The Others' Shoes

It’s a wonder I ever had a paying gig outside the home.  I honestly don’t know how “working” moms do it because I feel like my plate’s as full now as it was when I was teaching. I do have to say I have a real issue with the terms “working mom” and “stay at home mom” because, truly, it’s all work and it’s all life – each with its requisite stressors, expectations, grass-is-always-greener notions of how great it would be in the others’ shoulds, er, shoes. 

If you are at home, the expectations are to have a perfectly clean, orderly, and well maintained house, run all the errands happily and in a cute outfit no less, shop and cook like Martha Stewart, do all things kid-related including volunteering at and participating in all school functions (and you are definitely the mom that gets to organize the “group” projects your kids are involved in and schlep them around for said project). And, don’t ever run out of toilet paper!  Because a good stay-at-home mom would never do that . . . right???

For the “working moms”, the moms that get paid to do work outside the home, the domestic expectations are much the same but less perfection is expected, because, “Hey! They are being paid, making money, earning for the family so cut ‘em some slack in the domestic department!”  Concessions have to be made, for sure.  They can’t be at every school function or volunteer during their “free” time.  Their houses, if not cleaned by the Maid Brigade, might be a little dusty or ill-kempt.  But when you see the “working mom” out, she is polished and dressed and IMPORTANT, people, because she makes money.  They have grown-up conversations.  Go to meetings. They are having an impact on the world outside of the four walls of their home. 

I’ve been in both places - working outside the home and working inside the home for no pay  - and what I know is that there are trade-offs for sure in the crazy balancing act of working and mothering and wife-ing (funny how that wife part trails in at the end . . .).  One role isn’t better than the other.  They each have stressors (including the wife-ing), different though they may be.  I think the real issue is that so many of us are trying to do it all perfectly.  And trying to hide behind something, anything, when we can’t.  Maybe it’s getting lost in “busy-ness” or mindless internet surfing for hours on end; maybe it’s long meeting lunches with two glasses of wine to numb the fear of not being “enough” anywhere; maybe it’s compulsive exercise or eating or some other crazy behavior that keeps you distracted from what’s really bothering you.

If we are lucky, and brave, we get to a place in our lives where we make peace with where we are at any given moment, endeavor to do the very best we can with what we have and know in that space, and LIVE fully right there.  Being as authentic as possible as we work – outside the home – or inside the home – and trying to find joy and peace and “enough” right there.  I think a lot about what I am bequeathing my kids – is it fear, anxiety, and perfectionism or is it self-love, compassion, gratitude, and hope?  There are so many potholes when it comes to parenting but this one is a damn potential sinkhole and one I try to remain cognizant of everyday.  What am I teaching my children about life, the world, and being their most authentic selves – even when it’s scary or the outcome is unknown? 

We teach by modeling.  Our words are not enough.  Blah-blah-blah, they hear.  But if you show them and if you are courageous enough to share your mistakes as well as your triumphs, well then, I think they may get it.  These kids are smart.  So, so intuitive and sensitive and ripe for impressing.  No armor yet, they are malleable and open to suggestion and want to please.  I want them to know they can be themselves, they can mess up, they can talk to me, that we are in this thing called life together, that we’ve got each other’s backs. 

And, whether I am working outside the home or working inside, the role of nurturing my children’s spirits doesn’t change. I want them to know they are whole, complete, and just right, exactly as they are.  The very same thing I tell myself and try to embody as I stay-at-home, work, live, create, parent, wife, love . . . be.

God's Got It

Perhaps it’s genetic.  My mom’s a worrier.  At my worst, when I’m caught off guard and lose track of my more positive, centered self, I too am a worrier.  The anxiety has been rumbling around for about a week though I couldn’t really put a finger on it.  But I was aware of it – I’ve had enough therapy and read plenty of self-help books to know when anxiety’s knocking.  And, she sure was loud last week! I was more irritable and craved comfort foods; I questioned myself more and felt a general malaise - like something was off or shaky.  But then, I’d do a quick mental inventory of my life and world and think, “Nope, no major catastrophes.  All’s good.  Quiet on the western – err, southeastern – front (What’s your deal anyway???)”

Well, my deal, even though I couldn’t name it, is a deal many moms just like me face at one point or another as their kids grow up.  Taggart’s first five-day trip away from home.  He left this morning at 5:40 a.m. and his leaving is triggering a separation anxiety I hadn’t yet met in my parenting journey.  We think we’re so self-aware and then wham!  Motherhood brings a truckload of new issues we have to deal with  have the opportunity to use as transformative moments which redefine our very notions of who we are and our ideas of safety, security, and general well-being (and I’m talking mental, emotional, and spiritual, as well as physical).  Dang it if having kids hasn’t brought up every issue I’ve ever had and magnified it times 100 just to be sure I’d really worked through that one particular area!

So here’s my son – the one that was two weeks overdue, whose labor had to be induced, who even then needed a suction cup attached to his very large head to enter our world after 24 hours of labor – and just like that, he’s off on his first solo adventure.  This kid, who did not sleep through the night until he was eight years old.  Had me up 2-3 times a night.  Who I would nap with when he was a toddler and who’d throw one of his legs over mine and say, “I just need to be sure of you.” Who would cry on the way to spend the night with Grammy when he was younger because he couldn’t imagine a night without me in his immediate world.

He couldn’t get up this Monday morning fast enough – and it was 5 a.m.!  He told me on Friday when I picked he and his sister up from school, “Mom, usually I want the week-ends to never end.  They always seem to fly by so quickly.  But this week-end.  I can’t wait for it to be over.  Each minute feels like forever.  I can’t wait for Monday!  I don’t know how I’ll ever get through the week-end . . .”

My baby – now eleven years old – is growing, growing, GONE.  Well, not gone for good, just for five days . . . but it’s hitting me in a way I never could have fathomed.  I already miss him!  But I certainly didn’t want to plant any seeds of doubt in his mind so I tried to play it cool.  Didn’t say too much or make too big a deal out of all this.  But if you had been with us through those eight years of not sleeping through the night, you’d get how big this really is.  He has a rescue remedy sleep spray, melatonin drops, a lavender spray – all tools we use to help him sleep through the night.   He has affirmations he uses, EFT tapping he does to allay his fears. Yet, over the past six months he has begun to wean himself from all of these and when I asked early this morning if he thought he’d need to pack any of his sleep aids he said, “Nope, Mom, I’ll be fine.” 

I am happy and sad and proud and excited and nervous and . . . tired - all at the same time!  Because when you are wired for worry, you wake up at every little sound and when Tractor whined and I got up to let him out at 12:45 a.m., I got to get back in bed and worry about EVERYTHING under the sun – well, dark of night – for approximately three hours.  Boy, I covered a lot of ground!  And then, when I finally got to go back to sleep, I had the absolute worst nightmare imaginable.  I’m not going to give it too much power by going into detail but suffice it to say, one of my children was taken and sold off into a slavery ring.  (We can tear that dream right out of the mental notebook and burn it to ashes because where I live, we are surrounded by love, peace, and good and I’m focusing all my attention and energy there.)  I should have just gotten up when I couldn’t sleep because just being plain tired would be way better than being both exhausted and deeply disturbed by some crazy monster dream that had no business in my head, (“Good riddance!” we'll say to that.)

So off Taggart went – a quick hug to me and he literally ran out the door and bounded down the steps.  His first trip away from home; had his Cotillion Grand Ball on Saturday night.  He is becoming quite the young man – handsome, thoughtful, bright, challenging . . . I never knew how deeply this parenting thing could make you feel. I tell anyone who asks, “It is the hardest and best thing I’ve ever done.”  And if you are wired for worry like me, well then get ready.  But the bottom line is this: at the depth of the worry, is the deepness of my love.  And in my best moments and most centered spaces that love buoys up any fears and releases them to the heavens. In recent weeks, this release has been in the form of a simple “prayer” for anything that’s bothering me.  It’s from Julia Cameron’s Prosperous Heart and it is this little three-word phrase: “God’s got it.”

Yep, that’s it.

If I’ve learned nothing else for certain through this parenting journey, this is the one thing I do know; God’s got it. 

And so it is.

P.S. While writing this, my little, big guy Facetimed me!  I was thinking as I answered that he must have forgotten something but all I saw was his happy, smiling face riding on the bus to their destination.  He didn’t really have anything to say but his smile said it all: “Mom, I just wanted to be sure of you.” You can be, sweetie.  You can.

Had Me At The Plate

Fourteen years ago tomorrow, Jeff and I met walking at 6:30 a.m. on McCabe Golf Course with our puppies.  On that cold February morning, I left my condo at Parklane to walk Hunter in my pajama bottoms, warm coat, hat, mittens, and tennis shoes.  Teeth may not have gotten brushed in the early morning rush and glasses were a given as we hustled out the door – no time to put my contacts in as Hunter chomped at the bit to get in his morning walk about.  We needed to get out early before any golfers were there to catch us or complain . . .

As we made our way through the parking lot and toward the golf course clubhouse, Hunter pulled on the retractable leash until it snapped and would go no further.  “Hurry, Mom, hurry!” his enthusiasm and energy begged.  We headed for the cart path, our breath coming out in little cool puffs, frost glistening on the short blades of grass.  Below freezing the night before, the 35 degree morning is chilly though the sun is beginning to rise. No warmth has reached me yet; I walk faster, trying to keep up with Hunter’s mad pace.

The cart path skirts to both the left and right of the golf course but we head to the right this morning, in a counter clock-wise pattern.  Hunter sniffs each tree we pass and I pat my front pocket to feel for the Kroger bag I hope is there.  I hear the crinkle and feel the bag’s buoyant weight and am glad; no bad golf course steward award for me today.

My glasses fog up as the heat from my body escapes from the top of my coat.  I unzip my jacket to welcome some of the fresh air in – it feels crisp and clean and new.  We walk for about ten minutes and then Hunter begins to pull a little harder, his head and ears up high, searching the horizon.  We are far enough back on the golf course that I decide to let him off his leash for a bit.  I call him to me and make him sit though he’s about to burst with anticipation.

“Ahhhh!  Freedom!!!” he barks as I unhook the cold metal latch and off he charges – his compact, muscular, Labrador body looking effortless as he bounds up a small hill on the 16^th hole.  As I make my way up the small incline and crest the top, I see what Hunter is so excited about.  The cutest Golden Retriever puppy, maybe eight weeks old, is on the 16^th green, wiggling and smiling and a bit taken aback by Hunter’s full-throttle exuberance.  He is eight months old, strong, and much bigger than this little puff of love in front of me.  We are both immediately smitten by this sweet, sweet little one.  Hunter barks at her, gets down on his two front legs, rear in the air, as if to say, “Come on!  Let’s wrestle!!”  I crouch down to say hello and she wiggle-wiggle- wiggles over to me and nibbles on my mitten.  I laugh at her and then look up.

I see the owner – a tall man in a baseball hat and a green parka about 25  yards away.  He has a to-go coffee cup and I notice the steam escaping from the opening in the clear, morning chill.  He walks over to where the dogs and I are and says hello, formally introducing us to “Holly”. I must have complimented him on his precious puppy and he must have commented (note I did not say complimented!) on my effervescent, effusive, intense 8 month old toddler-puppy.  And then, we just started to walk . . . that morning, and for many mornings to come.  We’d meet close to the same spot at the same time and we’d walk and we’d talk and the dogs would chase and bark and wrestle and play.  Hunter was like a typical big brother sort – a bit of a playful bully who pushed Holly further than she sometimes needed to go; Holly was the do-nothing-wrong, adorable little sister no one could resist.

Two months after meeting Jeff and spending almost every day with him, I sat in my classroom grading my students as they did their sr. project presentations.  All of the sudden as I sat there, a poem came to me, and I started scribbling (while still trying to grade a presentation!).  This is what flowed from my heart to my pen that April morning:

Could I Tell You?

Could I tell you I love you

            and you not run?

Could I tell you I love you

            and it not shadow our sun?

Could I tell you I love you

            and you not feel inclined,

            to return to me

            that one lovely line?

Could I tell you I love you

            and it not seem a burden?

Could I tell you I love you

            and it not seem too sudden?

Could I tell you I love you

            even though we don’t know

            where we’re headed, how we’re going,

            as we continue to grow.

Could I tell you I love you

            and it not be your cue

            to be anything more

            than authentically you?

Could I tell you I love you

            just to have you know

            how important you’ve been

            to the growth of my soul?

Could I tell you I love you

            in the middle of the night,

            as we lay breathing deeply

            as you hold me tight?

Could I tell you I love you

            in the early morning’s dawn,

            as you warmly lay next to me

            all my fear’s gone?

Could I tell you I love you

            and you believe what I say?

            And in saying it to you,

            may we live into that day.

            Where those three small words

            no longer need be weighed,

            where the boundaries do blur

            and the armor goes away.

            Where we openly and honestly say how we feel,

            Allowing our relationship to naturally unfold

            And our sails . . . to full unfurl.

Could I tell you?

That was at month two of our relationship, and the following December – after we’d been dating ten months – Jeff went home to Michigan with me for Christmas.  The first gift he gave me was a ceramic plate with a picture of a girl and a boy and two dogs on a golf course; at the bottom it had “February 21, 2000 – 6:30 a.m.”.  It was the picture of the day we met.  That he had gone to a ceramic studio and MADE.  As if that wasn’t absolutely perfect and totally enough, the next gift I opened was an Italy tour book with two tickets to Italy for my upcoming spring break in March – which he had researched and planned around . . . Are you kidding me???  I looked at him, touched his cheek and said, “You had me at the plate.”

But truly, he had me way before then.  And he has me still.  Fourteen years later and I am so grateful that we walked into each other’s lives that cold February morning.  Thankful for Hunter and Holly.  Thankful for our life together – our children – our good.  And our bright, bright future that continues to beckon as we walk toward it – hand-in-hand.

Could I tell you?

The Right Word in the Right Place

In honor of Valentine's Day, I created a "Wordle" for my husband.  "What in the world is a wordle?" you might be thinking.  Well, let me tell you, they are easy, addictive, and so much fun. My students first educated me about Wordles and then Taggart did one for school - now I'm playing with them and though I should be ticking off things on my to-do list this cold February morning, I am creating wordles and loving it.  You simply brainstorm any words you want in your word collage, entering them into the wordle website, and voile! The website creates different word collages for you.   And by hitting the "randomize" button, the combinations get better and better (trust me - try it!).  Go to www.wordle.net to create your own! I'm going to make Jeff's into his Valentine's Day card : )  Happy Wordle-ing!!

Skinny Jeans Are Not My Friend

Full rear, muscular legs – thick thighs, robust calves - this body wasn’t built for jeans.  I knew it way back when and I mostly know it now.  Traditional jeans are tight in all the wrong places on me. Loose at the waist and knees and snug everywhere else is not my idea of comfort, attractiveness or high fashion. Skinny jeans?  We’re joking right?  Multiply the issues times ten. I mean who designs these damn jeans, anyway?  Seemingly made for pre-pubescent girls or straight and narrow boys whose width stays the same – slim cut, hip to ankle.  Unless you’re that lean, skinny jeans just aren’t your friend.

My jean (dis)enchantment started, probably like most other girls, in junior high.  Everyone had jeans – Wranglers no less – and I wanted a pair too.  What kid doesn’t want what everyone else has?? So one afternoon when I got home from school, my mom hands me a plastic Meijers bag and inside are the first and only pair of Wranglers I’ll ever have.  My mom heads back to the kitchen to start dinner as I excitedly kick off my comfortable after-school sweats.  I jump into those shiny, new Wranglers as fast as I can and breathlessly wait for the transformation, one that would be a long time coming.

Ugh.  The Wranglers, a size 14, are too big and too long and so awful I still shudder when I return to the memory of that sweet girl, standing in front of the mirror with her hoping, faith-filled twelve year old anticipation.  She stands there, looks at herself in that full-length mirror outside her parents’ bedroom door, and pulls at the jeans.  Trying to somehow re-arrange their sad fit, straighten the poor cut, make right the wrong-for-me jeans.

I tried rolling them up, thinking that might help. And let me just say, rolled up jeans weren’t a good idea then, as they aren’t now even though “the boyfriend jean” is trying to tell us it’s avante garde.  (Ladies, only a couple of us can pull it off, and hopefully it’s you, because I know it’s not me!) It looked like I had my big brother’s jeans on. Now maybe if I was a boy and had had a big brother, that would have been fine.  But I wasn’t a boy. No big brother. It wasn’t fine.  And after about five minutes of studying my reflection, tugging and pulling to no avail, and trying to not take this whole jean travesty personally, I did what all women do at some point in our judgment-filled lives . . . I turned on myself.

Not for the first time perhaps, and certainly not the last, I let myself have it.  “You look fat and stupid.  Everyone would laugh at you in those. You don’t fit in. You are too much and will never be enough . . .” Try that on for size.

I kicked off the jeans as fast as I could, crumpled them up, and shoved them back in their white, crackly plastic bag, throwing it onto my parents’ bed.  Just then, my mom came back from the kitchen where, if I had to guess, she was making one of those hearty, stick to your ribs (and thighs!) casseroles – full of cheese and cream of chicken soup for dinner that night.  One look at my upset, tear-stained face and bare legs, she then takes in the bag with the jeans tossed on her bed.  Rejected . . . the jeans . . . me.

“What’s wrong,” she asked.  “Did the jeans not fit?”  Let me think a minute . . . did the jeans not fit . . . Did the jeans not fit???  Hell no, they didn’t fit.  No. They were terrible, awful, made-me feel-fat-and-stupid for even wanting them. Trying them. The rolled up, wide cuff made them even worse, as if that was possible.  I can’t wear jeans. I will never wear jeans. Jeans were not made for me.  Jeans do not love me. They are not my friend . . . I do not love me . . . I am not my friend . . .  (Tale of a thousand women, this is how it starts.  Please let us re-write this sad story.  Start, now with ourselves.  Start now with our daughters; our nieces; our sisters; our mothers; our friends . . . )

Fast forward thirty years, countless hours of therapy, positive self-talk, healthy affirmations about my love for myself and my beautiful, healthy body, and we have arrived at skinny jeans.  Woo-hoo!!!  Now, I bet you can sense my great excitement and anticipation about skinny jeans; ohhh and those ones they call match-stick jeans, even better.  Now let’s just say, if this body wasn’t geared up for Wranglers at the ripe ole age of 12, how are you thinkin’ those skinny jeans are workin’ for me in my 40’s???  Well, we’ve come a long way – no Viriginia Slims as part of the deal either.

Here’s the scoop on me and skinny jeans - by and large, skinny jeans and I made a pact to know when to say when.  However, there is a form of skinny jean that works for me though Oprah’s fashion expert Adam Glassman strongly advises otherwise.  It’s a denim that is more jegging (jean/legging) than jean in that they stretch and mold in such forgiving ways, I think even he’d allow me this one fashion fumble (and if he’d seen me in the Wranglers, I’m pretty sure he too would say, “You’ve come a long way baby!”). 

Who knew we’d all be praising lycra, dear Goddess of Stretch, for what she could do with a pair of jeans?  Without you, where would we women be?  The ones who’d written off jeans for good, back when one cut certainly didn’t fit all but we thought it should.  When that mean game of “Hate Your Body, Hate Yourself” started much too early, when the life-long no-win battle of “You’re Too Much” and “You’ll Never Be Enough” got rolling in earnest.

For me, it was amidst my mom’s constant childhood assurances of “You’re just right! Not too big, not too small . . . just right!” She said this while she fasted for weeks on end, me watching her ingest only apple juice for fourteen days straight, starving to lose weight I couldn’t see her needing to lose.  I learned then that women shape themselves to live in a world where they don’t accept themselves for who they are and they seek control wherever they can get it.  Even if it’s at their own expense.

The game began early for me and so insidious was this thinking, it became part of my ingrained belief system that I still contend with EVERY DAY on some level. I am much healthier in how I manage what I benignly refer to as “my body image stuff”.  But it is never far from heart (or head).  It’s been a lifetime of work, self-love and –acceptance, affirmations, pleas to that something greater to help me be bigger in the ways that truly matter, that are more than skin-deep or based on appearances.  But it still sneaks up on me in moments when I’m not standing vigil and my little girl fears get stirred up . . . It’s then that I remind that little one within, “I’m a grown-up now, a big girl.  I will take care of you.  We are O.K.  Just the way we are.  I love you. No matter what.”

Now, go put on your big girl panties, or your skinny jeans, or your boyfriend jeans, if that suits you.  And let’s get out there and do our thing.  We’ve got places to go and things to do.   We’ve got a difference to make that is so much bigger than the size of our bodies or our jeans. 

Don’t let anyone have you believe differently.  (Quick, go look in the mirror. I’m talking to her too.)