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Mindfulness

Working on my core

February 28, 2017

Let’s start with a game.

I’m going to ask you to pick three words. The first three words that pop into your mind, OK? The prompt is: What drives your day?

Three words … and … go.

Got em? OK, what were they?

Full disclosure, so it’s all out in the open, my three words were: work, schedule and kids

Don’t forget your words.

So, I wanna talk about this book I read. Because we NEED to talk about this book I read. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, the dope pages of “Present Over Perfect.”

Present. Over. Perfect.

This audiobook came in for me at the library on the same day the Lauren Graham book, “Talking As Fast As I Can” came in. I was getting ready to leave for my Florida trip, I wanted something light, and so I opted for Lauren first. Now I’m watching Gilmore Girls because, let me just save you the suspense, the book is likely one trillion times better if you are watching or have watched the series. Which I hadn’t. So now I am.

Anyway, her mouth was really moving because it went super quick. Having wrapped the Gilmore diaries, I looked down the Tuesday after my quick Tampa weekend and saw the other audiobook, “Present Over Perfect” sitting on my passenger seat. I’d almost forgotten about it. I put in the first CD and a sweet voice filled the cabin of my SUV. Minutes later I was crying, clutching my chest and holding my breath. I think I was nodding, too.

Um, wait, did I write this? No, I didn’t write this. I’m not that good. This was instead a classic case of my very favorite thing; when it feels like the author, in this instance Shauna Niequist, chose her words specifically for me, her attentive audience of one. Shauna is, naturally, part of the poignant sorority that boasts the likes of Brene Brown and Glennon Doyle Melton and Jen Hatmaker that I so wholeheartedly worship. These truthtellers have got it goin’ on, you guys, I’m tellin ya.

Sobbing like the latest Bachelor cast-off after just 5 pages is a promising sign. And it proved a match. Completing this book in its entirety was like having a conversation with myself after we hadn’t spoken in years. It drudged up a lot of honest crap I’d been denying or shrugging off for years. It was a mirror I’d tucked in the back of my closet and now I was staring right at all the blemishes and cracks and imperfections.

Let’s dive right in.

“Present is living with your feet firmly grounded in reality, pale and uncertain as it may seem. Present is choosing to believe that your own life is worth investing deeply in, instead of waiting for some rare miracle or fairytale. Present means we understand that the here and now is sacred, sacramental, threaded through with divinity even in its plainness. Especially in its plainness.”

Let it soak in. Let it marinate and send sweet reflections through your scattered mind. But don’t linger too long. This is good. Really good. But Shauna was just getting started here. She was toying with me; Dangling her heart-squeezing verbiage in front of me like a gorgeous orange carrot to a tired, famished bunny, so I’d wrap my front paws around them and she could just then … at the perfect moment … yank me into her web of truth.

“Many of us, myself, included, considered our souls necessary collateral damage to get done the things we felt we simply had to get done – because of other people’s expectations, because we want to be known as highly capable, because we’re trying to outrun an inner emptiness. And for a while we don’t even realize the compromise we’ve made. We’re on autopilot, chugging through the day on fear and caffeine, checking things off the list, falling into bed without even a real thought or feeling or connection all day long, just a sense of having made it through. … I don’t want to get to the end of my life and look back and realize that the best thing about me was I was organized.”

Or capable, or a great multitasker, or punctual or anal. Remember your words?

“But what I eventually realized is that the return on investment was not what I’d imagined, and that the expectations were only greater and greater. When you devote yourself to being known as the most responsible person anyone knows, more and more people call on you to be that highly responsible person. That’s how it works. So the armload of things I was carrying became higher and higher, heavier and heavier, more and more precarious.”

My current currency is completion. A demand comes in, I respond and then I’m paid in checkmarks. I can take something off the list. I can crawl into bed knowing I’m rich in lines drawn through the middle of pressing matters like ordering new checks, refilling the dog’s prescription and sending peanut-free, gluten-free, sugar-free cookies in for the school fundraiser. I’m walking through my life collecting chores and calls and duties and no one is keeping track of the gold stars I get in return, how many pieces of flair I have on my lapel. Except me.

My collateral damage can be tallied in many forms, but perhaps saddest of all is my connection with my husband. This is not to say that we aren’t in a good place or we’re having problems, but the life and the routine I’ve built for our tribe certainly has the potential to break what has always been so good about us. The rich stuff. The stay-up-late-talking-and-laughing-over-gin-and-tonics stuff. My hand to God, he sent me a calendar invite to “hang out” this past Sunday. A calendar invite! I accepted and then immediately felt the asshole aspect of the situation rain down upon me.

The other day in meditation, I silently asked myself if I was giving enough to my marriage. On the drive to work that morning, I saw a “Henry’s Plumbing” van. I’ve never seen a “Henry’s Plumbing” van in this town, or in my life and now a toilet tender’s business bearing my husband’s name was turning in front of me. Just 24 hours later, a sign we kept in our bathroom that said, “I love you because _____” fell down. You know, the kind you write on with a dry erase marker? We’d had it for years. We’d leave silly and sweet little notes on it from time to time. Well, it fell off the wall. Gabrielle Bernstein talked a lot in her book, “The Universe Has Your Back” about signs. Ask for them. Look for them. Be open to them. Well, I got three of them in as many days.

I made the comment to Hank that I often feel like we’re business partners, particularly during the week. We are tending to our tasks and checking in on the progress of various projects. “How’s that poop test result coming, Jones?” “Doctor said to have Sloppy Joan lay off the corn kernels, Banks.” And so on. I can’t pinpoint when I committed to full-on ruining all of the things that made us fun and all give-a-damn about everything. I just know that it happened in spite of our best efforts to stay cool.

“It seems to me that one of the great hazards is quick love, which is actually charm. We get used to smiling, hugging, bantering, practicing good eye contact. And it’s easier than true, slow, awkward and painful connection with someone who sees all the worst parts of you. Your act is easy. Being with you, deeply with, is difficult.”

“It is better to be loved than admired. It is better to be truly known and seen and taken care of by a small tribe than adored by strangers who think they know you in a meaningful way.”

“What kills a soul? Exhaustion, secret keeping, image management.
And what brings a soul back from the dead? Honesty, connection, grace”

“The world will tell you how to live, if you let it. Don’t let it. Take up your space. Raise your voice. Sing your song. This is your chance to make or remake a life that thrills you.”

I know, brothers and sisters. I know.

This particular thread running throughout the pages was the big one for me; The slap that jolted the reality to the surface for me. If you think of your social connections like an onion, the center is likely comprised of your husband, kids, immediate family and ride or dies. Next, would be good friends and extended family. Then we’re looking at friends. Then acquaintances and gym buddies, and so on. As you work your way out through the layers, the connections get softer and softer. But what happens, and what has been happening with me for years, is we spend so much time committing, saying yes, donating our time and our talents to the people in the outer layers that we exhaust all our good stuff.

By the time I leave work, take care of any outlying obligations, make dinner and get through the kids’ checklist of “necessities” for the next day, I certainly don’t have the mental lightness to roll around and play tickle torture. I am depleted and primed to fail.

And while this all seems to be the norm these days, and I know that my priorities, in all their backwards glory, are not uncommon for mothers, the whole thing really is super freaking messed up, right? Because I volunteer to help causes that are important but not that close to me personally, I miss hearing JoJo’s recount of her bee experiment that day. And we all know those stories are always best the first time around. Because I said I could step up my freelance game for extra sitter money, I rush through the bedtime ritual and feel annoyed that my five year old dare ask for “one more butterfly kiss.”

It’s a mess.

My flow is all fucked up.

It’s clogged with boulders of bullshit excuses and obligations made to third- and fourth-layer acquaintances. I have to learn to choose no when yes means less of the good stuff. Less cuddles, less sanity, less conversation, less eye contact. I have to learn to say no even though the yes is wearing pretty clothes. Even if it means more money or smart connections. I have to learn that if yes doesn’t feel good in the moment, it’s not going to feel good on a Thursday night at 9:30 when the laundry needs folded and Sloppy Joan has gotten out of bed for the 14th time.

“I almost left her behind. I almost lost her when I started to believe that constant motion would save me. That outrunning everything would keep me safe. You cannot be a mystic when you’re hustling all the time. you cannot be a poet when you start to speak in certainties. You can’t stay tender and connected when you hurl yourself thru life like being shot out of a canon, your speed a weapon you wield to keep yourself safe. The natural world is so breathtakingly beautiful, people are so weird and awesome and loving and life-giving. Why then did I try to hard for so long to get away without feeling or living deeply?”

Go back to your words. Think about what they mean to you and what you wish they were instead. Because, why not wish for what you want?

I want to move work to love, and schedule to passion, and kids to … well, the kids can stay. But I want to stop letting responsibility be my defining asset. So I can get it all done? What’s the good in any of that if I’m miserable? Who’s keeping score anyway?

It’s time to shake things up and slow things down and really, truly, deeply focus on the middle of my onion. People are always saying they need to work on their core, strengthen their core, build from their core. Well … there ya go. This is the kind of core work I need. Screw abs, I want to be present for Spike’s story hour and the chicks’ gymnastics show in the front room, with Sloppy Joan wearing her “bathing soup” as a leotard.

These are the people I so desperately want to hold close to me. Because at the end of the day, I’d rather be focused than frenzied. I’d rather be late to a meeting than missing as a mother. I’d rather be known for my mess than tidy and tired.

I’d rather be present than perfect.

Kids

The push and the pull … and the push

January 19, 2017

When we pack up our sweet little popup and head out to commune with Mother Nature, it is 100 percent guaranteed that my children will sniff out and frequent two places: The playground, crawling with feral wilderness kids, and the camp store. And these chicks are con artists, I tell ya. They can hit up their PaPa for a 5 dollar bill like a Las Vegas hustler and have a Rocket Pop in hand before we’re backed in and level.

On our last trip for the season, the third visit to this particular park that year, the older girls started wearing a path in the pavement. They’d go around the same loop on their scooters, always stopping at the camp store for a minute before hopping on their Razors and racing back to the site. They’d done it so many times, I’d eased up on my strict surveillance of the situation. And anyway, I was doing laps myself, mom strutting behind Sloppy Joan as she strolled about on her tiny legs under a bright yellow canopy of leaves, pointing at every dog, fire and bug. It was what I imagine sloth poetry is made of.

After a 30-minute .5 mile, we came up to the camp store and my mother sitting perched just outside with her tiny white rat dog on her lap.

“Ummmmm …” she said.
“What?”
“I thought you were in the camp store.”
“No, I’m walking with Sloppy Joan. Should I be in the camp store?”
“Well, the girls went in there. I think they were going to buy something. I thought you were already in there.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
“So …”
“So, I guess take Sloppy Joan and I’ll go check it out.”

I walked in and followed the intentional maze of tall wire shelves – past fridge magnets and Wiffle Ball sets and boxes of instant potatoes – until I reached the line. At the front of that line stood two little girls, their chins barely reaching the counter. The oldest, with her disheveled ponytail and Chick’s Rule sweatshirt, stood confidently as the middle one offered shaky support from just behind her, biting her top lip for comfort.

[Mom enters the scene.]

“Hey guys.” I said.
“Hi Mom,” JoJo sighed, knowing this put a damper on their hustle.
“So, whatcha got here?”

They had a lot of stuff, you guys.

Two candy bars, two packages of glow sticks, one notebook, one box of crayons and two, rather sizeable, stuffed animals. Dogs, if I remember correctly. I have no idea how long they’d been at the counter.

“It’s $33.50,” the irritated 17 year old with no children said to them (but looking directly at me).
“And how much money do you have, girls?” I asked.
“I have $5,” JoJo offered.
“So, if you have $5 to spend and $33.50 worth of toys and candy, what do you think you need to do?”
“Get more money?” JoJo proposed.
“Or, maybe, I was thinking … put some things back.”

Groans and those dreadful whines that announce the impending arrival of an actual, super-annoying cry started spilling out of child No. 1. My face was filling with the incinerating heat of extreme mortification. I turned to the gentleman behind us and, out of obligation and respect for the assault on his leisurely stroll to the friendly camping store to get coffee filters, mouthed a sincere, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine!” he said too kindly. “I love watching other people parent, and it’s a good lesson for them.” (I feel it’s vital to the story that I mention the dude looked like Jim Gaffigan.)

Two minutes later, we left the store with one candy bar, one package of glow sticks and one sour little camper. (Spike was fine. She, I deduced, was merely along for the ride.)

“What happened?” Mom pounced as we walked out.
“Oh, I’ll tell ya what happened. My children were trying to buy Christmas with a $5 bill and no parents. That’s what happened.”

She. Fell. Out.

I finally laughed, too.

Later, when I pulled JoJo aside to talk to her about the responsibility of carrying money and making smart purchases and always, always letting someone know where you’re going and what you’re doing, I realized that her frustration wasn’t just about the fact that I’d cockblocked the purchase of the one stuffed animal that brought her to an even 500. It was more about the embarrassment. She felt a false sense of confidence because she’d been to the store with me and now she just wanted to prove that she could be grown up, too. She could make a transaction. She knew what was going down.

Only, little bird, you don’t.

And thus the internal battle begins. I can appreciate the fact that she had the self confidence to walk into a store and do something “adult”. It’s amazing actually when you think about the fact that they had been casing the joint the whole time. And the last thing I want ever is to squelch my daughter’s spirit. But obviously certain things require supervision and guidance. She’s just in such a dang hurry to grow up, that one, always offering to cook dinner and watch the other kids. “You’re 7!” I want to scream. “Be my baby forever!”

It’s a tricky thing, instilling self-assurance in our kids. We want them to be carefree, but cautious. Capable but reliant. Brave but tentative. We tell them they can do anything in this world, as long as they let us hold their hands and take them there to do it. It’s a balance, I suppose, like everything. And it’s often necessary. I mean, my 7 and 5 year old clearly can’t be trusted to go off on their own with a sweaty handful of bills and a thirst for entertainment.

But even though I know it was the right one, my reaction on that day and in other situations, both before and after their Treat Yo Self 2016 binge, have me pondering some of the big motherhood questions. Am I standing back enough? Am I promoting independence and a sense of wonder? Am I flapping their hesitant wings with heavy hands, or am I teaching them to fly?

Seeking answers from within your social circle won’t help. Getting together with girlfriends is really just an exercise in self deprecation and unconditional acceptance. We shower our fellow soldiers in the comfort that they are doing the absolute best they can, and then solidify the support by immediately countering with a one-upper of a personal parental failure.

“You guys, I haven’t cooked a meal from scratch in 6 days.”
“That’s OK, I caught Susie eating a used Q-Tip out of the trash Tuesday night.”
“Oh, man … well, at least she’s eating. Henry only eats AirHeads and olive loaf.”
“I say give it to him. At least you’re feeding him. I forgot to make breakfast twice last week. Just plain spaced it.”
“It’s all good! I got mad at the boys for insulting my banana bread with a smiley face made out of chocolate chips in it, so I picked up the whole loaf, took it to my room, locked the door and ate the entire thing while I watched Breaking Bad and pretended to cry.”
“Awwww, you put a smiley face in it? You are such a good mom. I aspire to be the mom who makes food into faces. I was out of stationery this morning, so I wrote Desiree’s teacher a note about her eye drops on the back of a past due notice from the cable company.”
“But you’re communicating. Unlike my husband!”
And so on …
We can stop there.

If we’re really honest, none of us know what the hell we’re doing. And even if we did, sometimes it doesn’t matter anyway because the little shits have these minds of their own. The nerve. We spend all of our time with our kids pushing them and pulling them, and then second-guessing ourselves so we push them again. And then we leave them and spend the whole time dissecting what we did while we were with them. The bottom line is we just care too damn much.

Last weekend, Hank’s mom brought over some old photo albums. I flipped through as she squinted down at the snapshots and recounted old neighborhood buddies, the days they had no money, and injuries. Sooo many injuries. Stitches and staples and gashes galore. “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess because they were boys and because I never went anywhere, and because I left home and got married right away, I was just always like, ‘Go! Try it!’ and they got hurt sometimes. But it all worked out.”

After she left, I thought about how strictly I police the girls sometimes. (Not always. Because sometimes I watch Mad Men and “fold laundry”.) I can hover like a rescue copter with the best of them, just waiting for the signal to drop my ladder. And I love to call out up-to-the-second instructions: “Don’t do that!” “Get down from there!” “You’re going to fall!” “Wait for a grownup!” “Look both ways!” Necessary? Often, yes. Beneficial? Probably not always, no. A little psycho? Perhaps.

But nobody tells you when you’re supposed to cut strings and nudge them out of nests and let go of their hands. I mean, I feel like, unless somebody instructs me or they demand it, my timeline for those initiatives is … never.

I do want to put them out there. I want them to feel like they can own their feelings because they were born from their own decisions. I want them to be bold when something stirs in them. I want them to explore. I want them to take risks. (The push.) But I want them to be safe. I want them to be aware of the possible outcomes. I want to protect their little bodies with traffic guard arms and their hearts with the wisest words. (The pull.)

My conflicting feelings on this matter have never been as palpable as they were this past Saturday morning as JoJo and Spike took to the basketball court. See, Hank thought, in the interest of saving some of our Saturdays, it would be best if we just put both of the girls on the team for first and second graders, even though Spike is in preschool (she is old for her class). The second the game started, my rescue chopper instinct kicked in. My curly haired babe was flailing. She was smaller, weaker and slower. The argument could definitely be made that this was not our finest parenting decision.

But the buzzer rang out at the end of their little game and she was still standing. Crying, because she got hit in the cheek, but still standing. Through with basketball because the kids were running over her too much, but still standing. Disenchanted because it wasn’t like playing P-I-G on the tiny hoop in the basement, but still standing. She was still standing, and she was fine. So why shouldn’t I be? Everyone needs that one story, “Well, my parents didn’t even believe in age groups! They just threw me in with the 10 year olds and left for an hour!” This, I suppose, will be hers.

Had I not walked into that camping store that morning, JoJo would have learned a tough lesson about finances. It just wouldn’t have been from me. But she would have gotten the lesson anyway. (Still, the thought of that is horrifying. “Where are their parents?” asked everyone anywhere watching that situation play out.) They’re going to fall off the bed whether I tell them to stop jumping or not. They’re going to run into each other, and get knocked down and slip off monkey bars. I guess it’s just the deciphering between “that’s where you come in” and “that’s part of life” where it gets muddy for me.

Maybe the balance rests in the letting go. Or maybe, like in Mean Girls, the balance does not exist. Maybe we never really let go because that means our job isn’t as important as we think it is. And I know parenting is important as hell. So, maybe instead, I’ll just concede a few things …

Spelling quizzes and checking their homework folder will be mine.
Tests and final school projects will be theirs.

Pep talks, protection and well-meaning warnings will be mine.
Perseverance and victories will be theirs.

Boo boo kissing, cuddles and words of advice will be mine.
The lessons will be theirs.

(Negotiations are ongoing.)

Thoughts

These three resolutions made the cut

January 5, 2017

Happy New Year, you beautiful souls!

I don’t know what your Christmas looked like, but mine was fantastic, to the tune of a tummy-flattening stomach flu (second time in three weeks), a 103 fever for Spike and 2500 rainbow loom bands scattered across the floor like birthday confetti thanks to Sloppy Joan. Ahhhh, the holidays. A time of sugarplums and pure insanity.

Anyway, you blink and Bam! A brand new year has arrived. Everybody’s so excited to see 2016 go and I’m over here all just like fine with the ways things are. [gulp.] But I’m going to put my big girl pants on, stuff some optimism in my pockets and step boldly into 2017 with my chin up and hope in my heart.

The best part about turning the page? Resolutions. I love ‘em. I do. I typically come in at around eight goals because, you know, I’m desperate for improvement, and I typically hit one or two. Last year I checked off backpacking, trying one new thing a month, and I’d like to think talking less and listening more, but that’s subjective.

This year I got a little … we won’t say less ambitious, we’ll say wiser about resolutions. I hear a lot at work about setting SMART goals. They should be Specific, Measureable, Attainable, Realistic, and Timely/Trackable. Ohhhhhh! That makes so much more sense than saying, for instance, “I want to stop living by a schedule” or “I want to be a better human”.

Also, while I was enjoying some much-needed, stay-in-my-jammies all day time over the holidays, I came across Gabrielle Bernstein’s Facebook Live on goal setting. “Don’t make them negative,” she said. “Put a positive spin on them.” So, instead of saying, “I’m not going to let myself eat crap anymore.” You might say, “I’m going to truly fuel my body.” Find a way to take all the terrible things you need to quit and make them sound pretty. I’m up for it.

So, I see you 2017, and I’m comin’ for ya. Here’s what I’ve got my sights set on …

We’re tackling our fourth Whole30 in this house, and this time, the hope is I can reintroduce every food group but sugar. I have not kept my addiction to sugar a secret and it’s time to say goodbye once and for all (except for birthdays and warm donuts). Parting is such sweet sorrow.

I’d also like to push myself to get stronger. I always look down at a scale, but I’m starting to think scales are stupid. I want to look over at a bicep instead. I want to feel like a badass and have the package to drive the message home. I find the weight room at the gym to be such an intimidating place, filled with men who really, really use the mirrors. I need to get in there in the new year.

I need more of what scares me in my life. For example, Hank surprised me with a trip to see one of my besties in Florida in February and let me tell you a secret … come close … closer … closer … this is going to be really embarrassing for one of us … I have never flown by myself. Yes, I am 34 years old. Yes, I do grownup things like pay bills and buy food to cook it and keep a household of people alive. Yes, I am terrified to fly by myself. But I’m doin’ it! I love the feeling after I do something new and it turns out completely fine and, on top of that, it’s awesome. And most new things are just like that.

I want to use my vacation days for vacation and not just sick kids and furniture deliveries. Americans throw away like 600 million vacation days a year. Let’s all agree that’s just sad. When I think of my happy places, with my happy people and all I’ve yet to experience, I just want to turn in PTO and get going. Twenty years from now a house filled with things won’t mean shit compared to a heart papered in postcards from beaches and mountaintops, signed by my four favorite people (plus me, of course).

About two weeks ago I started on this one. I began unfollowing every major news outlet on Facebook, Twitter and email notifications. No more “Alerts” or “Updates”. I find that the majority of what’s published poisons my spirit, and the pieces I need to know always find me in other ways. Peace, to me, is better than drinking from the fire hose of negativity fed by our popular media outlets. It’s just noise at this point, and everyone wants to shout so their voice can make the ugliness even louder. Well, I don’t.

The second prong in this approach is the adoption of a flow rather than a routine. This one will actually be pretty brutal for me. If we’re buds, you know I live and die by my schedule. Up for the gym by 4:40 a.m., out the door for school and work by 7:16 a.m., lunch at noon, snack at 3 p.m., dinner on the table by 6:30 p.m., kids in bed by 8 p.m., melatonin at 9 p.m., nothing after 10 p.m. It is the fabric of my being. It’s ingrained in me the way Let It Go is ingrained in my children’s vocal cords. But living in a flow might look more like …

4:43 a.m. – I think I’ll sleep in a bit and do yoga at home instead of running at the gym.

Noon – I’m not too hungry yet, maybe I’ll finish up this story and then grab a late bite instead.

7:30 p.m. – It’s bath night but we really should go for a bike ride instead, it’s so beautiful out.

8 p.m. – I feel flustered. I think I’ll meditate for 15 minutes.

No one – and I mean no one – would describe me as a gal who can just roll with what comes, so this one’s my wild card, but I’m optimistic. Maybe sugarfree me will be more malleable, too.

Whatever goals you set for yourself, I hope the next 360 days bring you hope, love and lots of wholehearted contentment.

Kids

Motherhood: Praise-seekers need not apply

December 21, 2016

During my awkward but beautiful NKOTB elementary school years, my family spent a lot of time camping. Biannually, usually spring break and once in the summer, we would take a big trip to Myrtle Beach or some other southern spot with great historic locations my father could hike up his tube socks and take us all to. There were five of us in that travel trailer. Sometimes, it was cozy and could hardly contain our Griswald family contentment. And other times …

People hit each other.

The details have faded as the 20+ summers since this one particular event have passed, but I still recall the bullet points. There were these sunshine yellow melamine dishes tucked away in the cabinets of the trailer. For whatever reason, I loved them. We’d unhitch and level off and my mom would go about her routine; putting groceries away and optimistically teasing the amenities. “Those swings look like they go pretty high guys, I don’t know …”. She would hum the latest Top 40 hit from Genesis. Dad would cuss through the setup outside and go find wood. (He was always finding wood.) But of everything in this waltz we watched a thousand times, there was something about those canary dishes that signaled we were really staying. We were on vacation.

One warm afternoon, after the melamine coffee cups had been washed and the Sunbeam bread used to feed the local ducks was tucked away, my brother came in and took a giant proverbial crap right in the middle of everything.

Back then, Matt hated being with us. He barely spoke and when he did it was to complain about what we were eating or where we were or who was there. It was super obnoxious. My parents were just trying to be memory makers, right? They carted us around to check off the snapshots every family had in their photo album in the 1980s … kids on a beach … kids in front of a roller coaster … kids on a hike. It was never enough for him just to stand in formation, put a smile on his face and pretend to relish the thrilling rides at Dollywood. Oh, no. Not Matt. He had to make his disgust and general dislike for the people who grew him known.

Anyway, on this one warm afternoon, after Matt nudged her and nudged her and nudged her, my mom, the sweet lady who weeped at Casey Kasem’s long distance dedications and introduced me to the Shoney’s breakfast buffet, God bless her … well, she completely lost her shit on my brother. Right there in the camper. Her arms were swinging and sounds were coming out at triple speed and didn’t quite form all the way and my brother’s eyes were wide and wild as he succumb to her fury. He had walked across the limb so many times, and on that day, in the camper of family dreams, the limb snapped.

I watched it. The whole thing. So did my sister. So did my dad. I don’t think any of us took a breath for the entire 56 seconds my mother spent physically and verbally retaliating against her almost-teenage punk of a son before storming out of the trailer in tears. Huh, I thought. I guess Mom went crazy.

Then I grew up, had kids of my own and realized we’re all just one forced fart, recorder recital or “She hit me!” away from crazy.

Being a mother is a thankless, soul-sucking, humbling, disgusting, exhausting occupation. I used to imagine my mom pulled everything out of her ass. I needed something for a school project, she got it. I was sick and wanted saltines with peanut butter, she made them. I wanted to try gymnastics, she signed me up. She drove me. She watched me. It all just got done. I never thought about why she needed to take a hot bath and pound peanut M&Ms by 9 o’clock every night. I just never considered it.

And neither do my kids.

I babysat for my niece one summer break during college. She had this little car she could ride on. It had mermaids and fish all over it and sang this stupid song … “I’m a happy mermaid, down in the sea – something, something, something – and dance with me.” She used to scoot around on that thing pressing the button on the steering wheel every 2 seconds. So to my tired ears, it was just, “I’m a, I’m a, I’m a, I’m a …” for minutes on end. The funny thing was, she loved the end of the song. Whenever she got distracted and made it to “… and dance with me,” she laughed with joy. And then she’d go back to pressing the button with the hope of hearing it in its entirety. Of course her rapid trigger finger meant, “I’m a, I’m a, I’m a, I’m a, I’m a ….” The insanity! But now, I am that mermaid car. I am the button on the other end of a child’s fingertip – constantly trying to get it all out, to get to the end, to the point.

The number of times I repeat myself in a day can clock in at no less than 900.

“Get dressed, please … Get dressed, please … Get dressed, please.”
“Eat your breakfast, please … Eat your breakfast, please … Eat your breakfast!”
“Get your coat on, please … Get your coat on, please … Get your coat on, please.”
“Tie your shoes, please … Tie your shoes … Tie your shoes, please.”
“Come on, please … Come on … Come on.”
“Eat your dinner, please … Eat your dinner, please.”
“”Stop jumping off the couch, please …”
“Clean your room, please …”
“Brush your teeth, please …”
“Go to timeout, please …”
“Get in bed, please …”
“Stop talking and go to bed, please ….”
“Go to bed!”

No one hears me. At some point between when they exited the womb and they started using more than 3 words together at a time, my voice was tragically muted. I know, and you dear reader likely know, that if I don’t move the circus along, no one gets where they need to go. No one gets to the bus stop on time and I get yelled at for chasing it down a few stops away. No one feeds the dog and she dies. No one gets their library books and the teacher sends a scathing note home. I’m just trying to help! “I’m a, I’m a, I’m a, I’m a …”

And yet, the gratitude tank runs dry most days. Living in a home with young children means you better be prepared for prison rules, man. Because only your child would take a giant deuce in the middle of the dinner you spent 3 hours making. And then tell you they hate what you made anyway. Only your child would rub her hard moss-colored boogers against the only white shirt you own. Only your child would headbutt you when you’re trying to kiss them, or kick your nose during a friendly tickle or pee on your bath rug or vomit in your hair on your 30th birthday (that really happened). Kids are cruel. They don’t know and they don’t care, and when they do know, they still don’t care.

You have to go into it knowing you won’t collect on those gratitude IOUs they’re leaving all over the tubs they’re pooping in and rooms they’re trashing for at least another 18 years. And that might be ambitious. And you aren’t really allowed to care. You’re expected to be durable and flexible and resilient. You’re expected to be both Betty Draper (in the early seasons) and Sheryl Sandberg, depending on the scenario, and settle for a fart vapor’s worth of appreciation for both social archetypes.

I’ve spent hours planning my menu on Pinterest only to have Sloppy Joan turn her plate over and throw it across the table more times than I care to share. I’ve had chicks climb into my Epsom salts detox bath because they were cold and it looked fun. I’ve walked in to find every item of clothing from the bottom bar of the closet ripped off the hangers and thrown around the room just minutes after I finished putting them away. I’ve had more little people watch me poop than a pony at a county fair.

But we love them.

Sometimes it looks like rocking ourselves in a corner with drool streaming out of ours turned down mouths, but we love them.

It’s an abusive love. Like the way people with ulcers love flaming hot Cheetos. We love their toots and boogers and ridiculous requests and come back for more day after day after day. We plot our escapes and then crave their sticky, sweaty, vaguely pissy scent the second we drop them off.

Being a mother is thankless 23 hours out of every day. But man … they really reel ya in during those 60 minutes when it really counts, huh?

It’s rarely with words. Though sometimes it is sweet, silly, wonderful words I reach into the air, grab and write down somewhere to relive later. But more often it’s a little warm body climbing into my lap while I’m distracted with another conversation. Or a drawing that comes back in a folder from school with stick figures holding hands, the taller one labeled “Mama”. Or a cheerleader. Or an impersonation. Or a cry in the middle of the night. It makes me feel needed and seen and responsible. Yes, it’s a thankless job. It isn’t for the weak or the praise-hungry. The pay is shit. But if you play your cards right and keep your eyes and ears open, the benefits can be pretty sweet.

Kids

Little JoJo and the case of the first grade burdens

November 21, 2016

We’re working through something in our house right now … or, rather, something is working its way through us in our house. I’m not sure which way it’s going to be honest.

When you have kids, girls in particular, you anticipate some emotional ebbs and flows. I mean, think back to those tumultuous times. You get out first in ciphering. The teacher busts you passing a note about needing to poop. You get Danny from New Kids on the Block as your future husband in MASH. You want to play ninjas and your friends are all about house. Your pants split up the butt. Someone points out you’re digging out your wedgie. Those early (and late) school years are a social minefield and you’re just trying not to get blown up every day. True to the timeline, it seems our oldest chick has hit a valley and to be completely transparent, we’re not quite sure how to pull her out.

A few weeks back, on my birthday, JoJo invited me to her school. “I want to buy you lunch, mama!” she offered through that delicious, jack-o-lantern grin. How could I turn down chicken fries and refried beans charged to a card my 7 year old routinely exhausts with bags of Doritos and impulse cookies? I moved a meeting and accepted her invitation.

Now, I try really hard to be the cool mom. Because, you know, I’m guessing it beats the alternative. So, at 11 o’clock sharp on a Tuesday morning, I wedged my old woman butt onto the sticky, minuscule little stool next to my daughter and started working the lunch table.

“Hey Madison! What’s new girl?”
“You’re JoJo’s mom, right?”
“Ahhhh … yeah! Remember, I was at the Valentine’s Day party? With the fruit kabobs and M&Ms.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Yeah, so, what’s the word? What’s happening in the first grade these days?”
“Well, we’re learning about the water cycle.”
“Whaaaaaa?!?!?!”
“Yeah, you know, condensation, evaporation, runoff …”
“Whoa. That is so cool.”
“I guess.”
“And Mary … is that you? How are you ya little cutie?”
“Hi.”
“Mary, did you get a lot of Halloween candy? JoJo said she saw you trick-or-treating.”
“I did! Like, a lot.”
“Oh man. What’s your favorite kind?”
“Kit Kat. Duh.”
“Yum, I love Kit Kats. So, do you live in our neighborhood then?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, fun! We’ll have to have you over to play sometime.”
“Yeah, but I can’t Friday. Missy’s having her sleepover Friday.”
“Missy is?”
“Yeah … all the girls are going I think.”

But all the girls were not going. Because my little girl was not going. I knew this because she runs all of her social engagements through me first and there had been no Elsa invitation sealed with a sticker. No call from a mother. No, “Can I, Mom, can I? Please, please, please.” None of that.

In these situations, there are always two navigation options. The high road, which looks something like:

“Oh gosh, Mary, that sounds so awesome. We hope you girls have a great time at Missy’s and we’ll find a day to have you all over soon.”

Or the gutter, which is more of a:

“Oh. Really? Well, Missy’s house smells like cat urine and she’s only allowed to have sugar between the hours of 1 and 3pm. So have fun with your lame little sleepover. I hope someone sticks her hand in a bowl of lukewarm water and she gets a terrible new nickname, like ‘Pissy’ or something even more terrible. We’ll be watching Kidz Bop Live on repeat and hittin’ Reddi-Wip straight outta the can at our crib, sucka, so, smell ya on the other side.”

But that is just so, so ugly. And I’m really trying to counterbalance some of the ugly in the world right now.

Not to mention I think the sleepover was really a minor symptom of a much bigger problem. Hank and I had started noticing some changes in our JoJo well before my birthday lunch. A shorter temper, angrier reactions, more emotional than usual (if one can fathom that), not wanting to go to school. Do I think that Pissy and her party were the sole catalysts for these changes? Nah. But I think there’s a piece to the puzzle there.

Looking at my oldest daughter is like picking up large fragments of a shattered mirror. Not all, but so many of her mannerisms are identical to my own. Perfectionism? Ah, there I am. Trying too hard to please everyone? I see you, Courtney. She carries these pieces of me deep inside her, so I recognize them right away. She worries … my God does she worry. She holds herself to an unattainable standard and it levels her when she doesn’t reach it. If she isn’t winning it all, she’s losing completely. She is her toughest critic. If people don’t adopt her approach, she disengages. Over the years I’ve learned to curb some of my self-sabotaging habits, but my little girl is so far from recognizing her struggles as struggles. She just straps them on her tiny back and sinks.

Birth order is a funny thing. People always say, “Typical first child,” and for the longest time, I thought that was crap. (Spoken like a true youngest child.) But now I’m not sure. When you’re first in line, followed by a class clown who always gets the laugh, and an adorable little parrot, it has to bring a lot of pressure.

I agonize over helping JoJo find her place. She is a wonderful student, and learning, to this point, has come fairly easily for her. But that brings its own set of challenges. She looks at things differently. She over thinks and inflicts a lot of self punishment. She spends an exhausting amount of time and energy dwelling on defeat, large and small. I wonder if she’s hopping around in my footprints. If I’m unintentionally showing her how to slide right into that all-or-nothing straight jacket and tighten the straps.

Hi, my name is Courtney, and I need help being a parent.

As I age and grow as a wife, mother and temporary inhabitant of this world, I’m finding that when you are open to learn, you discover great teachers everywhere. I had plans to attend a mindfulness workshop with my brother a few nights ago and one of the participants, who’d attended the class before, mentioned that she keeps a soft stuffed animal with her in her car. Whenever she starts to get “too in her thinking mind” (translation: close to losing her shit) she reaches over and touches the soft dog. This brings her to her senses, literally – touch, taste, smell, sound, sight – and away from that trail of toxic thought. It’s a mini mediation. It brings calm.

Inspired, I went home that night and grabbed a small emoji pillow JoJo had won in a claw game. (Sidenote: Can they just eliminate all of the gosh dang claw games in all of the gosh dang restaurants and waiting areas already? Can that be a universal agreement? No, I don’t have any quarters. There are no. more. quarters.) I sat my girl down and explained to her that I wanted her to carry the pillow with her. When she felt herself inching toward yelling or pouting or losing her temper, she should rub her thumbs back and forth on the winky face and think about what it feels like. Is it soft? Is it cold? And what it looks like. Is it yellow? Are the threads coming undone? The idea is to diffuse her neurological nuclear attacks. To bring her calm through sensory awareness.

[Experiment update to come at a future date.]

It’s so simple to disassemble and assess myself. What’s working. What isn’t. What takes me off track. What stirs things up for me. But with my kids, it’s like a constant A/B test. In Marketing, it’s common practice to pit two similar strategies in design, messaging, etc. against each other and compare the results. The approach that performs better is the lever you pull going forward. There’s so much of that in parenting, except it isn’t just Choice A and Choice B. There can be hundreds of choices to test. Hundreds of strategies to try.

Is she sad because she didn’t ace her test? I need to help her fix the one she got wrong so she feels it’s complete. Or maybe I should try explaining it a different way. Whatever, she has to get over this perfection thing.

Did the girls in class leave her out? I need to have someone over for a playdate. I need to talk to the teacher. No, I need to tell her about how little girls were mean to me when I was little. I should get her a diary.

Are the other two getting too much attention? I need to take her on a mommy date. Or maybe help her find a hobby she likes. I should have let her bake those dang brownies from scratch. I need to celebrate her more.

It’s taxing trying to be the fixer.

And so maybe we shouldn’t. In “Daring Greatly: How the Courage to be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead,” Brené Brown talks about how hope is actually a byproduct of adversity. If we swoop in and try to work through things for our children, or find ways to numb the discomfort for them so they never have to feel it, we are taking away some degree of pain, yes, but we’re also robbing them of those earned feelings of hopefulness and optimism.

Not to mention sometimes I think that all that mopping up messes and bandaging bad experiences gets to me. Like I sponge up all of the ugly and sad, only to have it eventually erupt out of me and all over them after a particularly long day.

Then, the other morning, the biggest Brené gift yet was placed in my lap with a generous red bow. So I opened it. Christmas come early! After surviving a stupid morning triggered by a 2-hour fog delay, I raced to put JoJo on the bus. As I finally watched her hesitantly shuffle across the street to the big yellow bird, which would carry her to the battlefield to face problems I’ll never see and can only hypothesize about resolving, I hit play on my audiobook and listened as the narrator read Brené’s Wholehearted Parenting Manifesto.The smooth voice filled my car …

And the game changed.

I don’t care what stage of parenting you’re in. What problems your children have, or you have, or this world has, those words are a beautiful, soul-shaking truth bomb. I will print them out and hang them in my closet, in my office and on my fridge. They are the ticket. They are the door, the bridge, the gospel. I want to have them tattooed onto my crowded, burdened brain.

I can not wipe my daughter’s struggles clean. Whatever she’s working through now, it won’t be the last time she has to sort through things to find her balance and her bearings. My fear and worries and apprehension and anger won’t absolve her of adversity. But I can hold onto the hope that letting her work through whatever she’s facing now, knowing I’m standing right at her shoulder, will carry her one step closer to being a capable little warrior of this world.

I will pull up a chair at her table. I will curl up next to her in her bed after the battle. I will let her snot and sob on my sweater. I will hand her a small emoji pillow or a tissue or a baseball bat (whoa, just kidding there). I will do my best to be strong, confident and vulnerable in all the best ways, so maybe she feels empowered to do the same. I will show up for her when the Pissys of the world don’t. And I will work toward being wholehearted and kind to myself so her sweet, impressionable little ticker starts to fill up, too.

(Unless anybody has any better ideas. In which case, private message me immediately.)

Some Kinda Superwoman

Some kinda Superwoman: Ashlie

September 13, 2016

I started this blog more than 2 years ago with a narrow vision and fingers full of sarcasm. I wanted to document our lives and share my musings on everything from raising strong babies to the Bachelor to books I believe can change the wiring in your brain. But as the posts have gone up and with them, the readership, I naturally started daydreaming about this being more. It’s a modest platform in a sea of similar platforms, but this one is different, because this one is mine. And I can do with it what I want. And what I want is to tell other people’s stories on here, too. Last week, I said I pursued a career in journalism because I love finding and telling stories. My life is beautiful, but it is small in comparison to the life I can discover by listening to other amazing women. Other women struggle. Other women conquer. Other women blaze trails and let their hearts bleed for the less fortunate. Telling their stories makes me stronger, better, more alive. So, naturally I believe that reading them can do the same for you.

The first Superwoman to step up and volunteer her story is, without a doubt, one of my ride-or-dies as Shonda Rhimes would say. This girl and I have been through some things. We’ve seen some things. She stood next to me on my wedding day and caught my tears on her shoulder on more than one occasion. For the past several years, I have watched her walk a path of heartbreak and self discovery. She has bravely navigated a series of joyful highs and unthinkable lows on her journey to motherhood. Even as a dear friend I never knew exactly how she felt until I read the words you’re about to read. They stopped my heart. I saw a clip from Super Soul Sunday last night where Gabrielle Bernstein told Oprah that the messages we need to receive find us when we’re open to them. I hope this one finds the people who need it most.

*******

Hi Superwoman seekers! Let me start by saying that I am humbled I was asked to write this. I was grateful to be given the platform to speak on these topics that have so significantly altered my life … but also felt a lot of pressure to make even a small impact for the vulnerable children in the world. I immediately prayed for the right words – and a lot of words came. All that to say, this post is long. Sorry, I’m not sorry. The path to my happy little life took a while. And so did writing this. Please do contact me via the comments below or email (ashliehartgraves@gmail.com) if you have any questions. I’m more than happy to help Courtney’s readers out. (Isn’t she the best?!)

The infertility and loss part.
Every family has a story. Some people get married and bam! Three years later they have two healthy children – one boy and one girl, of course – a goldendoodle and a minivan. While this familiar foursome likely drove about 5 miles to the hospital down the road to bring home their little bundles of joy, some people go further. Like 21,186 miles further. And that’s after 5+ years of marriage. As you can guess, my scenario was the latter. I did get the goldendoodle though. And right away.

After many months of not seeing double lines on the ol’ pee stick, my husband and I learned that I apparently am not so fertile.

Infertility is such a turd. Close your eyes for a second and imagine it’s March, and you’re stressed at work, and all you want to do is sit on a beach and have someone bring you shrimp cocktail and margaritas. But you don’t have any vacation days. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, everyone on your Facebook feed seems to be on spring break with frozen concoctions in hand, and you start to get jealous, which is out of character for you, and then you get angry and, before you know it, you can’t think about anything but sand in your toes and limey-salted-tequila-goodness in your belly because everywhere you look, everyone is partaking. And then say someone, with no ill-intention, posted a photo of them on a white sand patch of paradise with the caption, “Would be better if it were just a few degrees warmer,” and you want to jump into the picture, Mary Poppins style, and steal their vacation because they aren’t appreciating it to the degree you would? Yeah. Infertility is kind of like that. Only way worse.

I’ve blocked out a lot of the infertility process because it was long and physically and emotionally painful. The burden became too much to bear. We did nearly three years of it. We did multiple IUIs. I often had an arsenal of medications that I had to poke myself with (mostly in the gut and butt). For me, infertility meant scheduling my every move around when the eggs would be hatching. It is a terrible and paralyzing way to live.

Finally we decided nothing was working and it was time to pull out the big guns: In Vitro Fertilization. I remember praying, “Lord, if this pregnancy will go poorly at all with IVF, please do not let me get pregnant. My heart can’t handle a loss like that.” (<-- That is what they call foreshadowing.)

A few weeks after the transfer I was in so much pain that I almost went to the ER, but instead paged our fertility doctor. He thought I was overstimulated. We did some Googling and realized that likely meant I was pregnant. He told us to come in first thing in the morning for a blood test. They called and a voice on the other line said, “Ashlie, I have good news … You’re pregnant!” I fell to the floor crying. I never thought I would hear those words.

Finally.

It hurt to breathe and I could hardly move, but I didn’t give a rip. I was pregnant!

I am a woman of faith. Before these moments, I did the routine church on Sundays and Bible study with some girls on Mondays. God was there. But I didn’t need Him all the time. And then we started having complications. You know, the “This is rare, it doesn’t usually happen” kind. I spent my 30th birthday in the hospital, slanted at a 45-degree angle with a catheter and a magnesium drip. I would say I’m predisposed to be a positive person, but at that moment, I wasn’t. I was angry and uncomfortable. I was released and put on strict bedrest. I was allowed to get up to pee and that was about it. I could shower but I had to get a shower stool. I had just turned 30 and got a shower stool for my birthday. Awesome.

I’m not sure how to get through this next part.

I can talk about all the details for days and I often relive them in my mind, but, for the sake of not getting too deep with strangers, I will just say this … After nearly 2 months of bedrest, my body couldn’t hang onto the pregnancy anymore. I gave birth to our son, Jacob, on June 22, 2013. I was 23 weeks and 1 day pregnant. I couldn’t believe I was in the hospital, holding my son whom I knew we wouldn’t be bringing home. We held him for two hours before he was swept off to heaven. He was beautiful and he is loved. He is thought of every. single. day.

I know. Life is hard, eh? Those few days in the hospital were like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. Even though I didn’t feel like I needed Him (God) a whole lot previously, and it was a very one-sided relationship, God was there. He showed up on my darkest day. I was held by Him as I was holding my child that would not be placed in his new crib in his freshly painted room. He gave us strength and wisdom to make some really tough choices we faced in the scariest moments of our lives.

But the question remained, how could this have happened? I thought we had an agreement. I told God to prevent this exact scenario. I prayed constantly. I was scared every second of every day, but I still prayed. We had faith. My heart was not just broken, it was shattered. Shattered to what I thought might be beyond repair. But God is able.

After I gave birth, I knew I had a couple of choices: I could get mad and turn from church for awhile. (To be honest, I feel like that would have been completely justified.) Or, I could give myself the grace to grieve and let God do what he does best: Take something broken and make something ridiculously radical out of it. I didn’t know what that would be, but I didn’t want to live a moment without God. People always incorrectly say that He doesn’t give you more than you can handle. False. I couldn’t have handled this. I needed Him by my side to dredge through this pain. I also didn’t want to be a fraud; This Christian woman who spent her whole life going to church (with the exception of a hiatus in my college days) who at the first sign of a tribulation, went running from the only source of redemptive healing.

We took some time. My husband and I took a vacation. We grieved and we processed. Our emotions were so frantic and varied, but we were anchored by a shared belief that God had something more in store for us. I had some pretty rough days mixed in there. I felt like I had a scarlet red stamp that said “Broken” on my forehead. I felt like people looked at me different because I was different.

Slowly, I learned to accept the new me, with my new story, and trust in God’s plan for something(s) more. I was meant to be a Mama.

The big decision.
We began fertility treatments again, but they went haywire and failed, and when we discussed circling the wagons once more, I knew I couldn’t do it. I was so done. My husband was done, too. So I called my fertility doctor, whom we’d seen multiple times a month for nearly 3 years, and I said, “Hi. I’m going to be canceling my appointments. We’re adopting.”

And that was that. We picked an agency (MLJ Adoptions out of Indianapolis) and we picked our country (Bulgaria) and we started pounding the paperwork.

The adoption process.
This process is no joke. I have been fingerprinted in Ink no less than 5 times. I’ve been fingerprinted electronically 3 or 4 times. I’ve had background checks by every county and state I’ve lived in since I was 18 and also 2 or 3 fingerprints and background checks by the FBI. I’m clean.

When it came time for our home study, I told myself I wouldn’t stress. But I am a liar. I cleaned my house top to bottom. We filled those walls with fire extinguishers and smoke detectors and carbon monoxide detectors. We gave information on our income, tax info, investments, debts, life insurances, wills and all that fun stuff. We were questioned in our home for 4+ hours. We were questioned on our parenting style (which was hard since we didn’t technically have a parenting style). We were asked about every bad/good thing we’d ever done. We were asked about how we wanted to raise our future kids, how we argue, how we would discipline the children. Just so much stuff. We supplied tax records, insurance records, medical records, dog records.

Then, once our home study was approved, we started working on our dossier, which is a document that consists of the approved home study and a bunch of other information that you send to the country in which you’re trying to adopt. We had to have approvals by the USCIS to even begin the process overseas. Then we sent our dossier over and a couple months later it was registered, which meant we were on the list about 2 months after they received it.

There was one big decision we had to make right before sending in a paperwork update. We needed to decide if we wanted to elect to adopt 1 or 2 children, or 2 children exclusively. I prayed for a sign. I didn’t make this next part up, I swear. One night after dinner, we took a detour so my husband could look at a truck. On our way we got behind a minivan and Tom said, “Look at that!” The minivan had a vanity plate that read: “ADOPT2”. So, we decided to do just that.

Then we waited.

The wait.
This wait is a wait only someone who has experienced it can understand. Basically, you’re a mom. Only you have no idea who your kids are yet. You love them dearly, but don’t know who they are. You think about them. You wonder if they were fed enough that day. If they were hugged enough that day. If they smiled enough that day. If they are sick, is someone bringing them soup and giving extra snuggles? You ache for them because they aren’t home yet, but you have no idea who they are. It’s a bizarre feeling. You want so bad to start nesting, but you have no idea what gender or age they are. So you just sit and wait.

And then one day, your agency calls and you know they don’t call unless it’s THE call. And you finally know who your kids are. You see their faces; Their 18-month-old and 4-and-a-half-year-old sweet little perfect faces. You read the little info you have on them multiple times over because that’s all you have. At the end of the week you get an email telling you that these are the dates you’re flying out to meet them and to book your tickets. This all happens so quickly you have zero time to process before you’re packing your bags and preparing gifts for caretakers, social workers and translators … and, of course, your children!

The scenic route.
Every country is different, but in Bulgaria you travel twice. The first trip is to meet your kid(s) and the second is to bring them home. In case you haven’t thought through this, it means you go there and meet your kids for a week (great) and then you leave them there (not-so great). My stomach just dropped again reliving it in my mind. The only thing that made this bearable, was the fact that our kids were both well cared for. There are some orphanages where it’s not that way. Children can be extremely malnourished and neglected. I don’t want to go into too much detail about our kids and their stories (because they are their personal stories to tell), but our son was in an orphanage. No orphanage is a good enough substitute for a loving family; however, if he had to be in an orphanage, his was pretty great. Our daughter was with a foster grandma who was absolutely amazing through this whole process.

We returned from our first trip on July 4, 2015. We would not return back to the States with our kids until October 30 that same year. In that time we had Adoption Showers to help us prepare (you need a lot of stuff for 2 genders and 2 age groups!) and we did a lot of shopping and painting and prepping. The wait between trips was the hardest thing. It was excruciating, actually. But, we tried to stay busy. We did get to Skype with our daughter every Saturday. Our very last Skype call was from the IND airport, when we said, “We’re on our way!”

These little characters.
Our son is simply one-of-a-kind. He turned 2 just 2 weeks after being home. We were so thankful he only had to spend one birthday without us. The kid is crazy funny. He’s wild. He’s always getting hurt, always into something. Loves snacks about as much as he loves Mickey Mouse and music. He’s got these big brown eyes and eyelashes that make his mama jealous, and an adorable smile with a dimple. I’ve never seen a 2 year old with so much swagger. He was well-known at his Child’s Day Out Preschool within a couple of weeks. He walks into any situation like he owns the place. He’s a total ham and is full of confidence.

He’s not the kid we met on our first trip to Bulgaria.

The kid we met in Bulgaria on our first trip was completely different. That little boy was fearful of life and people. He only giggled a few times the entire week we were there. Sometimes he’d smirk or smile. He didn’t really dance or play much without being prompted.

When we first brought him home, he didn’t know how to hug or kiss. He didn’t know that we were his people for life. He didn’t know what a Mom or Dad was. The change was pretty immediate. This boy broke out of this orphanage like Andy Dufresne, and he never looked back.

Seeing the change a family brought to our son’s life has been one of my greatest joys. It has made the 3+ years of infertility, the 2 years of the adoption process and the mounds of paperwork worth it all. He plunges at us with open arms for hugs and plants big wet kisses (because he knows what a kiss is now). He has grown probably 6” in less than a year. They say that love from a family and some extra grub, cause children to shoot up once they are adopted. He’s so happy and healthy and growing so much in every way possible.

Our daughter, well, she’s the bravest person I know. She was fluent in Bulgarian. Left her foster grandma and every single thing familiar to her. Her beautiful country and town that was beautifully carved into the side of a mountain. Her bed. Her toys and her best friends. One day she woke up and got on a plane with two nearly-strangers and she came to America. Everything in her world was completely different.

She is such a little rockstar. The courage it takes to do all of that was nestled somewhere in the tiniest little 5-year-old. She started preschool without knowing a language. She couldn’t talk about her feelings to anyone because we couldn’t speak Bulgarian and she couldn’t speak English. I can’t imagine how frustrating that has been for her to be completely unable to process or have helpful words of wisdom from your Mommy in one of the biggest life events she will ever have. She also started kindergarten this year. I didn’t want to let her get on that bus, but she was so excited. So I had to.

I’ve never witnessed a more empathetic 5 year old. She genuinely hurts when others hurt. She prays for people I mention that she has never even met. She’s such a good big sister. Our little guy is quite demanding, and she shares everything with a smile. I have actually had to stop her from sharing and caving into little dude’s “I wants!” because he can’t go around thinking he gets everything if he whines. If you bump your head, she’s diving for the Doc McStuffins ice pack and before you can even tell her you’re okay that cold boo boo bag is plastered on your face.

There are things that I do not take for granted as a mom. One day I thought our son said “Mama, I want a samich (sandwich),” and I responded with, “We’ll be eating soon,” or something, and he said “No. Mama. I said I wuv you soooo much!” I cried. It was the first time he said he loved me unprompted, without me saying it first. And he even added in a soooo much to it. I will never think of a sandwich in the same way again.

Our daughter told me just the other day that she was sad while she was in Bulgaria because she wanted Mommy and Daddy. She said she kept looking for an airplane but she didn’t see one. We met her and then had to leave to not return for about four months. And in that time she searched for us and wanted us to bring her home. The weight of those words rolling off of my little girl’s tongue broke me. I hope she knows or grows to understand that I would have picked her up from day one if I could have.

We all have adjusted well, considering the loads of adjusting that needed to take place. My husband and I have not had children in our home before. All of a sudden we were parents to a 5 and a 2 year old. Go ahead and try to figure out how to raise them. Oh, and PS, you can’t discipline them very well because you can’t speak to each other. Okay. Cool. This should work well.

I’d had a lot of time to think about the kind of mom I was going to be. I was going to be amazing at it. I was going to have tons of patience and do a Pinterest craft a day. Turns out, I wasn’t very good at the mom thing at first. I’m not the best now, but I’ve come a long way. There have been many times where I wasn’t the best version of my mama self. It’s hard. We were learning how to be a Mom and Dad. They were learning how to be in a family. It takes time, lots of patience and loads of grace.

What I want people to know about adoption
1) I want people to know that adoption was never a plan B for us.
Our kids were always meant to be ours. Always. I have prayed for them for so long before I even knew them. Life just took us on a wild ride to get the kiddos that were always supposed to be in our home, home. We’ll call it the scenic route. We were always supposed to adopt them from Bulgaria. As tough as it is to admit, our son Jacob’s life was not intended to be lived in our home. I don’t know why that is, and it is still painful at times, but that is how it was always supposed to work out. Those two little giggling Bulgarian-Americans were without a doubt, born to be in our family. They had a rough start being without a family and we had a tough go at trying to start a family ourselves.

2) Being an adoptive family isn’t always easy, but it’s also the most fulfilling thing you will ever do.
A hard thing for me to realize is how much we have missed out on by not having them with us from birth. When I think of them living the orphanage life, it wrecks my soul. All the days they spent without us make me yearn for those days back. I try to push those thoughts out of my head. While I said his orphanage was decent, he still lived in a room lined with toddler beds. He didn’t have anything to call “his” since everything was communal. While our daughter lived with a wonderful foster grandma, she still wondered where her mom was and why other kids had a mom and dad, but not her. She asked her foster grandma just before we met her if her “new mommy was going to love her?” YES. A thousand times yes. I loved you without knowing who you were yet, my sweet girl! Hurts me so bad that her little mind had even thought of asking that question. One of my biggest prayers was that God would tell their little hearts that we were coming for them. That their mom and dad were on their way. I still didn’t know who they were yet when I prayed that, but I prayed it from the start.

Wise friends of ours told us at the beginning of our process that people will look at you with a microscope because adoption isn’t all that common. Boy were they right! We are not all the same color and people quite often stare. A lot. People are so curious they can’t contain themselves and often assume that they can ask us any question they want, often in a not-so -tactful way. Please remember, that they are “real” brother and sister, we are their “real” parents and we are a “real” family. I get being curious, but perhaps when you see a potential adoptive family, don’t ask things when the kids are present.

The language barrier is extremely difficult. There were lots of tantrums and frustration (parental tantrums and kid tantrums both) from not being able to understand each other. The word for “give me” in Bulgarian is pronounced like “die” Think about how many times while walking in a store your two-year-old wants something. They’re yelling, “Mama, die!” and I’m just rolling my cart like no big deal.

One of my biggest struggles is this: Sometimes I look at my children in awe after they do something so silly/sweet and my heart flutters because I just love them so. I become flooded with gratefulness that I get to be called “Mommy” by these two beautiful children of ours. But then I remember, in order for them to be my children, they had to go through a loss. They were once orphaned and had nobody to call their family. I struggle with that. I wish with every ounce of me they never had to have those traumatic events happen in their little lives — but if they didn’t happen, I wouldn’t be their mom. It’s a bittersweet realization really. They had to lose everything so we could gain everything. That’s a tough one to swallow.

Our lives are so full of joy from our children. I love when they bicker like siblings. I love when they giggle so hard that they put their hands over their faces. I love when we snuggle. I love when they use the wrong English word, like “Look mama, snack!” when they really mean, “snow” (hey, English is hard). I love when they conquer and learn. I absolutely love being here for some of their firsts. And I love that they get that we are theirs. They know what a family is now and we are blessed enough to be a part of theirs forever.

Lucky?
People often say (and it’s very awkward) that we are such great people for adopting and our kids are so lucky. Truth be told, I’m pretty darn average. There is nothing special or extraordinary about me. It doesn’t take a saint (or a superwoman) to adopt a child. It takes a person/couple who have a void in their family photo and some love to give. And some funds. Because well, gymnastic sessions, animal crackers and college aren’t going to pay for themselves (especially since Bernie is out of the race).

Hear this: My children are not the lucky ones. We are. They were born into circumstances beyond their control. They did not initially have a voice or a special person. They left everything and gave up everything they ever knew to be a part of our family. Are they happy? 100% yes. But we are the lucky ones. Our children are healing wounds from our infertility battle and losing our Jacob that we weren’t even aware we still had. God took our broken hearts and our tears and wove them back together with these incredible children from across the ocean and now we are a family. Forever. And just like that, there are two less orphans in the world.

What can you do?
Did you know there is a bit of an orphan crisis out there?

· Every 18 seconds a child becomes an orphan.
· If all orphans were a nation, they’d be the 10th most populous nation in the world.
· If only 7% of the 2 billion Christians each cared for one orphan, the orphan crisis would be ended.

When I started this process I was so naive; Ignorant to the fact that even in Europe, there are orphans who die from malnutrition. Have you seen an 8 year old weigh less than 20 pounds? It’s heartbreaking. There are children who do not get out of their cribs all day long. Their referral photo, the one that is sent to a prospective parent, was taken through the crib railings because they didn’t bother to even get the child out of the crib for a photo.

The Bible calls us all to care for the orphans and widows, the vulnerable. That does not mean that everyone should adopt, but everyone should help in some capacity.

You can first pray for vulnerable children across the world who have no voice. Literally. Did you know that sometimes, the baby room in an institution is quiet because the babies have lost their cries? Nobody came when they cried so, eventually, they just stopped. Be their voice.

You can go to Orphan Sunday at one of your local churches to figure out how you can help on a local/global level. Showhope.org also has great information on how to get involved.

If you’ve ever debated adoption but were too afraid to go for it, I say shut up and do it. Do not let finances or fear stop you from such great joy. There are grants, fundraising and tax deductions out there, and it isn’t all due at once. You get to chisel away at the fees until you get the referral. Then you can go ahead and get that checkbook out because from referral to home that money really flies (literally. Flights are pricey!).

I spent a lot of years trying to simply be content. I have always appreciated and loved this blessed life I have been given. My husband is one of the greats and we have always been so happy, but have also felt like someone(s) was missing from our family. I am overjoyed to proclaim my heart officially content and full. The extra bedrooms that sat empty for so long are now full, too. I don’t feel like anyone is missing from our family photo. Arriving at this place of just being for a moment is momentous. It’s emotionally freeing. If you’re searching for your own route to a content and happy place, I pray you find it. Consider looking where you wouldn’t expect it. Like say, across an ocean. Don’t let fear stop you.

Happy seeking!
-Ashlie

Mindfulness

Drop the damn bananas

July 21, 2016

What if I just let go?
What if I dropped all the weight, right here, right now?
What if I managed to slip away?

Like the majority of my fellow estimated 152 million bloggers pounding the keys somewhere in the world right now, this particular platform is not my primary source of income. [I’ll pause here so you can recover from that shock. We good? OK.] Yes, I have an honest-to-goodness 9-to-5 job in the corporate world. You know, the one. Where women wear smart skirt suits with white tennis shoes and everyone keeps a carpal tunnel brace in their top drawer for days when it’s damp outside. This is just my side gig. My alter ego.

One of the perks of my big girl job is that I get to do a lot of writing and a lot of editing. One of my favorite people to work with is my main man Dr. Dave. You know that dance you do when engaging in a conversation with a hyper-intelligent human being … When you nod on the outside and say things like, “How interesting,” and “Huh. Really?” but inside your brain is like an Amazing Race contestant frantically trying to put the puzzle together? But then, like Steve drawing the final hint on Blue’s Clues (I will never acknowledge Joe), it’s all there. Bam! You get it. And it’s genius. Life-altering even. It’s the type of exchange that’s worth the work because the thought changes you. It expands and alters the makeup of your brain. That’s my entire relationship reading and listening to Dr. Dave. The guy has this gift for inspiring and shaking cores and soothing souls. Sometimes he takes a straight path to deliver his message, but often he invites you along on a series of unexpected U-turns and gravel paths before delivering you to the promise land. To the epiphany. Yeah … he’s one of those people.

Recently, Dr. Dave shared one of his favorite metaphors. It seems that some time ago, in a small village in India, there was an obnoxious monkey population. The primates were so numerous, in fact, the townspeople decided to round them all up and take them to a lovely little monkey farm in the country somewhere, where they would have a better life and live out the rest of their monkey days. To catch them, the people would place a bunch of bananas inside an upside-down bamboo cage with fairly narrow bars. The animals would approach the cage, see the fruit, reach in and grab the banana. With their hands clenched tightly around the fruit, the monkeys couldn’t remove their arm from the cage. The harder and longer they would try, the louder their screams would get. This attracted more curious monkeys who would repeat the same imprisoning process. And thus the animals were had.

Of course the monkeys could have escaped easily if they would have just let go of the fruit. If they’d just drop the damn banana they would be free to go swing with their posse through the mossy trees and throw poo like little jungle punks. But they just couldn’t. They were panicking. They were frozen with fear. They were reacting. They were trapped. Then Dr. Dave went on to define what constitutes a banana for us – that being the feelings or actions or situations in your life that elicit a strong mental or physical response. Probably detrimental. Likely toxic. Definitely negative.

After reading Dr. Dave’s piece, I spent nearly my entire 3-mile run the next morning thinking about my bananas; The toxic things that I cling to and the response they trigger in me. The noxious notions that infiltrate my thoughts and ridiculous requests I place on myself.

I hold onto sugar.
Boo hoo, I know. But truly I’ve long battled some sweet, sticky food addiction demons. Growing up, treats and large meals were a mark of celebration. I, in turn, have carried this tradition on to my own family. Frozen yogurt, brownies, greasy gyros from our favorite place … it all adds up to a slippery equation of food + happy = reward. And who doesn’t want to be rewarded? Like, all the time. The problem is I’ve come to a place where those little white granules (perhaps the poop of angels, I hypothesize) now own me. They control me. They take me so high and then drop me on my head. But no matter how many times I tell myself – usually in the haze of a sugar-induced hangover – that I am done, I end up following the syrupy trail right back to the honey pot.

I hold onto perfection.
Real talk for a second. I started an entire blog based on this concept. Based on the pursuit of a perfect balance between all of the parts of myself that battle for time and attention. I want to see the world. I want to stop screaming at my daughters. I want to cook with ingredients I pluck from an organic raised garden bed. I want to kill it at work. I want to be perfect at this blog where I write about my pursuit of perfection. With my body, with my habits, with my profession, with my parenting, I hold onto these unrealistic expectations for myself so tightly that I don’t even know what a feeling of perfection would smell, taste, look or feel like at this point even if I somehow managed to reach it. Sometimes I think it’s just easier to keep looking past where we are rather than live contently in all the messy, dirty, imperfect bits of ourselves. Defining yourself as a work in progress is the ideal guise for an existence riddled with rough edges.

I hold onto fear.
This is a huge one for me. I’ve talked about my anxiety and I’ve talked about my struggles with parenting in this violent world here before, but truly, the terror I live with runs crazy-deep. I attribute at least some of this to the fact that I am a prisoner of push notifications. My job requires me to be online for the majority of the day. My phone, my laptop, my desktop, my television, whatever it is, there’s some horrifying news alert popping up on it. Flashes of events that point to the demise of character and kindness and sanity and love for humanity flood my newsfeed and thus, my mind. In one of my more recent social media-induced meltdowns, my brother (you remember Just Matt) told me to get a grip and remember they’re just leaving out the good stuff.

My thought of the day for you regarding the world we live in … You’re better off not watching the news. It will make you a happier person. Something negative happens and they beat it to death to keep you tuned in. Try shutting it off. The world is full of wonderful people, so many caring and selfless things happen on a daily basis, but that isn’t what anyone focuses on. All any of us can do is help one another and love one another and raise our kids that way and to not let a few bad people keep them from loving every minute of the short life we all get. The kids and I will sometimes pick up a bill in a restaurant for someone. They love it and you have to think that it makes that person’s heart happy and makes them want to pass that feeling along to someone else. Bad things have happened since man was created and always will, but at the end of the day people are good, that just isn’t news. The positives far outweigh the negatives on a daily basis, but just like the evening news, we tend to focus 28 minutes on all of the negative and just set aside the last 2 minutes to talk about how a stranger donated an organ for some child they don’t even know so they can live a happy normal life and love their friends and family. So shut off the crazy people on the news and focus on all the awesome people you are surrounded by on a daily basis, like me for starters.

– he wrote

And he’s right. I know he’s right. But then I go to sleep and have vivid dreams of nuclear attacks and running through crazed streets grasping my sobbing children and all the horrible things the dark parts of our brain push aside during the daylight hours. And I wake up drenched in sweat and succumb to the fear. How can I protect them? What would I do if …? Why is the world so broken? I feel helpless and small and scared to death.

I hold onto my routine.
Ask anyone who’s close to me and they will tell you I live and die by my meticulous schedule. They’ll also tell you it’s annoying AF. Almost any hour of the day I can tell you where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing with about 80 percent accuracy. Any deviation from this cadence requires additional planning to compensate appropriately. Any unplanned deviation has the potential to send me spiraling downward … smoking engine, towering flames, the whole scene. The thing is, it annoys me, too! I swear it does. But it’s a survival mechanism. Unfortunately, to conquer the Everest that is training for a half marathon, dressing and getting 3 children ready to go, working a full day, making dinner, doing baths, menu planning, meditating and getting a semi-decent amount of sleep, only, mind you, to wake up and do the whole damn thing over the next morning, requires a solid plan. Otherwise the wheels just fall right off the wagon. But there’s certainly a strong argument for a little more flexibility. A little less rushing along and a little more “in the moment”. But if I’m really honest, even when I’m cutting loose and playing along with the pull of the universe, I’m still calculating the time lost and required compensations in my head. Maybe that’s just being a mom. Maybe that’s just me as a mom. Maybe I’m a total psycho who needs drugs and liquor.

It’s brutal holding onto these bananas. They’re rotten. And honestly, it’s exhausting. So much of my energy is pumped into fueling these cyclical habits that positively drain me. So, what would happen if I just dropped them? If I let go and pulled my arm back out of the cage? Would I be free? Could escaping anxiety and shedding all that extra weight really be that simple? That obvious? Something I could have just done 5 years ago? Am I held by a trap I set out for myself? I don’t know …

If only bananas weren’t so sweet. You know how I like my sugar.

Kids

So you’re going to be parents

July 1, 2016

There’s a sound that every woman past the age of 20 instantly recognizes. It’s an obnoxiously boisterous shriek that starts at a grown woman’s toes, works its way right past her ovaries, and jogs by the ole’ ticker before erupting like a volcano out of her mouth. It’s a universal celebratory cry reserved for two specific occurrences: Engagements and babies. Even if the sound doesn’t volunteer itself from our vocal chords, almost every woman knows how to fake it, instinctively.

Last week, while hammering away on my keyboard at work, I heard the call and, as we all do, went running to add my shriek to the choir. A coworker was expecting. Her first, it turns out. “Ahhhhh, bless her little heart,” I thought to myself. “Bless her naive, innocent, untainted little heart.”

People want to know what parenting is like. But they really don’t want to know what parenting is like. It’s a similar story with childbirth. “Tell me everything!” [Insert stories with words like “tear” and “blood” and “plug”] “Why did you tell me all that? Gawd!”

It’s really not that bad. You see, parenting is basically like this …

You know when you walk into your house and the odor is off? Like, you know something went awry. Something terrible transpired in the minutes or hours you were away, but the only way to pinpoint the exact scent invading your nostrils is to go on a terrifying scavenger hunt to track it down. Well, when you’re a parent, you play that game, like all the time. You leave no shirt, underchin, diaper, palm, head of hair, or ear unturned. My children, for whatever reason, typically smell like a potpourri of maple syrup, black dirt and a hint of pee. Why? I don’t know. It’s all part of the game. I find that asking the right questions is key. “Did you fall in the mud or walk through it?” “Do you have to go potty or is too late?”

OK, so also, being a parent means living in the strap of a giant slingshot. The strap, you see, is made up of threads of your child’s emotional instability. The thrill is not knowing when you’re going to get shot into the air as a result of their tantrum or general displeasure or really for no freaking reason at all. It is guaranteed that at some point in your evening you will be hurled, full-throttle, into the throws of a meltdown-fueled tail spin. You develop a scale in which you can gauge the insanity from foot stomping to full-blown breathless sobs. Anything that falls at desperate mean-spirited accusations and below, I tend to just ignore. Now, the mistake a lot of rookies make is thinking there will be some sort of lead-up to this irrational hurricane. Like you’ll see it coming and be able to distract or deter. [smh] Just buckle up and prepare for the free fall back down. (That’s when you get to hug them.)

Also, being a parent often involves conversational exchanges that remind me of the ones you have when you show up at a kegger and start chatting with someone who’s been there a while. I think I’m shaping a young mind with lines I picked up in a children’s psychology book and, you know, generally killin’ it, and they think I’m merely filling some time before we move on to what’s really important. Like how Captain Hook lost his hand.

Me: “Honey, when you say those things, it makes JoJo feel attacked. And do you think it feels good to be attacked? This world is so full of sad, mean things. Be the one in the crowd that makes people feel good and loved and heard.”
Spike: “Mama, did you know that last night I lived on the moon? In my dream. I lived on the moon and ate Cheetos.”

You also have to have very serious conversations where you focus really hard on not laughing about their problems. Painful poops come to mind.

Remember right after the Blair Witch Project came out and everyone got super jumpy and lost their shit at the slightest twig snap as soon as the sun went down? There’s a little bit of that going on with parenting, too. Things that are perfectly acceptable in the daylight make for a crowded, sweaty bed in the moonlight. My kids have had night terrors to the tune of Cookie Monster eating them, the masked man from Big Hero 6, curtains, a local (poorly produced) car commercial with a Halloween theme, Ursula and a campfire song about the Chicago Fire, just to name a few. The challenge is to maintain your cool at 2 a.m. when you’re jolted awake by a frightened face illuminated by the blue glow of your alarm clock just 2 inches away from your eyeballs. Now that’s scary, man.

Another thing is the total mass destruction of your word association game. Let me ask you something. When you hear, “Push it” in any context, how does your mind complete the sentence? “Push it real good” is the correct answer. How about, “It’s Friday”? What you’re looking for here is, “You ain’t got no job, and you ain’t got shit to do.” But when you’re a parent, the concept is the same, but the words change a bit. Now, I’m all like, “Finish each other’s” “Sandwiches, that’s what I was gonna say!” and “Here’s the mail” “It never fails, it makes me want to wag my tail, when it comes I wanna wail, mail!!” Don’t even say the three dirtiest words in the parent dictionary. You know the ones. Three words, seven letters total, rhymes with “Get it, Bro.” Don’t say them or I’ll be forced to cut you.

And being a parent means you’ll never be lonely again. Even if you want to be. You want a few minutes to reflect on the day, or a big decision, or why in the heck JoJo (not my JoJo) sent Wells home last Monday? Don’t go to the following places: The bathroom, the bathtub, the shower, your closet, your bedroom, your car in your garage, your pantry or your linen closet. They will find you there. They will find you and they will sing Lost Boys for the 500th time and you will be forced to sing along in your head because gosh dang it, it’s catchy.

I’d also liken the messy part of being a parent to cleaning up spilled raw egg (which, for the record, is how I imagine Big Bird’s snot might be). You wipe and wipe and there’s always more shit. Literally and figuratively. Since becoming a mother, I’ve had boogers, pee, poop, vomit and blood, none my own, on my hands. The weirdest part is, at some point your gag reflex becomes immune to the disgusting insanity of it all and it crosses over from, “I have shit on my finger!” to, “Can you take the baby, please? I got shit on my finger.” And then there’s all the other crap. The shoes with no match, the long-neglected components of Happy Meal treasures past, the markers with no lids, the books with torn pages, the Barbie shoes, the beads, the princess jewelry. And don’t try to contain it. I thought it would all live happily ever after in the basement. But it doesn’t. Somehow, piece by piece, all the crap migrates into your garden tub and onto kitchen counters and the floor of your car. It invades. It multiplies. It sucks.

So, what my friend here’s trying to say is love is blind … I mean, parenting is pretty much the coolest. If I’ve helped to prepare anyone in any way, then my work here is done. For more parenting gems, you can check out this and this.

Thoughts

That was my last chance to be cool

May 18, 2016

“We were going to move to Michigan and grow medicinal marijuana … Wait, I didn’t tell you that?”
“No.”
“Oh, yeah, it was kind of like our last chance to be cool before we accepted that we’re just, you know, parents.”

One of my dearest friends (who shall remain nameless) has always ranked fairly high with me for her boisterous laugh and Devil-may-care disposition. This is a girl who bought a $500 pair of Louis Vuitton sunglasses on a mild buzz in Hawaii, only to break them rolling down a sand dune in Indiana. She barrels through life with the dance moves of Elaine Benes and the humor of Chevy Chase. And while I’ve never known her to be neither apologetic nor mundane, she’s incredibly endearing, with a backstory that will break your heart and a loyalty that can’t be deterred by distance.

When my friend got married and then, a few years later, had a little nugget, it meant a change to her usual shenanigans. It’s all fun and games when you get to be the crazy aunt, and blow into town with hot pink-colored bubbles and 10 pounds of chocolate then go home when their diarrhea sets in, but when the scoots are on your hands, it’s a messy adjustment. And while, like all new mothers, my sweet friend was relishing her new role, she had also undergone a mini identity crisis. I was seeing her on the other side of that crisis, fresh off accepting a new 8-to-5 position with a bank chain.

“You know how in your 20s you waste all of this time just assuming something cool will pan out?” she said. “Like some brilliant, badass job will just fall in your lap and you’ll live this amazing life. Well then I think you spend your 30s just slowly accepting that none of that shit is actually going to happen, and that a boring desk job isn’t just ‘to hold you over’ and you’re a mom now and, not that that isn’t wonderful, but you know … It’s just so … not what I thought. So, we thought we might start a pot farm in Michigan. But we aren’t now. So … I guess this is it!”

I sat there feeling so oddly connected to what she was saying. The conversation got me thinking about all of the Michigan pot farms in my past. Naturally, as a writer, I was going to move to New York City a la Carrie Bradshaw and write a tantalizing weekly opinion column. Then I was going to write a side-splitting non-fiction book that put me on the Oprah circuit to stardom. I was going to run off and hike for a few months straight. I was going to write a screenplay. I was going to be that woman who runs (in a sports bra and shorts only) behind my jogging stroller. I was going to start a creative firm with 2 of my best girlfriends. I was going to freelance in the mornings and explore in the afternoons. I was going to give a mother truckin’ TED talk. I’m not the best mathematician, but I can estimate with a great deal of accuracy that I did 0% of those things.

And it all left me wondering when in the hell we all just gave up on being cool?

I mean, I dabble in cool things, sure. I partake in the occasional adventurous hour or two, but on the whole, all of those big assumptions of fame and splendid accomplishment from my 20s just fizzled out. I don’t know where they went, exactly, but I’m guessing it was off to some other 20-somethings ego. I started to envy the fact that my free-spirited friend actually went so far as to explore her medicinal marijuana operation. She at least entertained the notion that cool had not evaporated entirely in the presence of her smart wardrobe and comfortable working woman flats. I can’t remember the last time I considered such a move without including the words “401k” or “accrued time off” or “career path”. Blech! Who am I? What is this pure vanilla caked all over me?

Every night when I finally power down and roll to my side, I try to touch base with God. I thank him for my family, for my home and for my health. I ask Him to place His hands on the ones who are hurting or suffering or sad. And last night, I asked Him to make me a vehicle for something meaningful. To type it, it seems a bit self-important. Like I think I’m destined for greatness or something, but that’s not the intent. What I mean is I don’t want to waste my days or my words. I don’t want to wake up in my next decade of life feeling like I conceded all of the best things I have to offer in exchange for stability or savings that sit in a bank. I want to be open and gutsy and do something bold for the betterment of someone. I want to be cool for the greater good, gosh dang it!

Thoughts

What happens when we’re both sick?

March 25, 2016

It was the sort of discomfort that reaches into your sleeping soul and violently slaps the twisted dreams from the thought bubble above your head. It was 4a.m. and I opened my eyes with the realization I was sweating like a man in a T&T wing eating showdown during a milk shortage. My stomach ached and there were no negotiations to be had. No ledge to talk my self down from. It was a zero to vomit explosion and I had 5 seconds to act.

But what made the bout of the stomach ick a real shot to the jewels was that, just 8 hours before, my husband came down with the exact same ick. I could see slivers of electric orange lining the night clouds through my bathroom window from where I lay on the floor (why is it that the floor always feels so great when you’re sick?). The fiery announcement of dawn could only mean one thing … the children would be stirring soon. Fear violently flashed through my mind, though my face remained frozen in an expression of misery.

Around 6:45 Hank brought me a glass of water. I lifted my head – which felt heavy like Miley’s wrecking ball – and asked him, “What happens when we’re both sick?” He shrugged and shuffled back toward the bed. This was not a drill. We had a situation on our hands, and it was a first for us as parents. I lacked the ambition to search the depths of my brain, once built for problem-solving but now dulled by stomach acid, and instead reached for the very first thought that sauntered through my swollen mind. “Call my mom,” I managed to yell in a monotoned grunt. But he didn’t. Somehow he didn’t. Somehow my magnificent husband got the girls to the places they needed to be. I watched from my side of the bed with a drool puddle of admiration forming below my cheek.

We spent the day discovering what it looks like when both parents are down with the most brutal bug. You know how, when you’re feeling really sweet on each other and Monday morning is looming, you say things like, “Let’s call in sick and just spend the day together,” or “I wish I got paid for staying home and hanging out with you.” Well, this was like that, except not. At all. He slept in his miserable germ pool downstairs and I set up my infested force field upstairs. The saint of a man came up once or twice to check on me, but other than that, we remained in isolation.

The only perk to being down for a day – other than the smallest number I’ve seen on the scale in months – was that I cleared out My List on Netflix. So, rather than end this post on a puke-soaked sour note, I’d like to recommend the following titles for your next bout with the flu bug. Here now, in no particular order, are a few of my favorites from my 24-hour sick streaming binge.

Flu Viewing Party Playlist

Chelsea Does
OK, I was not familiar with Chelsea Handler, so I was coming in completely cold and, it turns out, entirely unprepared. My father-in-law, a huge fan, laughed childishly as I recounted my first impressions of her. I’m an over-sharer. I tell more than I keep to myself, but I look like a monk compared to this chick. I am Maria and she’s Sister Mary Clarence. I recommend the Marriage and Drugs installments if you’re short on time and can’t watch all four.

Grace and Frankie
Holy love for Lily Tomlin! She is so, so good in this series, and I can’t imagine any one playing her counterpart better than Jane Fonda does (9 to 5 what?!). Which, can we talk about Jane Fonda’s freaking body? The woman is 78 and looks like the girls on my super-secret “Motivation” Pinterest board. The entire series was unexpected and endearing and wonderful.

Sisters
I’ve never kept my harmless-yet-overpowering feelings for Amy Poehler a secret, but with this cry-laughing flick, that little blonde piece of brilliance made me somehow love her more. I picture Tina and Amy just sitting in a writers’ room with all of their hilarious friends throwing out one-liners and laughing their adorable little asses off. While my tummy pains proved more powerful than the ability to truly LOL like the movie deserved, I did LIMM (laugh in my mind) till I had tears in the corners of my eyes. “Your pads all the way and you know it.”

This is 40
This one has been on my list for a long time, but, as you can see, it takes a virus to get my viewing party on. Divorce dialogue aside, I think I might have written this movie. Like, I truly believe that if I didn’t actually type out the words, someone climbed into my head and plucked them out of my neuropot (I made that term up. It’s the pool where my ideas swim around. A lot of them eventually drown. It’s crazy in there.). If you’re over 30 and you have children, watch. this. movie.

30 Rock
I was coming off of a Parks and Recreation high, and I needed something to take the edge off. It’s safe to say I’ve been stabilized. Hank thinks Tracey Jordan makes the show. I love Liz Lemon, of course. Either way it’s the perfect sitcom significant other rebound play. The similarities between Liz and Leslie make the funny a tad familiar and completely fantastic. Then I started listening to the Bossypants audiobook and now I’m having many, many feelings about “Mrs. Fey’s Change of Life Baby”.

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