What About Me?

Dear Gracie,

You say a lot of things. Most of them are hilarious; some are a bit shocking; and almost all of them bring a smile to my face (even if I have to hide that smile because I’m in the middle of explaining why you shouldn’t say some of them…)

But a few weeks ago you said something that turned my head in a different way. It stayed with me long after I had given you your goodnight kiss, and it was still there the next morning as I sipped my coffee and watched you excitedly hunting for plastic Easter eggs in the living room.

It’s been bouncing around in my head every time you smile at me.

It’s been driving me crazy, to be honest.

So let’s start from the beginning. It was the night before Easter, and your grandparents had stopped by to visit. In the whir of cleaning dinner off the table and setting up our egg-dying extravaganza, my mother suggested running out for coffee and munchkins. While I poured vinegar into egg cups, I absently said, “Sure- Vince can go with you if he wants.”

“What about me?”

I stopped plopping color tablets into plastic cups and turned to see you staring up at me.

All 3 feet, 30 pounds of you, staring up at me resolutely with your huge hazel eyes.

“Um…sure, you can go, Gracie. Go get your shoes.”

Your face lit up as you scrambled to your bedroom, running past my mother and declaring, “Grandma I’m getting my shoesies, I’m coming for munchkins!!!”

To anyone else in the room, that was it. You went. You came back. You ate munchkins. You dyed eggs.

I’m still not over it.

The question has plagued me from the moment you pushed your feet into your pink Converse sneakers, slipped your hand into my mother’s, and bounced out the front door on your way to the “munchkin store.”

What about you?

I automatically thought of your older brother. I automatically ask him if he wants to come along to run errands, to grab coffee, to go on “adventures.”

Not that I haven’t tried, believe me. We tried the zoo- you attempted to run into one of the animal cages and stomped all over a flower garden. We tried going out to dinner. You tossed your meal across the table, put your coat on backwards and started running around to other tables. I’ve tried taking you when I run errands. It usually results in me leaving the store with nothing besides a screaming, wriggling 2 year-old girl after about 20 minutes. You’re a bit of a firecracker- you’re beautiful, bright, and (whenever something doesn’t go your way), you let out a boom that shakes the house.

So it’s not that I haven’t tried. But what bothered me the most about that moment, and your eyes boring into mine, was that at some point, I gave up. I stopped trying.

I fell into the trap of what was easy. Your brother clings to me like a barnacle to a boat- he has since the moment he was born. He wants to be cuddled, read to, sung to, soothed. He wants to be helpful, included, a part of everything I do.

You want none of that.

You want to put yourself to sleep, brush your own teeth, and “read” your books alone in your bedroom. You want me to be there, not too far away, but not too close. You don’t want to be smothered in kisses or cuddles. You want to be seen, heard, and understood. But under no circumstances do you want to cling. You want your space.  And so, reluctantly, I’ve learned to give you that space.

But in that moment, looking at your expectant little face, I realized that it was time to try again.

So I have.

We had our first girls’ night last week.  We went shopping. We rode one of those over-sized mechanical stuffed animals through the mall. We went to dinner. We stopped at Whole Foods, picked out a few cookies, and shared them while we played with your new Elsa and Moana dolls.

It was our first “adventure.”

When we got home you ran to your dad and brother, told them all about our “date,” and asked me, “Mommy, can we go again soon?” When I said, “Of course, my little best friend,” you replied, “You’re my best friend, too, Mommy.”

I thought my heart might fly out of my chest.

Since then, I’m happy to report that we’ve successfully navigated ShopRite, Target, a diner, and a coffee shop.  I have my sights set pretty high now- I’m thinking lunch and a movie- on the same day! Our new friendship knows no limits.

I hear a lot of “Oh my gosh, she’s sassy,” and “She’s going to give you a run for your money!” from people when they see your goofy, spunky personality firsthand. And they’re right. You’re a fiery little spirit with wild hair and strong opinions. You are sassy. You do give me a run for my money (and my sanity).

But do you know what else you do? You balance me.

Your ferocity and lack of inhibition inspire me. Your independence leaves me in awe. I often wonder how you came out of me- meek, nervous, uncertain, clingy little me. I made a warrior. I somehow grew a future boss of a woman. Me. I can’t even send back coffee when the barista forgets to make it decaf.

I will continue to give you all the space and independence I can (within reason- let’s not forget that you’re still in diapers and harbor a very real fear of “draining down” with the bath water). But I promise to pay attention to this new side of you that wants, every now and then, to buy a pair of shoes, help me shop for granola bars and dish detergent, or grab a burger and tater tots after school.  I promise to keep trying until we can get through the entire zoo.

What about you?

Well, you can just focus on giving me a run for my money. I’ll survive it- I happen to have this fiery little woman in my life who’s setting a good example for me.

Letting Go

“Vinny, sometimes you need to just take a deep breath and let it go.”

I heard the words escaping my lips, saw my son staring at me solemnly and intently…and almost burst into hysterical laughter.

I was giving a pep talk to my 5 year-old son because his blanket had dog spit on it.

Dog spit.

Vince was melting into a sorrowful little heap because our dachshund, Rocco, had spent the evening lounging on his bed, cleaning his paws, and drooling all over his favorite blanket, and the thought of sleeping with a different blanket for one night was sending my son into mental mayhem.

But, despite the “I’m so overtired this is hysterical” delirium of it all, that’s not why I was biting my tongue to keep from laughing.

I was telling Vince to let go.

Vince, who still has a paper hat that he made in PreK 3 because he just can’t part with it.

Vince, who tears up at the end of every vacation because he can’t bear the fact that our special family adventure is coming to an end.

Vince, who continued to attempt lifelong friendship with Liam, the boy in his PreK 4 class who spent almost every day spitting on him and pushing him to the ground, long after I begged him to find another “best friend.”

I was telling Vince to let something go.

But that still wasn’t why I was laughing.

Do you ever say something so simple, so innocent, to your child, and it somehow tosses you down a rabbit hole of hard realizations about your entire life?

Yeah, me neither.

Well tonight it did. It tossed me in headfirst and flailing.

I was telling someone to let go.

Me.

I’m probably as qualified to preach about walking away as I am to sell cars or build 747’s.

I am no Queen Elsa (except for the part where she’s convinced everything is her fault- that’s kind of me).

I am the WORST at letting go.

Jobs, clothes, relationships- I’m a lingerer.

I’ve held onto socks because I remember what a great day I was having when I bought them 4 years ago.

I held onto a job even after the head of HR gleefully informed me that he was looking up ways to fire me while I was out on maternity leave, because my pregnancy was inconvenient.

I’ve held onto friendships long after everyone from my other friends to my husband to my mother have told me to walk away. Even though I was clearly the only one making any effort. Even though I had confronted the other person and nothing changed.

I’ve held onto relationships with family members even after they came into my home, sat at my table, and said some very unkind things about me, not realizing that I was standing directly behind them. Even after they read and ignored every text, every Facebook message, every attempt I made to have them be a part of mine and my children’s lives.

I’ve held onto people whose constant negativity nearly drained all the life out of me, but who insisted they needed me in their lives. I convinced myself that if I just changed this, tweaked that, or toned down those few things about myself, I could make them happy. I could fix them. Even though nothing I ever did, ever made them happy. Even though being with them added so much weight to my being that I could barely hold myself up.

Why did I linger so much? Was I that desperate to keep people and worn out striped socks in my life?

No- I have plenty of wonderful people and warm, cushy socks. I have friends who remember to wish my kids a happy birthday even when they’re at a wedding in Spain (that actually happened). I have friends who check in to see how Vince’s extra reading help is going at school, or to ask how long it’s been since Gracie’s been ear infection-free.

I have family members who come to my house with little gifts, compliment the silly $3 artwork that I’ve hung in my bathroom, and reach out to me asking if they can have my son or daughter over to spend some quality time with them.

I have relationships that are so full of love, positivity and encouragement that they completely recharge my batteries and fill me with a sense of self-worth.

I have socks that are so warm that I could probably wear them as shoes. I also have socks with reindeer on them, which is pretty awesome in itself.

So why am I such a lingerer?

I think it’s because I was raised to see the best in people. Because those absent friends promised to make an effort, and I wanted to believe it would happen. Because those family members played with my kids and laughed at one of my jokes at a holiday dinner, and I thought maybe it was a sign that we meant something to them. Because those negative relationships did have their occasional happy times, and I prayed that those would start to outweigh all the other times that were dragging me into the abyss.

But I guess as much as we want to see the best…we also need to see the truth.

Sometimes you have to let go.

Sometimes you have no other choice.

I looked at Vince, who was waiting patiently for me to finish my speech, and said, “Sometimes, even though you’re used to one blanket, you need to put it aside and try out another one. You might find that you like the new one even better- it keeps you warmer and you don’t have to deal with dog spit.”

I’m not sure if I was talking to him or to myself, but he grabbed another blanket so at least one of us is going to take my advice.

As for me?

Well…as I was having my mental crisis, I got this from my cousin: “I’m tired, my kids are still up, and I’m drinking wine on a child’s toilet bowl while my son enjoys his warm bubble bath.”

I mean really, why waste time chasing unwilling people when you have anyone who gets you on such a level that she senses, from 30 miles away, that you’re having a moment and could use the mental image of her sipping cabernet on a racecar potty?

I guess sometimes you just need a little dog spit to bring your priorities into focus.

Or something profound like that.

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Night Terrors

Long before we gave birth to our two spunky, lively little humans; long before we were married; long before we could even legally order a beer with dinner, my high school sweetheart broke the news to me.

“I don’t know if I can have children.”

Sure, it sounds like a funny thing for a 17 year-old boy to bring up during a date…but we both had a feeling that this was “it” very early in our relationship, and he was well-aware of my “I want so many children we may have to live in a shoe” dreams.

After the shock wore off, I assured him that whatever medical thing was going on, we could deal with it when it was time, or we could adopt, or we could hire a surrogate, or we could finish our dinner at TGI Fridays and talk about it in ten years…

“No, I just don’t….I don’t know if I’m really cut out to be anyone’s dad. I don’t think I would be a very good father. I don’t…think it’s a good idea. I just needed you to know that, so there aren’t any surprises later, and you can end this and find someone who can give you what you need.”

The heaviness of his gaze met mine and the lightbulb finally flashed in my mind. Of course he didn’t think he could be anyone’s father. His childhood had been full of more pain and hardship than even an adult should have to endure. The only example of fatherhood presented to him was something out of a worst-case scenario manual.

I gave him the “I understand” smile and we finished our cheesy chicken skillets and moved on with our night. But I’ve never forgotten that conversation. I’ve never forgotten the handful of similar conversations he’s initiated over the next several years.

And they all come back to me, loud and clear, on nights like last night.

It was some ungodly hour and we were in Round 3 of the dreaded night terrors. Screaming, wide eyes, hyperventilating- if you’ve never experienced them, I highly recommend it. They’re a hoot.

My singing, cradling, cooing, and kissing were met with nothing but louder screams- until Daddy walked in. I stood by helplessly as Grace reached out and curled herself around his chest.  I saw her little fingers press into his arms and her head drop peacefully onto his shoulder. I watched her take a deep breath, wiggle her toes, and settle into a completely peaceful state as Pat wrapped his arms around her, began to sway, and whispered “You’re ok, my Gracie. You’re ok, Gracie girl. I’m here. It’s ok.”

And a memory popped into my tired, frazzled head: “I don’t think I would be a very good father.”

I left him to do his magic and wandered groggily back to our bedroom, where our 13-year old dachshund, Rocco, was expecting a damn good reason for his 3rd unwanted wake-up call.

Looking at his old, gray face, I thought about a night many years ago- long before we knew what a night terror was- when it was a ruthless stomach bug keeping us up.

I remembered stumbling from the bathroom to the bedroom for the 913th time and finding a sight so strange that I thought I was hallucinating. There was my husband, lying on a sheet on the floor, with our new puppy cradled in his arms.

Pat had looked at me and whispered- so as not to wake the dog- “He threw up on all of his beds and a bunch of sheets, and he was scared and cold, so I’m sleeping on the floor with him so he feels safe.”

……“I don’t know if I’m really cut out to be anyone’s dad.”…..

Long after Pat got back into bed last night, Rocco had settled back into sleep, and they were both snoring gently, I stared at the ceiling and let more memories swirl through my head.

The morning that Vince was too afraid to walk into his school because there were too many “big” kids, so Pat sat on the curb with him for 10 minutes, discussing his feelings and his fears and giving him the courage to walk through the door.

……”I don’t think I have the patience for it.”……

The night Marty came home from her spay surgery, sedated and aching, and Pat put her head on his lap, fed her one piece of food at a time and rubbed her back.

…..”I’m not sure I’d be very good at taking care of a child.”……

The day Rocco went into acute liver failure and Pat climbed down from the bridge he was inspecting, drove an hour to the emergency vet, cradled our almost-lifeless, drooling, bleeding puppy in his arms and assured him that “It’s going to be ok, Buddy, you’re going to make it,” handed him to the vet staff…and walked to the car and sobbed.

…..”I’m not one of those people who shows a ton of emotion.”…..

The night Vince was admitted to the hospital with an unrelenting 106-degree fever and Pat climbed into the hospital bed with him and played the same episode of Mickey Mouse on his phone until the battery died.

The weekend we drove to Brooklyn to visit Pat while he was away for work, and he found someone to cover his night shift so he could fall asleep with his son, his wife and her growing baby bump in his arms.

…..”I’m not great at huge displays of affection.”….

The afternoon that I heard him scolding Vince for throwing a tantrum by saying, “You know, you have no right to yell at us…actually, we have no right to yell at you either. No one should be yelling- sometimes we do because we’re frustrated, but I’ll tell you what. If you can work on your yelling, we’ll work on ours too.”

You know what? You’re right, Pat. You were right all those years ago and you’re still right today. Your patience runs out too quickly sometimes. You have so many rules. You expect a lot. You don’t always know what to say to calm them down. Your dry sense of humor is often lost on them.

You aren’t a very good father. You weren’t cut out for this.

You’re a phenomenal father.

You were MADE for this.

Learning from the best is natural. Figuring it out on your own despite being stuck with arguably the worst of situations? That’s damn near miraculous.

Naturally, all this deep reflection caused me to sleep through my alarm and rush around like a maniac this morning. But in the middle of my frantic apple-washing and sippy-cup filling, I caught a glimpse of Vince zipping up Grace’s favorite “kitty-cat” boots and reminding her, “Keep your mouth open so I can brush your back teeth too, Gracie Girl.” I stood still, forgot about my sleep deprivation, and smiled. Because a thought had just popped into my head.

Our son? Someday, he’s going to be a great father.

He’s learning from the best.

Failing

Do you ever get the feeling you’re just not cut out for something?

I was pondering this as I pulled out of the elementary school parking lot this morning.

The “something” in question?

Parenthood.

It played over and over in my head as my car sped further away from the scene of my sad little epiphany.

I had just abandoned a shaking, sobbing Vince in front of his school, passing him off to a person I didn’t even know.

I had then raced down the school steps back to my car, only to be hit with the realization that I had left Gracie in the backseat with the engine humming and not one, but TWO doors open.

The person I didn’t know was a teacher; Vince cries whenever I can’t walk him all the way to his class; and Gracie was in the middle of a drop-off line 10 feet away from me.

But this was the icing on the dirt cake that has been our daily routine lately. This was the moment that I finally caved in and admitted it.

I’m failing.

I wasn’t always such a disorganized, frazzled mess. I used to be “That Mom.” I was the mom that didn’t yell; if Vince was having a meltdown we sat together, took two deep breaths, and calmly discussed his feelings.

I was the mom whose kids felt completely at ease with her. We had a safe, loud, warm, free, happy little existence.

I was living a completely different existence this morning as I tried to calm the screeching, foot-stomping melee that ensued after I threw away an old Bandaid.

Yes, you read that correctly.

“It was my favorite one! I need it back!”

“Vince, please calm down. We have plenty of-“

“Where is it?!”

“Please stop looking through the garbage, Vince; it’s outside in the trash.”

“No. NOOO!!”

Cue the dramatic collapse to the floor.

I was living this same existence at 2am on Wednesday while a mostly-asleep Grace flailed wildly, cried out incoherent words and kicked me in the face as punishment for rocking her and whispering “It’s ok, Mommy’s here.”

Yes, you read that correctly.

“I need Daddy! I want DADDY!”

“Honey, it was a nightmare. Daddy’s asleep, but Mommy is here. I can make it better-“

“DADDYYYYY!!!”

I stood by helplessly as Daddy swooped in, scooped her into his arms, pressed her against this chest, and, as my (slightly aching) jaw dropped to the ground, she immediately- immediately!- grew silent and serene.

I’m living this existence every single day when Grace responds to “Can you please clean your play doh?” by spitting at me and Vince reacts to “Please put away those Legos” by re-enacting my response to every episode of This Is Us.

I don’t know what happened to my children, but it appears they’ve been replaced by 3-foot tall teenagers with the hormones of several menopausal women.

And somewhere between dropping Vince off and pulling onto the highway, I determined that it’s entirely my fault.

I thought that a patient, understanding approach to parenting was best. But I must be wrong.

The Baby Boomers in my social media feed must be right- I’m not “putting the fear of God in them” like I should be.

But then again…when I yell, Vince shuts down. He refuses to look at me. All of the sparkle in his bright blue eyes fades to gray. I can’t reach him.

When I yell, Grace yells back. She throws herself on the ground. She carries on until she’s completely transformed from a person into a bobcat with a mouse trap on its tail.

So maybe I’m yelling too much? Maybe I’ve gone too far in the other direction? Maybe constantly asking them to “Quiet down, stop running around the table so close to the water cooler, don’t throw that ball by the television, for the last time, the dog is not a pony, get off her!” is too mean?

By the time I pulled up to Grace’s daycare an hour later (my commute is a dream, I tell you. A dream), I had reached the following conclusions:

  1. My children are completely out of control
  2. I am a total failure
  3. I am too lax with them
  4. I am too hard on them
  5. I am too everything
  6. I am not enough of anything
  7. I should just leave and let their father raise them alone

I was knee-deep in mom guilt. I could barely wade through it by the time I got to my desk.

Yes, I read other parent blogs. Actually, a more accurate description is that I devour them as a form of reassurance that I am not alone on this ship called “Raising Kids” that keeps threatening to sink.  I’ve nodded enthusiastically while reading all of the “you are not failing!” blog entries.

But I really am.

I stood in the living room this morning and said… after listening to 5 solid minutes of sobbing because he was upset that I let him sleep late (yes, you read that correctly)… I actually SAID these words to my son.  “Do you want to go live somewhere else? Do you want a different mommy and daddy? Because obviously we aren’t doing it for you, Vince. No matter how hard we try, you’re not happy! So maybe you want different parents. Do you want me to find them for you?”

I’ve completely lost it. I’m a horrible, useless, ineffective, mean, sorry excuse for a-

“Beep.”

I turned to look at my phone and saw an email from Vince’s teacher. My heart sank- no, plummeted- to the floor.

He told her I was giving him away. She was calling the police. Or child services. Or both. She was emailing to give me a stern warning to stop being so hard on him, he was just a little boy. Or she was emailing to tell me he wouldn’t calm down, he was being completely irrational, and I needed to get control of my child.

“Good Morning! Vincent wanted me to let you know that he is having a great day. I tested him and he is on G for Green! Congratulations! All his hard work is paying off. He is thrilled! Have a great weekend!”

I stared at it. Then I read it again. Then I exhaled for what I believe was the first time in 2 hours.

After struggling with reading for months, my little guy had finally reached the coveted “Green” reading level. We had been practicing his 10 words – and laughing until we cried every time he saw a-r-e and declared, “ARRRR!!” And he had done it- he passed! And the first person he wanted to tell, the person he wanted his teacher to email right that second, in the middle of class….was me.

I’m not failing.

So I guess it’s my turn now.

Frazzled, self-imposed guilt-ridden parent who is reading this…you are NOT a failure. Your kids will be ethereally, phenomenally, angelically perfect some days. Some days they will behave like wild animals. Some days you’ll get a little of both.

You’ll be too hard on them. And too lax. You’ll be too everything, and not enough of anything. One day you might snap and tell them you’re selling them to the circus (or in my case, ask them maniacally if they want a parental upgrade).

But you’ll get them to adulthood. And you’ll do it whichever way is right for YOU.

They’ll grow into kind, compassionate, successful, hopefully non-spitting members of society.

We’re not failing…we all just need a reminder sometimes.

The Fixer

“Dad said to tell you not to worry, it’ll all be fine.”

“Of course he did,” I thought knowingly. “He always says that.”

Still, I couldn’t help but smirk as I felt my shoulders relax and my breath come more evenly.  He was so good that he could calm me down just by relaying a sentence through my mother. Dad said it was going to be ok so, inevitably, it would be.

When I was a kid, my dad was everyone’s go-to person for all things traumatic. Headless dolls, knotted jewelry, hurt feelings, sputtering engines- anything you threw at him was not returned until it was as good as new. No matter what else was on his plate, he pushed it aside for anyone who approached him with anything from a broken car to a broken heart.

But, over the years, I’ve watched him become tired. I’ve watched him battle cancer and lung disease. I’ve watched him fight through the urge to collapse when the pain in his knees becomes unbearable. I’ve watched him grow older.

And so, over the years, I’ve worried, and I’ve prayed that he’d retire from being everyone’s go-to guy, and I’ve tried to call less often with my problems – he’s popped the hood on enough of my cars and dried enough of my tears. The guy deserves a break.

And I guess in the midst of all those years, something else happened. I became The Fixer.

I’ve become the fixer of dolls, the mender of ripped blankets, and the binder of cracked books.

I’ve become the organizer of play-dates and sleepovers; the event planner of barbecues, birthday parties, and holiday dinners; and the mastermind behind surprise date nights, weekend getaways and summer road trips.

I’ve become the scheduler (and often the chauffeur) for pediatrician appointments, dental procedures, veterinary surgeries, and car check-ups.

I’ve become the maker of the weekly menu and the personal shopper who can traverse the aisles of 3 grocery stores in a single lunch hour.

I’ve become the stylist of toddler hair, the manicurist of tiny fingers and toes, and the “I can’t fall asleep, Mommy” reader of countless books and singer of countless songs.

I’ve become the dance party coordinator, the popcorn popper, and the “of course you can sit on the counter and keep me company” baker of all things chocolate and fabulous.

I’ve become the soother of diaper rash, the groomer of water-averse dachshunds, and the cleaner of scrapes of all shapes and sizes.

I’ve become the go-to person.

But this particular morning, I fell a bit short.

I braced myself as I heard the sickening thud of my children tumbling down the stairs; I took a deep breath as I watched them emerge in the hallway, tangled up like two cats that had just been in a brawl. I untangled legs and arms; I checked for injuries; I carried them gently to the couch; I wiped up blood and tears and applied Olaf boo-boo ice and monster bandages.

I clenched my teeth and shook it off when our 40lb puppy came skidding around the corner to bring me her favorite toy, legs flailing, and knocked me over like a red-headed bowling pin.

I steadied myself when I skidded on a patch of black ice on my way to the car and almost slammed into the garage door face-first.

It had been a rough morning, but it would be fine. It would be fine. I could do this.

Then I put the key in the ignition.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

Nothing.

Suddenly, my magic was gone.

I couldn’t do this.

I needed my go-to person.

“Dad? I’m so sorry, I know it’s early, but my battery is dead and I have a meeting at 10am and I need to get Grace to school…”

Thirty minutes later, there was my fixer, strolling across my driveway, greeting me with a hug, a smile, and a “Good morning. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

And he did.

But of course, he first had to greet my very excited and surprised daughter, say good morning to my very excited and surprised dog, and let me know that “I picked up a replacement for that broken piece on your front door” and “hey you know the base of your cabinet in the bathroom is loose. You could just use glue- let me know if you need some.”

I stood in the bay of his shop as he walked over to my car with my new battery, which was waiting for us the moment we walked through the door because he had called his boss to save me time. I watched my daughter’s face pass back and forth between amazement and total adoration while he moved swiftly around the bay, working under the hood, putting air in my tires, and checking the tail light that I admitted had been burnt out for a few days (or months…).

I stared at him, dumbfounded, when I tried to give him my Visa and he just waved his hand and said, “You’re all set, love you, Happy Valentine’s Day.”

I laughed when, five minutes later, as I was trying to calm my daughter, who was wailing, “I want to stay with GRANDPA TODAY!!!” he came to the car and said, “Sorry, I forgot to give you directions to your job.”
“Oh, Dad it’s ok, I have a GPS-“

“Ok but here, let me tell you anyway.”

I laughed again when, not even 5 minutes after I walked into my office, I got a text that read, “I got headlight and brake light bulbs for you; maybe stop by tonight and I’ll change them.”

I am, in fact, a very good fixer, and not to brag (ok I want to brag a little), I’m an expert juggler.  I can juggle my children, my career, my husband, my family, and my friends’ needs like The Cat in the Hat juggles the ship and the cup and the book and the cake and the fish in the bowl and…all the other stuff he juggles (before he falls). But at the end of the day, even us go-to people need go-to people of our own.

At the end of the day, we all need someone who will let us breathe for a few minutes while they handle all of the grown up stuff. Someone who will lend us a little of their magic when ours isn’t enough.

And I guess no matter how old he gets, or how tired he is, or how early in the morning or late at night it may be, my dad will always have enough magic for me on those days when mine runs dry; those days when I need him to come over, hug me, and make everything alright again.

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Living

I really don’t know what to do with myself lately.

I see recipe posts on Facebook and think, “How can people have an appetite?”

I get notifications about Broadway productions and comedy shows and think, “How can people laugh?”

Last weekend, as I browsed the remote control cars at the Disney Store with my son, he asked if he could let go of my hand and just walk next to me. I had to explain that no, he needed a good grip on my hand so that if someone tried to steal him, I could pull him away. I remembered my mother having that same conversation with me almost 3 decades ago. I suddenly felt the same gut-punching feeling I’m guessing she had when she explained it to me as she squeezed my tiny toddler hand in hers.

My Valentine’s Day gifts from my husband were a phenomenal vegan dinner, homemade chocolate cake, and concert tickets. I plastered a smile on my face as I chewed chickpeas, swirled sweet potato wedges through hummus sauce, and internally panicked about who would remember to read “On the Night You Were Born” to my children each year on their birthdays if something happened at the concert and I didn’t make it out.

Yesterday I started planning our summer vacation; as I was looking up attractions between Cleveland and Chicago, it popped into my head before I could block it- “Please let us all make it to summer vacation.”

When did we reach this point?

When did everyday tasks like dropping the kids off at school or entering a crowded theater become the catalysts for breaking out in a cold sweat?

When did we get to this crossroads of “I want to experience life” and “I think it’s best for me to reside under my bed for the rest of my days…?”

How do we navigate through this reality of fear, anxiety and helplessness?

Needless to say, I’ve been in a bit of a dark place. “Hey, I should blog today!” has been relegated to the depths of my mind, somewhere between “I should get up at 5:30am to exercise” and “I should give up wine for Lent.” Who the hell cares about a blog right now?

Yes, I follow current events. Yes, I vote. Yes, I take the time to educate my children about the correct way to function in society, to respect everyone with whom they come into contact, to express themselves in a healthy manner, to let us know if anything ever seems “off” to them. Well, moreso my son- for now, if my daughter keeps her pants off her head, eats the banana but not the peel, and doesn’t spit on anyone, I call it a good day. But we’ll get there with her, I promise.

But I still feel so…useless. How is anything I’m doing the least bit effective at changing an entire society?

Well, today I saw it.

As I was power-walking to the diaper aisle of the grocery store during lunch, I almost skidded into another shopper who, I noticed while trying not to plow into her, had the most stunning, unique hair color. Before I could stop myself I blurted out, “Wow. I love your hair. It’s so different and bright, it’s gorgeous!”

She stopped in her tracks and stared at me.

I stood there awkwardly balancing 2 boxes of applesauce and package of chicken sausage, very aware of how borderline creepy I must seem….but I didn’t get the weird, uncomfortable response I was expecting.

Beautiful, vibrant, kick-ass hair girl lit up with a beautiful, vibrant, kick-ass smile. “Thank you so much!” she replied. She was still smiling as we walked away from each other and continued our respective Supermarket Sweep-style grocery store runs.

I had made someone happy- I had brightened someone’s day. And all I did was almost hit them with a box of sausage and yell out a weird compliment.

On my way out I stopped at the coffee counter, ordered a latte and started chatting with the barista (I’m a talker- I don’t leave a restaurant without knowing my waiter’s entire life story and wishing his grandmother luck with her upcoming medical procedure). I said something about my kids and- boom- her face lit up as she started talking to me about her grandchildren. We shared a few laughs and wished each other a wonderful day, and she smiled warmly as I strolled out of the store with my diapers, my applesauce, my sausage, and my iced decaf coconut milk latte (I have ALL the allergies).

In the span of about 5 minutes, I had brightened two people’s days. It took zero effort.

On my way back to the office, I remembered something one of my college professors had told me in the wake of 9-11: “No matter what is happening in the world, life continues along the shores.”

Life continues.

So I guess I might as well start participating in it again.

Maybe the best treatment for this constant fear of the ugliest parts of this world is to spend our days pointing out the beauty in it. Maybe while we’re advocating for change on the highest levels, we can start by changing the way we interact on every level.

Because maybe when you give someone an unexpected bit of happiness, it turns their day around. Maybe it leads to them turning someone else’s day around. Maybe a chain of unexpectedly pleasant days makes people’s heads clearer. Maybe we stop thinking with fear, and start acting with reason and purpose. Maybe we start to see change on a higher level. Maybe.

Maybe I sound ridiculous and naïve.

But maybe not.

Maybe my efforts will make no difference. But I’m still going to keep lifting people up whenever I see an opportunity. I’m going to plan my summer vacation. I’m going to that concert. I’m going to keep donating to every GoFundMe that’s sent my way, and complimenting every cool hairdo I see. I’m going to keep offering to reach the highest shelf for people in the pasta aisle. I’m going to keep sharing my little life on this blog because hey, maybe it’s making someone’s day better. I’m going to keep taking my kids to donate clothes and toys so they understand that civilization depends on kindness and altruism. I’m going to keep leading them by example (although, no matter how many pairs of pants I DON’T put on my head, my daughter isn’t catching on yet)…

I guess at the end of the day, the best way to change the world is to be a part of it.

I guess improving something by being present is better than improving nothing by hiding in a corner.

I guess it’s time to start living.

The One I Couldn’t Write

As the music poured through the car speakers and the tears streamed down my face, I thought to myself, “This is it. I’m finally ready to write about her.”

And yet, here I am, seven hours later, still unable to put two sentences together without punching the “delete” key in utter frustration.

How do you write about the woman who both shaped and was an integral part of every facet of your being for 27 years? How do you squish all that into a neatly-worded blip on a blog?

Apparently you don’t.

So I’m going to try something else- I’m just going to tell you about my morning. We’ll start there and see how it goes.

Actually, wait. Let’s start with last Tuesday.

There I was, absent-mindedly rifling through the wreath section at Kohls, when I heard my phone beep.

My mind went right to the most-likely scenarios. Either Vince was puking on the playground or Grace was burning up and clutching her “bad” ear. It couldn’t possibly be anything else at 1pm on a Tuesday.

It couldn’t be my husband- it was way too early for the “what should I start for dinner?” text.

It couldn’t be my mother- we had literally just ended our daily lunchtime conversation.

It couldn’t be a job offer.

Wait. Wait…back up to that last one.

It was, in fact, a job offer.  Well, sort of.

I read the text, blinked, read it again, blinked…you get the idea.

The marketing director at my friend’s company wanted to hire a freelance writer. He wanted to talk to me.

He wanted to talk to me?!

“Sure!” I replied casually, dancing around the wreaths like I was doing some sort of sacred ritual and also had an uncontrollable urge to pee.

Fast-forward to later that afternoon, when the marketing director interviewed me over the phone and told me he had read my blog and really enjoyed my writing style.

“Oh, you’ve seen the blog? I’m so glad you enjoy it!” I replied casually, doing another sacred ritual/pee dance around my office.

Over the next few days, there was a lot of “Someone read my blog!” followed by “Someone wants to PAY me to WRITE!”- both of which were inevitably rounded out by the ritual/pee dance.

So now that you’re caught up, we can go back to this morning.  The morning of my in-person interview with the marketing director and the president of the company.

Oh, did I forget to mention that?

As you can imagine, I was a pillar of Zen.

So I was driving to work in my Zen-like state- and definitely not mentally rehearsing various disastrous scenarios that involved me walking into the conference room door, tripping over my boots, or choking on my gum- and she popped into my head.

She’s always there in some capacity, but she tends to float to the forefront whenever something big is happening in my life.

She, of course, is my grandmother. The original Gracie. The woman who took a piece of my heart with her when she left us almost 8 years ago.

She was my second mother. She was the woman who gently brushed my hair at night when my actual mother couldn’t get through my tangled mop. She was the woman who fed me fudge pops on her brand new couch while I waited for my parents to bring home my brand new baby sister.

She was the woman who smiled at me when I showed up at her door with my pillow once a week, invited me in, whipped up a ham and cheese on raisin bread (don’t you judge me), gave me her whole bed (“a queen-sized bed for the queen!” ) and let me stay up all night watching infomercials.

She was the woman who taught me how to make “bucking-egg toast” without the egg spilling over the side of the bread.

She was the first reader of my 1988 novel, a 1-page drama entitled, “The Chicken Who Couldn’t Lay Her Egg,” complete with illustrations.

She was the editor-in-chief of every 15-20 page paper I wrote throughout college; she hung my college diploma on her wall because, as I told her, “we did it together.”

She was my most devoted cheerleader, my strongest support system, and the best at keeping me in check (“Come over here so I can hop you in the ass!”)

She was everything to me.  She was always there when I needed her, even if it was just to give me one of her hugs- the ones that, even in the end when she was little and frail, were still so all-encompassing; and a kiss on the cheek; and a quick but heartfelt “Who loves you, Baby?”

And I needed her this morning. I needed her to tell me I could do this. I needed her to tell me I wouldn’t screw it up.

But she was gone.

So I did the only sane thing one could do- crawling through the morning traffic, I chatted with her.

“Gracie, please be here today. I know there’s no way you can let me know you’re hearing this, but please be here.”

And then, like something out of a Hallmark Christmas movie, I heard the first chords of a once-familiar song streaming through my speakers.

It’s a song called “Fiction” by a band she never would have listened to, Avenged Sevenfold (she was more of a Patsy Cline fan).  Right after her passing, it was part of a playlist I blasted through my earphones on repeat while I ran.

Once she was gone, all I could do was run. Run from the empty feeling in my chest. Run from the ache of losing her. Run from the realization that she was forever out of my reach.

So that’s what I did.

I ran every day, sometimes for hours. I ran until I could feel nothing but pain and my lungs were about to burst. I remember my friend Athena calling to check on me and reminding me, “It’s ok to do this as long as you’re not hurting yourself.” I assured her that I would never do that. But I suppose that’s exactly what I was doing- running so that a different type of pain would take over.

And as I ran, the lyrics spurred me on.

“Gave you all I had to give, found a place for me to rest my head.”

“While I may be hard to find, heard there’s peace just on the other side.”

“Left this life to set me free; took a piece of you inside of me.”

“I know you’ll find your own way when I’m not with you.”

I hadn’t heard that song in years, and suddenly those lines were pouring from my speakers. But this time, I didn’t have any urge to take off in a sprint (not that I could, unless I wanted to go viral on YouTube as “Crazy woman running through traffic on Rt 46 this morning!”). Instead, I sat very still, allowed the tears to flow, and let the words wash over me.

She was right there. How she rigged up my radio is beyond me, but if you knew Gracie, you’d know it was possible.

So that was my morning.

And later, when I walked into that conference room (after getting rid of my gum and making sure my boots weren’t going to get stuck in any thresholds) I was actually pretty Zen-like. How could I not be?  I had the comfort of knowing that I will never have to do this alone.

The Squad

“I need a day.” Louis Litt

“I need a month.” Me

After the events of the past few weeks, I feel like I could spend a month in Bora Bora and still be wound tighter than a spring. Of course, after the events of the past few weeks, my getaway budget is less “one month in Bora Bora” and more “one hour alone in ShopRite.”

We all have a breaking point, and I hit mine at top speed around 9 o’clock this morning.

My endlessly patient husband was willing to bear the brunt of my panic-fueled, 31-text explosion from 9:15-10:15 (God. Bless. That. Man.) But even after that volcanic meltdown, I still couldn’t stop spinning. I settled into the realization that I’d be accompanied by my anxiety for the rest of the day, and began busying myself enough to take it from a head-splitting roar to a low hum.

And then…I got this.

“You know if you need me I’ll drop everything.”

Remember that scene from Frozen where Elsa stands there in that fabulous ice dress, raises her hands, turns a Winter Blizzard into Spring, and Olaf gets all excited? That was pretty much me reading that text message (just to be clear, I’m definitely Olaf…in any scenario. I could never pull off that dress, and my nose is pretty pronounced).

That’s all it took- one little sentence- and my world stopped spinning.

So who is this magical person with the power to halt a 2-hour, head-pounding, vision-blurring panic episode with one little sentence?

My friend. 🙂

She didn’t know how trying the last few weeks have been- nor did she have any idea that I was in the middle of what I like to call “an episode” (makes it sound fancy, no?) We were just texting about going to brunch, and she knew something wasn’t right. So she raised her arms, waved her hands, and stopped the blizzard swirling around in my head. I’m not sure if she was wearing a fabulous ice dress; it might have been a fabulous pants suit.

Pretty powerful, right?

Sometimes you need a month in Bora Bora, but more often than not, you just need a friend.

I believe we call them our squad? I prefer “circle of badass bitches,” but that’s just me. Whatever term you prefer (try mine, I think it’s really going to catch on), you may find yourself reaching out to them quite often once adulthood really sets in.

*Side Note- You might be one of those magical unicorn people who can handle any of life’s twists and turns with poise and grace, completely on your own. However, if you’re a high-maintenance, unconfident, needy little mess like myself, feel free to read on.*

You may need the friend who can sit on your couch on a Saturday night and help you fold laundry, and somehow make it fun; who gave your baby his very first nickname (I still call him “Cenzie” every now and then); who you can talk to about everything from hopes and dreams to favorite cupcake flavors to bowel movements in one conversation; and who can tell through a text message that life has you on a ledge, and know exactly what to say to pull you back.

You may need the friend who has been with you from the see-saw in 1st grade, to checking each other’s teeth for “gook” at the lunch table in 7th grade, to waiting at a Chili’s down the road to save each other from a first date if needed (it wasn’t needed- he’s awesome, she married him, they make stunningly adorable babies), to offering to watch your son when you go into labor- 1 month after having her own baby.

You may need the friend who grew up around the corner; who knew you when you had 1 very furry, caterpillar-like eyebrow, and never made fun of said eyebrow; who knows everything about your political views, your marital problems, your sex life, your career goals, and everything else that you’ve blurted out to them at all hours of the day; and who will always make time to listen.

You may need the ones who technically aren’t related to you, but who would definitely get custody of you in the event of a divorce; who can have lively conversations with you about dogs, Disney cartoons, and diet changes; who drive 30 minutes to have a 40-minute lunch with you, just so you can see each other; who sit in Long Island traffic after working all day just to hold your brand new baby; and who trek almost an hour, two weeks in a row, just to be at your dining room table for both of your children’s birthdays.

You may need the mom friends that you hardly ever see, but who know pretty much everything about you, because you’ve blurted out your life stories to one another while fighting the epic battle to get toddlers into carseats in the daycare parking lot. You will carry out very real relationships with these women via text messages and Facebook, and they will get you through some very trying times (and answer all of your homework questions when you have to deal with Common Core math).

You may need the work wives who show up at your door with bags of food and pantry staples, before you’ve even moved in; who gladly stop by your office to swap stories about whose family is loonier on any given day; and who have seen you speed-eat 4 tacos and a plate of chips and salsa during lunch and never judged you.

If you can find any of these types of people you’ll be unimaginably blessed. They will be your Elsas. They will form your circle. They will be there, many times, before you even realize you need them.

And when your time comes to be any of these people, don’t shy away from it. You may just know the one little sentence that will stop their world from spinning.

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The Devil You Know

My husband and I were in the middle of a very dramatic, very intricate argument this morning when he sent me this text:

“Sorry to interrupt, but the school just called to say that after-school programs are cancelled because of the snow. Does that include YMCA? If it does, I’ll leave work early and get Vince.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. He actually paused our argument to offer to pick up our son from school. After 18 years together, we’ve become that versatile. Neither of us could ever have imagined just how much of a well-oiled machine this marriage would be when I said yes to a 20 year-old kid kneeling on his bad knee in front of a park bench (in the pouring rain- cue movie music) in 2003.

So what would I tell 22 year-old Cathy & Pat before she walked down that aisle, whispering with her father about how they both had to pee?

Probably something along these lines.

Marriage takes more than lust and heat and giggling over dessert at a candlelit table. Everyone knows that. But what those vows don’t really lay out is just how much work it requires, every single day (some days, every single goddamn hour).

Spoiler Alert- you won’t always like your spouse! You may, at times, even want to throw a salad plate at their stupid face. Please refrain from doing so, of course, but don’t feel like a terrible person for fantasizing about shredded carrots landing in their hair. It happens.

Marriage takes so much more than honoring, cherishing, and committing to another person. It takes LIVING with them without one of you ever actually being committed to an institution. It takes dealing with snoring, belching, coughing, sniffling…you have no IDEA how many variations of a sniffle there are until someone is lying next to you at 2am, trying them all out.

Marriage takes the patience to listen, with a smile on your face, to every aspect of their day- right down to the fact that they put too much dressing on their salad at lunch- because you know they’re so stressed that they need to let it all out (even the dressing disaster).

Marriage takes the flexibility to get to know all of the new things they’re falling in love with, and hopefully fall in love with them too (or at least know enough to follow along). Do you think Pat will really get as excited as you do when you perfect a new vegan cheese sauce? No. But will he declare with a straight face that he can really tell you added one more pinch of garlic, and that’s what made all the difference? Yes he will. Because he supports your vegan cheese sauce obsession, as any good spouse would.

Marriage takes the strength to look at the other person during the throes of an argument, acknowledge that in that moment you are seriously questioning what you ever saw in them, and decide to stay and hash it out anyway.

Marriage takes the resolve to not just stand by someone who is suffering from depression or an anxiety disorder, but to willingly hurl yourself into the line of fire, over and over again, because you know the only way to help them navigate the episode is to really hold onto them…and that means getting pummeled a little bit harder the closer you get.

Marriage takes the emotional fortitude to shower your spouse with affection and kindness at the exact moment they’re using all of their energy to convince you that 1.) They’re not worthy of companionship and 2.) You should pack a bag and never look back (and believe me, sometimes you will want to).

Marriage takes the kind of selective memory needed to watch your spouse expel a human, and several bodily fluids, while sweating buckets and growling like a dog, and still want to be intimate with her.

Marriage takes the kind of equally selective memory needed to hear your spouse, in the heat of battle, expel a single seething sentence that brings you to your knees…and still decide to get up, brush off those knees, and spend the rest of your life with him.

Marriage requires a well-rehearsed game face and non-confrontational, supportive tone for any situation, including but not limited to:

  1. You look GREAT in that…but you know, I really love you in this other one…
  2. I love this! Is that ginger and peanut butter, together? It’s such a great, unique combo. I never would have thought of it.
  3. Of course I can take the kids to the ::insert event here:: by myself! Go ahead and take the overtime…we could really use it. (Cathy, you will never be good at delivering this line)
  4. I prefer you just like this- you were way too thin before. (You will both say it and, honestly, you’ll mean it)
  5. No, I didn’t want the last taco. Ugh, I’m so full. It’s all you.

It’s not all struggle- if it is, you may actually want to pack that bag and run (still don’t throw the salad plate…really. Deep breaths). No, on the contrary, it’s, dare I say, pretty awesome. Because on the other side of all the patience, emotional (and intestinal) fortitude, and forgiveness it requires- you get all of this:

  1. Someone who will at some point catch you picking your nose, and still want to kiss you.
  2. Someone who will be able to sense your pain and exhaustion through a quickly texted “I’m fine…,” and who will be waiting at the door with a glass of wine, a brownie, and a bath towel that was just warmed in the dryer.
  3. Someone who will see you naked when you feel like a Victoria’s Secret model and when you feel like Chris Farley in that scene with the little coat…and will desire you just as much both times.
  4. Someone who will know exactly how much milk you want in your cereal, and your preferred ratio of veggies to mashed potatoes. These things are paramount- trust me.
  5. Someone who will know instinctively when you need a hug- every damn time. It’s remarkable.
  6. Someone who will share a bed with you when you’re snorting with congestion, doubled over in pain because you ate cheese sauce that wasn’t vegan, or throwing up in a bucket because the kids brought home ANOTHER stomach bug.
  7. Someone who will, in a drunken haze, look at you with the gratitude of a puppy saved from a ditch when you wipe his face with a cool washcloth, kiss his forehead, and tell him that you’ll sleep on the floor with him until the room stops spinning. (this one typically stops after kids come into the picture…after that the room is spinning enough when you’re sober).
  8. Someone who you know damn well has wanted to throw a salad plate at your head…but never has.

Sure, it’s not all candy and roses. Honestly, 34 year-old Pat is prone to dental issues and Cathy prefers the $5 bouquets from Trader Joe’s. But you’re getting someone who will always give you the “good” seat on the couch, hold you when you insist you don’t need to be held, and always, ALWAYS, give you an equal number of tater tots.

That, my friends, is worth the “work.”

Resolutions

“Mommy, there’s poop…on my foot. There is poop…on…my foot. Mommy, there’s poop-“

“It looks like Rocco poop, Mommy. It’s small like Rocco poop- it’s kind of dry but she stepped on it and it got smushy. It’s very small…it’s definitely Rocco poop. Marty poop is a lot bigger. Can you bring some wipes in here? Grace has poop-“

“Yeah it’s on my foot! It’s small, Mommy. Rocco poop. It’s brown. We need the wipes, Mommy. I have the poop.”

“Grace, stand still! I’ll be there as soon as I finish cleaning Marty’s pee off the dining room rug!”

I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions, and this is why.

I usually don’t have the wherewithal to set specific plans to create a new and improved version of my life when I spend most of my time just trying to survive the current version.

I’m certainly not saying that I don’t like the current version- it’s an adventure I wouldn’t step away from for anything.

I’m also not saying that I don’t want to grow and evolve- I just don’t necessarily agree with the whole “Ok, it’s January 1st. BOOM! New Me! New Life! Right Now!”

Especially since I’m so preoccupied with scrubbing the digestive habits of 2 dogs from my carpets and, occasionally (gag) my daughter’s left foot.  That’s all the room I have in my “right now!” list of things to do these days.

But for whatever reason, I got swept up in Resolution Madness this year- I had some pretty ambitious ones, if I do say so myself. This was the gist of my mental pep-talk on New Year’s Eve:

“In 2018, I’m going to write my first book! I’m going to go back to a mostly vegan, low sugar diet! I’m not wasting any more money on soy lattes! I’m going to get up at 5:30am and do a 20-minute yoga routine, and another one each night before bed! I’m going to lose 10lbs! I’m going to cut out alcohol and tortilla chips! Wait, not that last one, let’s not go crazy.”

But the thing about resolutions (which is, once again, why I don’t normally make any) is that you have to somehow accomplish them while walking this little tightrope called LIFE.

Let’s illustrate a few examples, shall we?

For example…when a Lincoln Towncar consummated its relationship with my back bumper during the evening rush last Wednesday night, I needed to wait for the police report. I needed to get to my chiropractor, because smacking your face into your steering wheel makes your neck do all sorts of fun, twisty things. I didn’t get home until 8:30 at night; so the PM workout wasn’t happening.

When Marty tore a hole in my last pair of pajamas doing her “Good Morning Mommy!” flash dance on Friday, I had to go out after work in 10-degree weather searching for clearance-priced, dog-proof sweatpants. It was late. I was cold. There was a Starbucks…ok, I bought a soy latte. And a cake pop…

When Grace threw up 4 times from 1:30-4:30am on Sunday, I was NOT getting up at 5:30am to do 20 minutes of yoga. I got up at 7am and walked into a wall.

When I strolled into the basement last night and found the washing machine making a noise that sounded strangely like my chain-smoking great-uncles trying to clear their throats, I had to shelve my plans to transform my sunroom into a reflective space for literature and poetry. Instead, I read the washer/dryer combo descriptions on HomeDepot.com and reflected on what my monthly payments would be for the front-loaders.

See what I mean? Life takes a lot of adjustment. That’s why they made a whole board game about it.

I think a better idea than a hard and fast resolution is this- understand that life will happen. Steer it in the right direction and take new paths whenever possible. But if you get stuck on one monotonous road for a while, enjoy that ride too.

In the past week, I have purchased 2 lattes. I have eaten 6 Trader Joe’s sea salt brownie bites, 1 cake pop, and 2 dark chocolate truffles. I have enjoyed my homemade, very non-vegan turkey casserole 3 times. I’ve skipped a couple of workouts. I have lost 0 pounds (actually, I gained 3…). My sunroom is still just a sunroom, not an epic writing retreat.

So I have some news for you, 2018 Resolutions.

  1. Running up the stairs after I coaxed the washer back to life, screaming, “We are draining and spinning, people! We are Draining and Spinning!!!” and dancing my out-of-shape butt off with Gracie in the kitchen was, in fact, a pre-bed workout.
  2. I like soy lattes. They are off the list.
  3. I will get up to do yoga if and only if both children sleep for a continuous 5 hours the previous night.
  4. Grace and I had a very competitive “who can crunch like a bunny” contest with carrots and hummus while the police checked out my cracked bumper. I ate potato and leek soup for dinner last night. I am having quinoa salad for lunch. But if I want one of Vince’s chicken nuggets tonight, it-is-on.
  5. This body is strong. This body is active. This body is healthy. This body is currently having some issues fitting into jeans. This body jiggles when I stir soup. This body crackles in various places when I ease into downward dog. Ok we’re going in the wrong direction. The point is- I will try my best. Maybe this is the year I’ll go back to looking like I did when I was 22. But if not, I will crackle and jiggle proudly into next year- in a bikini! So THERE.
  6. I may not write a book this year. But I will write. I’ll write when I’m happy and when I’m sad. I’ll write in the sunroom and on the living room floor. I’ll write at the dining room table while the tornado of children and dogs swirls around me. I’ll write when I’m hiding in the bathroom pretending to pee.

So if you, like me, have had a bit of a backfire to start your year, try this Resolution- change what you want, if you can, when it’s right. But no matter what, love what you have.  Poop and all.