JoJo Just Said

A poopy playdate

December 10, 2015

You know, I’m fine with saying, “I have a 6 year old.” I can wrap my mind around it on paper. But when I turned around the other day and she had her legs crossed and was using her hands and eyebrows to converse with me, it was not OK. It’s not the age, it’s the physical ache of seeing this little grownup in my rearview mirror. It’s like I know her better than anyone and yet there are days I feel like I’m meeting her for the first. time.

Millie collage

Anyway, the other day I was scrolling through things on the ole’ Facebook, and came across this story I shared with my close group of girlfriends. It’s a classic.

January 9, 2014

Who wants to start their day with a funny story? Oh, you guys do? OK!

So, JoJo has this little friend at Kay’s. He’s 5 (older man), JoJo says they’re going to get married and he is her best friend. He lives in our neighborhood and we’ve been trying to figure out a playdate. Well, yesterday, his mom came to get him around 2 and ended up just taking JoJo back to their house to play. As you can imagine, she was geeked up!

It must be said here to the people who know me best, and know that I am often a sweaty, discombobulated train wreck, that this young man’s mom always looks so put together. She’s so cute and knows nothing of me but that I am JoJo’s mom.* So, I go to get my kid at 5.  After I stood in their entryway rambling on for far too long in an attempt to distract them from the fact that my children were throwing huge, whiney fits in protest of our exit, I managed to reign it in and move the circus back to our house.

While we were eating dinner, JoJo mentions that she got too excited and had an accident in their basement and “poopied in her underwears.”

Mil, “Mom, one thing did happen. While we were playing trains, I got excited and poopied.”
Me: “You did? Where, honey?”
Mil: “In my underwears.”
Me: “Aw, honey, It happens. Did his mom help you?”
Mil: “No. I didn’t tell her. I just told him.”
Me: “So where are your poopy underwear now?”
Mil: “I left them in their basement.”

So, on her first playdate, JoJo shit her pants and then left it as a little “thank-you-for-having-me” present on their bathroom floor. But the real winner here was me, the woman who had to text the pretty mom and tell her my daughter crapped herself and there was a treat waiting for her in her lower level. Happy Thursday!

121H

*I know this lovely lady much better now and I can safely say if this were to happen today, I’d feel a tad less like a freak show calling to relay that we had a Code Brown on our hands. She still always looks cute though.

Thoughts

What I’m gettin’ myself into Vol. 2

December 6, 2015

WhatLovingCollage

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.

waterfall

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.

 heaven
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.

Screen Shot 2015-11-30 at 10.05.07 PM

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.

Elf

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

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.”

Martini

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!
Mean Girls
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.
JoJo Just Said, Spike Speak

Sisters say what?

November 18, 2015

“Dad, I have a lot to say, can you come back?” – Spike getting tucked in for the night.

“Look at his cute little belly button!” – Spike discovering an unfamiliar body part on her sittermate after he went potty.

“I got my badges!” – Spike after she put two Kroger smiley face stickers on her chest in two very precise places.

“Before you say anything, I just need some privacy for a moment.” – JoJo acting like a 28 year old.

“I lilerally didn’t even know what to do.” – JoJo, who now uses “lilerally” to set up every verb.

“This shrimp is bomb.” – JoJo

“Mil, I love you with my whole heart.” – Spike rebounding from a brutal timeout for being mean.

“Mama, I thought about you today. All day. About how you love me and you sing songs and you give me kisses and you have a computer.” – Spike on the drive back from the sitter.

IMG_0122
“Papa’s truck smells. It smells like a Grammy issue.” – Spike

Me: “Is this what you want to wear tomorrow?”
Spike: “Well it is something fancy, isn’t it?”

“I can’t see that, Mama, because I am blonde.” – Spike

“Wait! I’d look ridiculous with a beard!” – JoJo reconsidering a facial hair call.

“Mom you want me to watch on you? I can watch on you. It’s fine.” – Spike, genuinely concerned about me being in the tub alone.

“And they were all blah, blah, blah, you’re so fashion. I was all blah, blah, blah, I just don’t want you to say poopy.” – Spike talking to me while I take a bath.

“I told her I’m being complicated and don’t care right now.” – Spike

“Now THAT’S what I want to be!” – JoJo pointing to a flock of birds

“You know, I’m not impressed.” – Spike’s commentary on getting ready for bed.

Laughs

The melody moves me

November 17, 2015
There are some really great songs on the radio right now. There’s also a whole lotta garbage. But these little ditties are so special to me right now for some very special reasons.

Worth It by Fifth Harmony
Makes me think of baked goods. Like, I literally listen to the chorus and picture a line of dancing cookies, chocolates and caramel apples. And you know what, I believe them.

I Used to Love You by Gwen Stefani
Easily me talking to a pack of Marlboros. Also, equally as likely I’d be talking to clear rum and Diet Coke. Oh, the memories.

Hello by Adele
This is me talking to my microbiome (my gut health). I need to apologize for the sugar I sent down there. I need to express my regret for the fried mushrooms and box of chocolate chip drops of heaven. It’s just so hard to get through.

Can’t Feel My Face by the Weeknd
Cold-weather exercise, huh? I mean, fall is finally here and as far as I’m concerned, it can go right back where it came from. It’s dark by 6 o’clock and the late-autumn breeze really bites (and blows).

Let it Go from Frozen
Me, singing to the song Let it Go.

Shut Up and Dance by Walk the Moon
So, last Friday a bunch of my girlfriends from my last job and I got together. The wine started flowing, the gossip was starting to run dry and the music got louder. Before we knew it the peppy little Zumba instructor among us was leading a class in the living room, with 5 little plastered monkeys doing everything she did. Quote of the night, “This is my stage, mmmmK?” Brought the sobriety up 5%.

Good for You by Selena Gomez
I know she says, “I just wanna look good for ya,” but I hear, “I just wanna do good for ya, good for ya, ow, ow … ow, ow,” and think of  apple cider vinegar. Sometimes I make the bottle sing before I pour it into a glass and gag 20 times.

Laughs

Company is coming

November 12, 2015

This is me. So me. A thousand percent me. I am a complete psychopath any time we’re having people over. This one might make you tinkle a tad.

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.

text

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.