Thirty-four

Follow your heart. The grass is always greener. If you do what you've always done, you get what you've always gotten. 

There are so many wonderful sayings to guide us through a happy life. But lately, instead of gleaning inspiration from them, they are jacking my flow and putting me in a never ending mind spin.

Let me explain.

Follow your heart. My heart tells me to teach and draw and read and create and take my kids to the zoo. My responsibilities laugh and remind me that the zoo isn't going to add to the college fund, and neither is a pencil sketch. So I do the closest thing to following my heart, which is work a job that pays actual money but allows me to work from home 75% of the time. Not exactly following my heart, because in this scenario my heart is like a three-year-old, fervently tugging at my hand, trying to pull me in another direction (toward the polar bears) while I lean the opposite way into my decision (or somewhere I can access wifi)...but I suppose it's close.

And here's an extra twist to the mind spin: Does working from home 75% of the time which allows me to do the things I love to do like take the girls to swimming and ballet and basketball camp mean that it's okay that I'm only partially focused on them because in the back of my mind I'm worried about making it back home for that phone meeting? I still can't just go chill at the yogurt shop and enjoy the summer sun because I've got to answer email from my phone. That is, if I can keep my thoughts straight while I've got Nine wondering aloud (loudly) how come I get to be on my phone all the time (uh...because it's mine?) and how come she can't get on there to text Daddy and play games and take pictures of God knows what, and I've got Eight...

(Oh! Announcement! Seven turned Eight a couple weeks ago! That's why I haven't been writing! I've been celebrating her turning Eight and no longer whining! Oh wait...the Eight part is here, the whining, well, it still is too. WTF kid?)

...hammering away at me, wisely realizing that if she asks me over and over again like a skipping record if she can turn the TV on because she's soboredandthereisnothingtodoandpleasemommyipromisetobegood because she knows full well that when I'm trying to email people and schedule meetings and chat with my boss on IM and keep Nine away from my iPhone that my answer will be a distracted nod yes.

Really, is any of the madness outlined above good for anyone's heart or their intent to follow it?

Now.

The grass is always greener. Is it? There's a lot I'd change about my day to day, but that's all just fluff. The core of my life is exactly my favorite color of green already. (It goes perfectly with my eyes.) The traveling husband is a nut job sometimes but God help me, I love him. I've been staring at his pretty face for twenty years, and he slipped those diamonds around my finger 11 years ago, and he still manages to make me laugh and make my heart go pitter-pat. The kids are healthy, the parents are living and everyone is crazy but nobody is taking medication for it yet, so there's that.

But back to the fluff. Who doesn't want a bigger house or more stuff? That's why they sell magazines with retouched pictures of nicer yards, better clothes, prettier living rooms, more functional organizing systems for your garage...it's because everyone who looks at those images thinks, yeah, I want to fix/make/have that. I look around the little house we live in and everywhere my eyes land I think, I want to paint there, hang that differently, change that, fix those, move this...and all I need are some more frames and plants and rugs and furniture and lighting and shelves and FLUFF. So what if fluff was greener than the whatever it is I have now, and I got it all? I wandered over to the greener, fluffier side of the lawn? At what expense? It all costs money (which means more work), plus then I'd have more to clean, and more to fritz over when Nine and Eight spill their snacks, and I'd have to remember to water things...and then there I am, right in the middle of a mind spin, talking myself out of the things I think I want, and reminding myself why I don't really need any of it. (But I still sort of want it all...)

Which brings me to my last spinning top and before I get into that, did you really think that after not writing for a few weeks that this post would be short and sweet? Lord have mercy, all of this has been mentally stacking up like bills, just getting ready to teeter right over, and then I walked over to it and blew on it like a candle and BOOM.

So.


If you do what you've always done, you get what you've always gotten. One of my favorite sayings really. It just gets right to the point doesn't it? You don't like the size of your ass? Stop eating Oreos in bed. Want your house to be cleaner? Don't walk by dust bunnies made of dog hair and pretend you don't see it wafting around your ankles. However. Last week I drank protein shakes twice a day FOR A WHOLE FOUR DAYS and I didn't lose an inch or a pound. I'm pretty sure I was PMSing though, so maybe it would have worked had my body not been quite so inefficient. Listen midsection, we aren't in famine and we don't need to protect the uterus with a spare tire at this point in time, so let's just drop the water weight and slim jim it up, shall we?

My point, and I think somewhere in here there might be one, is that no matter what wicked smart gem you're living by at any given moment, there's going to be some part of your brain that talks you into or out of it. Mind spin. Whatever happens, it's God's plan - so if you decide to just chill on the couch instead of work, then apparently God wants you to be ghetto-fabulous. Run with it (in Jesus' name).

Okay, so possibly there was no point. But at least I cracked open the blog and wrote again. My ovaries, they are a'tremblin', and my uterus, she is a'cleansin'. 

What? Considering the title, you're lucky I haven't gone there yet in full, gory detail. I will though. Pins and needles, I know. You're welcome.

Thirty-one

One of my favorite sayings is this: If you do what you've always done, you get what you've always gotten.


Sometimes the husband throws that back at me when I decide to sleep rather than get up early for a run. And I use the term "run" lightly, since I rarely run and if I do, it's for a very, very short period of time. You marathoners have me mystified. I'm not joking. I can't fathom doing that for hours on end. I just think my hands would swell and my feet would go numb and I'd just be like, oh Jesus, I'm EXHAUSTED (and come to think of it, a little ornery), and then I'd step off the trail and into the first Starbucks for an iced green tea and a comfy chair.


Everything tends to jiggle when I bounce repeatedly like that, and it just doesn't feel good. I don't imagine it looks very good either, especially from behind. But if I don't run, the jiggle won't go away. Get up early and run, defeat jiggle. Stay in bed and sleep, jiggle is happy and well-rested, but ever present.


Vicious circle. Anyway.


I did something different lately and in the process, proved my saying to be true.


(No. I didn't run a marathon. Do you have short term memory loss?)


I went with Nine and her Brownie troop a couple weeks ago to make, serve, and eat dinner with families who are currently homeless.


Families. No home.


Let that one sink in the next time you send your Chardonnay back for being too buttery.


One young woman we ate dinner with had four kids, and the youngest one was just a few weeks old. I smelled her daughter's sweet, tiny, little baby head (stop it, you know you sniff baby heads too, and if you don't you're missing out on one heavenly scent) and flashed back to when my own girls were tiny and we were all snuggled up with blankets and diapers and everything else we needed close at hand.


Do you remember when you first had your baby, or got your puppy, or whatever it is you pour your heart into? How vulnerable you felt and how many hours you spent awake worrying or feeding or caring for that being? And have you ever had a total piece of shit day and the whole time thought to yourself, man, I just can't wait to go home? I just want to kick off my jeans and put my slippers on and watch a movie, or read a book, or call a friend, or plant some flowers, or pour a cocktail, or something that makes me feel like me again.


Well, for these families, at this time in their lives, that's simply not an option. Neither is privacy, or freedom, or organic vegetables from the farmer's market, or a light heart. How must it feel to explain to your school-age child that they are going to sleep in a tent at a church for the next two weeks, and after that, well, we just aren't sure where we might sleep?


As I sat with that young mother and her newborn, I struggled to find something to say that would open a neutral conversation. I asked about her children, their ages, school. But I couldn't bring myself to ask if she had a husband there with her, because really, that was none of my business. I didn't want to ask if she'd had a good day, or if she was enjoying being at the church, or if she's exhausted with the newborn, because come on, what could those answers be?


Maybe she feels blessed that she's somewhere other than outside with her babies. I have a feeling if I was in her shoes I'd be spending all of my time and energy on trying not to break down in tears, and I wouldn't be able to hold my head up and be gracious while some smiling, well-meaning stranger was asking me about my life, because all I would be thinking about, apart from what got me there, would be the fact that I know when that smiling, well-meaning stranger leaves, she's going to a warm, comfortable place and I'm going to my tent, to look through my box of belongings and put my kids to bed on the floor.


Yeah. So.


Instead of doing what we always do, which is discuss why "Eeeeew" is not an appreciated response to the meal I prepared, we went and did what we never do instead, and got what we rarely get. A really, really good shift in perspective. It was good for Nine to see and understand first hand that if these little kids didn't particularly care for chicken with apricots, or rice, or salad, well, they were about to learn to, because making some noodles or having a bowl of cereal instead just wasn't an option.


And we learned that hopping into a car with friends can feel like a luxury, as can going home to a little house full of equal amounts of love and luck and blessings and dirty laundry and paw prints and ponytail bands.


Turns out I live in the lap of luxury. Sure, it's got dog hair all over it, but now more than ever, it feels just right to me.

Thirty

For the last three nights in a row, Nine has had night terrors. She's always been a sleepwalker and a sleeptalker and a sleepcryer, and rumor has it, she gets it from me. And for the last three nights, it's been all angst and tears, panic and worry. She sits up, eyes wide open, red and teary...fast asleep. And she cries out about her sister, or about "There's no more A's at swim team" or "Will you go first, Mommy?" or "I just can't fall asleep" and she's very upset about it all. 


Usually it's her body telling her it's time to get up and have a quick pee, but she's so exhausted from school and swimming and ballet and whatever else she's had up her sleeve that day, that while her body wakes, her mind can't actually come around with it. So she ends up in this weird halfway place of body in/mind out. She's walking and talking, but making no sense because she's speaking her dream, which is goofy and Nine-ish.


The interesting thing about the last couple of nights is that our usual tactics haven't soothed her. The traveling husband likes to try to wake her up, because seeing his beautiful girl in a freaky state is all too much for him, so he talks to her like she's awake, in a loud voice to startle her and bring her around, and sometimes she talks back to him. Sometimes she talks about the chicken and points to the wall, but he keeps trying. I usually just carefully guide her back to bed, rub her back and tell her she's safe and sound. Look Nine, there's the puppy, see? Look, there's Seven, sleeping in the bed right next to you. Here, baby, here's your lovey, lie down and go back to sleep.


But over the past couple of nights, those things didn't work, and I ended up in her room a handful of times, trying to get her to just lay back down and get some much needed rest.


You know what did do the trick, instantly? I laid down next to her. And that darling, sleepy girl, with her eyelashes to the moon and heartstrings to my soul, laid her soft cheek against my shoulder, and fell fast asleep, deep and peaceful, resting and quiet again.


As I laid there with her I realized something. Something other than the fact that a doggie pillow pet is nowhere near big enough for two people to share.


I realized that Nine spends much of her waking hours trying to convince me and herself and anyone else that will listen that she doesn't need me, and that she's independent and responsible and ready to get her ears pierced and go to sleep away camp, MOM. She gives me her cheek so I can kiss Her Highness there, rather than on the lips which is so EMBARRASSING before she scampers off to third grade. She rolls her eyes when I call her for the fourth time for dinner and she presses me to waiiiiiiiiiit, when by God I've already waited 15 minutes for her to stop loving up the dog and get her shoes on so we can hurry to school or hurry to ballet or hurry to her play date or hurry hurry hurry rush rush rush until bedtime.


And then, it turns out, she spends some quality subconscious hours literally crying out for the time she missed being wrapped up in my arms, breathing with me, and melting back into my body as best as she can, what with her being Nine and independent and responsible and all.


I will take it. All of it. I will take the pushing away in the waking hours because it shows me she's trying to build herself up brick by brick and I am amazed by the process. And I will take those quiet moments with her in my arms, because I know this time will pass. And one day I'll ache to hold her while she sleeps but she'll be away at college or married or trying to get her own baby to fall asleep.


I spend a lot of my time feeling like I don't have the right answers or the right tools or enough time or enough energy, but you know what I felt these past couple nights? Magic. Maternal magic, I like to call it. She needed peaceful sleep and I gave it to her. Me. I did it.


She has no idea, but by folding her into my body as she slept, I made her whole.


And she has no idea, but she does the same thing for me, every time I look at her.


Outhaaaale.


:)

Twenty-five

Innocence doesn't suck.

I was a naive kid and I think that's okay. I'm all for kids being kids for as long as they can be. Children are exposed to adult concepts at an earlier age now, and their little burgeoning minds are filled with questions and confusion more than ever before. I'm not unrealistic. I realize it's not all heffalumps and kittens until age 13. And I know it's impossible to put kids into an opaque bubble where they can be protected from the horrible things this world is full of (I've tried. They won't stay in there. Some excuse about needing oxygen.). Just turn the radio on and you'll hear all sorts of interesting lyrics that are catchy but wildly inappropriate for the nine-and-under set. In my car, Nine will belt out "Make me come alive, come on and turn me on..." with no idea of the meaning. The side of me that's on the cover of Bad Parent Magazine each month thinks it's sort of funny, plus I like Nikki Minaj and David Guetta too, so yes, Nine, I will pump up the volume. The responsible side of me is like, man, where's the Disney station when you need it.

I was in Boise, Idaho last weekend (which I love), seeing one of my oldest and closest friends and her family (who I love - whom I love? {don't start with me, I love them and I majored in design, not English, so whatever}), and I was lucky enough to be there to judge a state dance championship (which I L-L-LOVE). Some of the teams were fantastic, and some of the teams just made everyone want to say bless their hearts. But overall, it reminded me of how it felt when I was on a competitive dance team, and how many hours are devoted diligently to that opaque bubble.

When I was a part of that world in an active sense, I danced 7-9 hours a day at the peak. Combined with school, that doesn't leave a whole lot of time for getting into trouble. Plus I loved it, so I wasn't itching to get out of my bubble and into stuff I for sure wasn't ready for. And I was surrounded by several opportunities to do just that growing up in Los Angeles. But I just went to school, and went to dance practice, and came home to eat, do homework, sleep, and wake up to another day of the same.

(No this isn't turning into a dance resume and also? Disclaimer: Um. Allegedly there were boys and beers and other not so G-rated activities sprinkled in there from about 10th grade on, but there wasn't even a hint of inappropriate early on. It just didn't occur to me. All that busy bee dance practice and whatnot. And? No wonder my body has gone from rock star to rocky road. Who can do all that dancing anymore? Okay, I'm sure people can and do, but obviously, that ain't me no mo'.)

Back to the subject at hand.

Life isn't simple anywhere, for anyone, but in a town like Boise, with all those nice people and poised dancers and wholesome activities, it seems like it could be. I love that. I like a simple life, especially for my kids. I want their little busy lives to be mostly about field trips and math problems and swim medals, and fighting with each other and sleeping amongst pink lava lamps and stuffed animals and zen music (and dog hair). It's my job to teach them about the hard parts of life - death, disaster, mental and physical illnesses, etc. - in bits and pieces as needed. It's hard enough at this age and stage for them to wrap their brains around how come that friend wasn't nice to me today, and what if I'm allergic to something, and what does "diffuse" mean, and no I don't have a crush on that boy, doooon't teeeease meeee. I am not ready to expose them to the crazy scary parts of life yet, and I don't think they are ready for it, even though they beg me to let them read/see/do stuff.

Such as. The can of worms that is The Hunger Games. I know it's trendy, and people do love it, and I'm sure it's a fantastic piece of literature and breakthrough filmmaking. I'm a huge fan! 

Except I'm not. I'm out. I refuse. From my admittedly outside perspective, I see it desensitizing violence and devaluing life. And among children. I've never been one to enjoy watching a fight, and my heart sinks when I think of settling in to watch a child's innocence slipping away and into violence at the hands of an adult. Ick.

Granted, I'm the girl who can't watch "The Lovely Bones" because the thought of something like that happening to my daughters makes me feel like I want to crawl out of my skin, which isn't necessarily how I want to feel while I'm watching a movie. I'm supposed to feel transcended and entertained, and at the very least, so engaged that I forget for a minute just how much buttery popcorn I'm shoveling in.

Which takes me back to seeing The Hunger Games. In real life, we're all advocates for our children and we work to take those kinds of images out of their environment, so for me, it doesn't make sense to fill their minds and eyes with visions of children being forced to literally rip other children apart. Um, no. You're NINE. Howzabout you grab a snack and go play outside instead? Make up a silly language with your sister and try to teach it to the puppy. How about if the most traumatic thing I expose you to today is me making you finish your vegetables. Let's understand the social dynamics of being a pre-pre-teen and get comfortable with that before we start watching kids killing each other and being torn apart emotionally while doing it - all in the name of entertainment. I can think of at least a couple other things I'd rather my kids engage in for the sake of fun. (Witnessing the murder of a child probably isn't on that list.)

I'm not on a high horse, I wouldn't even know where to find one, and while I'm on the subject, I'm afraid of heights, so there. I am positive you wouldn't agree with some of the movies I watch or music I listen to. And you can call me a prude, but just know that if you do, it doesn't make you all creative and potent because Nick Bell beat you to it. He called me 'prude' in 7th grade on the blacktop. I was wearing my green/gray reversible gym clothes and I was only offended for a second because I knew enough to know he was probably right, even though I let him give me my first real kiss the year before. He tasted like carrots. To this day I don't know why.

So if not letting my kids read or see The Hunger Games makes me a prude, then maybe you and Nick Bell are right. And hey, if the gym shorts used to fit...

I'm sticking with the whole innocence doesn't suck thing. I'd rather hold onto that than a movie ticket for now. But feel free to bring me some popcorn to go. 

:)

Twenty-three

I haven't written here in a full week, but the traveling husband was flying across the country and back again (and across and back yet again) over the course of 5 days, then I was on a Girl Scout camping sleepover, and add into that my general scatterbrained state. On top of which, was The Curse, which bounces me from crying to cramping to crabby and back again, all of which puts me into a nasty funk. Part of said funk can be blamed on PMS and the accompanying narcolepsy (and yes, that blog entry is a'comin'), and part of it can be blamed on my general WTF state of mind.

As in, WTF are we doing with this life?! WTF are we doing trying to live comfortably in Northern California? WTF are we thinking about moving out of Northern California? WTF are girls so mean? WTF does my uterus hate me? WTF are people like Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton rich and famous and I'm not? Do I need bigger boobs or crazier parents or WTF? Apparently, I've got a shit ton of whatnot banging around in my brain, nonstop. So does the husband. And the more spin he's in, the more we're all in.

The question of the ages for us has been: What determines quality of life? Is it having more than enough money? More than enough toys and stuff? Friends close by? Family? Can we make dear new friends at this age and stage of life, or do the people who have loved us for years love us more than anyone new ever could?

And as I watch Nine try to figure out where she fits in socially at school, I realize that that journey is never-ending. Or at least it's still in progress in this family. I mean, it's clear to all of us that we belong to each other, and that we are together by choice (and by triple-knotted heart strings). But socially, outside of our family unit, who's "A" list have we made it on? And does that even matter, or are we supposed to just focus on the five of us? (I count the puppy because he weighs more than both daughters combined. Also, I'm pretty sure he can speak English {with an accent} and has a lot to say, he just chooses to remain silent for now.)

In any case, we've been in Northern California for four years. Looking at it from the outside, we're pretty ingrained. I volunteer at school, we help out with swim team, the girls are in ballet and voice lessons and get invited to birthday parties. They have pals who've been in their classrooms and on their soccer teams for three years now, if not longer. I have built up a brilliant gaggle of women who have become friends and neighbors and confidantes and shoulders to lean on. The type of amazing women who show up before you've even asked them to. The ones who bring you pots of homegrown flowers on your birthday and pots of homemade chicken stock when you're sick. It's pretty amazing, actually. 

The traveling husband isn't so lucky as me, and his social circle up here is much smaller. And by smaller I mean, the only two guys who are together with any consistency are him and the puppy. But sometimes he wants to spend time with someone who doesn't eat poop and who's hair doesn't float into his beer. He's more gregarious than I am, he requires some social interaction with people, and he loves that sport-fueled camaraderie. I'm a little more okay with just sharing a vino or a tea with my best girls via phone or text, since that's all we can muster these days due to time changes and diaper changes. But geographical distance for us doesn't equal distance of the heart. Boys are more literal and visual, and my husband is no exception. He does see some friends occasionally, but everyone is hyper-scheduled in NorCal, and the guys here aren't as free to indulge in Sunday Funday as he would like. So he pines for his "boys" - not only his big brother, but the friends with whom he went to college. He shares history with these guys, and they know my husband and they love him and all his quirks. He's on their "A" list.

The point is, overall, justified or not, we tend to feel a bit +1*, to use the husband's term.

*You know when you were single and you got invited to a wedding, and the bride and groom were all, Oh, she doesn't have a boyfriend...well, she can just bring somebody...address her envelope with an "and Guest". And then you sent in your RSVP with a Yes, I'll be there (but you don't give a name of your guest because you don't know who to bring with you yet), so you got put down on the list as You+1. You+the nameless, faceless person who would show up with you and be charming enough and probably have a really good time and hopefully be a great dancer and definitely is nice enough to drink all that free wine without pissing anyone off, but still...just a +1.

Which brings me back to the question at hand again. What determines quality of life? Should we move to a place in the country where we can afford all the things and toys we want, even if it means being further away from friends and family? Does it matter that we'd be further away geographically? Because let's be serious, the actual time spent together at this point is minimal. I think we've determined that time spent, for us anyway, does improve quality of life, because when we do spend time with friends - location being irrelevant - we always feel good. So should we stop worrying about living in a small house filled primarily with dog hair and old furniture, and just get people over here to spend time? Or should we just move back down South? But what if we move "home" and we end up staring at each other and the walls every Saturday night anyway, because we've been gone for four years and everyone has their plans and their people and their activities all set already? And again, shouldn't we focus on making each other happy, and stop looking outward for answers? On the other hand, we all need to spend time with more than just who and what is inside of our house at all times, otherwise we go ape shit. Don't we?

Stop looking at me like that, I told you at the start that I'm funky and scatterbrained.

So, my mental to-do list then, is going to look something like this: Inhale. Meditate on what feels right for my family and myself. Outhale. Encourage Nine to find her "A" list. Inhale. Get the husband out of the house (with human friends). Outhale. Find dates on the calendar and invite friends over, and open our doors and our hearts to new people and different ways of spending quality time. Inhale. Pray (a lot) for guidance and strength and peace and continued good health. Outhale. Do laundry.

Oh, and lastly? Deep inhale. Find a way to gingerly tell Nine and Seven that they are, as of this afternoon, going to have to appreciate going commando, because the puppy has eaten yet another pair of panties, and the only way for me to keep him alive and eliminate stress (and mindblowing dog gas) from my life, is to evidently, eliminate underclothing. Outhale.

Here's to letting it all hang out, in more ways than one.

Nineteen

Today I went to the home of a dear friend who just got back from an amazing trip to Rwanda, where an old friend of hers has taken a bunch of money and a lot of time and massive amounts of energy and put it to very, very good use: She has built a school. A school for girls. A place for them to learn and live, and a place in which to safely build their heart and character and in doing so, the future of their country.


I was among a bunch of wonderful women there today, listening and looking at the photos of the land, the children, the animals, the buildings, and the people involved in this enormous, admirable undertaking. As we sat, we asked questions. "Who is that woman there?" and "Where were you when you took that photo?". And what I heard so much of was "I didn't expect it to look that beautiful.". I heard "That woman is so pretty...look at the face of that baby...that hotel is so amazing...". And they were right. The people, the landscape, all of it was breathtaking. It was hard to believe we were looking at the same part of the world where incredible devastation took place not so very long ago.


I've been thinking of it all afternoon, and tonight I find myself contemplating how interesting it is - and how true - that looks can deceive. That beauty can so effectively belie devastation. That light can come from dark.


Though we haven't personally experienced it on the level Rwanda has, we have all seen it, generally speaking, right? I'm sure each and every friend at that lunch today has smiled through tears before. We know amazing adults who came from a not-so-amazing childhood. We have heard stories of (or lived to tell about) crushing infertility finally resulting in a beautiful baby, and a dream realized in the process.


So we shouldn't have been so surprised to see it happen on the other side of the world. Maybe beauty doesn't hide devastation as much as it is born from it. Sort of like when you've seen rock bottom, ain't nowhere to go but up, and once you're not at the bottom anymore, it all looks beautiful.


Perspective.


Sometimes beauty comes in the shape of a material lift, as in, My husband is an ass, I think I'll take his money and go buy the most expensive pair of shoes I can find because fuck him. Or, I've watched Sponge Bob every day for a year, let's go drink our lunch and buy some diamonds. Shoes and diamonds and Chardonnay for lunch are all beautiful things, and they can certainly be used to hide bad situations. (Although don't get me wrong, they can also be good in and of themselves.)


But isn't it human nature to "rise above"? Isn't it what we read about, see on television, hear in music? I know at least one whole song has been devoted to smiling even though your heart is breaking. Life hands you lemons - make lemonade. Suck it up. Pull yourself up by your boot straps and all that. Maybe it's been the American way, but now I feel like it's less American and more universal. A worldwide yank up on the collective boot strap. Maybe it's a woman's way. A global ovary tremble, if you will. We deal with some pretty heavy issues on a daily basis, multitask like octopuses, and still bring home the bacon (and/or fry it up in a pan).


I felt as I looked at the faces of the beautiful girls in the photos, that they had the perspective that only the hardest of times can bring. They are keenly aware of their country's sad history, and they know that right now, it's not as bad as it could be. It's better than it was. They realize the gifts they've been given - both internal and external - and are thankful. Their faces are shining with gratitude and joy.


Does yours? Does mine? Do my children's faces glow with the realization that they are filled with and surrounded by blessings, or do they think that because their friends have a Kindle Fire and real earrings that they are inferior and humiliated and it's ALL MY FAULT?


I'm pretty sure all of us have some funky shit in our lives. But we get up and get dressed and start the day. I know things are tough at times. Sometimes our job sucks, sometimes our partners make us crazy, sometimes what we hope and pray for never comes to pass. And sometimes we don't buy our kids an iPod Touch OR let them get their ears pierced.


And if those are the most devastating things ever to happen to my daughters, I will look up every night and thank my lucky stars. 


The same lucky stars that shine over that school in Rwanda, where those girls will continue to grow beauty from devastation, and create life from death, and God-willing, will live long enough to see their daughters do the same. And, I suppose, worry about them just like we worry about ours.


Global ovary tremble, indeed.

Eighteen.

I can hear birds chirping out front and I can see bits of green and tiny flower buds on trees. Spring (you can call February "Spring" in California) is a time to feel fresh and aware and open to growth.

A time to be kind to struggling new flowers who are just learning what it means to find their place in the sun, so they can grow strong and steady and ready to stand up to the rains that eventually - inevitably - come upon them.

And if those flowers are our children, and we know that the storms will eventually come to rain down on them, much like they rained down on us as we grew up, then shouldn't we try to keep them in the sun as much as possible right now?

Nine is having a tough go. She's trying to navigate school, which has gotten much harder this year. She's trying to understand that as the school work gets harder, she needs to work harder. Success in school has come easily to date, so when it doesn't, it creates a valley of uncertainty and scaling the mountains to get back up to the top seems impossible. She needs to absorb my words when I tell her that things get harder for everyone. That as she grows, so will the challenges she faces. It doesn't mean she can't overcome them, it just means that she's going to have to dig deep for what she needs to help her do it. All the equipment is in there, she's just got to be able to find it.

God willing, finding that will be easier than finding her shoes when Seven and I are standing by the front door, toes tapping, keys jingling nervously because we're seconds away from being late to school (again).

Apart from school, which is partly cloudy this Spring, she's navigating the whipping social winds of third grade. I know from experience that girls can be mean. I'm pretty sure all of us girls know from experience that girls can be mean, otherwise Tina Fey wouldn't have written a movie called "Mean Girls" and it wouldn't have been as successful as it was, or as funny. It's easy now to laugh about it, but I remember my best friend suddenly and without warning, decidedly unfriending me in Junior High. I was DEVASTATED. Not to mention confused and embarrassed and racking my little hormonal brain trying to figure out what on earth I'd done to deserve it. Of course, I'd done nothing. It was her, not me. Even if I had seen it coming, I couldn't stop it any more than you can stop the rain from getting you wet when you try to run for cover in a barn with no roof.

I'm afraid this unfriending, uncomfortable, unwelcome storm is coming earlier now. The words that are said are cruel. The looks that these little girls give feel like a hailstorm, biting and sharp. I've seen it happen and I've heard the stories. I've also seen Nine's big brown eyes, with her long lashes that look like mink, well up with tears as she shares with me the fact that this is yet one more thing she can't understand.

We teach in our house that you look into someone's heart to find their beauty. That beautiful people have a happy heart and that heart can beat within bodies of all sizes, shapes and colors. When they are kind to one another or to friends, I say to them "I see such a beautiful, happy heart in what you just did.".

So it's tough to fathom mean, especially when it comes out of a seemingly clear, blue sky. We try to explain that people who act mean are unhappy, and that the nasty things they say have less to do with the person they say them to, and more to do with themselves and their own sadness. And when someone lashes out for no reason, the best thing to do is to remember first that it's not about you. The next best thing to do is to realize that whatever they are saying or doing is coming from a dark heart. Mean people aren't mean to you because you're doing it wrong, they're mean because they hurt. Maybe someone is mean to them. Maybe they watch Mom and Dad be mean to each other. I don't think an unhappy heart is necessarily born, I think it's learned through painful process. And that pain has to come out somehow.

Sometimes it comes out on a sweet, naive, unsuspecting third grader in the form of a turquoise post-it note with "I hate you" written on it. Sometimes the note says "You're stupid". Sometimes it's a sideways glance and a comment under the breath meant to intimidate. (And it does.)

I wonder if unleashing that storm feels good to a kid who is full of thunder and lightening. I wonder if it helps it move through them so they can find some sunshine too, or if it's just how they are and will be, with gray clouds in their eyes and hate in their mouths. Maybe instead of holding hands with their girlfriends, and feeling the shared joy of innocence, they will grip and twist and pull to ensure that someone else feels just as bad as they do.

My task as I see it is to teach a combination of compassion and confidence, because I can't (unfortunately) put my kids in a safety bubble for the next 80 years. It's okay to feel bad because of a mean girl, and it's okay to feel bad for a mean girl. But it's not okay to let the grip of one bring you to your knees. Hopefully Nine (and Seven) will grow so strong in the sunshine of our love that they will never be broken by wind or rain or hateful post-its from silly, sad girls. Hopefully they will grow so strong that their appreciation for self and others will protect them from what's to come, and what's already happened. 

Hopefully they will learn that they can also give sunshine to help someone else's seed of happiness grow, and they can do this without becoming cold themselves. I myself am learning how and when to let go just enough. It's scary for all of us and one more reason why my middle name is Worry. But I am grateful to be on this tireless journey of teaching and loving and protecting. Sometimes it makes me want to curl up around the puppy and sleep for hours. Other times I want to - work with me here - just stuff the kids back up into my womb and fight their fights for them again.

Instead, I will keep pointing out pretty clouds and beautiful hearts and reasons to laugh, and hope that this fortifies them enough to weather any storm.

I may also steal all the post-its from the classroom, but you didn't hear it from me.

Eleven.

Revelation. Today it became clear why when people run towards roller coasters, I run towards the snack stand. Okay, I walk to the snack stand, but I do it with a great deal of purpose. You understand the reference, and if you don't, read "Five".

This morning I came across what I thought was a giant dog hair dust bunny, only to realize it was DOLL hair, not DOG hair, specifically the hair of a very expensive American girl doll. I can't blame the puppy. I'm sure that dolls provide sheer chewing ecstasy, and it's not like he levitated to the top of the closet. He found the dolls on the floor. I spend my days and nights repeating myself to Seven and Nine, i.e. "Put your dolls away so the puppy doesn't eat them.". So much so and to such little desired result, that I'm no longer convinced I have a voice that humans can actually hear. Maybe I have a higher pitch than I think, and only dogs can hear me. Not my dog, of course, but other ones. Perhaps I speak muskrat, and if so, I can't blame the kids or the dog because apparently, only Captain and Tennille* can hear me.

Back to the subject at hand. When I want a thrill, I want what I don't already get in my daily life. At this point, nearly every day is filled with little highs and lows. Happy, relaxed moments (Hi puppy...), nice (brief) moments of peace (...aren't you sweet...wait a minute...), and the inevitable, gut-sinking drop (...is that a $100, half-bald doll on the dog bed next to a school library book with a freshly devoured back cover?!?).

When I want respite, I don't think, Hey, let's go have groundhog day, but let's do it strapped to a metal, topless car with a bunch of screaming strangers who smell like funnel cake. No, this girl wants complete silence, in a room that smells of cucumber water, with soft music playing while a trained therapist pretends not to be able to see my body, while simultaneously making it feel like butter.

Then I want a warm bath, a cold Chard, and more silence. Trifecta.

Each morning, I wake up happy (and by "happy", I mean wishing for four more hours of sleep). I remind myself "I am alive. I have a precious human life.". Not to mention a 100+ pound canine life, who needs to go outside and say good morning to the morning, if you know what I mean. So, I get up, and I gleefully wake the precious children from their restful sleep. See me strapped in, click, click, clicking up the coaster, birds chirping, all giddy anticipation? 

And then there I am, in a breathless pause at the top - or in my kitchen, as it were - smelling the coffee in the French press, quietly checking email on my phone, and telling myself the girls are getting dressed for school. What they're really doing is wearing their pajamas and watching a video on their iPod over and over again, but I pretend my instructions are being followed.

After a pause...here we GO. I hear screaming from the other room because someone said something to someone else, who then said something back and now it's a full-blown little girl hissy fit, complete with one kid crying and the other one screeching like a howler monkey. The puppy is eating the house, his appetizer of choice today being the moulding around the window. And suddenly, viciously, I'm ripped from my Paris dream (the French press might be as close as I get so just let me have this one) to focus once again on the empty, cracked pots on the back patio, the spider in the corner of the bathroom, the dog digging a hole in the backyard (seriously, who said getting a puppy was a good idea?), and so on.

It's all whizzing past me as I stomp into the bedroom, hair flying, arms flailing, to tell the kids to QUIET DOWN AND WHILE I'M IN HERE LET ME JUST SAY ONCE AGAIN THAT DIRTY CLOTHES GO IN THE HAMPER, NOT ON THE FLOOR, and then I stomp outside to try and explain to the dog in great detail that the lawn is not for digging and American girl dolls are not for eating, and neither, for that matter, is poop. By the time I slow down and grind to a halt, my coffee is cold and the clock tells me we're late for school. Again.

So you can keep your Boomerang and Corkscrew, your Dragon Wagon and Colossus. I've got equal thrills and spills right here: doll hair, howler monkeys, and the shards of wood under the window where the sill used to be.

I want to roll in hot to a spa retreat, but for now I'll take the 30 seconds I get each morning in my Parisian cafe, where they serve a great cup of coffee and a killer funnel cake. (Dog hair is on the house.)

*Young 'uns. Google. You'll see.

Nine.

Prologue: Going forward, at least until they have birthdays, our youngest daughter is going to be referred to here as "Seven" and our oldest one will be "Nine". You with me?


The other night, I was tucking Nine in after Seven had fallen asleep (they share a room by choice, if you can believe that). Nine told me that a couple nights ago, she had a hard time falling asleep, so Seven, in her very serious seven-ness, climbed out of bed clutching her lovey, and sat on the edge of her sister's bed.


She put her free hand on her sister's back and started rubbing gently. As she did this, she quietly said, "Inhale. Outhale.". After a few zen-like repetitions, Nine started giggling, which usually infuriates Seven, but she just kept going.


Inhale. Outhale.


On a seemingly unrelated note, although I was born and raised in Los Angeles, I'm not a huge fan of going in the ocean. Here's the thing. Look around where you sit right now. Consider that everything you see - buildings, cars, doors - exists in the ocean, except bigger and with eyes and teeth. Probably some pokey things. And potentially several sticky arms. It's just not for me.


In conversation though, the deep end is where the good stuff is. It's all fine to sit and talk politely about your new, custom-designed white leather ottoman, but not for 30 minutes. I'd rather dive into your family, or what you love to cook and feed people, or why your kid's report card was scary instead of frame-ready. You don't have to completely lay it out on the line, but let's at least try to connect. I don't have time to pretend to be interested in something shiny on the surface for a long time. I want to gaze at that for a few moments, appreciate it, and then take a deep breath and dive under again.


Now in life, it's the really heavy things that live at the bottom, because heavy things generally sink. Mentally, several times a day, I inhale, hold my breath, and dive down to contemplate all my heavy things. I check in, I look around, I take note. But I don't have a scuba suit or enough oxygen (or time in my day) to stay down for long, so I rise to the surface, put a smile on, and outhale. Up there are a bunch of other things that are gleaming in the sun. And by "gleaming", I mean mocking me. Like the overdue and begged-for playdate that needs to be scheduled, the dishes that have to be put away, and holy Lord are we seriously out of dog food again? Which leads to what time is it, when does the vet close, can I make it there in time and get dinner on the table before bedtime (Answer: No.), etc.


Then a phone call or email comes in, or a thought crosses over the task at hand like a cloud covering the sun, and it's inhale, dive, and tend to the octopus that is my family, or the beautiful coral that are my friends, the ones I can only glimpse occasionally because they are rooted where they live too, and like I said, I can only dive down occasionally. I stay as long as I can, then it's up and away again.


I realize in this deep sea scenario, that I could be rising and falling among some much bigger waves and tides, and I'm not. My ocean could be littered with scary medical terminology and empty rafts, but it isn't.


I look around, and whether I'm squinting in the glare (creating more wrinkles, obviously), or struggling between my time in the deep sea and my internal need to be above water, I'm grateful. My rafts have my people in them and my coral may be far away, but it's mine, and I get to hug my girls before they go to bed tonight, tucked in right next to one another.


And after they fall asleep, I will sit with them and quietly time my breath with theirs. 


Inhale. Outhale. Inhale. Outhale.


Peace.

Eight.

When I lived in Green Bay, Wisconsin, I learned a thing or two.


I learned that when people stare at you, it's not usually in an effort to assess what you drive/who you know/what you do for a living, as can so often be the case in my (original) hometown of Los Angeles. They stare in the hopes they will eventually make eye contact so they can say hello. I was genuinely shocked when I finally decided to meet someone's gaze, only to find that the answer to my silent nagging question ("What are you staring at?!") was a friendly greeting. Ever since that day, I've tried to slow down and consciously let that simple joy pay itself forward.


Moral: humanity can show it's kind face at the Piggly Wiggly. Who knew?


I also learned that a clear, sunny day can go hand-in-hand with a -20° temperature. So when you go to a Packer game in December, you bring the Sunday paper to place under your feet. That way, the icy blast lurking in the foundation at Lambeau Field doesn't come right up from the concrete through your boots, warmers, and snow socks into your unsuspecting feet.


We left Green Bay after three years, and since then, I've come to realize that whether you live on frozen ground or with your head in the clouds, it's the foundation we stand on that determines how we feel, what we see, who we are. Certain experiences we have can imitate that icy Wisconsin winter and chill us to the bone, others can warm our souls through and through. But every brick we add helps to build our own unique architecture.


My best friend (who going forward, I think I will refer to as "Chicago", because continuing to describe her as "the one who's kids think I'm a voice in the phone" is just depressing) told me years ago, that each experience we have - good or otherwise - adds up to who we are, and who we are is perfect and beautiful. (Obviously I'm never letting her break up with me, she's my touchstone. Another blog entirely, but it will come.)


When I carry on that midwestern lesson, and make eye contact with strangers, it occurs to me that they are standing on their foundation too, and that it's condition affects their perspective. If it's unstable, or incomplete, or if someone or something has come along and blown it to bits, they're probably trying so hard to just stand steady that they can't see their way to putting one step in front of the other. Even when it's rock solid sometimes it doesn't occur to us to offer a stranger a smile.


As I start the first layer of my daughters' foundation, I hope I'm creating a space where they can always find a good sense of balance, of humor, of perspective. That they are steady enough to be compassionate when people come at them with a dark heart, and then wise enough to walk away intact.


I may be all stressed and verklempt, and I cry at commercials, and I usually forget to give everyone a napkin at dinner. But I stand on the solid ground of two parents who love me (and each other), a devoted husband, and healthy kids. Every time I wonder if I can handle any more of the crazy that surrounds me beyond that, I hear about a friend who isn't quite so lucky as me.


Moral #2: The crazy can always get more crazy, and instead of wondering what I can handle, I should spend my time wondering why I'm so blessed.


So I slow down again, make eye contact, and offer a friendly hello. That simple gesture just might give someone some solid ground to stand on, even if just for a moment.


And if "Chicago" is right, each moment counts, so get to grinning.

Five.

Show of hands: who likes roller coasters? And who volunteers to stand in line for churros when everyone runs towards the Death Drop?


Now, I love anticipation. It's why Thursday is my favorite day of the week and Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. They are the kick off to more good stuff to come (like the weekend and the holiday season). It's also why I love pregnancy, but that's another blog entry (or two) entirely.


I'm the one in line for churros. I don't mind the coaster's click, click, click as the car slowly chugs it's way to the peak of the hill, nor do I mind the hesitation at the top where the view is just lovely. It's the inevitable drop that comes afterwards that takes my breath away. And not in a smiley, exhilarating way. More in a I-can't-exhale-by-screaming-or-bear-down-anymore-without-either-A) passing-out-or-B) giving-birth-to-my-own-stomach way.


Something else that makes me feel like I'm ripping in half lately? The internal, inherent pull from daughter to mother and from mother to daughters. I know my Mom needs me. And because she needs me, but would never say she needs me, I need to be with her, even if it's just to hold her hand while she sleeps. At the same time, she isn't down the road, she's in another state (mental, physical, and in this scenario, geographical). And who is in my state, in my city, in my house? My daughters. Who need their mother perhaps more than mine needs me.


And I need to be with them, because even as their childhood angst makes my head spin, just the sight of them makes my heart beat stronger. That same heart has strings that are half held by my girl's hands and half flailing across state lines to my Mom's bedside. They are tied in knots at both ends that I can't - nor would I want to - undo. And yet, because of that, I myself am coming undone. 


This is a tricky scenario that calls for some meditation, some relaxation, and quite a bit of Chardonnay.


A churro wouldn't hurt either.

Four.

A dear friend asked me recently how I find time to blog at all, let alone at Christmastime. I put it to her like this: It helps relieve some pressure. Pretend my head is a giant, overblown balloon that's about to pop. Then picture me pulling at my neck a bit. That screaming sound you hear as the air squeals out is my blog.

And here it is.

Confession: my kids make me cry.

Sometimes it's when they are awake and exhibiting behavior I not only don't understand, but can't control. Sometimes it's when they are asleep, and I sneak in quietly to put my nose next to their sweet little mouths to inhale as they breathe out. (Yes, the same mouths they were sassing me with just hours before. Being a mom is reeeally complicated.)

And sometimes, they make me cry when they're saying sweet things to each other and don't know I'm listening. This is when their true selves emerge, unencumbered by all the mother/daughter emotion that tends to seep into their tone of voice when they talk to me lately.

Some of you know a brief version of the story I'm about to tell already, but I never said this blog was going to be original or amazing, so pretend you're in college and just skim the rest.

The other night, the girls were tumbling out of the car and happily talking to each other when I overheard my oldest daughter, the one who is lately exasperated/annoyed/short-tempered/emotional with me say, "I have hope! I believe!". I don't even know what they were talking about, but her words were wings that attached themselves to my heart and flew up to heaven and back.

I've smiled every time I've thought of it ever since, and at the urging of my best friend (the one who lives so far away that her kids think that "Auntie Amy" is a sound that comes out of the phone), I've decided to take this phrase on as my mantra for 2012. 

I'm not making a resolution to lose weight, or exercise more, or go to church, or stop gossiping. All great ideas that will likely flit and float in and out of my life next year, but "I have hope! I believe!" will be the constant. 

That and dirty laundry.