Steady as she goes.

Are you familiar with Jenga? It’s that puzzle game where all the pieces are solid wood rectangles. You make a tall tower, three blocks at a time, and when the tower is built, you carefully slide blocks out, one by one, without disturbing the surrounding pieces. Your goal is to keep the tower standing in one piece.

I was sitting at my computer the other morning, trying to work, and feeling incredibly distracted, but I couldn’t put my finger on what was pulling my focus. I have things to do, that’s for sure – work, laundry, exercise. I could paint the living room walls, which is something I’ve wanted done for two years. Reorganize the bathroom drawers…really every drawer. And cabinet. There’s no shortage of projects, but what’s missing is a targeted plan and the drive to actually get it all done.

Sometimes it’s just that the task at hand isn’t all that thrilling. I get that. And sometimes we need a little win (Solitaire app, anyone?) before we move on to trying to get that big victory in the books (I can barely walk into the garage for all the Christmas bins that need to be put back on the shelf).

But a thought crossed my mind this morning as I wondered where my motivation was: It’s been a bumpy few years. And I know so many of you can empathize with me because you have your own hard things you’ve been working through. As I count on two hands (and a couple toes) all the losses and tough stuff I’ve been trying to manage, it occurs to me that while I’ve compartmentalized the pain these things have caused, I have still been affected. But tapping out to actually address it isn’t really an option. Because while parts of our world might be falling apart, the rest of life moves right along. A week of introspection and meditation simply won’t happen, especially when you’ve got people relying on you to take them places, feed them, and to provide support in the form of hugs, practice tests, active listening, and clean clothes. So as women, we shift into survival mode.

Whenever there is bad news, or sad news, or something emotionally difficult to handle, we look at it, then tuck it away into a little box inside of us. That box gets put on an internal shelf labeled “DEAL WITH THIS LATER.” And then we look up with a deep breath and a smile and say “Okay everybody…who’s hungry for dessert?!”

But each time we push those heavy, little boxes onto the shelf inside our tower, it’s as if we are pushing a solid Jenga piece out of place. When we decide to carry sorrow, or confusion, or pain with us, we create an empty space where solid and steady used to be, shifting our balance. Keep enough of those placeholders within us, and before we realize it, our stability is compromised. Even with a strong base, there’s only so much power we have over gravity, and the more scary stuff we hold onto, the less we can rely on the structure that keeps us vertical. If the issues we are dealing with are close to the core – really shaking our foundation – then the chances of us toppling over sooner than later are pretty great.

So as I was wondering what my roadblock to productivity might be, I visualized all those boxes on my shelf. Loss. Regret. Hurt. Betrayal. I’ve treated parts of my heart as a storage facility, I think. And it took me a while, but I see now that some pretty useful pieces that I used to rely on might be pushed out of place. They haven’t gone far, but still, they aren’t where they used to be…where they should be. And so, neither am I.

Life – as beautiful as it can be – just kicks the shit out of us, doesn’t it? And sometimes we are so busy hurling ourselves forward, even we aren’t aware it’s happening. Adrenaline keeps us rolling through pain. It’s not until we slow down a bit that we realize just how much we hurt.

It’s interesting that it’s taken me several years of telling myself and everyone else that “It’s fine” before I could recognize that maybe it’s not. I mean, I’m still me, I’ve just got some funky spots. And perhaps over the years when some blocks got shoved out I tried to fill a couple of the resulting holes with, oh…I don’t know…wine? Pasta? Brownies? Binge-watching Parenthood? Let’s be honest…there are placeholders that are way worse, so I think I’m alright.

I think the brain should kick in and say, “Hey lady, block mishap. Maybe you should pick up the piece of yourself that fell out and push it back in. That will shove the sad, little box off your shelf. The top will pop off and all the gunk inside will spill over, but it’s O-KAY. Take a few minutes/days/weeks to really look at what’s there before you toss it out, huh?”

But what happens in the immediate is, our brain says, “Hey lady, you’re coming undone. Eat a cookie, crack a bottle of wine open, keep making dinner, and we’ll call it the day, shall we?”

That kind of works for a while, but it doesn’t – and shouldn’t – fill the space permanently. We are working from the outside in, rather than from the inside out. Whatever distraction we choose goes away and we’re left trying to defy gravity and stand tall (not easy with a nasty hangover). Even with a crutch, even with friends, even with faith…if you don’t sit with the root cause and address it, it won’t go away. And you won’t be whole again. Or in this case, I won’t be.

The good news is that my foundation is strong. I have so much love in my house and in my life…maybe that’s what’s held me up for so long. And I can see that missing pieces of myself doesn’t have to mean I am broken. I have more in place than some, and while I know people who have crashed, I myself – thankfully – haven’t. But even if your tower has tumbled, while you’re looking within for the strength to rebuild, don’t forget to look around. You are still there, and though you may be in pieces, you are no Humpty Dumpty. We’re talking about solid building blocks here. You can put yourself back together again. Understanding that we have the power to be our own Jenga architect is a pretty good place to be. And I’ll still be me, and you’ll still be you, just…better. And possibly different. Like a cooler, 2.0 version of ourselves, with shinier packaging and a new perspective to boot.

Is this ringing a bell for anyone, or is it just me who’s comparing herself to a Hasbro game? In any case, I think it’s time to stop trying so hard to pretend we are whole, and start putting all that energy into actually being whole. Stop telling yourself you are fine, and begin to be fine, then more than fine, then kicking up your heels fine.

And hey, stop drinking so much wine and eating pasta and brownies. OMG KIDDING KIDDING KIDDING. With all the Jenga we’re playing, it’s important to carb-load and stay hydrated.

Thus ends my public service announcement. And by “public service announcement” I obviously mean “personal revelation made public for what reason I have no idea.”

Cheers!

I'm a little bit country.

I like to think of our family as equal-opportunity listeners.

Not to each other, obviously, which blog do you think you’re reading? Focus, people.

I’m talking about music. The traveling husband has pretty eclectic taste – he ranges from AC/DC to Snoop, with a bunch of everything else in between. Basically, if it was recorded by a human with talent, chances are it gets some air time in our house.

Depending on my mood, I like most all of it, too. Soul, R&B, rock, classical…all good. And dance music from any decade gets an enthusiastic yes from me. Crank that up with me in the room and – if you’re game – I will gladly 5, 6, 7, 8 your ass all night.

But you know what I find myself listening to more often than not? Country Western. Not a fan of the twangy tunes, though there are definitely some old school favorites. It’s the contemporary, cross-over music that really gets to me. The lyrics always seem to have a clever double meaning and the end often wraps back around to the beginning, tying the song up in a big, gingham bow.

When I was a little girl, I used to wish I was Laura Ingalls Wilder, log cabin and all. Just tripping through the fields in my apron, or baking pies with Ma. And now that I’ve grown up, sometimes I kind of wish I lived in a country song. The good ones make life sound like a southern dream. Beer’s in the frig, supper’s on the stove, game’s on the tube…what’s not to love, right?

I mean, who wouldn’t want fried chicken, comfortable jeans, and a cold drink on a Friday night? Friends gathered around a fire, sipping whiskey and making memories seems like a fine way to pass the time to me. I’ll take a stolen kiss under a cottonwood tree. Getting tangled up with somebody on a warm summer night in the middle of nowhere? Oh hell yes. Who doesn’t love a healthy dose of heart-pounding angst?!

Nobody in country is singing about the bitches up in the club. (Though I admit, there is a time and place. Equal-opportunity, remember?) They aren’t worried about reapplying sunscreen or getting your cardio in. To the contrary, country music is bright-eyed and bushytailed. It’s loose braids and freckles, flirting and heartbreak, sunburned lips and cherry coke, and long days on the porch swing. I see it as a glimpse into a simpler time, where people talk, drive, and live a little more slowly than in my every day life.

The stories remind us of how deep our roots are – or aren’t. They speak to us about the universal milestones in life – growing up and growing old, falling in love and falling apart, first times and final moments. These thought-provoking songs are an invitation to soul-dive, dream, and reminisce. Each one tells a unique tale, and I tell you what: I’m all ears.

So when you’re in the mood for a journey, listening to country can take you on that ride. Maybe that’s what I find so appealing…these words have the power to take us back to younger days, better days…even to days we’ve never lived, like that Little House on the Prairie existence I imagined when I was a little girl. In just a few minutes I’m back to a time when boys were a breathless mystery (and not creatures with noisy bodies who leave their size 13s in the hallway). It takes me back to lazy, long summers where every day was spent laying on the beach dreaming about my first crush and all that had yet to be.

Maybe I’m like Donny and Marie – a little bit country and a (tiny) little bit rock and roll. I live in SoCal but I love my cowboy boots and a Southern accent. I will enjoy a little Fireball whiskey from time to time. I have the requisite freckles. And I’d like to think I’m not your typical native Angelino – I don’t care about who you know, I care about who you are. Yee haw and amen!

And as a prize for reading, I’ll let you in on a little secret: Keith Urban is my dirty country boyfriend. Dirty because of the whole heroin thing. (It was a long time ago, pre-Nicole. So? Everyone has baggage.) Yeah, laugh it up. Girl hair, don’t care. KU+AH 4EVS. Also, my new, younger country boyfriend is Sam Hunt. He used to play football (bonus!) and wrote a bunch of popular songs recorded by big country stars (including Keith’s “Cop Car”) before stepping behind the microphone himself. Don’t even try to scoff at the country chat style. I dare you to listen to his “Speakers” song on repeat and then tell me with a straight face that you aren’t ready to sack that quarterback.

I also dare you to be an equal-opportunity listener and throw some new tunes in the mix. Classic rock is great on a Sunday morning. Seventies soft rock goes perfectly with wine and friends. And country will help you escape from wherever you are to wherever you want to be, anytime. It’s about tapping into your authentic self and being a dreamer for a minute, and if you need a little something to get you there, pump up the volume and sail away.

Your bickering kids, the carpool line, and the huge pile of laundry on your bed won’t stand a chance. Boots and whiskey optional (but encouraged).

Bless your heart.

Welcome back.

Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror, or at your life as a whole, or at a snapshot of your day, and thought, What the EFF is happening here?!

The internal dialogue goes something like this: Who is that old lady staring back at me? How did I get here? Who are those grumpy teenagers in my house and why are they constantly hungry?

And then as we look around, the thoughts transition into: Who stuffed their thighs into my tights (because I know those can’t be my legs)? Who put expired Subway coupons on the refrigerator? Why do I walk past the dog hair on the floor as if someone else might sweep today? Are those my un-pedicured toes? Where is my coffee cup? Is that laundry going to fold itself? Is this my life?

Seems like as we fold ourselves up to fit into the molds we are given – wife, mother, employee, chauffeur, housekeeper – we inevitably get smaller. And the more love and effort we pour into the people around us, the emptier we are. Unless we fill ourselves back up. And oh my God with all the filling and pouring we’re already doing, who has energy for more filling, even if it’s for our own selves?

In a short-lived burst of research and development for this post, I texted Chicago and asked her if she does anything strictly for herself these days. She chuckled (no LOL needed, I know this girl) and typed “I have a dermatologist appointment now…does that count?”

My thought? Maybe it does.

I don’t know. I mean, we’re generally enjoying quiet time while a doctor picks our face or tells us to settle into the stirrups and scoot down just a bit more*…alas, is this really quality time with ourselves? It produces healthy areas of our bodies, which is a positive, but is it as restorative and bucket-filling as say, a guilt-free hour with hot tea and a good book? Or a long, meditative walk along the coast?

*After all these years, why can’t we figure out as soon as we lean back just how far down the table we need to place our hips? Let’s face it. We know how much to bend our knees and we resist anyway. Granted, the undercarriage isn't exposed to the breeze (or blinding light) very often. Maybe we're being coy. Is it an effort to be nonchalant? Are we trying to look casual, as if we’re comfortably reclined and waiting for a latte, and not sitting with our bare asses sticking to the paper napkin we’ve tried desperately – and somewhat unsuccessfully – to wrap all the way around our hips?

These are the mysteries that distract me nowadays. There are other mysteries too, some that I will remember to write about here, and others that I will remember 24 hours after I meant to, much like the Costco-sized amount of chicken I baked the other night in an effort to get ahead of the game, then promptly forgot about and left in the oven until the middle of the following day. Maybe Thirteen and Eleven are right: there IS nothing good to eat (and I know why).

My bucket is empty. Dry as a bone not yet slobbered on by the 165-pound Berner in my house (see: dog hair comment above).

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t trade my crazy life (or my grouchy people) for the world, because they are my world. In general, my bucket overflows. Good health, good vibes, good kids, good man, food, clothing, shelter. And instead of Worry, my middle name should be Grateful because I know the shit show life can be. But all that stuff is good partly because of my incessant filling and pouring, right? How do we find time to pour into our own cup? (Not that one. That cup is for the wine. It’s the other one, to the right. There you go.)

So let me publicly suggest something to myself, and to you, my busy comrades. How about this year instead of just stuffing ourselves into the folding chair at soccer/volleyball/dance/various waiting rooms, we also – unapologetically – fold ourselves up onto the couch with that stack of magazines we’ve been longing to read for six weeks? Let’s finally make time to see an old friend sans kids, men, phones, or agenda. Remember that weird lady staring at you in the mirror? Her neck is drooping and you know it. Get her some quality cream and use it (instead of whatever lotion you can find on your daughter's bathroom counter amongst the bracelets, retainers [wait, aren’t those supposed to be in Thirteen’s mouth right now?], and tubes of toothpaste).

Let’s flip the script and take a little time to do unto ourselves as we constantly and exhaustively do unto others.

I’ll give it a shot (if I can remember to). Will you?