An Open Letter to Evolution

Dear Evolution,

I know that you're busy, with the evolving species and confounding societal and environmental impacts and all, but I need to bend your ear about this one thing...

As much as I love and appreciate the miraculous tenacity of my female reproductive system, and as eternally grateful as I am for the wondrous gifts it delivered to my life (named Abby and Henry), I respectfully submit some revisions to the female body.

1. PMS--delete.

Honestly, was that part of the grand plan? Bloating? Unstoppable, voracious need to consume vast amounts of dark chocolate, salt and grease? Bags of potato chips consumed in 5 minutes? Raging, uncontrollable hormones, sending rightfully frightened husbands and children cowering into shadowed corners?

2. Four decades of menstruation? Truncate it, dear Evolution.

Seriously? 40 to 50 years? I know, I know that women in some long-forgotten time started having children when they were 11, 12, 13 years old. But then they only lived to the ripe old age of 36. Come on... let's bring the female body into the 21st century. I started this journey at 11. I'm 37. I've got somewhere around 15 to 20 more years of periods and PMS. And my reward? The menopausal years. Geesh. Seems to me there's an opportunity to revise and create a more just and pleasant female journey. Some inventive body part, perhaps, that delivers the necessary hormones (in appropriate doses, see above) without having to deal with menstruation anymore. Maybe you could re-purpose the appendix?

So, my dear, impressive Evolution, as you're fine-tuning the awe-inspiring female body, would you please consider my submissions? My waistline and sanity thank you in advance. (As does my husband.)

With love and admiration,
Denise

Celebrations

This week. Oh this week. I haven't experienced a week like this in some time. The emotion descended quickly. I didn't see it coming. Sad. Tumultuous. Questioning. Doubting. Wondering. Tears. Frustration. Impatience--they all arrived at once. I think the collision of emotion stems from my soul-searching and public admission . It's hard to remember while experiencing their wrath that the emotions always serve a purpose. The bold, raucous fears, worries and questions can, hopefully, guide to truthful insight and deeper understanding.

During the oh-so-fun week, I read two of my favorite bloggers. (I read them every week--almost every day). And not surprisingly, I found words that soothed, lightened my load and shifted my perspective.

I measure a successful blog post by the number of people reading and commenting on it. When I write something that generates little comment, my ego and I get bummed out. Sad, a bit embarrassing, but true. Then I read a post at Theta Mom that stopped me in my self-deprecating spiral. Heather wisely wrote, "measuring your worth against these numbers? Well, that’s when it becomes self-defeating." Heather decided instead to focus on delivering meaningful words on her blog (and she does so gracefully). I realized how much energy I'd expounded on worrying about my numbers. Thank you, Heather, for taking me back to my origins and reminding me why I write this blog.

And then Lindsey at A Design So Vast further permeated my sorrow with these words, "The veil of our glorious, ordinary lives can be pierced, for good or for bad, in every second. Which just brings me back to the same persistent theme that tugs at me every time I sit down to write: what we have is this. Right now. And only this." Tears streamed as I read Lindsey's sage, thoughtful and spot-on words. Right now. And I thought: what am I going to do with right now?

After the first good-night's sleep I've had all week, today I awoke sleepy, but brighter. I think the bevvy of emotions left for their next destination. I felt lighter...and wiser. What a glorious feeling to actually sense the winds as the shift occurs. Right. Now. That's what I've got.

In commemoration of the end of a brutal week, and my resulting clarity and insights, I decided to celebrate the ordinary and small divinities today. I actually brushed my teeth AND washed my face before I drove the kids to school this morning. I chose to snack on a peanut butter sandwich on whole wheat bread instead of chips and french onion dip. A new, working refrigerator now sits in my kitchen. (Thank you, dear hubby, for your tenacious research and quick turn on this purchase.) I didn't dole out ONE punishment before school. I have food, water and shelter. The tree outside my bedroom window proudly displays her fresh, fledgling leaves. I'm brainstorming fun ideas for the girls' campout we're holding in our basement this weekend. A lovely candle's flame inspires as I write. I am here. Right. Now.

ps: In the end, the chips and dip won out. But hey, I am celebrating after all...

Lunch Box

My temperamental three-year-old Henry has delighted me with his patience and joy today. We just returned home from a tantrum-free trip to the grocery store--which NEVER happens. I feel so zen and calm after this tear-and-scream-free trip that it feels like the grocers served Martinis at check-out and on aisle 12.

After we happily put away all the food, I hopped onto my computer. I heard thuds and grunts and something being zipped up. I walked into the kitchen to find Henry zipping up his lunch box. I figured he'd tell me he'd packed a "lunch" for school tomorrow consisting of pretzels and Oreos. But instead, he opened his lunch box and showed all of my wrist and ankle weights. When I asked what he was doing, I received this reply,

"I'm zippering this up. I'm packing for college. I have to take this to college."

Tears sprung to my eyes. My heart lurched and ached--I know, as all mothers do, that my time with my children is finite. Moments like these shine a harsh light on that reality. Henry then turned to leave for "college", lunch box in hand. Luckily, before he left the room, he said,

"Come on Mom, you have to come with me." Heart healed just a bit. God I love that little boy.

Shifting

Over the last several months, a gnawing, unhappy growl has tugged at my heart and tummy. At first I thought I merely needed to decompress after months of indecision (we're moving, we're not, we are, we aren't, our house sold, it didn't and then it did again) and then an epic, cross-country move. Now the dust has settled (FYI, dust bunnies do find you when you change your address). After many reflective moments, I came to this conclusion:

a chasm existed between the me of the last six years and the today me. I no longer want to be a stay-at-home mom.

There. I said it.

I'm still a mom. I'm still at home. My children provide a permanent filter through which I will always experience life. I'm fiercely grateful for the opportunity to mother Abby and Henry in the way that suited our family.

But...

my focus has shifted away from the myopic child-focused one of late to a more inclusive one...one where I include myself, my whimsies, my dreams along with those of my children.

I cannot ignore the slow, long, empty call of an unanswered need anymore. I am a writer. I crave the sound of my keyboard clicking while I entertain the company of random words, stories and soul. I adore knowing my daily muses, Abby and Henry, will continue to inspire. I believe I found my voice when I met my children--each step, each mistake, each success with them ignites a deluge of ideas. For this, I'm forever grateful.

But.

My timeless challenge lies within: how do I balance my children and my career in the small, cramped 24 hours I receive each day? Why do I feel guilty? How do I cajole the reluctant parts of my pysche to catch up with this new plan, the one that includes a career and time to tease out my dreams? Should I be patient or ignore their ardent pleas?

My wish for my family: for all of us to venture into our own daily, personal journeys, rejoining at the end of each one, together. To discuss, learn and open our minds. Our experiences will create a pointillism masterpiece, a Seurat-like expose. Dynamic, magnetic pieces scattering through time and space, instinctively returning home.

I know that my mindset will meld my future experiences. My future holds a satiated woman, mother, wife and writer who lives contently because she listens to the whispers of her heart. She's fulfilled. She's probably tired. But she's damn happy.

What's in my Bag? Which One?

Lindsey at A Design So Vast tagged me in the "What's in Your Bag" meme. What fun! A blog entry devoted entirely to the inner workings of a person's purse and pshyche (which I personally believe you glimpse when you peer into someone's bag, or, as my late grandma would say, pocketbook).

Full disclosure: I am a purse whore. I adore purses. Brightly colored ones, suit-case sized ones, supple leather ones, functional ones, timeless ones. I have an entire shelf in my closet dedicated to purses. (And wallets.) Shameful? Absolutely. Enjoyable? Ab-so-stinkin'-lutely.

So here's the lovely exterior of my current bag-de-jour:

And here's the peek inside my most private life:

The flowered bag, (a Liberty of London gift from my best friend), holds 4 lipsticks, 4 lip glosses and one lip liner. Tweezers and nail file. Pony tail holder and bobby pins. Pill box (you don't get to know what's in there). Hand lotion, hand sanitizer. Flushable wipe. ChapStick (like Lindsey, I'm an addict. But my poison is Medicated ChapStick--I keep them stashed all throughout my car, house and life).

Coupons. Wet Ones. Grocery list. Wallet (which makes me happy every time I see it smiling at me from the dredges of my bag). Sunglass case. Smooshed crumbs (a lovely combo of Goldfish, granola bars and pretzels. I'd like to blame my children for all those crumbs....)

Trusty uni ball black pen, notebook and my Droid.

I'm a neat-nick. (Stop rolling your eyes at me.) Really, I am. But my purse is one spot where I roll with the mess. Until I can't (like now, after exposing my messiness to the world), and I clean it out with vigor.

So come on, what's in your bag? I bag tag:

Mary at Pajamas and Coffee (www.PajamasandCoffee.com)
Jennifer at Three Pugs and a Baby (http://www.threepugsandababy.com/)
Amy at Girl in the Room (www.girlintheroom.blogspot.com)

Parent Patter

As a child, I remember drifting to sleep with the sounds of my parents sifting through the muted lights of the house. Like a lullaby, their voices, sounds and conversations lulled me to sleep. I usually wondered what they discussed, questioning whether it was different than the conversations held when I was awake. But those questions lingered only for moments as I fell asleep rapidly, calm because of their proximity and constant rhythm.

The evening sounds of parents, especially the very special sounds that accompany dinner parties and company, lure like moths to a flame. I still remember drifting to sleep to the hypnotic sounds of clinking glasses, bursts of laughter and hushed whispers. It all seemed so lyrical, glamorous and adult.

Now, as my children sleep (through most anything--a major blessing), I wonder what prattle and pixilation of hubby's and my evenings rise up through the rafters into their rooms and shape their dreams. Do they hear the music of our amblings? Do our sound patterns provide a cellular-level grasp of our nearness, and their safety? Will they remember hubby and I kissing them each night, whispering our love like a skipping record into their ears and souls?

I hope so.

And in a natural turn of events, I now find that the symphonic nighttime sounds of my children crafting a new lullaby. A little cough, a tousled sheet, the padding of pudgy feet to the bathroom. A long, contented sigh. All wrapping me in a nestled, idyllic hug. Fleeting yet divine. I know that the beautiful harmony might give way to dissonance at any moment (vomit, fevers, nightmares and wet beds). So I embrace the melodic while it resides right here, right now.

Heavy

Today has been one of those days. The kind of day where I both want to hug my children tight and run as far away from them as possible. The kind where I feel as if I am a huge, giant nerve, waggling in the breeze and when bumped, even ever so slightly, I recoil. And then pounce. It's days like these when I wonder why I was given the gift of children when their very existence (which sometimes includes tantrums, bellyaching and tears) sends me screaming to far corners of my house. (And, it's only the first day of spring break. God help me.)

Abby. Oh Abby. She is a hailstorm of volatility and emotion. I don't recognize her when the stark sassiness takes over her otherwise tranquil disposition. Her impudent body language wholeheartedly dismisses me. And I don't recognize myself when I respond to her edge. What starts as a slow simmer abruptly shifts to a coursing boil. Anger spews. I explode and lose my cool which, of course, renders me totally incapable of mothering or rational thought. Sigh.

Then Henry. He seems tired and carries a general sense of malaise these days. Today, in a flash of anger, he swiftly hit me while we were in a rainy parking lot. I simultaneously wanted to bawl and scream and hit him right back. Hubby witnessed the whole scene and spent five solid minutes spouting smoke from his ears...and punishing Henry. For 15 minutes following this exchange, Henry's lip quivered and he spontaneously broke into tears. My anger hangover lingered for hours. I'm still a bit melancholy...and heavy.

I realize that these days of challenge, introspection and doubt ultimately throttle me forward into a better sense of self and understanding. I will emerge a better mother. A stronger woman. But while I mire in the mishigas of my days, I wonder, somewhat impatiently, when my progression will take place. Will it be next Tuesday or 2015? Or, perhaps, was the shift imperceptible...and did it already occur? Why are these icky, ugly, soulful days necessary? Why does the journey include potholes and road rage?

Reflectively, I realize that my emotions serve as road signs, guiding me, nudging me on my path. They remind me of necessary recalibrations and resets. I pay attention and open myself to new directions--for me and my children.

(Two hours later...)
PS: While putting the very endearing Henry to bed tonight, he asked if "bidults" (adults) cry. I assured him that we, I, do. He said that he cried today. That he was sad. And that next time, he would make a choice to listen to me in the pawking lot. Then, I cried, overwhelmed with sweet, sweet heartache and love. While putting the once-again-tender-sweet-and-inquisitive Abby to bed, she kissed me 27 times and said, "I just love you so much." Ditto, baby. Ditto.

Please Allow Me to Elaborate

I posted something on my Twitter and Facebook accounts that no one understands (I understand why--the post was confusing). I hope that the reason five Twitter followers have stopped following me is because they didn't understand my post (I'm dolling out benefit of the doubt here).

Here's what I tweeted: "Cotton balls at the black student union (U of Mizzo)? Name calling? I thought when I put down The Help (Stockett) I'd arrived back in 2010."

Allow me to elaborate.

Last week, I read The Help, by Kathryn Stockett. A truly powerful book--I loved it. It takes place in the early 60's in Jackson, Mississippi. Stockett's work captures the powerful hold of race relations during the 1960s. I told my husband that since I finished reading this book, I want to hug and high-five every black person I see because I'm so grateful that we can all use the same bathrooms and drinking fountains and shop in the same stores--and because I'm grateful that it's 2010, not 1960. When I think of the atrocities that black people endured, well, there's no way I can understand what their lives entailed.

Separately, an incident occurred earlier this month. Two white students at the University of Missouri threw cotton balls at the Black Cultural Center. I'm taking a stab here, but the white students who threw those cotton balls must be raging bigots. My stomach still hurts when I think about this and every other racist act, all continuing to keep us restrained from the progress we can and should make as a country.

The events at Mizzou and thousands of others make me think that maybe I am in a time warp, back in the 1960s, living with rampant bigotry and hatred. I'm not a Pollyanna...I know we still have major problems.
A friend of mine (that's him and me right up there), who teaches at a high school in Louisiana, recently sent me these photos from the boy's bathroom: and then this one:

How can this type of limiting, bigoted, racist thinking still persist? How can that be?

He also sent me a text describing this scene, at 1:00 am: four or five black teenagers, all 13 - 17 years old, hangin' out around the convenience store. In that same parking lot, four white teenagers proudly displayed a rebel flag and, in the highest irony, blasted bumping gangster rap from their bigoted speakers. Obviously, the irony of their actions escaped them.

When I see all of this, I spiral downward a bit, finding it difficult to remain optimistic--for my children, next week and years from now. This type of narrow-minded, taught and learned behavior weighs me down from the inside out. My kids notice differences--and I encourage that. We are all different. From the slightest nuance to the bold, chasm-forming: they're straight, he's gay, he's black, she's Republican, he voted for Obama, they're white, he's agnostic, she's Jewish.

For me, open-mindedness, empathy are paramount. I can only control myself, and my thoughts. So this is the one I'm going to choose: I will try to turn my anger into power. I will stay buoyant. I will give my kids every opportunity to discuss race, gender, politics, sexual orientation and religion. And I will teach by example. I will stay strong. I will not let ignorant rants drag me down. I'll close with this photo (of me and my two best friends from 1976). It always makes me smile AND gives me hope:

PS--to see some of my older posts on this topic, see: http://musingsdemommy.blogspot.com/2009/04/jokes-are-supposed-to-be-funny.html and http://musingsdemommy.blogspot.com/2009/04/flip-side.html.

Defying Gravity

Defying Gravity, Wicked. This song...wow. Makes me feel like I can fly. (I restrain myself from belting it out at the gym when listening on my iPod.)

Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I'm through with playing by the rules
Of someone else's game
Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It's time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes: and leap!

It's time to try
Defying gravity
I think I'll try
Defying gravity
And you can't pull me down!

I'm through accepting limits
'cause someone says they're so
Some things I cannot change
But till I try, I'll never know!
Too long I've been afraid of
Losing love I guess I've lost
Well, if that's love
It comes at much too high a cost!
I'd sooner buy
Defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye
I'm defying gravity
And you can't pull me down.

Passages

I love the way the seasons coexist and mingle this time of year, like often-missed but rarely seen friends at a cocktail soiree. The spring's warm sun drenches our vitamin-D starved bodies while winter's stalwart snow chills in the still-cool shade. The mud-drenched, raw-green scent of spring passes in a breeze and intertwines with an infusion of the rich, smokey scent of a still-burning fireplace.

The seasons stretch long-lost arms toward each other, knowing this encounter, although brief, will be repeated time again. They embrace and then say farewell. Winter turns its sights on the next and spring settles into the vacated seat, adorning tender buds and long stretches of golden, splendid sun.

Bully for You, Bully for Me

I recently took the train home from the city. It was mid-afternoon and many high school age kids funneled in and out, on their way home.

Two high school boys sat in the four-seater in front of me and we rode along uneventfully. But when fate added two long-legged, short-skirted high school girls to the mix, the dynamics changed dramatically (shocker). The scene provided everything you'd expect--bravado, booming machismo, loud giggling, and posturing. I found it hard to read after the influx of testosterone and bare legs, so I listened. (I guess I technically eavesdropped, but then everyone in the entire train car could be accused of the same. Did I mention the extreme volume of their conversation?)

Here's what I remember:

"Why are you hitting me?"
"You are soooo cool."
"I love the collar on your purple shirt."
"That teacher is a douche bag."
"I am so not talking to you."

Then, I heard this venomous tidbit,
"I fucking hate that kid. He drives me crazy. He's such an idiot."

Woooooaaaaahhhhhh Nelly. Then,

"There's The Prostitute." They discussed this unsuspecting high school girl who had been dating her boyfriend for a long time (two months? two years?), but this did not exempt her from slutdom.

I wanted to peer over the seat, step on my sage soapbox and say, "You, yeah you, young boy, in the ghastly purple shirt with the definitely-not-cool collar--you only wish you were getting laid by a girl as hot as The Prostitute. If you ever get so lucky, use a condom." "And you, girls, with way-too-short-skirts-and-I-don't-care-if-they-are-a-part-of-your-uniform, cover yourselves for crying out loud."

But that would've been mean. And I would've been lowering myself to their standards, blah blah blah. Instead, I made a production of moving to a different seat, far, far away from them; amazingly they left their egocentric bubble long enough to notice. My gut said that any advice I may have pontificated would've provided fodder for weeks. I can hear it now, "Remember when that hot MILF* stuck her nose in OUR business? Who does she think she is?" But, after grabbing their attention with my witty insults, could I have planted a compassionate seed in their cruel, young, still-influential minds? Did I make the right choice? After I moved, their words sat like a brick in my stomach.

These children are someone's kids. I assumed (always risky) they have parent/s or some other responsible adult raising them. Did their parents know how they spoke about others? How did they get to this juncture--the one where spitting venomous attacks at others was more than ok--it was cool?

A friend recently told me that she was brutally bullied through both high school and college. She wanted to end her life. (I was, and still am, stunned. She's so very wonderful and very accomplished now.) Were her bullies raised by parents who guided and loved them and did the best they could? I know every child's upbringing differs vastly. But is there a common trait, linking all bullies like a string of lights? Obviously, some children bully because of indescribable home lives. But I suppose that others come from not-so-horrible homes, like the one hubby and I create for our children.

How does a bully become a bully? Are there warning signs when a bully is young--a pre-bully--that a parent can identify and re-direct their child? How do I circumvent this phenomenon? How do I raise my children to be neither bully nor bull-ee? How do we collectively stop this damning epidemic?

*Yeah, yeah, I know...but it's my blog and I can compliment myself anyway I choose. (Mom--please don't Google MILF.)

A Divine LIFT--My Interview with Kelly Corrigan

LIFT (Voice) has arrived. I've anxiously awaited Kelly Corrigan's newest effort ever since I finished The Middle Place, one of my all-time favorite books. I cried like a baby when I read its last word--both because it's just that good and because it was over. I sent fan letters to Kelly applauding her amazing memoir. Now The Middle Place must make room on my favorite's shelf for Corrigan's latest, LIFT. The book is a single-sitting read. Kelly wrote this open letter to her daughters, Georgia and Claire. Like a spring breeze, the book wafts through my mind, caressing, lifting and reassuring me in my daily infusion and experiences with my children.

LIFT is about life; lyrical, brutal and poignant. It's about mothers. And children. And the myriad of exquisite, excruciating experiences this journey provides. How does a mother go on after the death of a child? How does a woman, who is already a mother but without a child, become a mother? How do we reconcile the soaring joys and plummeting depths of parenthood? With LIFT, Kelly suggests that we do so with honesty, gratitude and grace.

Not surprisingly, Kelly delivers her message effortlessly, truthfully and poignantly, like a dear friend, with whom you're talking over a cup of joe or a lovely glass of wine.

On LIFT's debut day, Kelly and I met in New York and talked about LIFT and life.

When I arrived in her room, Kelly's makeup gal was glamming her up for the day's events and photo shoots. I felt like I got a sneak peek at the bride before her walk down the aisle. Kelly greeted me with one of her signature brilliant, flashing smiles and we dove in.

We talked about being mothers. We dished about consumerism. We laughed. We even cried a bit. We compared notes about parenting young girls who demonstrate period-like behavior and emotions YEARS before the actual period begins.

"It's just a simple fact--being a parent is hard", Kelly said, "so let's just all say it out loud."

Right on. Amen. Hallelujah.

Kelly says that yes, the book is a letter to her girls, but even more, it's a tribute to her Aunt Kathy and her dear pal, Meg--her muses and inspirations. Both women's tragic but touching stories provide guidance for Kelly as she navigates the perilous parenthood path.

Kelly's Aunt Kathy lost her child, Aaron, when he died in a car accident. Kathy dealt with his loss with grace. She reminds Kelly that she feels lucky--lucky that she got to know Aaron for 20 years. Through her grace, she provided Kelly, and now all of us, a brutal but poignant primer on being a parent. Risk, and even death, are part of the equation.

In LIFT, Kelly writes about her daughter Claire's brush with viral meningitis. When Kelly and her husband left the hospital, they tucked Claire into safest crooks of their bodies and hearts. Kelly reflected that this experience marked "the beginning how of I came to know what a bold and dangerous thing parenthood is. Risk was not an event we'd survived but the place where we now lived."

Kelly's dear friend, Meg, watched her 40th birthday approach and depart--and she wasn't married. She ached to be a mother; Kelly supported her with this sentiment, "I think you, in particular, were born to be somebody's mother."

During our conversation, Kelly tearily reflected on their experiences and said, "When you love someone, all you really want to do is lighten their load." Yup. We all know that feeling, that pit in the bottom of our empathic hearts that desperately wants to help lessen someone's grief, yet we can't quite find the words to permeate their pain. Kelly accomplished just that through LIFT. She did it for her Aunt Kath, she did it for Meg, and she did it for generations of mothers, current and future, by granting them the permission to be raw, true. LIFT grants all mothers a hall pass--all emotions embody a place and come with purpose.

As we talked about LIFT, Kelly encapsulated the book this way, "Because of Kathy and Meg's stories, it's a huge step for people. LIFT takes you back to a place of total gratitude. Don't forget--you are so lucky to have that kid sleeping in a room in your house." She went even further and said that if the only thing LIFT does is remind us to be grateful, then that's fine for her.

Before my chat with Kelly, I felt irked--more than usual--by the everyday chaos my children brought. Natural, normal, I know. Now I remember what I forgot: I must circle back and give thanks for the gifts the journey imparts. After our interview, I returned home to two sick children--and instead of letting the disequilibrium overwhelm me, I embraced it. I get to care for these children and help them feel safe and better. I'm honored.

True to form, after Kelly revealed her hope that everyone return to a place of gratitude, she quipped that once that gracious moment passes, we'll all still send our kids off to the basement, to watch a movie, because we need a break. Yeah, we're grateful, but that doesn't mean we love everything they do. We all must balance.

Kelly wrapped with this thought, "It's a very dangerous thing as a writer to try to write about parenthood when it's been done and overdone. It's very difficult to add anything new to the conversation. But [having kids] is the biggest thing that has ever happened to me. Meg's story really helped me keep it front and center--how divine it is."

I've read LIFT twice and I've purchased it for all the mothers and moms-to-be in my life. I've dog-eared and scribbled in my copy--the highest honor I can bestow on a book. It means I'll be back--for guidance, for a laugh, and for Kelly's honest, sage reminders that it's all real and all normal. As a result, I'll indulge in the daily divinities, even when laced with angst. Kelly, anytime you have something to say about motherhood or life, I'll listen. Thank you for sharing your story and by default, reminding me to live my own with more gratitude and grace. A divine LIFT.

LIFT Yourself Up

Two weeks ago, I received an advance copy of Kelly Corrigan's new book, LIFT. I devoured it. Twice. Yesterday, I met Kelly in New York: a truly dream-like, phenomenal day. (I was so giddy that I shook when I met my idol). Today, I enjoy the hot, sweaty company of my two very sick children. So, my review and interview will be postponed while I take the sage advice of Kelly, and soak up this moment with my children. Once the moment escapes, it never returns.

Stay tuned....and go buy LIFT now. You'll be so glad you did.

Questions

I just read a fascinating book of essays, all written by mothers. It’s called Mommy Wars, edited and compiled by Leslie Morgan Steiner. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend it.

As the title predicts, Morgan Steiner sets out to understand why this ongoing, societal battle regarding mothers’ choices continues. She wanted to gain perspectives from women in each place: those with paying careers and those without, and all the places in between. Are there mommies who truly love staying home? Are there mommies who are so happy working? Yes and yes. Are there some that fall somewhere in between? Yes. I thoroughly enjoyed reading each of these women’s stories about their entrees into mommyhood.

Why do you work?
Why do you stay home?

It is my question. It is your question. It is our question. But my answer is really none of your business. And your answer is none of mine. Nonetheless, our overall question prevails—answers and decisions instigate friction and all-out-war between otherwise civil, smart, level-headed women.

The only constant in these scenarios is this: A woman has a baby. (Even the arrival of the child varies vastly...by adoption, sex, in vitro, foster care.)

I always knew I wanted to have children. Always. I was also certain I wanted to stay home with them. While I was growing up, I thought that every woman would want to stay home and raise their children but only some, with the right financial resources, housed the ability to do this. Now that I’m more seasoned, I realize how naïve my beliefs were. Some of us have no choice and have to work. Other moms have no choice and have to stay home. There are some that have financial independence and choose to continue their careers after their children are born. And there are moms who choose to stay home.

When I was 19, I was diagnosed with endometriosis. After treatments and two surgeries, my doctor told me to start having children by the time I was 25.

“Sure”, I thought sarcastically, “no problem.”

So my twenty-fifth birthday arrived. I was single, living in Chicago and couldn’t figure out why this birthday felt so, well, poignant. It really wasn’t until recently that I realized the impact of that birthday’s passing with not a single possible father in sight.

Four years later, twenty nine comes along and so does my future husband. Strong, independent, tall, funny and tender-hearted. (I didn’t visualize stubborn, but then I’m sure he didn’t check the “anal-retentive” box on his wish list….) We married when I was 30. After several very deep and tearful conversations about when we might start our family, we decide to start trying. Based on my history, we knew we may not get pregnant for years. I purged my body of bad things and he was a very, VERY happy camper.

Four months after we marry, I’m pregnant. I couldn’t believe the stick. I took at least four more tests (ok, seven) between the first one and my doctor’s appointment.

I did not want to go back to work after the baby was born but knew our financial landscape might force me to return. After many more very deep conversations, we decided I’d stay home (or, more accurately, I convinced hubby that I should stay home). I would’ve loved to work part-time, but advertising clients are not part-time.

Abby finally arrived and life was sweet. I loved being home with her. But three months after quitting I was surprised by pangs (ok, earthquake-like jolts) of jealously when my only other “equal” in the agency was promoted to our (I mean her) next level. My thoughts danced, “If I still worked there, would I have been promoted? Was I even in the consideration set?” I was happy for my colleague (I still truly like and respect her) but envy oozed out of all my pores. I didn't even work there and I still mentally vied for the promotion, while covered in breast milk, drool, spit-up and an extra twenty pounds.

Two years later, hubby and I decided to go for number two. Two weeks later I stared at another positive pregnancy test. Hubby joked and said I made-up all this infertility stuff. Hardy-har-har.

I went from thinking I might never have children to having two, each when we wanted, give or take a couple of days. Absolutely miraculous--a blessing I still acknowledge daily. After Henry was born, I became a stay-at-home mother of two. Yikes. Hubby, six months into his MBA program, traveled to school every-other weekend. All while working full-time. Even on my worst of worst days (and, my dear readers, you know how bad some of those days have been), I’m still glad that I’m at home with them. It was the right answer for my family and me. I love not having to rush out of the house to get to work. I love supporting them and helping them grow, watching their inquisitive minds catapult and synapse. I love watching their golden hair shine in the midday sun.

Do my counterparts who work enjoy these things any less? Or more? Puh-lease. We all sort through the gifts of our children at our own pace and through our own individual filters. I respect women and their families for their choices. Even when they are different from my own. Not better, not worse. Different.

Should I be awarded for my sacrifices and desire to stay home with our children? YES. Does it make me a better person than many of my dear friends who continued their careers and make their own sacrifices? HELL NO. Are moms with careers better because they set a sound example for their children, showing them that women can and should pursue and enjoy ambitious careers? NO. Are they gaining joy from their careers as well as from their children? YES. (Am I very thankful that those women highlight the diversity of women’s choices for my dear daughter and son? YES.) Are we all fabulous for the mundane, exhilarating, painful, joyful, messy things we do for our children and the contributions we make? Ab-so-stinkin-lutely.

Although I contribute my time, guidance, sweat, energy, patience and love to my kids, my husband, my dog and all their schedules, I do not contribute financially. This strikes me as odd. Especially since I enjoyed financial independence for a decade before I married. When I wanted to stay home, my husband and I carefully navigated those financial waters and ultimately mapped a route that worked for us. Now that I earn a bit from my writing, it feels great to contribute monetarily. But I wonder why it is important to me. Is it truly essential or is its importance dictated by our society? In the past, I could mark my success with a raise and a hefty bonus. Now, my only barometer is my own equilibrium. Am I happy with my choices? Am I doing a good job? Are my children thriving? Does this feel right?

Will I ever have the answers? Will I ever stop asking the questions?

No. But I know that my questions, your questions and our questions are eternal; garnering different feelings, nuances and responses with the shift of a boss, an age, a season or even a mood. I’m just glad we’re asking. May your answers be forthcoming and fruitful and may they resonate truthfully within you.
(Edited, reposted from Oct 2008)

Time Out Thursday

In honor of Theta Mom's Time Out Thursday (www.thetamom.com), I delightfully relived my last night's outing...

I took the train into Manhattan to visit with some dear family friends. In order to do so, I finagled and favored my children to others, switched car pools, etc. (My friends rock!)

I showered (gasp), adorned my face with artistically applied make-up AND THEN dressed in some hot mama clothes. I took the train into the city; I sat, by myself, with a book and magazine and my iPod and my Blackberry and my thoughts. Sometimes I watched the changing topography. Others I zoned. Then I'd read. I did whatever the hell I wanted. Pure, uninterrupted joy.

Once in the city, I felt so elegant and hip dashing off to the Waldorf to join my friends. When my cab pulled up, the flags on the front of the esteemed, grand hotel greeted me with brisk waves and snaps. I sauntered in (oh yeah, I sauntered) and breathed in the hotel air, heavy with past conversations, steeped in every imaginable emotion. Then, HUGS when I saw my dear friends. Rapid fire conversation darted from one catch-up to the next. Then, we went to a restaurant that serves raw food--I've never eaten raw before but found it delightful, healthy and delish. Phenomenal jewelry appeared on the table because one of women with whom I dined (a new friend!) owns and designs an eclectic, beautiful jewelry line. I drooled over the fabulous and unique pieces.

Candle lit flickers danced amongst our voices and hearts. The evening ebbed; we started many conversations that we did not finish. Another time, another place, we'll pick up. More hugs, goodbye tears and kisses chased me out the restaurant door to my cab.

As I periously navigated through the train station, many thoughts ricocheted through my head. I noted the hordes of people who were actually awake at 10:15 pm. (This evening I'd broken out of my normal routine--jammies by 8 pm, asleep by 9:30 pm-- and I felt giddy seeing how this part of the night lives and moves.) My giddiness switched to despair when fronted with the homeless people who congregate at the station. They accosted my senses. My insular life rarely encounters people who don't shower because they don't have a shower. I give a small prayer of thanks for my life, and one for theirs. I wondered what events brought each of these homeless people to this moment in their life. I wondered if they were happy.

On the ride home, I sat, cocooned in the train car, swaddled by my thoughts and dreams.

Henry's Tennies

Sunday morning, I was engrossed in my newest book (more to come on that later). The kids tromped in from a early morning snow romp. Snow pants, hats, gloves and mismatched boots covered the mud room floor. Right as I read a part that forced tears to well in my eyes, I finally acknowledged the small voice that repeated, at least four times,

"Can someone pwease help me with my tennis shoes?"

Henry. Henry, who used to despise his tennis shoes, now won't go a second without them. And, because he's three, and from a generation of faithful Croc wearers, he has no idea how to get the tennies on, never mind tie them.

So I joined him and sat on the last stair, in my flannel PJs and sweatshirt. My crazy, curly, morning hair hung in my eyes. Henry sat on the floor, in his Woody PJs (These are his Toy Story PJs. He frequently tells me he has Woody pants. I know this juicy tidbit will come in handy someday...mean mommy). His own blond, crazy mop gave mine a run for its money. I loosened the laces, pulled out the tongue and said,

"This is the tongue. You have to pull it out to make room for your foot."

"Oh", he whispered, "the tongue." He smiled at me like I'm the smartest woman in the world. I didn't correct him.

His still-chubby cheeks radiated the early morning light which crept in through the blinds.

I got the laces ready, then Henry's agile, soft hands heartily tightened the laces with a confident zip. Simultaneously, he pulled on the strings of my heart, soul, lungs and probably my liver. It was one of those moments. The quiet, the calm, the love and joy all palpable. I wanted yell, "Freeze!" and stop the passing seconds on the clock.

Henry stood up. He smiled with dimpled cheeks and said, "Danks, Momma."

We hugged. He dashed off wearing his super-fast exercise shoes. Gone. I was tongue-tied. These small, seemingly mundane moments--the ones I didn't expect or know to expect--stop me in my whirling dash. They reach out, grab my heart, and squeeze. Hard.

Not By the Hair on MY Chinny-Chin Chin.

This morning, Abby and I stood in Henry's room, by the windows. She hugged me. She pulled back and looked up at me. I expected her to say, "Momma, I love you". But instead, she stared at me. More specifically, she stared at my upper lip.

"Mommy", she said, "you have thingys up there."

"Where?" I answered in a panic, knowing that one of my vanity fears was about to unfold.

"Right there", she answered, pointing directly at the hairs on my upper lip. "Maybe you should shave those", she suggested as she sauntered her blond-body-haired-body out of the room.

AHHHHHHH!!!!!

A direct correlation exists between the darkening of the hair on my face and my age. With each passing year, the hair on my face not only gets darker, it multiplies and brings friends. Lots and lots of little, dark, stubborn, impervious-to-bathroom-light-friends. They used to only populate my eyebrows and upper lip, and my chin-scar (sweet). But now, well, no place on my face is safe. Nothing is sacred!

(A side note here--my favorite well-lit spot to inspect for these devilish bastards is in the car mirror. I pull out of the garage, sit in the driveway and eliminate those little buggers. One day, I'll be clean and hair-free. Then two days later I'll check my lovely mug and learn that my face is littered with dark hairs, taunting me with their stealth return.)

I've even gone this far: just in case I'm ever in a coma, I've given my best friend explicit hair-removal instructions. Of course I want her to send love, warmth, good vibes, talk to me, etc. But her other priority is to keep my face hair-free. No small task--waxing, plucking, lowering the lights, whatever it takes. The thought of lying there, unconscious is horrible. The thought of lying there, unconscious, with black hairs waving at my doctors, nurses and visitors throws me over the edge.

I used to admonish women in their 60's and 70's who sprouted hair-gardens on their chinny-chin-chins. "Geesh,", I'd think to myself, "get yourself a mirror and bright light and tame that beard." Now, I'm ashamed of my naive judgments. Hairy karma now repays me with own Chia chin garden at 37. Sigh.

Julie & Julia & Me

This weekend I saw the movie Julie & Julia for the first time. I LOVED IT. An inspiring film--one that confirms, among other things, my belief that butter is bliss. (I always feel safe and secure when I possess plenty of butter--a sheet of cookies is never far when butter is near.) Not only did the movie confirm that is butter bliss, but also...things take time. And marriage goes down and hopefully, back up again. This movie resonated not only because I enjoy cooking (with butter), but because I love to write. In the movie, Julie starts a blog detailing her daily cooking journey through Julia Child's cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. In the end, Julie does what she loves and as a result, writes a wildly successful book that becomes a wildly successful movie. Love that for her and aspire to these same writing successes myself.

The movie delivered more than just an identifiable story line--it gave me a gift. A gift I will forever store in my heart and reexamine like a beautiful piece of sea glass. Just in case you, like me, wait years to watch popular movies, here's a quick background: Julia Child married the love of her life when she was 40 but never had children. In a brief yet powerful scene, Julia learns of her sister's pregnancy. Through aching tears, she tells her husband the news and tries to convince of her joy, despite her grief, for her sister. As I watched, I held my breath. I cried, too. Because when I was 19, doctors told me to procreate by the time I was 25 and maybe I'd get lucky (no pun intended). I didn't meet hubby until I was 28 (no pressure) and we married just a month after my 30th birthday. I'm gratefully on the other side of this story and I've given birth to two, healthy miracles. The gift of perspective this movie afforded holds me captive, reminding me, through Julia Child's pain, what might not have been.

Now, I reflect on my last week with my children. Last week, the sound of their constant chatter and screams exhausted me. Last week my children physically accosted each other. At one point I hid on the floor, behind the kitchen island, so they wouldn't see me and ask for everything with a side of juice. Last week the only sound that exited my daughter's mouth seeped with sarcasm and sass (see No Answers). Last week sucked. Last week I sucked. After watching Julie & Julia, this numbing perspective descended: How would I feel if I didn't get to experience this life as a mother? What if I'd never met Abby and Henry...and what if they weren't my children?

My children inspire me to write. To learn. To swear. To remember myself in this motherhood madness. To ask forgiveness. To tout my strengths and learn from my weaknesses. To reexamine the beauty of a slushy mud puddle. The days are long and arduous, but I am a mother. Humbled, daily, by what I've yet to learn and grateful for the exquisite opportunity to travel this bumpy, potholey, emotional, joyous path with them, my children.

No Answers

I am a mother of a daughter. I realize, with the passing of each day, that this is one HARD job. She's just six. She delights in one moment and fumes in the next. She seems annoyed a lot, about a lot of things. She sighs. She slumps. She cries about happenings I would describe as small and insignificant. When I inquire about her feelings, asking why she feels the way she does, she gives age-appropriate answers but not emotionally insightful ones, i.e., I don't think she's acquired the vocabulary to give her own articulate, state-of-the-emotional-union.

Do I push too hard? Do I not motivate enough? Am I too harsh? Am I squelching her spirit? I have many questions. But for now, the biggest help comes from this admission: I don't know. I don't have the right answer, the right words, the right strategy.

My words, which used to calm like a salve, now seem to incite like a red flag to a bull. My patience, of which very little remains, seems to offer no reprieve. Maybe, if I could remember what it what felt like to be six, and in first grade, I could reflect and find some answers. Even if I could rely on my memory, I doubt it would offer much insight because Abby and I, we're different. Same last name, same gene pool, same face. However, she's on her own unique journey and I'm on mine. We're lucky enough to meet here, now, to travel together.

Tonight, her pouty, whiney mood escalated to a grand crescendo. After I read her a great new book (another attempt to guide her on her journey), we snuggled, as we always do. She started fake crying (again) and whimpering (again) about how uncomfortable she was. (This came after two hours of the same sighing, whining and groaning.) I grabbed her shoulders and said, very sternly,

"If you are uncomfortable, then get yourself comfy. NOW. These things are NOT worth crying about. A broken arm, worth a cry. No clothes, no house, no money to go to the doctor or eat, all worth a tear. But not this. STOP!"

I tried to shake her out of it. I wanted to slap her out of it--but fortunately, patience paid a visit again and I did not. Instead, I pulled her body on top of mine. Her ear lay suctioned on my chest. If she chose to listen, she would've heard my heart beat. Hopefully she deciphered its Morse code message:

"I love you."
"I am here."
"I support you."
"You are intelligent, special and gifted."

I took her back to our beginnings. Tranquil. Warm. Heat beat. Peaceful. Her breaths lengthened, her body heavy. She slept. I stayed still, soaking up the moment.

I still have no answers. But tonight, Abby and I broke through to a peaceful end. Goodnight, Abby. I love you.

Thoughts About Poop

I didn't ever think that so much of my time as a parent would involve actions, thoughts and strategies surrounding poop. When I reached the blissful plateau of parenthood, the part where neither of my kids wore diapers anymore (except for Henry, who still wears one at night, but doesn't poop in there), I thought I'd pass from poopville to pleasantville.

No such luck.

You see, my daughter, Abby, suffers from self-imposed constipation. She's six. In order to get her to poop, we deployed a stringent poop plan. Three-times-a-day for five minutes each, she's got to sit on the pot. We set a timer. She's got to relax, read and hopefully, yes, poop. And for some reason, she bellows for me when the event commences with poop so I can wipe her. Hubby asked me the other day,

"Why are you wiping her?"

Great question, dear. And I'll spare you the nasty details of my answer. But the point here is that I shouldn't be wiping her! Next time she bellows, I think I'll bellow back,

"You're six! Wipe your own ass!"

Onto Henry. He's three. He poops brilliantly. With regularity and ease. And I, my dear friends, still wipe him. (I'm beginning to see the roots of my problem.) I wipe him because I'm a clean-freak and on the occasions he's attempted to wipe himself, he's been a little bit less than neat. (Again, sparing you the gross visuals.)

There are several occurrences which always act as laxatives for my children:

1. Mommy sits down to a warm meal. Time to poop.
2. Mommy reads Peggy Noonan's article in the Weekend Wall Street Journal. Gotta go.
3. Mommy herself uses the throne. (Even though we have more than one toilet, Henry has a favorite potty. And his pick-of-the-day is ALWAYS the toilet that I'm using, right at that EXACT moment.)

And since I've gone down this disgusting road of writing about poop, I'll share one last thought: why is it an impossibility for me to poop privately? By myself? With no commentary, interruptions or loud house-shaking thuds on the bathroom door? My kids can be happily playing in the furthest corner of the house. I glance cautiously over my shoulders...I tiptoe into the bathroom. I hesitantly, quietly close the door. Before my buns even make it to sitting, they've found me. They're desperate for food, mitigation, hugs or answers. And to prove the pervasiveness of this phenomenon, I'll close with an example.

My mom visited us (just last month, when I was, like I still am, 37-years-old). I decided it was time to start cooking. I started calling for her. "Mom!" Pause. "Mom???" Pause. "MOOOOMMMMM??? Where ARE you?" I escalated and frantically started searching for her. "Where could she be?" I murmured to myself. Louder now, I yelled, "MOM???". I heard a faint voice, rising up from under the bathroom door. "In here honey", the voice said. I profusely apologized to my mother. I sank to the floor, defeated. Apparently this phenomenon spans generations and perseveres through the ages. I'm never going to the bathroom by myself, without interruption, for the rest of my life.