That was the dispatcher. I yelled her name upstairs. I yelled her name downstairs. I yelled her name upstairs again. i yelled her name downstairs again. “I’m …. right … here …” a little mousy voice whispered from under my parents’ bed. “Get out here.” I said, in that slow, spiccato tone that sends hot pee down even my own leg. About that time, I heard, “It’s the cops!”

A sheriff was in the driveway and Mom’s dogs were circling his authoritative feet, playing into the excitement. It would seem that my two little girls called the emergency line a combined total of five times. Five. Times. “I want you to come in and talk to the kids,” Mom said. “Ma’am, I have to come inside.” the sheriff replied.

He brought his broad shoulders and chocolate brown uniform through the front door and – thank the Lawd – cast his kind eyes down on a scared shitless crew of little ones. Here stood two mothers, a Grammy and 10 grandchildren, the majority of us still in our pajamas at noon. I felt JoJo quivering behind my back and heard her regretful sniffles. “Honey, don’t be scared. You aren’t in trouble,” he offered. I was not feeling as generous. “You need to apologize and you need to understand why this was so wrong.” I said as directly as I could in front of an officer. “Now you know that if you call that number, a police officer will show up. And that is only OK if you are hurt, we are hurt, or you are lost. Do. you. under. stand?” “Yeeeeee[sniffle]eeeeesssss.” she answered.

The kind sheriff left CrazyTown behind to go bust bigger bad guys and Spike and JoJo learned a very important lesson. When you dial 9-1-1, the fuzz is gonna come for ya.

Thoughts

Crossing over

January 5, 2016

Do you ever see a magnificent sunset and think, “That must be the exact spot where souls enter into heaven.”?

Thoughts

Merry Marilyn and her bag of tricks

December 27, 2015

I’ve managed to pull myself out of my sugar cookie coma just long enough to piece together a blog post before the week runs out. This is not a drill, people. Today alone I’ve consumed 2 snickerdoodles, 2 chocolate mint cookies and 4 peanut butter Frosted Flakes candies. I hope your Christmas was full of family, food and chaos, just like ours. At 6, 4 and 1, the kids were so into it this year and it just made for so much fun. Candy the elf was here with her typical shenanigans and, for the first time, I set an alarm but didn’t have to go wake up the girls. The sound of those excited little feet, followed by, “He came! Oh my gosh, Santa came!” made my ovaries wink up at me with that familiar ache of fleeting bliss. It was the sweetest. (The girls, not the ovary wink.)

But as much as I feel like I get through the season with some successes – ignoring the fact that I’ve never gotten Christmas cards out the door and didn’t roll sugar cookies of my own for the second consecutive year – I always find myself in awe of the master of the holiday, my mom. I was born from Mother Christmas and she is as legit as they come when it comes to jivin with the holly jolly.

Here are a few things I’ve observed in my time watching her in action.

The more the merrier.
I’ve mentioned the Grand Lighting Ceremony and a bit about the outdoor decorations, but truly, my parents’ house is a joyful joint in its entirety come November 29. I don’t know where she keeps all this stuff the rest of the months, but once the turkey goes in the fridge, every beam is garnished with garland, every cabinet topped with a stuffed Santa and his pals, every light adorned with ornaments. When your dwelling is deemed the “Christmas house” I suppose you acquire a lot of yuletide knickknacks. It makes sense. But it’s during this time, when her home is dripping in glitter and gifted craft show Santas, that my mom seems most comfortable in her house. And I love the smell … like sticky kids and cinnamon pinecones.

Be the classic. Let others experiment.
My mom always hosts at least two, often three, Christmas gatherings at her house every year. The amount of food this woman churns out makes my wallet, back and stomach hurt. Rows of slow cookers brimming with simmering meatballs, ham balls, chili cheese dip, macaroni and cheese, and wings. Platters of rye bread, cheese and meat. Ham sandwiches and homemade vegetable dip on the relish tray. As impressive as the quantity of it is, the menu is constant from year to year. She has mastered her holiday spread and thus, her plan of attack the day before and morning of the party. People look forward to her predictable fare and never get bored because everyone else brings different sides and desserts. Every Christmas is deliciously familiar with some new things to nosh on as well. Genius.

Get a list and then get creative.
I can remember, when I was a young girl, my mom would give me the catalogs that came in the mail and a marker and I would go to town. I’d circle things I liked and triple circle the ones I had to have. No doubt three circles, pressing hard with the marker, was unspoken code for, “Put this one next to my new Popple, yo.” Guaranteed, on Christmas morning I would get my most-treasured catalog callouts but also, a handful of the most thoughtful surprises. Things I didn’t even think of, but I was so glad Santa did. A classic is the year Mom got a beagle puppy for my brother. She hid the dog for at least a week, often right under Matt’s completely unsuspecting nose. Christmas morning, she has him close his eyes and plops this precious little pup down in his lap. I swear the giant smiled the most sincere, most surprised grin I’ve ever seen. It was like holiday urban legend. It was my maternal role model at her finest. She conditioned me to go for the big moment. Now, as a mom, I have to have at least one thing for everyone in my family that they weren’t expecting and, upon seeing it, realize they can’t live without.It’s an exhaustive pursuit, but when it works out, it’s like Christmas crack. I know a lot of folks like to give their loved one a list with very specific links to very specific products in very specific colors. I dabble in that, but I still love the unpredictable presents. It’s a Marilyn move, and it’s pimp, to deliver a Christmas miracle for someone you love, especially when they never saw it coming.

Holiday albums on fleek.
Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers, Neil Diamond, the Judds and Sandi Patty. Those are the CDs that magically pop into the shuffle every December at Mom and Dad’s. Just a few notes into “A Christmas to Remember,” with Dolly’s sweet, sugary voice popping from the speakers and I am all in for holly and twinkle lights.

Throw a blanket on it.
When it comes to the packages under the tree at my family’s Christmas, three things are guaranteed: 1) My mom will have at least 5 gifts with no name on them that she then has to open herself to hand out to the proper owner. 2) At least one person will get a gift that makes them sob like a little holiday bitch. (This year it was a hand-painted portrait of Mom’s dog, Buddy, who she lost last year.) and 3) Childlike excitement will build around the giant gifts in the corner with blankets thrown over them. Sometimes it’s a big ticket item, sometimes it’s a laundry basket. You just never know. And that’s the joy of the blanket. In the end it doesn’t matter what’s under the blanket. It serves its purpose by populating hype. It’s a mind game and she’s the master.

Be Scrooge at the end of the movie.
From Christmas Eve through Christmas night, my madre’s merry spirit makes all of us feel so grateful and giddy and lovey. She is so generous and so thoughtful but doesn’t make a show of it. She just wants to watch everyone enjoy her hard work. She doesn’t even open her own presents until the kids are already playing with theirs. Since having kids of my own, I get it. I gather more jollies from my family’s reactions when they open something special than I do from anything someone could pick up for me at a store. I feel nostalgic about the season and people and the traditions. I see Christmas through my mother’s eyes and it’s beautifully simple and worth all the hard work. God bless us, everyone.

Happy holidays, everybody. Let’s all meet back here in time to make some New Year’s resolutions and revaluate these bad dietary decisions, shall we?

Thoughts

Chain letter

December 19, 2015

In my stack of recently unearthed journal entries, was a letter written to my younger self. This was my wisdom at 17.

One day on a walk, I ran into my 10-year-old self. She was short and skinny and stood with a worried look permanently stretched across her face.

“Courtney?” I said.
“Yes, and you are?” she replied.
“I am you in 7 years. Older, wiser and most importantly, stronger.”
“But I don’t get it. How? Why?”
“Just trust me. I don’t have long, so pay attention. Ahead in the road, especially middle school, you’ll feel lost and lonely sometimes. It’s important that you don’t allow yourself to become a follower. Followers never outgrow the people they stand behind. Be open to new things and doubtful talents. Most importantly, people will try to get you down, but that’s just their insecurity showing through. Everything lands where it’s supposed to.

And with that, I turned and walked away. The rest she has to learn on her own. That’s how she will become me.

First, I have to just say what we’re all thinking here. This seems like a crazy heavy conversation to be having with a 10 year old, no? Not to be my own worst critic, but ease up there philosophical Phyllis. She can’t possibly process that deep of an emotional dump. Cheese and rice ….

I do feel the need to rekindle this assignment; to right the wrong that is my over-dramatic, over-analytical junior year docent into adulthood. If, at 33, I just happened to collide with this high school version of myself on the street, I would smile fondly in an attempt to calm and quiet her 50-miles-a-minute thoughts. I would speak deliberately and honestly, knowing her thirst for truth, clarity and directness.

“Courtney,” I would say, “stop focusing so much on what success should look like or might look like. It will look like different things at different times. Sometimes you’ll think you have it, only to discover, it doesn’t really feel as great as a simpler happiness did. It will find you if you resist the urge to chase it. It will mean less when you get there than you think it will right now. In fact, you could measure it in the increments they use to measure air in comparison to the value you find in the people who will fill your home.

Those people, those amazing blessings your mind can’t even fathom at this point, will come to you through love. I know you worry about if and where that kind of love lives and how it will find you. It’s there, dear girl, and it’s much closer than you think. Find a peace in your being and confidence in your own skin and your heart will let you know when he gets here.

Make your friends, your family and your health a priority. Make phone calls, send cards and take walks. Watch your mom; believe it or not, one day your crazy and her crazy are going to look pretty darn similar, and you’ll be better for it. Relax on the sugar and the smokes and the self deprecation. Go out and push your body.

You worry so dang much. And, I’m sorry to tell you, that’s not going anywhere. You are cursed with a persistent perplexity and it only grows as your care for those around you deepens. The only thing I can tell you is that, to this point, the road has been mostly smooth with subtle turns that brought unexpected joy and growth. Try to look around and appreciate the adventures when they come.

Never stop working on yourself. Never trust a stranger when they stand to gain anything more than friendship from your relationship, and visit with yourself in the quiet moments. You might like what you hear when you really listen. Enjoy the journey … it’s a good one.”

And then I’d go get frozen yogurt and she would go get a pack of Camel Lights and Diet Coke. I mean you have to let kids make their mistakes, right?

Thoughts

What I’m gettin’ myself into Vol. 2

December 6, 2015

1. I remember the first time my husband told me he liked Cream of Wheat. My face looked the way a gag feels. How I managed to love him in spite of his affinity for the breakfast sludge is a testament to what his toned forearms and chiseled jawline do for me. It’s a consistency thing. Oatmeal, chia pudding, Cream of Wheat, bananas … they all feel pre-chewed to me. Until Hank brought home this Think Thin Protein Oatmeal. Now, I fell hard for the Farmer’s Market Berry Crumble flavor and have yet to branch beyond it, but all the flavors sound tempting. It’s got quinoa and steel-cut oats and it’s just what your belly ordered for winter mornings. 2. OK, so let’s just get it out there: Empire is the shit. Cookie is the shit. The music of Empire is the shit. After a sweet friend, who has an impeccable viewing record, urged me to give in to the hype and just start it, “Oh my gosh, it really is that good …” she said, and another friend upped its cred with, “You know it’s based on the story of King Lear,” I began dating the show on Hulu. It’s always that third episode that really plants the hook. I put a sleeping bag down in the Lyons’ den and wasn’t going anywhere. I love how it constantly flirts with vulgarity and violence, but rarely actually goes there (If you watch, you know when it went it really did go there). My 33-year-old-mother-of-three ass feels cool for being up on the storyline and, let’s face it, Cookie’s one liners and insane outfits force our affection, and I dare you not to be fascinated with the dynamic between her and Lucious. And the latest plot line with Marisa Tomei’s character … Boo Boo Kitty, please … 3. True confession, I pulled 3 empty, worn Ziplock bags out of my purse yesterday. This was the greased up evidence I didn’t even need to see to confirm what I’ve known for weeks now. I am addicted to Buddha Bowl Himalayan Pink popcorn. I have to have it. First of all, like 3 cups of it are well under 200 calories, and it only contains coconut oil, organic popcorn and the Himalayan pink salt. That’s it. No crazy crap and it tastes like perfect little popped clouds of flavor. Just buy it. But not if you live near me because I can’t let my supply dry up. 4. Let’s talk about The World Needs More Love Letters and get everyone on this planet involved, shall we? Some big-hearted, beautiful individual named Hannah Brencher (she wrote a book explaining her mission) decided that nothing lifts the soul more when it’s down than a handwritten love letter, even if it’s from a stranger. There are a few elements to this site that pulled me right down the rabbit hole. First, they feature random love letters found in various locations by various strangers. They’re unbelievably thoughtful, some of them, especially considering these messages are being jotted down and tossed out into the wide open universe. It could be picked up by your neighbor, or it could be picked up by someone visiting from across the country, but they all feel so personal. Just browse a few. But the other element of this project, the one that cranked up my vapors, is the deliberate love letters. Friends, family members are caregivers share the stories of people in their lives who are down or feeling empty, and the crew at The World Needs More Love Letters post the ones they select every few weeks and open it up to submissions. Perfect strangers from all corners of this earth will read a fellow human’s struggle and take the time to sit down and compose an encouraging, compassionate, you-got-this message for them. I’m sure I’m late to the game and people are super familiar with Ms. Brencher’s project, but I wasn’t and I read for at least an hour. It restored my faith in our species. I suggest you check it out and get a little of the same. Maybe even write a letter. 5. If I was crushing on Amy Poehler after reading her book, I am at full blown stalker status now that I’m nearing the end of Parks and Recreation. But it’s not just Amy now, it’s all of her friends, too. Just this video, all day, please. Or, wait, no this one when she got half a perm. Or the one with the ice or the one where they backed into the memorial service during Leslie’s campaign or Snake juice for sure, or maybe I should have just done a post on Parks and Recreation. Just put on your sweat pants make a dent in the couch and plow through it. I have 4 episodes left and I can’t let it end.

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 …

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