Yin, Yang & Other Necessities

Happiness. Glee. Gosh, I could drone on for hours about the thousands of simple joys in my life that truly make me giddy. Narrowing down to one, consistent thought proved challenging for me.

But, I did it.

But, before I go there, I must go here.

I believe, that in order to appreciate the full beauty of the oak tree, I must experience its dichotomies and sweeping opposites. In winter, the brazen, dark, hard edges of its leafless branches, boldly reach to the charcoal-infused sky. In late spring, its leaf-laden branches create poetic stanzas with their natural rustling and shaking. Yin and Yang.

I believe the same principal applies to happiness. Sadness, the polar opposite, provides a launch pad from which to experience joy. Boy Howdy do I have a launch pad.

Depression descended into my life years ago. Looking back, my struggle probably started in my late teens. Those first years of flailing, crushing sadness walloped me. I didn't know what was wrong or how to make it stop. I cried. I believe anxiety replaced the blood that was supposed to course through my body. Depression ate away at me, replacing vigor and strength with fragility and a belief that I was not worthy. I devastated so easily; the doubt and dark sadness became pinnacle to many episodes of my life. Self confidence? NONE. And the people in my life? Well, many had no idea. I was a master of disguise, secretly battling the demons. Thankfully, I realized my problem and sought help. Thankfully, good therapists and wonderful antidepressants exist in this world.

It is through THAT experience which I experience joy. And of the myriad of events, people and natural beauties that bring me pure, explicit happiness, perhaps one of my paramount happy-makers is the northern beaches of Lake Michigan.

Soulful, raw, beautiful and epic in its ability to calm me, charge my battery, make me happy and whole, even when I'm empty. A constant companion through my years, always holding onto happiness, especially when I could not. Even in the deepest despondence of depression, like a true friend, Lake Michigan soothed. And smiled. Or threw a crashing temper tantrum on my behalf. Simultaneously mimicking my internal struggle and showing me it was ok. And then I'd smile.

I vividly remember one particular August visit. My dear, dear friend and I went for a weekend. Upon arrival, I dashed from the car and ran to the lake. "Hello, Lake! How are you?" I screamed to the vibrant blues, turquoises tipped with white. "Have you missed me?!?!?!?"

I'm sure I saw her nod in reply.

And then I wrote this:

That day was chilly, even by Up North standards. Gray clouds and 66 degrees. The children still swam, their heads bobbing in the turbulent waves. Swimming on a cold summer day is a hardy, essential, Yankee right-of-passage (one in which I proudly partook repeatedly). The scene, ensconced in my memories, is so familiar: white sand, an occasional sea gull, bent dune grass and the geographical slant of the dry land slowly converting to water. Broken pieces of children's laughter bouncing to shore over the waves. Flags taught, saluting the wind. People in the distance, through the grasses, headed into homes. Natural, native, primitive. I was full. And happy.

Then, I walked back to our bed and breakfast. Moments later, I sat on the cozy front porch, removed from the raw song of Lake Michigan. Cars, stores, shops, voices all creating a sweet, syncopated commotion. Just one half mile from the tranquil, natural cocoon of the beach. A jarring juxtaposition of sounds. Not unlike most of life, very unique things occurring simultaneously, in stride and right next door.

Those unique dichotomies exist within me, always. Happy precedes sad and sad precedes happy. Both necessary pieces coexisting to create the full, raw, weighted, joyful picture. Yin and Yang.

Momalom's FiveforTen Part 2: Happiness. (To find out more about this great movement, go here.)

Doing It Anyway

I just discovered a new site yesterday, Momalom. They're hosting this great movement, Five for Ten Again. You write a post on the topic they serve up. Participation, for me, was a must. And, thanks to their inspiration, I give you my thoughts on the first topic, Courage.

A new school, anonymous faces, gripped hands holding wildly, deriving strength from one known, staunch journeyman.

A racist comment lobbed. A contrary, heavy stare returned, words spoken to challenge and usurp the ignorant thought. The bigot walks, questioning the interaction...no longer accepting their narrow view as THE truth.

An oh-so-sweet-and-red, quivering lip boldly walking into preschool, alone, despite the gorge of tears threatening their descent.

An unleashed dream, finally spoken to the universe.

Openly listening to an opinion that is the polar opposite of yours.

Sending my children into the world, each day, and hoping that our time together continues, yet not knowing ...

Speaking the truth. Word following word, each small piece building on the next. Telling the rank, puss-filled, painful truth.

Love. Diving into this divine, treacherous territory, not knowing how the story ends.

Mea Culpa. Admitting fault, assuming responsibility. "I'm sorry" is courageous, each and every time.

So big. Courage arrives in bold swaths of action. It also resides in the small bits. Looming chances. Microscopic opportunities lauding, requiring vast depths of courage. Days, seemingly rote, suddenly turn and necessitate a quick pull from the courage reserves. And when pulled upon, the unwitting owner can inwardly beam at their untapped power and stamina.

Firm. Shaky. Resolute. Brilliant. Fear. Persevering. Doing it anyway. Small and big. Verve, residing in hearts, rising and creating forward momentum. Courageous.

My Mom

Strong.
Unstoppable.
Unwavering.
Fallible.
There.
Powerful.
Daunting.
Sacrificing. (But not in a martyrish way, in a "I-just-can't-imagine-doing-it-any-other-way" way.)
Smart.
Willing.
Open-minded.
Unbiased. (Unless it's about her children...then all unbiased bets are off.)
Accomplished.
Loving.
Supportive.
Proud.
Reserved.
Resplendent.
Passionate.
Born to be a mother.

Thank you, Mom. I love you.

Home Sweet Home

I've moved -- a lot. In my 37 years, I've lived in 15 cities in 10 states. Most of the moves took place when I was a student l or when I held an office job--this provided me (for better or, sometimes, worse) a natural networking and friend-making resource. My last two moves, however, occurred when I did not have a classroom or an office as a social outlet--all I had was me and my sparkling, clever charm.

Making Friends.
Our first summer in Arkansas, I used the pool (and the women there) as a breeding ground for new friendships. It'd go a little something like this: after the 15 minute migration from car to pool (toting one child, corralling another, schlepping towels and a gagillion water toys), I'd find a chair (not to put me in but to put stuff on, sigh) and slather all three of us from scalp-to-toe with sunscreen. We'd finally enter the shallow end. I'd look around, surveying the pool goers to find someone with whom I could drum up a conversation.

"Oh", I'd think to myself, "she looks nice...I'll ask how old her kids are." That was one of my favorite opening lines. A cute bathing suit also served as a great conversation starter. If things went well, we'd chat and I'd feel so happy that I connected with a potential friend. Near the end of our chat, I'd begin to wonder if I should ask for her number. Then, I'd suck up my courage and ask. If we did exchange numbers, I'd wonder. Did she give me her number because she felt sorry for me (because I was new to town, clearly with no friends)? Or did she see past my desperation and peer through the SPF 50 and Jackie-O sunglasses to see a potential soul-mate?

Would she call? Did she think I was funny? Would she call? Did she like talking to me? Would we be friends????

(Wait a second. This reminds me of something. Hmmmm....Oh Yeah. My twenties. And Dating. Ugh. Geesh.)

After my chlorinated pool friend-finding missions, Hubby would ask how our day went. If I'd met a potential new pal, I'd excitedly recount our interaction. I'll tell him about something interesting she said, how well the kids played (however briefly), and then about something ridiculously funny I'd said. And I'd wrap with, "I hope she calls...."

Fortunately, she usually did.

It takes time to get to know a person and their various shades and levels; idiosyncrasies and a true understanding unveil slowly, over the course of years. Grasping a lay of the land, learning whom I adore, who can put up with my quirks, who I can trust, who will be the start-with-a-playdate-and-segue-into-a-dinner-date friend...well, it all takes time.

And all that time, and dating strategies, invested over 10 states and 15 cities? So worth my effort. Sure, sometimes I wish for the implicit comfort of the daily, yearly, decade-long familiarity of one town and generations of friends. But instead, I get to celebrate the many dear friends, laughs, cries, joyful memories and tearful goodbyes that punctuate my nomad journey. Moving shaped and informed me. I feel like I'm a unique amalgamation of every region I've lived and each friendship I've experienced. Even my accent reflects a special blend of south, north, mid-west and even a bit of east coast. (Interestingly, my northern friends think I sound southern...and my southern pals think I honk like a Yankee.)

Home?
Hanging certain pieces of art (whether they be watercolors by Abby or some fantabulous Spanish street artist, discovered outside of Madrid's Museo del Prado) denote home. Home is, of course, my house. The physical structure is important to me. But as I mature, and move from city to city, home has become much more. I find home in various faces, cities and restaurants. In a familiar-sounding swoosh of wind through leafy boughs. Sometimes home is still in my mother's arms, head on her shoulder, gratefully allowing all my angst, worry or celebration to spill out of my pores into hers. Sometimes I find home in my husband's thoughtful, analytical response to one of my pressing, emotional probes. At times, home is crisp, bleach-scented sheets and the luminous glow of my bedside lamp. Others, I'm most at home with the heavy weight of one of children spooned into my lap. My friends, their stories and energy, make each stop on my homeward destination true and full. My home transcends four walls. I am so grateful that home follows, and dwells, wherever I am.

In A Blink

On Saturday night, I walked through Times Square. Yes, this past Saturday night. The Saturday night when an SUV was discovered, sitting near the Marriott Marquis, getting ready to detonate. Yup, that one.

Thankfully for me and thousands of others who sauntered, sped or lollygagged though Times Square, alert New Yorkers saw the abandoned, smoking Nissan Path Finder. The crude car bomb attempt, and the subsequent murders, were thwarted. Luckily, it seems as if the case is progressing.

That night, my two children spent a snug and comfy evening at home with a babysitter. That night, I walked through the warm Manhattan evening with Hubby and good friends. That night, my tangerine silk blouse fluttered in the spring air. That night, I sat in an open air bar, giddy with spring, and engaged in cold beer and thoughtful conversation. That night, one man thought that in order to prove some point, it might be best to kill people. That night, I could've walked right past a detonating car bomb and died.

My mind, instead of focusing on this possible brush with death, has joyfully focused on my rekindled awareness of my mortality. Sobering, yes, but hopeful. I have NO IDEA when I'm going to die. I can't control my death. Could be an exploding Nissan in Times Square. Could be ANYTHING.

Oddly, I feel calm and assured. My mantra has been reassured: Right now. Right. Here. Right. Now. I do not know when I'll depart this physical world. What I do know: I have right now. My silver lining lies therein: a powerful, if slightly morbid, catalyst to be fully present in the now. Ave Maria, burning candle, Twitter conversations, sound of Hubby's ice clinking in his glass. Sisal carpet under my toes. Mesmerizing flicker of my candle. Muffled barking of a neighbor's dog. Cool night breeze sifting through the open window, heralding my arrival to this moment.

Watershed

The tension and angst that, at times, lightly punctuate my days and accompany me on my maternal journey all have a place in this confounding, exhilarating minute-by-minute life. Sometimes the fog and slight angst are obliterated by peaceful calm. Sometimes I find my breaths shallow and then luxuriate in the power of deep oxygenation.

In.
Out.

In glorious hindsight, I see my tight grasp, manhandling a repetitive thought, an aura, or way of being. These moments have purpose. They lead me to my next present, my next now. When I let go, it feels as if I'm watching movie clips of someone else's life. I watch, mesmerized by the watershed. The final uncurling of the very last finger returns air to my lungs and allows me to unfurl, melting into the feeling of aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh.

Yesterday was just like that.

The light shifted. The air heavily weighted with now. My feet pounded down the stairs and I listened to their rhythm...Right. Now. Right. Now. Here. Now.

Lately, I've been trying, valiantly, to live right now, right here. And not too surprisingly, I continue to gain illumination from other people, people whose words about their right nows delight like a gift. I recently read something that hit me with the power of a tidal wave and the tenderness of a child's kiss. Thank you, Lindsey, for awakening my spirit to another powerful force, JenLee. (If you haven't yet visited and submerged yourself in Lindsey's blog, may I suggest that you do. Then you'll know (if you don't already) one of the people whose writing continues to speak to me and guide me along my way.)

For her one of her Present Tense posts, Lindsey interviewed JenLee. One of Jen's snipets, when asked about what rituals or patterns she uses to keep herself present, was, "..but I also like to walk down any street in the city and really see and notice all the sights, sounds and smells around me while the ground below me meets my every step". Her words reached up into my mind (the mind that seems to enjoy miring in the minutia of yesterday and tomorrow, masterfully avoiding the now), and plunked me into right now.

Woah. Such a powerful, visceral set of words for me. The Ground Meets My Every Step. (This spurred me to thank Mother Earth for providing such a glorious place to live.)

I try. Living presently allows me to heed to the quiet eddies, whispering in my soul. I feel each slap and move of Abby's and my secret handshake. Henry and I dissect the intricacies of Buzz Lightyear, Woody and Zurg. When I'm in the right now, hubby and I look at each other and just know. I find, during the hard, painful, turbulent times that being there helps, too. Other times, I get swept away in the euphoria of a goal reached and the resulting celebratory cascade of joy. I give thanks for the friends, near and far, who keep me buoyant, reaching up, or down, to wherever it is I am in my moment. Feet on the couch. With chubby Henry curled round them. Feet on the ground.

Right. Now.

Redo: SNL, Meet Henry

I'm sorry for the reprint here; I needed a laugh today...

Henry loves caulk. If it's caulk-related, it's cool with Henry. He loves hubby's work shirt with caulk smudges all over it. He thinks a fun afternoon includes carrying around a tube of caulk. He adores the painters who prepared our house for painting because they got to apply lots of ... caulk.

He enjoys it when hubby gets all caulky (couldn't resist) when doing house repairs.

The caulk conversations and random caulk thoughts Henry shares range from humorous to slap-your-thigh-with-tears-running-down-your-face hysterical. Following are some of my favorites. If they aren't that funny when you read them, try saying them out loud. I dare you not to laugh.

1. "Daddy has a caulk on his head." (Hubby worked all day in the basement and had a little pile of dirt and caulk sitting on the top of his hair.)

2. Henry grabbed hubby's face just after waking up one morning. "Daddy? Do you like to eat caulk?" Somehow, hubby was able to answer this repeated question with a straight face.

3. Henry and I shopped at the grocery store. When I turned my head to concentrate on the bread ingredient lists, I peripherally heard Henry announce, "Yeah, we've got some sweaty caulks in here. Yup, some sweaty caulks."

??!?!?!!

The shock and crazy laughter I experienced doubled me over. I grabbed my phone to text hubby and friends. I could hardly see the letters on my phone through the tears. It was as if he was channeling two different Saturday Night Live skits--Alec Baldwin's "Schweaty Balls" and the more recent "DIY Caulk" skit with Jason Lee. (I love and highly recommend both; however, if you don't enjoy word puns about the male anatomy, I'd skip them.)

4. I took Henry upstairs for bedtime. He had been dutifully carrying his caulk tube around. When he realized he'd forgotten it downstairs he yelled, "Momma! I want to sleep with my caulk!"

I sarcastically thought, "No problem." I did retrieve his caulk for him while laughing myself silly. Freud would have a ball with this. Maybe two.

Mother Earth

Oh Earth, with your impressive girth, spinning round each day. Supporting tender lives, leafy trees, coursing rivers, brain synapses and tumultuous oceans. You give a place for resting, loving, learning, growing, living and dying.

Each miracle so profound--and you modestly sustain each one, every day. You graciously provide a canvas for my days and nights, each moment of my life. Soaking my tears, absorbing my frustrated stomps, launching my dreams, celebrating my success and calming my fears by just being present, always solid and dependable.

I'm sorry for the times I've glossed over your gifts and bounty. Thanks for your patience when my eyes wouldn't see--and thank you for continually supplying a wondrous spectacular each day.

A garden plot. A lifting breeze. Cascading sunshine.

I adore the way you embrace your woman's prerogative, and privilege, to change your mind in an instant, providing a kaleidoscope of variables. Thank you for the soulful mountains and hypnotic, rhythmic oceans. And thanks for the perch you provide for me to ponder the night stars. I am awed by your cool reserves of sanctity, piercing brilliance and graceful strength. Happy Earth Day, Earth.

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.