I need Mom Lessons. I've always known it. For example, I could be more prepared. During potty-training, side trips to Target were a regular occurrence. One time, we were at the Old Country Buffet when my lovely girl had an accident. I left her in the bathroom with my mother and went across the street to buy her underwear and sweatpants. Problem solved.
About a month ago, I remembered she was invited to a friend's birthday party, which was to begin in 1 hour, on the way to pick her up from school. I picked Kiddo up from school in her uniform, brought her to Target to pick a birthday gift, and coordinating gift bag, as well as a new outfit for the party. She changed in the Fitting Room. As we dashed thru the aisles on the way to the check-out, Kiddo said, "Mama, people are going to think I am stealing this outfit!"
"Of course they will not! The tags are out. It's clear we are on our way to buy it. I wouldn't let you run around with tags showing, now hurry!" Problem solved.
At the party, one mother, of whom I am quite fond and somewhat in awe, shared with me that she and her children had completed their 50 Things to Do This Summer list. I told her, "I think I need to take Mom Lessons from you."
She is the mom who happened to have on hand an extra large Ziploc plastic bag big enough to hold a coat, hat, and mittens. Each child was to use this type of bag as a prophylactic measure to prevent the spread of lice. Would that Kiddo had been in possession of such bag 3 weeks before when we spent the entire Winter Break quarantined, washing everything in hot, dumping poison on our heads, and picking lice eggs with tears and cursing (mine).
She also always has extra snacks and keeps just about anything you could possibly need for an emergency in her car. She probably bought the birthday gift as soon as the invitation was issued. She's just that way.
You might imagine that I would want to stay far away from an uber-mom like her because her very existence makes me look terribly inadequate, but you would be wrong. I cherish my fellow mothers who have their ducks in a row because they always have the extra large Ziploc bags, snacks, Bandaids, tampons, and more. They have good ideas. They read Parenting magazine so I don't have to.
It's a mutual relationship. Uber-mom gets to feel superior, and I have an extra set of eyes monitoring all the details that fall through the cracks of my day. In this way, I don't have to be good at everything. I know my top priorities as a mom, and I stick to them. Probably my greatest assets as a mom are that I am open to learning, and I am not afraid to borrow a good idea. I am done trying to keep every plate spinning at the same time. I embrace my lack of organization as an opportunity to be creative, which is infinitely more fun than always being prepared. Ask Kiddo. She thinks I'm hilarious.
Kiddo and I made our 50 Things to Do This Summer. It's right on my desktop. Now, when I hear, "I'm bored," I can launch that baby, and an adventure awaits. I've shared this idea with other moms who said, "That's a good idea!" I took no credit, I just told them, "Pass it on."
July 6, 2011
July 5, 2011
The Courage to Run
Around the 4th of July, we throw around a lot of big words like courage, freedom, and independence. These are hard to define, and are mostly relegated to our forefathers, especially as we celebrate the birth of our nation. We honor those who have gone before us, even died for us, so that we may enjoy these great gifts. Indeed, our independence and freedom were won because of the courage of many.
Winning and patriotism go hand in hand in the U.S. At every major sporting event, we hear the National anthem. We remember our unity as citizens and then compete to win.
As for my family, we're not really into that competition thing. Probably because everyone in my family is highly fond of winning. Certainly, the desire to win can inspire excellence. Needing to be first can also inhibit trying something new for fear of losing.
I was surprised when Kiddo wanted to run a 3K race with her cousins, given I had never seen her run for the sake of running. I was afraid she wouldn't be able to finish, and it would destroy her confidence.
She had done no training, save for 5 days of swimming laps. In any typical circumstance, I would have expected her to politely decline. This time she was blinded by love. She is over-the-moon about her cousins, and will do anything to spend time with them - even running.
They arrived at the race a half hour after registration ended. The officials told her she was not allowed to run. She sobbed, telling her dad, I feel so alone. Her aunt managed to convince the organizers to allow her to run. She would receive a t-shirt, but would not receive a number. It seemed that allowing a 7 year old to cross the finish line without a number would mess up their counting. Evidently, this 3K Race outside of Rochester, MN is a qualifier for the Boston Marathon.
"Fine," they said, "just let her run." So, after a hysterical cry, Kiddo started running. She made it to the last 50 feet, and said, "Daddy, I just can't finish." My husband jumped over the ropes and together they ran toward the finish line.
A man stepped in front of them and declared, "You don't have a number. You can't cross the finish line." They stopped a 7 year old girl from crossing the finish line of her first race. It begs a sarcastic, "Really?" doesn't it?
She sobbed again, disappointed that she didn't get to cross the finish line with her cousins. Even worse, they each won a medal, and, since she finished along with them, she would have won one too.
When I step back from my rage over how poorly my husband and daughter were treated by these small town, small-minded people who felt being right was more important than having compassion for a 7 year old girl, I am amazed at what actually transpired.
My kiddo, who under most circumstances might not have even attempted to run, actually ran that race. She faced fear of failure, rejection, feelings of isolation and loneliness. She finished the race, even though they tried to make her stop and physically prevented her from crossing the finish line.
I pray a lot of things for her. I pray that she will have joy and know who she is as a child of God. I pray that she will have the courage to stand up for what is right. I pray that she will reach out for help when she needs it. I pray for her to have perseverance to fight the good fight. I offer these prayers mostly for her future when she is forced to confront the dark side of life when she is a teenager.
The truth is these darker elements do exist, even for young children. They need us to protect, encourage, and sometimes run with them, but they also need to know that they have everything they need to finish the race.
She learned that she can be satisfied that she finished the race, even if she didn't get the plastic medal or the encouragement of the crowd. She learned she can do something hard. She learned she can ask for help when she needs it - and get it.
My prayers were answered and then some. The kid has guts. I made her a Certificate of Accomplishment and taped it to the front door. I signed it, George Washington. One of our most courageous and faithful freedom fighters.
She also got her lousy t-shirt. As we unpacked, she handed it to me and said, "Mommy, I don't really want this."
"You don't want to wear it for a nightshirt?" I asked, but saw her face and quickly added, "how about I scrub the toilet with it?"
Yesterday, Kiddo defined these illusive words this way: Courage - I will run the race, even if I don't know how, and I can ask for help when I need it. Freedom - I don't need your support or approval to do what I need to do. Independence - I don't need your stinking t-shirt.
Winning and patriotism go hand in hand in the U.S. At every major sporting event, we hear the National anthem. We remember our unity as citizens and then compete to win.
As for my family, we're not really into that competition thing. Probably because everyone in my family is highly fond of winning. Certainly, the desire to win can inspire excellence. Needing to be first can also inhibit trying something new for fear of losing.
I was surprised when Kiddo wanted to run a 3K race with her cousins, given I had never seen her run for the sake of running. I was afraid she wouldn't be able to finish, and it would destroy her confidence.
She had done no training, save for 5 days of swimming laps. In any typical circumstance, I would have expected her to politely decline. This time she was blinded by love. She is over-the-moon about her cousins, and will do anything to spend time with them - even running.
They arrived at the race a half hour after registration ended. The officials told her she was not allowed to run. She sobbed, telling her dad, I feel so alone. Her aunt managed to convince the organizers to allow her to run. She would receive a t-shirt, but would not receive a number. It seemed that allowing a 7 year old to cross the finish line without a number would mess up their counting. Evidently, this 3K Race outside of Rochester, MN is a qualifier for the Boston Marathon.
"Fine," they said, "just let her run." So, after a hysterical cry, Kiddo started running. She made it to the last 50 feet, and said, "Daddy, I just can't finish." My husband jumped over the ropes and together they ran toward the finish line.
A man stepped in front of them and declared, "You don't have a number. You can't cross the finish line." They stopped a 7 year old girl from crossing the finish line of her first race. It begs a sarcastic, "Really?" doesn't it?
She sobbed again, disappointed that she didn't get to cross the finish line with her cousins. Even worse, they each won a medal, and, since she finished along with them, she would have won one too.
When I step back from my rage over how poorly my husband and daughter were treated by these small town, small-minded people who felt being right was more important than having compassion for a 7 year old girl, I am amazed at what actually transpired.
My kiddo, who under most circumstances might not have even attempted to run, actually ran that race. She faced fear of failure, rejection, feelings of isolation and loneliness. She finished the race, even though they tried to make her stop and physically prevented her from crossing the finish line.
I pray a lot of things for her. I pray that she will have joy and know who she is as a child of God. I pray that she will have the courage to stand up for what is right. I pray that she will reach out for help when she needs it. I pray for her to have perseverance to fight the good fight. I offer these prayers mostly for her future when she is forced to confront the dark side of life when she is a teenager.
The truth is these darker elements do exist, even for young children. They need us to protect, encourage, and sometimes run with them, but they also need to know that they have everything they need to finish the race.
She learned that she can be satisfied that she finished the race, even if she didn't get the plastic medal or the encouragement of the crowd. She learned she can do something hard. She learned she can ask for help when she needs it - and get it.
My prayers were answered and then some. The kid has guts. I made her a Certificate of Accomplishment and taped it to the front door. I signed it, George Washington. One of our most courageous and faithful freedom fighters.
She also got her lousy t-shirt. As we unpacked, she handed it to me and said, "Mommy, I don't really want this."
"You don't want to wear it for a nightshirt?" I asked, but saw her face and quickly added, "how about I scrub the toilet with it?"
Yesterday, Kiddo defined these illusive words this way: Courage - I will run the race, even if I don't know how, and I can ask for help when I need it. Freedom - I don't need your support or approval to do what I need to do. Independence - I don't need your stinking t-shirt.
December 11, 2010
Do You Hear What I Hear?
A freshman from the University of Minnesota showed up at my Laughter Club to conduct a survey for a class. Her team had the subject - Laugh Out Loud. She had the smile of an 18 year old, white and devoid of the coffee stains that await her from daily trips to Starbucks. She wore the college-student uniform of faded jeans, sweatshirt and pony-tail held in place with a headband. She was open and polite. Bright eyed, and actually grateful that her parents were sacrificing to pay for her college tuition. Perfect.
We had 10 laughers that night, ranging in age from 7-85. A group that normally would not mix. We guffawed, danced and did the "Santa Conga Line" - HoHo, HoHo, Ho Ho. We put kiddo in the middle of the circle to be the Christmas tree, and decorated her with Laughter Lights, Bulbs and Tinsel.
Anyone willing to participate was asked to fill out a survey of questions about the group such as, What motivates you to come to Laughter Club? We have a very generous and kind-hearted group who happily answered the questions. Kiddo wanted to fill one out too. After all, she is a charter member of our group, joining when she was just 4 years old. She carefully printed her answer to the first question: How did you hear about Laughter Club?
By listening.
My husband and I giggled about it later, but, as I thought about it, I realized she was right. We get many invitations to participate in life each day. The answer to most of them is something like, that won't work, I have too much to do.
Somehow, through all the noise of life, these laughers heard the invitation. In a clear moment, they listened and tuned into the opportunity. The static of life remained, but they focused on something fresh for a moment.
Later, I drove the college student to her bus stop. I asked her what kind of music she liked. She replied, "Oh just about anything." I started flipping through the dial. Then, I remembered that "Fresh Air" with Terry Gross came on at 8:00 p.m. Delighted, I flipped over to MPR and asked, "Do you ever listen to "Fresh Air?"
"I think my parents do."
I supposed that was right. Even though I feel like that lovely, open 18-year-old, and consider myself young in my thinking compared to some of the parents I meet, I am indeed not 18. I have become like my high school girlfriend's dad, who insisted on listening to talk radio as we were driving home from our local ski hills. At the time, I thought I would die if I had to listen to that droning voice reviewing the news for one more second. What a boring, nerd! And, what a waste of a good car sound system.
As usual, my judgement of another is now being visited on self. I am the geeky parent listening to the news. I have chosen to ignore the static of my To-List and tune into Terry Gross. Of course, Terry Gross is way cooler than whatever Mr. Fleming had on the radio in 1986. Still, I was left with the reality that what we listen to is a reflection of our ability to give a fresh idea an audience.
So, I conceded to her, "Yeah, they probably do listen to NPR," and to myself, I am not 18. My teeth could use some whitening, which is $250 I'm spending on something more important. I never wear a ponytail because I don't want to waste time making perfect ponytails on kiddo's head plus mine before school. I can wear a hat. I don't wear headbands, as I look like my mother circa 1975 when I do. Sweatshirts add 10 extra imaginary pounds to the 30 actual ones that, as my husband says, are "bought and paid for." And so, I laughed out loud.
We had 10 laughers that night, ranging in age from 7-85. A group that normally would not mix. We guffawed, danced and did the "Santa Conga Line" - HoHo, HoHo, Ho Ho. We put kiddo in the middle of the circle to be the Christmas tree, and decorated her with Laughter Lights, Bulbs and Tinsel.
Anyone willing to participate was asked to fill out a survey of questions about the group such as, What motivates you to come to Laughter Club? We have a very generous and kind-hearted group who happily answered the questions. Kiddo wanted to fill one out too. After all, she is a charter member of our group, joining when she was just 4 years old. She carefully printed her answer to the first question: How did you hear about Laughter Club?
By listening.
My husband and I giggled about it later, but, as I thought about it, I realized she was right. We get many invitations to participate in life each day. The answer to most of them is something like, that won't work, I have too much to do.
Somehow, through all the noise of life, these laughers heard the invitation. In a clear moment, they listened and tuned into the opportunity. The static of life remained, but they focused on something fresh for a moment.
Later, I drove the college student to her bus stop. I asked her what kind of music she liked. She replied, "Oh just about anything." I started flipping through the dial. Then, I remembered that "Fresh Air" with Terry Gross came on at 8:00 p.m. Delighted, I flipped over to MPR and asked, "Do you ever listen to "Fresh Air?"
"I think my parents do."
I supposed that was right. Even though I feel like that lovely, open 18-year-old, and consider myself young in my thinking compared to some of the parents I meet, I am indeed not 18. I have become like my high school girlfriend's dad, who insisted on listening to talk radio as we were driving home from our local ski hills. At the time, I thought I would die if I had to listen to that droning voice reviewing the news for one more second. What a boring, nerd! And, what a waste of a good car sound system.
As usual, my judgement of another is now being visited on self. I am the geeky parent listening to the news. I have chosen to ignore the static of my To-List and tune into Terry Gross. Of course, Terry Gross is way cooler than whatever Mr. Fleming had on the radio in 1986. Still, I was left with the reality that what we listen to is a reflection of our ability to give a fresh idea an audience.
So, I conceded to her, "Yeah, they probably do listen to NPR," and to myself, I am not 18. My teeth could use some whitening, which is $250 I'm spending on something more important. I never wear a ponytail because I don't want to waste time making perfect ponytails on kiddo's head plus mine before school. I can wear a hat. I don't wear headbands, as I look like my mother circa 1975 when I do. Sweatshirts add 10 extra imaginary pounds to the 30 actual ones that, as my husband says, are "bought and paid for." And so, I laughed out loud.
December 7, 2010
The Same Old, Same New
Last weekend, I, and a group of my very capable students, led a group of seniors at an assisted living facility in Laughter Yoga. We laughed, clapped and breathed. The results were magnificent! They burst out laughing and didn't stop for 40 minutes. Dolores, a lovely, perfumed, 80-ish woman, with a walker, pink lipstick and an attitude said, "My fibromyalgia gives me so much pain, but the pain is gone. When are you going to come back?"
My first-time laughers tell me about their pain vanishing so often that I am embarrassed to say that I am used to it. I know they are telling me the truth because I have had the same experience with lasting results.
When I started this blog, I was trying to recover from chronic fatigue immune dysfunction, fibromyalgia, chronic back and pelvic pain, and mood disorder. Over fifteen years, I had made some progress, but never a complete recovery. In fact, my healing journey led me to Mayo Clinic to see yet another provider. As I was leaving, I saw a sign that said - The Spirituality of Laughter. "That's for me!" I decided and I invited myself to the seminar. I experienced Laughter Yoga for the first time and my whole life changed. I got certified as a leader and began a daily laughter practice. In the last two years, I have been completely delivered from pain, fatigue and depression. The pain and illness is gone and replaced by joy, gratitude and a new career path. I lead and teach others how to lead Laughter Yoga sessions. I also provide Spiritual Laughter Coaching for those who want to transform stuck areas of their lives and live in serenity.
Over the last year, I have been leading groups of all ages, but primarily seniors who have Alzheimer's disease, dementia and mental illness. I hang out with the forgotten crowd with yellow toenails, poop problems, aches, pains and complaints. In other words, my people. Guess what? They all laugh. No matter what. I am good at what I do, but it is a gift. All of the crap that I have been through that felt like unnecessary torture has been put to good use.
So, I wasn't surprised by Dolores' remark. I hear it all the time from her peers, their staff and loved ones. But, after this class, I heard something that took my breath away.
We finished our Laughter Session and were saying our goodbye and thank you's when a short woman with short, white straight hair surrounding a small bald spot, stepped into the middle of the gathering and announced, "I missed most of the class, but I would like to sing." I gave my permission and she began to sing, "How Great Thou Art" in a tender, flute-like soprano. The entire room began to sing with her.
Here is a room filled with people who live in someone else's home. They are blind and deaf. They push their own wheelchairs by shuffling their feet like Fred Flinstone. They have hands that have twisted so that they can no longer hold them in prayer. They have lost friends and family. They are waiting and wondering why God hasn't taken them.
Yet, for one hour, they got to laugh and experience joy through the gift of Laughter Yoga that we brought to them. Then, they gave us something even more powerful, a witness of faith and praise to a powerful, healing God in the midst of what some would call suffering. I cried at their vulnerability and strength. I am still in awe of the power of faith.
I can't deny the truth of it. I have seen this Power heal me in places that no human power could, knowing that I didn't do anything to deserve it. I think that is what they call grace.
So, after a year hiatus, I am back in the writer's saddle. My child is now 7, and surfing the confusion and elation of first grade. My marriage is strong, and needs careful tending. And I am healthy and pain free.
To those who commented on my post, "No Put Downs, Just Put Ups." Thank you. Your encouragement affirmed my passion for writing about my journey for unconditional serenity. And has helped shape my intentions for my days to come.
My first-time laughers tell me about their pain vanishing so often that I am embarrassed to say that I am used to it. I know they are telling me the truth because I have had the same experience with lasting results.
When I started this blog, I was trying to recover from chronic fatigue immune dysfunction, fibromyalgia, chronic back and pelvic pain, and mood disorder. Over fifteen years, I had made some progress, but never a complete recovery. In fact, my healing journey led me to Mayo Clinic to see yet another provider. As I was leaving, I saw a sign that said - The Spirituality of Laughter. "That's for me!" I decided and I invited myself to the seminar. I experienced Laughter Yoga for the first time and my whole life changed. I got certified as a leader and began a daily laughter practice. In the last two years, I have been completely delivered from pain, fatigue and depression. The pain and illness is gone and replaced by joy, gratitude and a new career path. I lead and teach others how to lead Laughter Yoga sessions. I also provide Spiritual Laughter Coaching for those who want to transform stuck areas of their lives and live in serenity.
Over the last year, I have been leading groups of all ages, but primarily seniors who have Alzheimer's disease, dementia and mental illness. I hang out with the forgotten crowd with yellow toenails, poop problems, aches, pains and complaints. In other words, my people. Guess what? They all laugh. No matter what. I am good at what I do, but it is a gift. All of the crap that I have been through that felt like unnecessary torture has been put to good use.
So, I wasn't surprised by Dolores' remark. I hear it all the time from her peers, their staff and loved ones. But, after this class, I heard something that took my breath away.
We finished our Laughter Session and were saying our goodbye and thank you's when a short woman with short, white straight hair surrounding a small bald spot, stepped into the middle of the gathering and announced, "I missed most of the class, but I would like to sing." I gave my permission and she began to sing, "How Great Thou Art" in a tender, flute-like soprano. The entire room began to sing with her.
Here is a room filled with people who live in someone else's home. They are blind and deaf. They push their own wheelchairs by shuffling their feet like Fred Flinstone. They have hands that have twisted so that they can no longer hold them in prayer. They have lost friends and family. They are waiting and wondering why God hasn't taken them.
Yet, for one hour, they got to laugh and experience joy through the gift of Laughter Yoga that we brought to them. Then, they gave us something even more powerful, a witness of faith and praise to a powerful, healing God in the midst of what some would call suffering. I cried at their vulnerability and strength. I am still in awe of the power of faith.
I can't deny the truth of it. I have seen this Power heal me in places that no human power could, knowing that I didn't do anything to deserve it. I think that is what they call grace.
So, after a year hiatus, I am back in the writer's saddle. My child is now 7, and surfing the confusion and elation of first grade. My marriage is strong, and needs careful tending. And I am healthy and pain free.
To those who commented on my post, "No Put Downs, Just Put Ups." Thank you. Your encouragement affirmed my passion for writing about my journey for unconditional serenity. And has helped shape my intentions for my days to come.
February 6, 2009
Mommy, Why Are You So Foolish
Driving with a 5 year old in the car presents a challenge. BC, before child, if someone pulled out in front of me on an icy road, I would deal with my anxiety and need for a sense of control by categorizing him as a farm animal - verbally.
AC, after child, I have tried to curb my reaction, or at least adjust it. This morning, I declared while driving to preschool,
Dude, what are you doing? Don't do it. Don't do it. Stay there. That's it.
Kiddo asked me,
Mommy, why are you so foolish?
Years of practice. Let's pray. God, bless all the drivers on the road.
Amen.
AC, after child, I have tried to curb my reaction, or at least adjust it. This morning, I declared while driving to preschool,
Dude, what are you doing? Don't do it. Don't do it. Stay there. That's it.
Kiddo asked me,
Mommy, why are you so foolish?
Years of practice. Let's pray. God, bless all the drivers on the road.
Amen.
February 5, 2009
This is American Idol
TV has become as lethal as smoking. At every pediatrician appointment, school newsletter, and parenting handbook speaks of the dangers of watching it. Obviously, the data is stacked against TV, and I completely agree with limits and appropriate choices. Children need to run around, play and explore apart from the flickering lights of TV. Absolutely.
True confession. My kid likes American Idol. Kiddo can't tolerate the truly delusional fame seekers, but loves to get behind the favorite singers and cheer them on to be the next American Idol.
The show has taken on another dimension. Sometimes the best example is the worst example.
Enter bikini-girl. I must admit, I don't remember her name. Actually, I don't remember any of their names thus far. This young woman wore a bikini to her audition. Even my 5 year old knows that swimsuits are appropriate for the beach or the pool, not an audition for American Idol.
We talked about the fact that there are some people who get distracted by a pretty girl and think that her beauty is the only thing that makes her special.
But we know better, don't we? We know that girls can be beautiful and smart and talented and funny. They can compete, knowing that they have the skills to be successful. Right?
Kiddo smiled wide and said, Yeah.
We also learned about being a good team member and what it means to sacrifice to reach a goal. We talked about letting your performance speak for itself, listening to feedback and not defending, explaining or making excuses.
I am trying to teach my kid about moderation; I guess we're learning it together. TV can be a wasteland or it can inspire. But, as with all things in our family, the results are always great when we do things together.
True confession. My kid likes American Idol. Kiddo can't tolerate the truly delusional fame seekers, but loves to get behind the favorite singers and cheer them on to be the next American Idol.
The show has taken on another dimension. Sometimes the best example is the worst example.
Enter bikini-girl. I must admit, I don't remember her name. Actually, I don't remember any of their names thus far. This young woman wore a bikini to her audition. Even my 5 year old knows that swimsuits are appropriate for the beach or the pool, not an audition for American Idol.
We talked about the fact that there are some people who get distracted by a pretty girl and think that her beauty is the only thing that makes her special.
But we know better, don't we? We know that girls can be beautiful and smart and talented and funny. They can compete, knowing that they have the skills to be successful. Right?
Kiddo smiled wide and said, Yeah.
We also learned about being a good team member and what it means to sacrifice to reach a goal. We talked about letting your performance speak for itself, listening to feedback and not defending, explaining or making excuses.
I am trying to teach my kid about moderation; I guess we're learning it together. TV can be a wasteland or it can inspire. But, as with all things in our family, the results are always great when we do things together.
February 4, 2009
Bitch No More
Listen. Enough complaining. If you can't do anything, but complain, I suggest that you keep your mouth shut. I can't hear any more of this whining, I said firmly, but without anger to the kid.
Mom's don't get sick. This is a myth. I have had a virus for 2 weeks, and I have been dragging myself around because the thought of keeping my healthy kid home with the sick mom for 2 weeks is unthinkable.
So, we keep our schedule. We're driving to the extra-curricular activity that kiddo chose, and I am hearing whining and ingratitude.
Knowing it was possible that I was overreacting due to my viral condition, I tried to change the subject. Tell me something you like about Circus.
The kid couldn't get off of the whining. I drew the line, I cannot hear anymore of this complaining. You can speak of something positive or we can listen to music. What is your choice?
The urge to complain was too much for the kid. My child's brain was high jacked by the bitch monster. I understood. My brain can be easily swept away with the drama.
We arrived at the big top. As I opened the first door, I made my aforementioned proclamation.
I opened the second door, turned and noticed the entire staff of Circus Juventas, huddled in a meeting.
Isn't that just the way? I get to look like the mean mommy.
Those who would judge do not have children. Find me a parent without a threshold for complaining, and I will find her drugs. Or her stash of HoHo's.
The world is full of victims who blame, bitch and moan. I don't want to be one, and I don't want to raise one.
Tomorrow, we stay home and heal.
Mom's don't get sick. This is a myth. I have had a virus for 2 weeks, and I have been dragging myself around because the thought of keeping my healthy kid home with the sick mom for 2 weeks is unthinkable.
So, we keep our schedule. We're driving to the extra-curricular activity that kiddo chose, and I am hearing whining and ingratitude.
Knowing it was possible that I was overreacting due to my viral condition, I tried to change the subject. Tell me something you like about Circus.
The kid couldn't get off of the whining. I drew the line, I cannot hear anymore of this complaining. You can speak of something positive or we can listen to music. What is your choice?
The urge to complain was too much for the kid. My child's brain was high jacked by the bitch monster. I understood. My brain can be easily swept away with the drama.
We arrived at the big top. As I opened the first door, I made my aforementioned proclamation.
I opened the second door, turned and noticed the entire staff of Circus Juventas, huddled in a meeting.
Isn't that just the way? I get to look like the mean mommy.
Those who would judge do not have children. Find me a parent without a threshold for complaining, and I will find her drugs. Or her stash of HoHo's.
The world is full of victims who blame, bitch and moan. I don't want to be one, and I don't want to raise one.
Tomorrow, we stay home and heal.
Support for Change
An important member of my cabinet is moving on. Over the years, I have assembled a team of experts to provide support and encouragement for the life I have today. Since I have little or no training or practice for most of the important areas of my life, such as, intuitive eating, marriage, parenting, family, friends, sleep apnea, home & auto ownership, meditation, and blogging to name a few, I surround myself with quality teachers.
Mostly, I need them to listen. I share honestly what's happening and how I feel about what's happening. Only then am I able to be open and willing to what they have to tell me. I am a handful, but I diversify so it's not - all Jody, all the time. I also do exactly what they tell me to do.
I choose my cabinet wisely. I look at credentials; I ask for references. I also notice what happens when talk. I look for warmth, understanding, and directness. I want them to tell me the truth as they see it. I listen to what they say, even if I don't like it. I value their time so I try not to give them a lot of complaining or whining, but I also need for them to really listen without judgment.
Today, my eating and exercise guru told me she is moving. This position is critical to my survival. I will miss her, and I am happy for her. I'm a little jealous. She is leaving the frozen tundra for one of my favorite cities.
I also felt some fear about the change. I have habit of fearing change. So, I asked myself, what are you afraid of? Not finding an adequate replacement? No, this cabinet position is so important that I know someone great will be provided. Maybe I'll learn some new things that will improve upon my progress.
What I really am afraid of is the feelings about the change. I have grown to love and respect this person. I am going to miss her wise counsel.
I have experienced the transformation of grief into joy as the result of applying my mindfulness & compassion practice. Many of the previous posts in this blog document the process. Still, I don't want to. Sitting in the pain and waiting for it to pass requires a boat load of courage. I don't always feel up to it.
Somehow, I did sit with it today. As usual, the resistance to the pain is way worse than just sitting with it until it passes. For less time than the typical sitcom, I have the possibility of grace. You'd think that would be an easy choice, but at any time of day you can find an old episode of Friends or The Girls Next Door.
I know for certain that the cabinet position won't be filled until I make room in my heart for it. To feel or not to feel. The question is - how much do I want to suffer?
Mostly, I need them to listen. I share honestly what's happening and how I feel about what's happening. Only then am I able to be open and willing to what they have to tell me. I am a handful, but I diversify so it's not - all Jody, all the time. I also do exactly what they tell me to do.
I choose my cabinet wisely. I look at credentials; I ask for references. I also notice what happens when talk. I look for warmth, understanding, and directness. I want them to tell me the truth as they see it. I listen to what they say, even if I don't like it. I value their time so I try not to give them a lot of complaining or whining, but I also need for them to really listen without judgment.
Today, my eating and exercise guru told me she is moving. This position is critical to my survival. I will miss her, and I am happy for her. I'm a little jealous. She is leaving the frozen tundra for one of my favorite cities.
I also felt some fear about the change. I have habit of fearing change. So, I asked myself, what are you afraid of? Not finding an adequate replacement? No, this cabinet position is so important that I know someone great will be provided. Maybe I'll learn some new things that will improve upon my progress.
What I really am afraid of is the feelings about the change. I have grown to love and respect this person. I am going to miss her wise counsel.
I have experienced the transformation of grief into joy as the result of applying my mindfulness & compassion practice. Many of the previous posts in this blog document the process. Still, I don't want to. Sitting in the pain and waiting for it to pass requires a boat load of courage. I don't always feel up to it.
Somehow, I did sit with it today. As usual, the resistance to the pain is way worse than just sitting with it until it passes. For less time than the typical sitcom, I have the possibility of grace. You'd think that would be an easy choice, but at any time of day you can find an old episode of Friends or The Girls Next Door.
I know for certain that the cabinet position won't be filled until I make room in my heart for it. To feel or not to feel. The question is - how much do I want to suffer?
February 3, 2009
All Sinners Eat Snacks
I spent some time this morning listening to folks who are really into talking about sin. This word sin is loaded, especially for someone who has a lifetime habit of black and white thinking. Sin is bad. I sin; therefore, I am bad.
Indeed, I spent a lifetime trying to prove that assumption wrong by being very good. Being unconvinced, I would behave exactly as bad as I felt. Then hell would rain down on me.
Lately, I have begun to view sin differently. I'm told that the word sin is an archery term that means "to miss the mark." A sin is a mistake, an event that can be corrected.
The sin is the mistake; I am not the mistake. What a revelation to realize that I am basically good. I can relax and know that it is my divine right to be peaceful and not perfect.
When I am agitated, I know that I have forgotten myself. I can look for a mistake, and, if I find one, ask for it to be corrected. I can clean it up.
If I am basically good, then so is everyone else. Thus, the need for blaming and complaining is eliminated.
The challenge becomes how to listen to people talk about sin and sinners without going to the dark place. I prayed that I would hear what I needed to hear. I prayed to remember the basic goodness.
It worked. I heard that I make mistakes and that I can seek their correction. I don't have to dwell in guilt and shame anymore. I obviously need lots of reminders on this point.
Why would I put myself through this walk toward my dark side? My kid loves this class, actually jumps up and down when I announce where we are going. While I am attending my class, kiddo is attending an age appropriate version. While we talked about sin, they talked about doing the wrong thing and doing the right thing. Raised under the umbrella of basic goodness, my kid can assess sin without a lot of drama.
"So, what is a wrong thing?"
"Taking someone's toys without asking."
"What's a right thing?"
"Sharing. Can I have a graham cracker?"
So that's it. Sometimes we do the wrong thing. Sometimes we do the right thing, but when it is snack time, we all get a graham cracker.
Indeed, I spent a lifetime trying to prove that assumption wrong by being very good. Being unconvinced, I would behave exactly as bad as I felt. Then hell would rain down on me.
Lately, I have begun to view sin differently. I'm told that the word sin is an archery term that means "to miss the mark." A sin is a mistake, an event that can be corrected.
The sin is the mistake; I am not the mistake. What a revelation to realize that I am basically good. I can relax and know that it is my divine right to be peaceful and not perfect.
When I am agitated, I know that I have forgotten myself. I can look for a mistake, and, if I find one, ask for it to be corrected. I can clean it up.
If I am basically good, then so is everyone else. Thus, the need for blaming and complaining is eliminated.
The challenge becomes how to listen to people talk about sin and sinners without going to the dark place. I prayed that I would hear what I needed to hear. I prayed to remember the basic goodness.
It worked. I heard that I make mistakes and that I can seek their correction. I don't have to dwell in guilt and shame anymore. I obviously need lots of reminders on this point.
Why would I put myself through this walk toward my dark side? My kid loves this class, actually jumps up and down when I announce where we are going. While I am attending my class, kiddo is attending an age appropriate version. While we talked about sin, they talked about doing the wrong thing and doing the right thing. Raised under the umbrella of basic goodness, my kid can assess sin without a lot of drama.
"So, what is a wrong thing?"
"Taking someone's toys without asking."
"What's a right thing?"
"Sharing. Can I have a graham cracker?"
So that's it. Sometimes we do the wrong thing. Sometimes we do the right thing, but when it is snack time, we all get a graham cracker.
January 28, 2009
Chatty Is as Chatty Does
I'm chatty. I really enjoy greeting the folks I meet during the day. One major blessing of living in the Midwest is that we actually speak to one another. We ask, "How are you today?" We answer. We say thank you. We wish each other a good day. It's friendly.
Of course, not everyone is friendly all the time. When behind the wheel, Minnesotans can be downright aggressive, rushing around, cutting ahead in traffic, and flipping the bird. We follow people who are leaving the mall, trolling for a place to park. Then, we hover, signal light blinking, for the driver to surrender the parking spot preventing any other drivers from passing.
However, once separated from their vehicles, Minnesotans are downright affable, especially after a month or so of enforced hibernation.
Wednesdays the kiddo and I go to Circus class, Cirque du Soleil-style. The kids do these incredible tricks, and the parents get to sit behind the red rope and watch. I am anxious to do the tricks too, but my core muscles are not ready yet. So, I watch and wait.
Waiting can be a lonely endeavor. I find it even more objectionable when I feel lonely in a crowd. So, I chat. Last fall, I made friends with one of the other circus moms. We talked about mom stuff. I really liked her, and kiddo liked her child too.
Last week, she let me know that they had decided to change their schedule. I was disappointed. I was just sure that I would have to sit and watch my kid in total silence. A whole hour alone in a crowd, isolated yet surrounded.
We show up. I ask one of the parents whether his wife had found a job yet. He said no, but they were thinking of moving to Japan. A woman said, we're moving to Japan in the fall. By the end of the class, there were five of us parents and one nanny, talking about living in Japan, France and Spain. We laughed about not sleeping. We talked about our quirky kids and what they were trying to teach us. I had a blast.
I went to circus today thinking that I was going to be bored and alone. I was sure of it. I would have bet money on it. What a great thing not to be right all the time.
It's super easy to stay home when the temperature is -30 degrees. It's comfortable to associate exclusively with people we already know and like. But when I step out of the house and out of my comfort zone, I get surprised.
String enough of these moments together and you have the makings of a truly good day.
Of course, not everyone is friendly all the time. When behind the wheel, Minnesotans can be downright aggressive, rushing around, cutting ahead in traffic, and flipping the bird. We follow people who are leaving the mall, trolling for a place to park. Then, we hover, signal light blinking, for the driver to surrender the parking spot preventing any other drivers from passing.
However, once separated from their vehicles, Minnesotans are downright affable, especially after a month or so of enforced hibernation.
Wednesdays the kiddo and I go to Circus class, Cirque du Soleil-style. The kids do these incredible tricks, and the parents get to sit behind the red rope and watch. I am anxious to do the tricks too, but my core muscles are not ready yet. So, I watch and wait.
Waiting can be a lonely endeavor. I find it even more objectionable when I feel lonely in a crowd. So, I chat. Last fall, I made friends with one of the other circus moms. We talked about mom stuff. I really liked her, and kiddo liked her child too.
Last week, she let me know that they had decided to change their schedule. I was disappointed. I was just sure that I would have to sit and watch my kid in total silence. A whole hour alone in a crowd, isolated yet surrounded.
We show up. I ask one of the parents whether his wife had found a job yet. He said no, but they were thinking of moving to Japan. A woman said, we're moving to Japan in the fall. By the end of the class, there were five of us parents and one nanny, talking about living in Japan, France and Spain. We laughed about not sleeping. We talked about our quirky kids and what they were trying to teach us. I had a blast.
I went to circus today thinking that I was going to be bored and alone. I was sure of it. I would have bet money on it. What a great thing not to be right all the time.
It's super easy to stay home when the temperature is -30 degrees. It's comfortable to associate exclusively with people we already know and like. But when I step out of the house and out of my comfort zone, I get surprised.
String enough of these moments together and you have the makings of a truly good day.
January 23, 2009
We Give What We Can
President Obama has called us to help others, so today I decided to donate $142 to the city of Minneapolis. I got the idea from a policeman on 42nd Street. He told me that I could make this one time donation to the city and thus avoid an ongoing monthly donation to State Farm.
I trust that the City of Minneapolis will take my money and use it to do something I could never do alone. Perhaps they could reinstate full-day kindergarten for children of middle class families. Or, they could add it to the fund to provide fresh, clean water that does not smell of fish to it's citizens.
I trust that my elected officials will remember that they are our trusted servants and will respond to my donation by asking themselves, "How could we put this money to good use that would provide the maximum benefit to our neighbors?"
What a privilege to be a contributing member of society.
I trust that the City of Minneapolis will take my money and use it to do something I could never do alone. Perhaps they could reinstate full-day kindergarten for children of middle class families. Or, they could add it to the fund to provide fresh, clean water that does not smell of fish to it's citizens.
I trust that my elected officials will remember that they are our trusted servants and will respond to my donation by asking themselves, "How could we put this money to good use that would provide the maximum benefit to our neighbors?"
What a privilege to be a contributing member of society.
January 19, 2009
Yes, We Can Change
Kiddo and I sat crisscross applesauce today with all of the other less than 10 year olds at the Hennepin County Library. I declined to sit in the last chair because the kid refused to sit in a chair. Evidently, the best seat in the house was my lap.
We were enjoying a terrific one man program by T. Mychael Rambo, a well-known local teacher, actor and singer, commemorating the birth of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. We learned about the work of Dr. King and others who fought for civil rights in our country with excerpts of the "I Have a Dream speech, stories, poems and incredibly soulful singing.
The house was packed when a family of 4 children and their grandmother arrived. I encouraged the kids to fill in around the other children. Unable to sit on the floor, their grandmother had to stand in the back.
The youngest child was a little girl, maybe 2 years old. She was wearing red velour yoga pants with a matching hoodie lined with silver hearts. Her hair was thick, soft and curly. She had stunning hazel eyes, and enviable lips that thousands of dollars of injectibles could never replicate. Her sisters and brothers had moved up to the front of the crowd so she was stuck sitting by herself.
I had chosen to sit on the last row of kids so that I wouldn't block a little kid's view. The little girl was sitting right in front of me. She tilted her head to the side, sizing up the performance. She seemed a little lost. It was a lot for a 2 year old.
I tapped her on the shoulder and invited her to share my lap. Kiddo moved over to make room. The little girl slid easily onto my lap. I hugged both of them for the rest of the show, encouraging them to clap and sing. She placed her hand in mine, and we all swayed along with the music.
When Mr. Rambo sang, Sam Cooke's "Change is Gonna Come," I cried. I was holding my child and a beautiful girl who would not have been allowed in the same room with us, let alone in my lap. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and others worked and died so that I could do what was natural: love and care for God's children equally and openly.
Our country has changed.
I looked around. I was surrounded by young, old, black, white, Christian, Muslim and Jewish people.
Minnesota has changed.
Growing up in the land of 10,000 lakes, most everybody looked like me, white, middle class, Christian. I always found this unnerving. We had exactly 4 people of color in our entire high school and 1 Jewish person. It seemed unnatural to me, so I left for college on the east coast to experience the world as it is: diverse. Eventually, I minored in African-American studies.
After the performance, I stood up and put my shoes, careful not to flash any crack. See former post, "Butt Crack is Whack." I turned around and the grandmother said to me, "Thank you for taking care of my babies."
I smiled and said, "She couldn't see."
"Well, thank you."
"Oh, there's always room for one more on this lap," I said, slapping my thighs.
She smiled and said, "I hope you have a blessed day."
Yes, we can.
And yes, we did.
We were enjoying a terrific one man program by T. Mychael Rambo, a well-known local teacher, actor and singer, commemorating the birth of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. We learned about the work of Dr. King and others who fought for civil rights in our country with excerpts of the "I Have a Dream speech, stories, poems and incredibly soulful singing.
The house was packed when a family of 4 children and their grandmother arrived. I encouraged the kids to fill in around the other children. Unable to sit on the floor, their grandmother had to stand in the back.
The youngest child was a little girl, maybe 2 years old. She was wearing red velour yoga pants with a matching hoodie lined with silver hearts. Her hair was thick, soft and curly. She had stunning hazel eyes, and enviable lips that thousands of dollars of injectibles could never replicate. Her sisters and brothers had moved up to the front of the crowd so she was stuck sitting by herself.
I had chosen to sit on the last row of kids so that I wouldn't block a little kid's view. The little girl was sitting right in front of me. She tilted her head to the side, sizing up the performance. She seemed a little lost. It was a lot for a 2 year old.
I tapped her on the shoulder and invited her to share my lap. Kiddo moved over to make room. The little girl slid easily onto my lap. I hugged both of them for the rest of the show, encouraging them to clap and sing. She placed her hand in mine, and we all swayed along with the music.
When Mr. Rambo sang, Sam Cooke's "Change is Gonna Come," I cried. I was holding my child and a beautiful girl who would not have been allowed in the same room with us, let alone in my lap. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and others worked and died so that I could do what was natural: love and care for God's children equally and openly.
Our country has changed.
I looked around. I was surrounded by young, old, black, white, Christian, Muslim and Jewish people.
Minnesota has changed.
Growing up in the land of 10,000 lakes, most everybody looked like me, white, middle class, Christian. I always found this unnerving. We had exactly 4 people of color in our entire high school and 1 Jewish person. It seemed unnatural to me, so I left for college on the east coast to experience the world as it is: diverse. Eventually, I minored in African-American studies.
After the performance, I stood up and put my shoes, careful not to flash any crack. See former post, "Butt Crack is Whack." I turned around and the grandmother said to me, "Thank you for taking care of my babies."
I smiled and said, "She couldn't see."
"Well, thank you."
"Oh, there's always room for one more on this lap," I said, slapping my thighs.
She smiled and said, "I hope you have a blessed day."
Yes, we can.
And yes, we did.
November 18, 2008
A Day in Paradise
There's nothing worse than being the sick mother of a well child. Today I am heartsick. I miss my dad. Twenty-four years ago at the age of 40, he died.
Every right of passage has been met with a deep sigh because he wasn't there. He missed every one of them. The loss felt especially personal because my dad died by suicide. In one agonizing moment, he made a decision that he couldn't take back, destroying his life and what was once normal for those who loved him.
So, what's a broken-hearted mom to do on the anniversary of her father's death? Go to Santa's Workshop. My husband, child and I made our second annual pilgrimage to the Lark Toy Store, which we like to call Santa's Workshop. Lark is the world's largest independent toy store.
Here's the setup. We are going to Santa's workshop for a preview. He and the elves are too busy, so we won't be seeing them. However, I will make a list and pass it along to Santa. He'll take it under advisement while deciding which gifts he will deliver on Christmas morning. In actuality, Santa will bring whichever toy received the most sustained playtime, plus a couple little things.
My job is to write it all down without judgment. I was having a tough time. I caught myself telling the kid that this toy wasn't that great: "I don't know, I think this is kind of cheap."
I heard it. I heard myself metaphorically peeing on the good time because I felt sad. I have seen this kind of mood go on indefinitely in the past, dangling precariously close to depression.
But today it didn't. I did what all moms do when we don't feel good - whatever is in front of us to be done. Kiddo indicated what was cool in word and deed. I made note.
In the end, we had some fun. We played with everything in the store, and rode the hand-carved carousel. We bought Jelly Belly's, licorice and all-day suckers.
I had a bit of a cry in the car on the way home. When we got home, I hugged the kiddo and said, "You are Larry's grandchild. Do you remember meeting him in heaven before you were born?"
"Yes," said the kid, "he told me he loved me."
Of course he did. I would have expected nothing less.
Every right of passage has been met with a deep sigh because he wasn't there. He missed every one of them. The loss felt especially personal because my dad died by suicide. In one agonizing moment, he made a decision that he couldn't take back, destroying his life and what was once normal for those who loved him.
So, what's a broken-hearted mom to do on the anniversary of her father's death? Go to Santa's Workshop. My husband, child and I made our second annual pilgrimage to the Lark Toy Store, which we like to call Santa's Workshop. Lark is the world's largest independent toy store.
Here's the setup. We are going to Santa's workshop for a preview. He and the elves are too busy, so we won't be seeing them. However, I will make a list and pass it along to Santa. He'll take it under advisement while deciding which gifts he will deliver on Christmas morning. In actuality, Santa will bring whichever toy received the most sustained playtime, plus a couple little things.
My job is to write it all down without judgment. I was having a tough time. I caught myself telling the kid that this toy wasn't that great: "I don't know, I think this is kind of cheap."
I heard it. I heard myself metaphorically peeing on the good time because I felt sad. I have seen this kind of mood go on indefinitely in the past, dangling precariously close to depression.
But today it didn't. I did what all moms do when we don't feel good - whatever is in front of us to be done. Kiddo indicated what was cool in word and deed. I made note.
In the end, we had some fun. We played with everything in the store, and rode the hand-carved carousel. We bought Jelly Belly's, licorice and all-day suckers.
I had a bit of a cry in the car on the way home. When we got home, I hugged the kiddo and said, "You are Larry's grandchild. Do you remember meeting him in heaven before you were born?"
"Yes," said the kid, "he told me he loved me."
Of course he did. I would have expected nothing less.
November 13, 2008
Numero Uno
My kid likes to win. We have races to the car and back to the house. We have drinking water races. Bike races. Shower races. Sometimes, I learn that am the loser in a race, and I didn't even know I was competing.
"How could our child be so competitive?" my husband and I have asked each other. The kid does not participate in competitive sports, just swimming lessons and Cirque du Soleil-type circus class. My husband and I have scratched our heads for at least two years.
And then, there was Uno.
We began with open hands to learn the basics. We were having a blast, and then it turned. I started saying things like, "Let's stick it to Daddy."
As I'm certain you are aware, when you have one card left in your hand, you have to shout "Uno" before your fellow players catch it or suffer a penalty. Well, the kiddo forgot, and I shouted, "Uno," and pointed aggressively as if to say gotcha.
I made my child cry.
In that moment, I got it. The competitive thing comes from me, and possibly Dad. I will leave him to contemplate his own dark side.
We have talked a lot about being a "gracious winner or loser." When we win, can we thank the other team for being so on their game that the level of our game rose up to meet it? If we lost, can we be happy for the victor and know that we did our best?
We all need to experience the thrill of victory and agony of defeat and know how to move on to the next moment. Can we trust that we will get another chance to play and that it could be different?
Clearly, I need some more practice.
"How could our child be so competitive?" my husband and I have asked each other. The kid does not participate in competitive sports, just swimming lessons and Cirque du Soleil-type circus class. My husband and I have scratched our heads for at least two years.
And then, there was Uno.
We began with open hands to learn the basics. We were having a blast, and then it turned. I started saying things like, "Let's stick it to Daddy."
As I'm certain you are aware, when you have one card left in your hand, you have to shout "Uno" before your fellow players catch it or suffer a penalty. Well, the kiddo forgot, and I shouted, "Uno," and pointed aggressively as if to say gotcha.
I made my child cry.
In that moment, I got it. The competitive thing comes from me, and possibly Dad. I will leave him to contemplate his own dark side.
We have talked a lot about being a "gracious winner or loser." When we win, can we thank the other team for being so on their game that the level of our game rose up to meet it? If we lost, can we be happy for the victor and know that we did our best?
We all need to experience the thrill of victory and agony of defeat and know how to move on to the next moment. Can we trust that we will get another chance to play and that it could be different?
Clearly, I need some more practice.
November 12, 2008
Butt Crack is Whack
I have been surrounded by crack lately - not the powerfully addictive form of cocaine. Rather, I have been forced to witness an endless parade of butt cracks. At every school event or activity, there is at least one mom who while kneeling or sitting criss-cross applesauce on the gym floor shares too much information.
I assume this epidemic began when jeans were on the low rise. Moms everywhere watched fashion experts who told us not to wear the mom jeans. You know, the ones with the waist that sits just under your ribcage with the small pockets that make your backside look like the broad side of a barn.
So as not to be caught in the mom jeans, we gave them up in favor of the boot cut, low rise jeans that were the rage. We traded the wide seat for muffin tops.
I tried the low rise jeans after I had the kid. Every time I wore them, I was reminded of the extra roll of baby weight that had appeared where my lovely waist used to be. The low rise waist sliced right through the worst of it. What's more, I was always on hyper alert for a change in temperature so that I could pre-empt any plumber moments. Find me a sleep deprived new mom who has the brain capacity to diaper, feed, bathe and entertain a newborn while keeping tabs on her pants. I went straight to yoga pants and stayed there for 3 years. I did have one pair of what I formerly referred to as my fat jeans that worked; however, I tore the seat out of them in a freak movement class accident which resulted in my mooning the entire community center. See previous post, You Can't Save Your Face and Your Ass at the Same Time. Ladies, I do feel your pain.
I completely understand that times are tight and that clothing, shoes, boots and winter gear for kids who are constantly growing is the financial priority. It certainly is at our house. Thankfully, there are lots of mid rise jeans available in every price point. I found some at Target last year for $16. They are not the designer Not My Daughter's Jeans, but I don't have to fret about the muffin tops or plumber's smiles. I figure I have at least one more season before the Target jean's seat warranty expires.
Until mom's rise to the mid rise occasion, let's have a moment of silence for the still suffering mom caught in low rise hell and agree to avert our gaze from the potentially distracting derriere's while seated in the gym.
I assume this epidemic began when jeans were on the low rise. Moms everywhere watched fashion experts who told us not to wear the mom jeans. You know, the ones with the waist that sits just under your ribcage with the small pockets that make your backside look like the broad side of a barn.
So as not to be caught in the mom jeans, we gave them up in favor of the boot cut, low rise jeans that were the rage. We traded the wide seat for muffin tops.
I tried the low rise jeans after I had the kid. Every time I wore them, I was reminded of the extra roll of baby weight that had appeared where my lovely waist used to be. The low rise waist sliced right through the worst of it. What's more, I was always on hyper alert for a change in temperature so that I could pre-empt any plumber moments. Find me a sleep deprived new mom who has the brain capacity to diaper, feed, bathe and entertain a newborn while keeping tabs on her pants. I went straight to yoga pants and stayed there for 3 years. I did have one pair of what I formerly referred to as my fat jeans that worked; however, I tore the seat out of them in a freak movement class accident which resulted in my mooning the entire community center. See previous post, You Can't Save Your Face and Your Ass at the Same Time. Ladies, I do feel your pain.
I completely understand that times are tight and that clothing, shoes, boots and winter gear for kids who are constantly growing is the financial priority. It certainly is at our house. Thankfully, there are lots of mid rise jeans available in every price point. I found some at Target last year for $16. They are not the designer Not My Daughter's Jeans, but I don't have to fret about the muffin tops or plumber's smiles. I figure I have at least one more season before the Target jean's seat warranty expires.
Until mom's rise to the mid rise occasion, let's have a moment of silence for the still suffering mom caught in low rise hell and agree to avert our gaze from the potentially distracting derriere's while seated in the gym.
November 4, 2008
Walk the Vote
I am a patriot, and today the kiddo and I walked the walk, literally. Together, my 5 year old and I knocked on doors to encourage folks to vote for 4-1/2 hours. Most of our neighbors had already gone to the polls early this morning. I am not surprised because we live in Minnesota, the votingest state in the union.
In our precinct, every identified voter will receive 3 visits reminding her to vote. We were the first wave. Every home received a door tag. If the residents had already been to the polls, the kiddo left a green door tag, indicating that no one need visit them again today. If they were not home, the kid hung a blue door tag. The blue tags on the homes let the afternoon and evening volunteers know to knock again with and neighborly reminder to get to their polling place. We were prepared to inform them where to go to vote or offer a ride if they needed one.
When our work was finished, we voted. I cast my ballot, and the kid got to cast one as well. I am proud to say that in Minnesota, the children have an official ballot with the pictures of the candidates so they could identify their chosen candidate. The kids got to vote for our 3 referendums also.
Every time I vote, truly, every single time, I am filled with such gratitude for the privilege that I cry. The tears typically start flowing as soon as I get in line at the polling place. People have worked tirelessly and even died so that I can stand in line and be heard.
As a stay-at-home mom, I often feel that my voice isn't important because I am not out in the working world, mixing it up, lobbying for my values. I don't bring home the big bucks so there are some people who really don't care what I believe. However, on this day, what I think counts just as much as a billionaire, but not more than someone who is living in more desperate circumstances.
On the other hand, I have 6 hours to devote to my country today. Today, we were heard. We made a difference.
I am a patriot: a person who loves, supports, and defends his or her country and its interests with devotion. I am also a parent. All you have to do is substitute the word "child" for "country," and you've got my job description.
My parents taught me that you must vote. It is your duty as a citizen. I am proud to say that my kid has accompanied me in voting every year of her life.
Thank you to all the patriots with whom we walked today.
In our precinct, every identified voter will receive 3 visits reminding her to vote. We were the first wave. Every home received a door tag. If the residents had already been to the polls, the kiddo left a green door tag, indicating that no one need visit them again today. If they were not home, the kid hung a blue door tag. The blue tags on the homes let the afternoon and evening volunteers know to knock again with and neighborly reminder to get to their polling place. We were prepared to inform them where to go to vote or offer a ride if they needed one.
When our work was finished, we voted. I cast my ballot, and the kid got to cast one as well. I am proud to say that in Minnesota, the children have an official ballot with the pictures of the candidates so they could identify their chosen candidate. The kids got to vote for our 3 referendums also.
Every time I vote, truly, every single time, I am filled with such gratitude for the privilege that I cry. The tears typically start flowing as soon as I get in line at the polling place. People have worked tirelessly and even died so that I can stand in line and be heard.
As a stay-at-home mom, I often feel that my voice isn't important because I am not out in the working world, mixing it up, lobbying for my values. I don't bring home the big bucks so there are some people who really don't care what I believe. However, on this day, what I think counts just as much as a billionaire, but not more than someone who is living in more desperate circumstances.
On the other hand, I have 6 hours to devote to my country today. Today, we were heard. We made a difference.
I am a patriot: a person who loves, supports, and defends his or her country and its interests with devotion. I am also a parent. All you have to do is substitute the word "child" for "country," and you've got my job description.
My parents taught me that you must vote. It is your duty as a citizen. I am proud to say that my kid has accompanied me in voting every year of her life.
Thank you to all the patriots with whom we walked today.
November 2, 2008
Alan Greenspan says, "I dunno."
"Hey, Alan Greenspan, what happened to the economy? I dunno," chirps my 5 year old, with a wink and a very authentic looking Alan Greenspan shrug.
Such is the economic discourse in our kitchen most mornings. We listen to the morning news while getting ready for our day. The economic news is frightening, but when I heard Alan Greenspan's response to legitimate questions about the results of his economic care and direction, we had to laugh. It also reminded me of a recent conversation I had with my kid.
"Why did you throw balls of wet Kleenex at Mommy's neck while I was driving? Have you lost your mind?"
"I dunno."
I have to say I believed it. There are times in one's life when, upon reflection, the only possible response is - well, it seemed like the thing to do at the time. This line of thinking sums up virtually every decision I made during my first two years of college.
Maybe why did this happen isn't the question. I rephrased, "Was there any part of you that thought that throwing balls of wet Kleenex at Mommy's neck while she was driving on 35W South in rush hour was a bad idea?"
"Yeah."
"So, you had a small feeling that maybe throwing wet Kleenex's at Mommy while she was driving was a bad idea?"
"Yeah."
"Then that is why there will be consequences. When a very small voice tells us that maybe what we're about to do isn't a good idea, we must listen to it. When we go against what that still, small voice is telling us, we suffer. We could have driven right into the ditch, but we didn't. We were lucky this time. Obviously, you need some regulation to make sure that you practice listening to that small voice within you."
The regulatory action taken was to remove the Kleenex box out from the back seat. If the kid needs a tissue, I'll distribute accordingly. Water is now served in bottles only, no cups. The kid's needs are met, but in a way that does not threaten the safety of all the passengers in the car.
Perhaps I will loosen these restrictions when I see evidence that the kiddo is listening to that small voice.
Over the last couple of months I have wondered if anybody associated with this financial crisis had even some teeny, tiny inkling that maybe what they were doing was not a good idea. I suspect the answer, if folks are like me, is no. Success happens, it's exciting and you want more. Things get moving really fast, you get tired, lose perspective. It's there, but you're so busy and so out of practice in listening to the voice that you really don't hear it. Eventually, there will be a crash. When the crash happens, it doesn't just affect us, it touches everyone around us.
Some regulation is necessary. When a kid steps out of line, parents provide structure to give them a chance to listen to the voice within. If the voice is telling us, this seems like a bad idea, it probably is.
I can tell you that I haven't been pelted with wet Kleenex since.
Such is the economic discourse in our kitchen most mornings. We listen to the morning news while getting ready for our day. The economic news is frightening, but when I heard Alan Greenspan's response to legitimate questions about the results of his economic care and direction, we had to laugh. It also reminded me of a recent conversation I had with my kid.
"Why did you throw balls of wet Kleenex at Mommy's neck while I was driving? Have you lost your mind?"
"I dunno."
I have to say I believed it. There are times in one's life when, upon reflection, the only possible response is - well, it seemed like the thing to do at the time. This line of thinking sums up virtually every decision I made during my first two years of college.
Maybe why did this happen isn't the question. I rephrased, "Was there any part of you that thought that throwing balls of wet Kleenex at Mommy's neck while she was driving on 35W South in rush hour was a bad idea?"
"Yeah."
"So, you had a small feeling that maybe throwing wet Kleenex's at Mommy while she was driving was a bad idea?"
"Yeah."
"Then that is why there will be consequences. When a very small voice tells us that maybe what we're about to do isn't a good idea, we must listen to it. When we go against what that still, small voice is telling us, we suffer. We could have driven right into the ditch, but we didn't. We were lucky this time. Obviously, you need some regulation to make sure that you practice listening to that small voice within you."
The regulatory action taken was to remove the Kleenex box out from the back seat. If the kid needs a tissue, I'll distribute accordingly. Water is now served in bottles only, no cups. The kid's needs are met, but in a way that does not threaten the safety of all the passengers in the car.
Perhaps I will loosen these restrictions when I see evidence that the kiddo is listening to that small voice.
Over the last couple of months I have wondered if anybody associated with this financial crisis had even some teeny, tiny inkling that maybe what they were doing was not a good idea. I suspect the answer, if folks are like me, is no. Success happens, it's exciting and you want more. Things get moving really fast, you get tired, lose perspective. It's there, but you're so busy and so out of practice in listening to the voice that you really don't hear it. Eventually, there will be a crash. When the crash happens, it doesn't just affect us, it touches everyone around us.
Some regulation is necessary. When a kid steps out of line, parents provide structure to give them a chance to listen to the voice within. If the voice is telling us, this seems like a bad idea, it probably is.
I can tell you that I haven't been pelted with wet Kleenex since.
October 15, 2008
Happiness & Health Care are Sexy
My husband and I have an happiness agreement. We each need to do whatever necessary as individuals to be happy. My husband works long hours and I miss him. I tell him, "Do what you must do during the day, and then come home happy." Happiness is sexy.
This way, we bring our best selves for our time together. Also, since we show up serene, there is no reason to rely on the other person to make you happy, which has never worked for us.
If one of us is unhappy over an extended period of time, the other asks, "What do you need to do to be happy? Can I help?" We trust each other to figure it out and ask for help when necessary, knowing that when we ask, help will be there.
My husband has the privilege making a living with his passion and it shows. Getting paid for what you would do for free anyway rocks. And it is sexy.
However, there is a shadow. We were married in June of 2001 and by November 2001, he was laid off. When the economy goes south, the creatives are the first to go, even if they are gifted. It's just what happens. It's the economy, stupid.
Here's the thing, companies still need identity, logos, ad campaigns and websites so the creatives are always hired back, but as freelancers.
My husband would be happy doing freelance work, after all, it's the same work. But we have a problem. Freelance means no medical insurance. Yes, plans can be purchased, but I have a chronic illness. No one would provide me with a plan that we could afford. Thus, my husband has had to limit some of his career choices because we have to have medical insurance.
If we had universal health care in this country, he could do exactly what he wants to do. His business would sink or swim, but we wouldn't go broke because of a medical catastrophe or the medical appointments that I need to keep my illness in check.
I have a theory that if medical care was universally provided that entrepreneurs and small business owners would be set free to do what they do best. This would be true liberty. People could apply their creativity to unknown areas and create new as yet unknown facets to our economy.
People with families, especially women, could start small businesses because they wouldn't have to worry about how they were going to get through cold and flu season.
Business owners could hire workers to grow their companies.
The fear is that the care wouldn't be as good. A sick person would have to wait 3-4 months to get an appointment.
I have news. Over the last few months, I made appointments with 4 new providers. I waited 3 months for every one.
None of these providers accepted my primary insurance. If I didn't have secondary coverage, I would have been out of luck. One of my doctors is from Germany. He told me that he patients can't pursue the recommended treatments because even folks who have insurance have high out-of-pocket costs for durable goods. "In Germany, we do not deal with this," he said.
With the economy as it is today, more and more folks will be laid off and hired as freelance with no benefits. The creatives are the canaries in the cave.
I believe health care is a human right, like clean water. When we all have it, we all have more liberty to pursue happiness, and that is sexy.
This way, we bring our best selves for our time together. Also, since we show up serene, there is no reason to rely on the other person to make you happy, which has never worked for us.
If one of us is unhappy over an extended period of time, the other asks, "What do you need to do to be happy? Can I help?" We trust each other to figure it out and ask for help when necessary, knowing that when we ask, help will be there.
My husband has the privilege making a living with his passion and it shows. Getting paid for what you would do for free anyway rocks. And it is sexy.
However, there is a shadow. We were married in June of 2001 and by November 2001, he was laid off. When the economy goes south, the creatives are the first to go, even if they are gifted. It's just what happens. It's the economy, stupid.
Here's the thing, companies still need identity, logos, ad campaigns and websites so the creatives are always hired back, but as freelancers.
My husband would be happy doing freelance work, after all, it's the same work. But we have a problem. Freelance means no medical insurance. Yes, plans can be purchased, but I have a chronic illness. No one would provide me with a plan that we could afford. Thus, my husband has had to limit some of his career choices because we have to have medical insurance.
If we had universal health care in this country, he could do exactly what he wants to do. His business would sink or swim, but we wouldn't go broke because of a medical catastrophe or the medical appointments that I need to keep my illness in check.
I have a theory that if medical care was universally provided that entrepreneurs and small business owners would be set free to do what they do best. This would be true liberty. People could apply their creativity to unknown areas and create new as yet unknown facets to our economy.
People with families, especially women, could start small businesses because they wouldn't have to worry about how they were going to get through cold and flu season.
Business owners could hire workers to grow their companies.
The fear is that the care wouldn't be as good. A sick person would have to wait 3-4 months to get an appointment.
I have news. Over the last few months, I made appointments with 4 new providers. I waited 3 months for every one.
None of these providers accepted my primary insurance. If I didn't have secondary coverage, I would have been out of luck. One of my doctors is from Germany. He told me that he patients can't pursue the recommended treatments because even folks who have insurance have high out-of-pocket costs for durable goods. "In Germany, we do not deal with this," he said.
With the economy as it is today, more and more folks will be laid off and hired as freelance with no benefits. The creatives are the canaries in the cave.
I believe health care is a human right, like clean water. When we all have it, we all have more liberty to pursue happiness, and that is sexy.
October 13, 2008
Everything I Needed to Know About Scraping a House, I Learned at the Nail Salon
I have never scraped a house, but I didn't think I was going to like it. I was in charge of scraping 50 years of old paint from the cedar shake siding and cement blocks from our two bedroom bungalow with a walk-out basement. At first, I figured this job would probably be a demoralizing waste of several weekends.
Then I thought, it could also be an opportunity to offer my work as a gift to my creator much like the ceaseless prayer of the ancient monks. I set my intention to infuse each scrape with all the love that I could muster. I gave myself over to the scraping.
Turns out, I am a natural. I was able to penetrate through the decades right down to the bare brick.
As I scraped in silence, I asked myself, How is it that I intuitively know how to scrape like a pro? Was I a painter in a past life?
No. Well, maybe, but I don't remember.
I mindfully observed myself expertly shimmy my scraper into a subtle crevice - with the same delicate aggression that the nail technician applies to a beautiful hand.
At once I knew the truth, I have been trained by the nation's most gifted scrapers.
I have sat before the hands of the masters all over these United States. These capable women have stripped the old, dead acrylic from my fingertips and returned to me ten gleaming jewels.
I have sat in awe as chips of red acrylic flew through the air with each fearless flick of a virtuoso's wrist. They each had a sixth sense as to where the acrylic was not adhered to the my own nail, attacking the weakness as if in trance. One tech worked in such ecstasy that she didn't even realize that one of the nail bits had caught on her lower lip.
And so it was with me. I scraped for 14 hours over the first weekend. I never got tired. I never got bored. I never complained. It was as if I was scraping on the wings of the angels.
As a mother, I almost never get to focus on one thing at a time. Multitasking is a serenity buster. Thus, moms never get to enjoy a sense of accomplishment. We're always on to the next project. With my kid at grandma's, I made significant progress on a major goal.
I no longer have those perfect acrylic nails. They gladly went bye-bye in favor of organic baby food and diapers.
I admit, I have felt embarrassed that I spent at least a couple grand over the years that ended up on the floor of the salon, like spent peanut shells after the baseball game. However, I now understand that I was investing in my education, to prepare for my future home.
Then I thought, it could also be an opportunity to offer my work as a gift to my creator much like the ceaseless prayer of the ancient monks. I set my intention to infuse each scrape with all the love that I could muster. I gave myself over to the scraping.
Turns out, I am a natural. I was able to penetrate through the decades right down to the bare brick.
As I scraped in silence, I asked myself, How is it that I intuitively know how to scrape like a pro? Was I a painter in a past life?
No. Well, maybe, but I don't remember.
I mindfully observed myself expertly shimmy my scraper into a subtle crevice - with the same delicate aggression that the nail technician applies to a beautiful hand.
At once I knew the truth, I have been trained by the nation's most gifted scrapers.
I have sat before the hands of the masters all over these United States. These capable women have stripped the old, dead acrylic from my fingertips and returned to me ten gleaming jewels.
I have sat in awe as chips of red acrylic flew through the air with each fearless flick of a virtuoso's wrist. They each had a sixth sense as to where the acrylic was not adhered to the my own nail, attacking the weakness as if in trance. One tech worked in such ecstasy that she didn't even realize that one of the nail bits had caught on her lower lip.
And so it was with me. I scraped for 14 hours over the first weekend. I never got tired. I never got bored. I never complained. It was as if I was scraping on the wings of the angels.
As a mother, I almost never get to focus on one thing at a time. Multitasking is a serenity buster. Thus, moms never get to enjoy a sense of accomplishment. We're always on to the next project. With my kid at grandma's, I made significant progress on a major goal.
I no longer have those perfect acrylic nails. They gladly went bye-bye in favor of organic baby food and diapers.
I admit, I have felt embarrassed that I spent at least a couple grand over the years that ended up on the floor of the salon, like spent peanut shells after the baseball game. However, I now understand that I was investing in my education, to prepare for my future home.
September 18, 2008
Heaven in Question
Mommy, what does heaven feel like?
Heaven feels like peace all the time, no matter what. Also, you never have to be reminded that you are God's kid, you just know it. You know you belong to God. You never forget.
Can I watch H.R. Puffnstuff?
Maybe later.
I have never minded my kid's questions. If I have an answer, I give it. If I don't, I say, I don't know.
What a beautiful thing that a person can ask a question without being judged. All questions are equal. Heaven and H.R. Puffnstuff have the same value in the exchange.
When a question is just a question, it is a simple exchange of information. No strings. No tests. No expectations. No fear. No right and wrong. Giving and receiving.
Kiddo asks about heaven. I answer. It seems like the kid is receiving, and I am giving. However, I get to think about heaven for a moment instead of the yellowish brown juice that has pooled in the vegetable crisper now that the tomatoes have come off the vine. I have to consider heaven to be able to answer. What a lovely gift that turned out to be today.
A few minutes later, kiddo opined,
Heaven is behind the clouds. Do they eat dessert there?
Yes, while watching H.R. Puffnstuff.
Good, I like Witchie-Poo.
Heaven feels like peace all the time, no matter what. Also, you never have to be reminded that you are God's kid, you just know it. You know you belong to God. You never forget.
Can I watch H.R. Puffnstuff?
Maybe later.
I have never minded my kid's questions. If I have an answer, I give it. If I don't, I say, I don't know.
What a beautiful thing that a person can ask a question without being judged. All questions are equal. Heaven and H.R. Puffnstuff have the same value in the exchange.
When a question is just a question, it is a simple exchange of information. No strings. No tests. No expectations. No fear. No right and wrong. Giving and receiving.
Kiddo asks about heaven. I answer. It seems like the kid is receiving, and I am giving. However, I get to think about heaven for a moment instead of the yellowish brown juice that has pooled in the vegetable crisper now that the tomatoes have come off the vine. I have to consider heaven to be able to answer. What a lovely gift that turned out to be today.
A few minutes later, kiddo opined,
Heaven is behind the clouds. Do they eat dessert there?
Yes, while watching H.R. Puffnstuff.
Good, I like Witchie-Poo.
September 16, 2008
Trip the Dog Shit Fantastic
Today I stepped in dog shit. I came to this realization after I saw it on my living room carpet. I just stood there with eyes rolled up into the back of my head. I hate dog shit; ergo, I don't have a dog.
I had planned to meditate and then head to the gym. Instead I meditated on dog shit and carpet. This mantra was followed by - we need a wood floor, who can live like this, I hate this house, etc., ad infinitum. The thinking continued this way, a giant, negative run-on sentence to hell - all the way to the gym.
I can only assume that I am experiencing some sort of karmic payback for all the times that our former dog got loose and spread his love throughout the neighborhood. He was a very small, quick dog. He would make a break for it whenever I opened the front door.
Hopefully, after today's installment, I have burned off this bad dog shit karma so I can get back to being spiritual.
I had planned to meditate and then head to the gym. Instead I meditated on dog shit and carpet. This mantra was followed by - we need a wood floor, who can live like this, I hate this house, etc., ad infinitum. The thinking continued this way, a giant, negative run-on sentence to hell - all the way to the gym.
I can only assume that I am experiencing some sort of karmic payback for all the times that our former dog got loose and spread his love throughout the neighborhood. He was a very small, quick dog. He would make a break for it whenever I opened the front door.
Hopefully, after today's installment, I have burned off this bad dog shit karma so I can get back to being spiritual.
September 11, 2008
Putting the Fun in Fungi
The doctor said it straight. If you want to get rid of these infections, you have to stop eating sugar. You can choose molasses, maple syrup, or honey, but even that is really too close to sugar.
She continued, I am putting you on a major course of antifungal treatment. We can kill the yeast, but if you keep feeding it sugar, we'll never get anywhere.
This is not news. I have been dealing with imbalances and infections since I was 2. It's just that after 29 or so years of guilt- and shame-filled restricting and overeating, I was really enjoying having all of the food groups on the table. I was sort of hoping for a pass.
Nope.
Typically, when I get news of this type, I try to do everything perfect, black or white. Please the doctor. Get her approval by being the model patient. Send in my entry form for Ms. American Patient. My answer would have been, Fine, no sugar ever. But when I go to the white or dark side, I start to Show Out, loudly. It's just not peaceful.
There has to be another way.
So I asked her. What are my options? This won't work if I feel deprived. That's when she threw me the molasses bone. She said, I usually have my patients work with dieticians who take a hard line with them so I don't have to.
Been there, done that.
I called my dietician. She is no food Nazi. She is meeting me next week with a macrobiotic cookbook. I might not be able to eat sugar, but I will eat dessert, dammit.
I choose to believe that this situation is workable. I am not sure exactly how. I did find some sugar-free, vegan cookies tonight. My kid liked them. So did I.
I started taking the medicine. I can tell it's working because I feel sick and tired. That is, my body feels sick and tired. The real me is soaring.
She continued, I am putting you on a major course of antifungal treatment. We can kill the yeast, but if you keep feeding it sugar, we'll never get anywhere.
This is not news. I have been dealing with imbalances and infections since I was 2. It's just that after 29 or so years of guilt- and shame-filled restricting and overeating, I was really enjoying having all of the food groups on the table. I was sort of hoping for a pass.
Nope.
Typically, when I get news of this type, I try to do everything perfect, black or white. Please the doctor. Get her approval by being the model patient. Send in my entry form for Ms. American Patient. My answer would have been, Fine, no sugar ever. But when I go to the white or dark side, I start to Show Out, loudly. It's just not peaceful.
There has to be another way.
So I asked her. What are my options? This won't work if I feel deprived. That's when she threw me the molasses bone. She said, I usually have my patients work with dieticians who take a hard line with them so I don't have to.
Been there, done that.
I called my dietician. She is no food Nazi. She is meeting me next week with a macrobiotic cookbook. I might not be able to eat sugar, but I will eat dessert, dammit.
I choose to believe that this situation is workable. I am not sure exactly how. I did find some sugar-free, vegan cookies tonight. My kid liked them. So did I.
I started taking the medicine. I can tell it's working because I feel sick and tired. That is, my body feels sick and tired. The real me is soaring.
September 9, 2008
I Drink Tap Water
I have begun a radical new practice. I have begun abstaining from plastic water bottles. I now drink tap water in an aluminum bottle.
My family has gone through at least one case of plastic bottles of water per week for at least a year. The habit started innocently. I'll just have one today. I'm thirsty, and I don't want to drink tap water.
This rationalization didn't really work. Every time I took a bottle out of the case, I felt guilty about contributing to the destruction of the environment - what with all of the resources used to make the bottles. I also felt concerned about loading myself and my family with unknown leaking chemicals.
Rather than change, the rationalization got more aggressive. Screw it, I told myself. I need fluids. I can't wash a bottle every day. Plus, tap water is full of junk too. The fight between the loud, aggressive, selfish, ego-part of me and the small voice that speaks my core values was on, again. The loud voice seemed to be winning.
I would see lots of folks carrying the aluminum bottles. Every time I saw one, a small voice said, other people fill bottles and seem to have reasonably happy lives. Why not you?
Forget it. I can't think about it right now. I'm thirsty, the voice snapped.
The guilt started to take root.
I started noticing countless TV news programs and magazine articles denouncing bottled water. The still, small voice gathered steam. You can do it, it said. You feel so much better when you live according to your principles.
The final straw was an article I read about the nuns who were protesting bottled water because clean, safe water is a basic human right which should not be limited to those who can afford it.
I have been flat broke twice in my life. At age 15, I lost my dad, and he had no life insurance. We made it with a lot of hard work by my mom and outside help such as the local food shelf. Later, in my twenties, I got a chronic illness and couldn't work. Food and shelter were the primary concerns. I would never have survived if I had to buy water too.
Can I afford bottled water? Sure. But, my concern is that if those of us who can afford bottled water just give up the tap entirely and ignore the need to have keep up the safety standards, what is going to happen to the people who can't afford to buy it? Most folks who don't have enough money to buy water, also don't have money to hire a lobbyist to get the water clean and keep it that way. I don't want to live in a country or a world where people have to worry about water in addition to everything else.
The way I see it, drinking tap water is a way of experiencing unity with all the other citizens in my community. It's one area where we are all equal. We all need and deserve clean drinking water.
The ego voice had heard enough. Okay, okay. I'll try it. Get off my back.
I bought aluminum bottles. We wash them and fill them. It's not as big a pain in the neck as I thought it was going to be. I really appreciate not having to engage in the internal battle every time I reach for a drink. Just like everything human, I won't do this perfectly. I'll drink from a plastic bottle again. But just like everything human, progress is what counts, not perfection.
My family has gone through at least one case of plastic bottles of water per week for at least a year. The habit started innocently. I'll just have one today. I'm thirsty, and I don't want to drink tap water.
This rationalization didn't really work. Every time I took a bottle out of the case, I felt guilty about contributing to the destruction of the environment - what with all of the resources used to make the bottles. I also felt concerned about loading myself and my family with unknown leaking chemicals.
Rather than change, the rationalization got more aggressive. Screw it, I told myself. I need fluids. I can't wash a bottle every day. Plus, tap water is full of junk too. The fight between the loud, aggressive, selfish, ego-part of me and the small voice that speaks my core values was on, again. The loud voice seemed to be winning.
I would see lots of folks carrying the aluminum bottles. Every time I saw one, a small voice said, other people fill bottles and seem to have reasonably happy lives. Why not you?
Forget it. I can't think about it right now. I'm thirsty, the voice snapped.
The guilt started to take root.
I started noticing countless TV news programs and magazine articles denouncing bottled water. The still, small voice gathered steam. You can do it, it said. You feel so much better when you live according to your principles.
The final straw was an article I read about the nuns who were protesting bottled water because clean, safe water is a basic human right which should not be limited to those who can afford it.
I have been flat broke twice in my life. At age 15, I lost my dad, and he had no life insurance. We made it with a lot of hard work by my mom and outside help such as the local food shelf. Later, in my twenties, I got a chronic illness and couldn't work. Food and shelter were the primary concerns. I would never have survived if I had to buy water too.
Can I afford bottled water? Sure. But, my concern is that if those of us who can afford bottled water just give up the tap entirely and ignore the need to have keep up the safety standards, what is going to happen to the people who can't afford to buy it? Most folks who don't have enough money to buy water, also don't have money to hire a lobbyist to get the water clean and keep it that way. I don't want to live in a country or a world where people have to worry about water in addition to everything else.
The way I see it, drinking tap water is a way of experiencing unity with all the other citizens in my community. It's one area where we are all equal. We all need and deserve clean drinking water.
The ego voice had heard enough. Okay, okay. I'll try it. Get off my back.
I bought aluminum bottles. We wash them and fill them. It's not as big a pain in the neck as I thought it was going to be. I really appreciate not having to engage in the internal battle every time I reach for a drink. Just like everything human, I won't do this perfectly. I'll drink from a plastic bottle again. But just like everything human, progress is what counts, not perfection.
September 8, 2008
Be Yourself, Just Not Right Now.
"Noooo, no vacations," shrieked my child. Until this summer, when we said were going on vacation, what we really meant was, we have a family obligation. We had never taken a summer break that was not centered around a wedding or a funeral. For a 4-year-old, these kind of vacations are tough. There are almost no other children. All a 3 foot tall, 4-year-old can see is an endless series of backsides. Would you like to stare at butts for hours?
Further, it's easy for me to see why a kid would find it challenging to mingle with relatively unfamiliar relatives. They expect hugs. Some want kids to act like little adults. Many expect immediate answers to probing questions. How old are you? What grade are you in? What's your favorite color? Do you like cake?
I get it. "Wait, we're not taking a vacation," I said, "we're taking a trip." Between the lovely wedding of our dear niece and the funeral of my step-brother, our family went on our first trip. We went to family camp. Not our family camp. Lots of other families camp.
The first day, I was pumped - a real Minnesota vacation with a lake for swimming, water-skiing, tubing, and jet skiing. They would have putt-putt golf, a giant slip 'n slide, and inflatable obstacle course. We could do crafts, eat ice cream on the beach, visit the Judy Garland museum and sing goofy camp songs.
I expected the kiddo to be quiet and maybe hide behind me for the first day or so. After all, the butt-wearing, question-asking adults were strangers to all of us. I suppose the pressure was high.
We tried to redirect. Would you like to play putt-putt golf? Would you like to go swimming?
I didn't expect to hear the kid shout through tears, "I will never go to the craft barn - EVER."
I confess. I might as well have said to her, Be yourself, just not right now.
It's true. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to fit in, right away. I wanted the kiddo to feel comfortable right away or at least suck it up for the team.
I prayed to accept and not make excuses or justify my child's behavior. I didn't do this perfectly.
Over the next few days of intense and tiring camp experience, the kids who acted perfectly were starting to show out more and more. Show out is a term that my friend, a preacher's wife from Valdosta, Georgia, used to describe my behavior when I raised hell with the cooks at eating disorder treatment because they overcooked the mixed vegetables. (I was having a bad day at the psychiatric hospital, and the vegetables were mushy.) She said, "I just knew you were gonna show out." To show out is to show your true colors as being out of control, obnoxious.
The kids would show out and the parents would cringe. Over and over, parents looked at me in the same helpless way I had looked at them when our kid showed out. Then they looked at their kids as if they could say, "How could you act this way in front of this stranger? You are making me look bad."
I began to snort with perverse delight each time I observed the Show Out ritual. I felt at home with everybody. Also, each incident affirmed my theory of the unspoken family camp motto. Be yourself, just not right now.
Truly, real kids scream No!, don't want to share, don't like radishes, and don't want to wait their turn. They change their minds, throw sand, and say they hate their siblings.
Real teen boys dive from the very top of the gigantic inflatable slide while the real teen girls giggle. Showing out is a major turn-on for teenagers.
What's more, none of them want to talk to adults, even the ones who think they are cool. I tried to bring them out by telling them, "When I was your age and my parents were my current age, 38, I thought they were old. But I am here to tell you that I am not old." They smiled and continued to treat me like one of them, Mrs. So-in-so.
Most parents I know want their kids to be themselves. They don't want to squash the spirit of their children or shame them for being kids. They want them to be free to express themselves, to be themselves, just right now.
Further, it's easy for me to see why a kid would find it challenging to mingle with relatively unfamiliar relatives. They expect hugs. Some want kids to act like little adults. Many expect immediate answers to probing questions. How old are you? What grade are you in? What's your favorite color? Do you like cake?
I get it. "Wait, we're not taking a vacation," I said, "we're taking a trip." Between the lovely wedding of our dear niece and the funeral of my step-brother, our family went on our first trip. We went to family camp. Not our family camp. Lots of other families camp.
The first day, I was pumped - a real Minnesota vacation with a lake for swimming, water-skiing, tubing, and jet skiing. They would have putt-putt golf, a giant slip 'n slide, and inflatable obstacle course. We could do crafts, eat ice cream on the beach, visit the Judy Garland museum and sing goofy camp songs.
I expected the kiddo to be quiet and maybe hide behind me for the first day or so. After all, the butt-wearing, question-asking adults were strangers to all of us. I suppose the pressure was high.
We tried to redirect. Would you like to play putt-putt golf? Would you like to go swimming?
I didn't expect to hear the kid shout through tears, "I will never go to the craft barn - EVER."
I confess. I might as well have said to her, Be yourself, just not right now.
It's true. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to fit in, right away. I wanted the kiddo to feel comfortable right away or at least suck it up for the team.
I prayed to accept and not make excuses or justify my child's behavior. I didn't do this perfectly.
Over the next few days of intense and tiring camp experience, the kids who acted perfectly were starting to show out more and more. Show out is a term that my friend, a preacher's wife from Valdosta, Georgia, used to describe my behavior when I raised hell with the cooks at eating disorder treatment because they overcooked the mixed vegetables. (I was having a bad day at the psychiatric hospital, and the vegetables were mushy.) She said, "I just knew you were gonna show out." To show out is to show your true colors as being out of control, obnoxious.
The kids would show out and the parents would cringe. Over and over, parents looked at me in the same helpless way I had looked at them when our kid showed out. Then they looked at their kids as if they could say, "How could you act this way in front of this stranger? You are making me look bad."
I began to snort with perverse delight each time I observed the Show Out ritual. I felt at home with everybody. Also, each incident affirmed my theory of the unspoken family camp motto. Be yourself, just not right now.
Truly, real kids scream No!, don't want to share, don't like radishes, and don't want to wait their turn. They change their minds, throw sand, and say they hate their siblings.
Real teen boys dive from the very top of the gigantic inflatable slide while the real teen girls giggle. Showing out is a major turn-on for teenagers.
What's more, none of them want to talk to adults, even the ones who think they are cool. I tried to bring them out by telling them, "When I was your age and my parents were my current age, 38, I thought they were old. But I am here to tell you that I am not old." They smiled and continued to treat me like one of them, Mrs. So-in-so.
Most parents I know want their kids to be themselves. They don't want to squash the spirit of their children or shame them for being kids. They want them to be free to express themselves, to be themselves, just right now.
August 14, 2008
Alleged Olympic Whining
My father taught us many of our life lessons on the ball field. He showed us how to be team players by cheering and encouraging all the players on his team, even the ones who weren't natural athletes. He insisted that you run out onto the playing field and then you run back to the dugout so that we would know how to show pride for our team. We avoided anything he called "bush league" behavior such as throwing the bat or talking smack about the other team. Anybody who behaved in a "bush league" manner was benched. We learned how to mess up a play, shake it off, and start fresh with the next batter. We learned to be gracious winners and losers.
Growing up in a family of gifted athletes, I have watched thousands of hours of televised sports, especially the Olympics. Every time an athlete from the U.S. competed, my father would put our flag out, even in our sub-zero temperatures. In 1980, we screamed "U. S. A." while watching the young Olympic hockey team. After every game he would say, "You see that, you see that! Never, ever give up." When they finally won the gold medal, my father pulled our flag off of the side of the house, stood on the porch and proudly waved it around until his feet got cold.
Those athletes and their coaches were our heroes. They were from the U.S.A. They were the best. And, since they were the best, we were. I understood why my father stood out in the cold and waved our flag. We were the U.S.A. The best.
Every 4 years, the champions inspire us. These men and women set aside most of their lives to achieve greatness. I wanted to be them. Just watching them set their eyes on the prize, do the work and get there made me want to be better in school, sports, dance, all of it.
When I was in high school, I went the volleyball camp. One of the coaches had just competed in the Olympics. She didn't talk much about it, but we all knew: she was a champion.
In the last few days, I have heard rumors of athletes griping that they were competing against gymnasts that were too young and that's why they didn't win gold. I also heard someone allude to the fact that the Chinese officials were messing with the schedule so that the U.S. athletes were caught off guard and, therefore, didn't medal.
I know there is more whining, I just can't listen.
Champions do not complain. They go out and get the job done. It would be a beautiful thing if the playing field were always equal and fair. Get real. By the time they get to the Olympics, athletes need to have a plan for the these moments of poor sportsmanship or just plain evil. Everybody wants to win. When you are the best, you rise above it all.
A true champion is all action and no talk - with the possible exception of saying how blessed she feels to be able to represent the U.S.A.
More than most sporting events, Olympic athletes have honor. They represent us. They sacrifice everything for the privilege. When they start whining and crying about the laces on their skates being broken, I lose respect. It's bush league.
Everybody wants to win. We love to count our medals and feel superior. A champion leaves it all on the court or on the field or in the gym or in the pool. Whatever the results, what happened was the past. A champion accepts what is and moves on keeping the focus on what's important - what can be made of this moment.
When I was a kid, these people were my gurus. They were the perfect combination of grace and effort. If we could apply a bit of what bring to their sport, we'd see greatness too. They represented the best of who could be.
No more excuses. We need champions, not whiners.
Growing up in a family of gifted athletes, I have watched thousands of hours of televised sports, especially the Olympics. Every time an athlete from the U.S. competed, my father would put our flag out, even in our sub-zero temperatures. In 1980, we screamed "U. S. A." while watching the young Olympic hockey team. After every game he would say, "You see that, you see that! Never, ever give up." When they finally won the gold medal, my father pulled our flag off of the side of the house, stood on the porch and proudly waved it around until his feet got cold.
Those athletes and their coaches were our heroes. They were from the U.S.A. They were the best. And, since they were the best, we were. I understood why my father stood out in the cold and waved our flag. We were the U.S.A. The best.
Every 4 years, the champions inspire us. These men and women set aside most of their lives to achieve greatness. I wanted to be them. Just watching them set their eyes on the prize, do the work and get there made me want to be better in school, sports, dance, all of it.
When I was in high school, I went the volleyball camp. One of the coaches had just competed in the Olympics. She didn't talk much about it, but we all knew: she was a champion.
In the last few days, I have heard rumors of athletes griping that they were competing against gymnasts that were too young and that's why they didn't win gold. I also heard someone allude to the fact that the Chinese officials were messing with the schedule so that the U.S. athletes were caught off guard and, therefore, didn't medal.
I know there is more whining, I just can't listen.
Champions do not complain. They go out and get the job done. It would be a beautiful thing if the playing field were always equal and fair. Get real. By the time they get to the Olympics, athletes need to have a plan for the these moments of poor sportsmanship or just plain evil. Everybody wants to win. When you are the best, you rise above it all.
A true champion is all action and no talk - with the possible exception of saying how blessed she feels to be able to represent the U.S.A.
More than most sporting events, Olympic athletes have honor. They represent us. They sacrifice everything for the privilege. When they start whining and crying about the laces on their skates being broken, I lose respect. It's bush league.
Everybody wants to win. We love to count our medals and feel superior. A champion leaves it all on the court or on the field or in the gym or in the pool. Whatever the results, what happened was the past. A champion accepts what is and moves on keeping the focus on what's important - what can be made of this moment.
When I was a kid, these people were my gurus. They were the perfect combination of grace and effort. If we could apply a bit of what bring to their sport, we'd see greatness too. They represented the best of who could be.
No more excuses. We need champions, not whiners.
August 13, 2008
Open Letter to the Media
This blog is an open response to the barrage of comments that I heard upon returning from vacation.
Dear Media Personalities,
Please stop speaking of John Edwards' marriage and infidelity.
You have consistently made the point that he and his wife misrepresented themselves in public and, therefore, lied to us. I disagree with this assessment. Most of us present the best of who we believe ourselves to be. The Edwards' are just like the rest of us. We are basically good people who make mistakes (regularly) and are doing our best to find ways to work with them and make amends. All of us deal with our shortcomings in private first. We cannot share perspective until we have had the opportunity and time to achieve understanding of our part in the situation. The Edwards' have not been allowed the time to sort through this family crisis.
Further, in every marital situation, both parties have a role. Perhaps the person who has not cheated has a very small part in the situation, say 10% responsibility. Maybe he or she was distracted and didn't tend to the marriage. Even if the distraction was righteous, without full acknowledgment of that 10%, there will be no moving forward for him or her. He or she will remain a victim. Both parties must attend to the marriage and their part in creating and maintaining it as healthy.
The Edwards' have suffered from life circumstances of grief and disappointment that would overwhelm any mortal. Coping with these losses is an ongoing process for individuals, and we don't ever do it perfectly. Thus, we don't come together to support each other perfectly. In trying times, we have a hard time asking for what we need and then providing our partners what they need due to our own confusion and pain.
Finally, you seem to indicate that the fact that the mistress became pregnant makes Mr. Edwards mistake worse. From a moral standpoint, I disagree. Was it wrong to participate in an extra marital affair? Of course. Is it worse because the mistress became pregnant? Again, morally, I don't think so. While it is true that an additional mistake was made by not using adequate birth control, Senator Edwards was not alone in this mistake either. Ultimately, what will be challenging for the Edwards' is that they will have an ongoing reminder of this mistake. They will have to find a loving way to treat this child and each other as they move forward.
Please move on. I find it painful to listen to your criticism of the Edwards'. Your reaction seems very extreme, perhaps indicating that your strong feelings have more to do with your pain. As an Edwards supporter, I feel sad. I always feel sad when a marriage is threatened because I believe in marriage. I feel sad that we get into situations where the pain is so great that we make mistakes. My own marriage was put to the test due to illness and grief that led to mistrust. While there was no affair, my husband and I have had to go to great lengths together to set things on a loving path. I am madly in love with my husband today, but I can also see how easy it would be for folks to make mistakes similar to the Edwards'. We all have to continue to learn new ways of being kind and loving with each other.
I would gladly vote for Mr. Edwards if he can demonstrate thoughtful attention to the situation. I believe he and his wife are as capable of self-searching as anyone. I want a person of humility in leadership position because I admire the strength it takes to overcome ones own humanity. It inspires me. Also, a person with humility will have enough self-honesty and perspective to be effective when making decisions because this person has enough compassion to understand how his choices deeply affect others. If John Edwards is the leader that I believe him to be, he will rise to this situation and transform it. We will all benefit.
Dear Media Personalities,
Please stop speaking of John Edwards' marriage and infidelity.
You have consistently made the point that he and his wife misrepresented themselves in public and, therefore, lied to us. I disagree with this assessment. Most of us present the best of who we believe ourselves to be. The Edwards' are just like the rest of us. We are basically good people who make mistakes (regularly) and are doing our best to find ways to work with them and make amends. All of us deal with our shortcomings in private first. We cannot share perspective until we have had the opportunity and time to achieve understanding of our part in the situation. The Edwards' have not been allowed the time to sort through this family crisis.
Further, in every marital situation, both parties have a role. Perhaps the person who has not cheated has a very small part in the situation, say 10% responsibility. Maybe he or she was distracted and didn't tend to the marriage. Even if the distraction was righteous, without full acknowledgment of that 10%, there will be no moving forward for him or her. He or she will remain a victim. Both parties must attend to the marriage and their part in creating and maintaining it as healthy.
The Edwards' have suffered from life circumstances of grief and disappointment that would overwhelm any mortal. Coping with these losses is an ongoing process for individuals, and we don't ever do it perfectly. Thus, we don't come together to support each other perfectly. In trying times, we have a hard time asking for what we need and then providing our partners what they need due to our own confusion and pain.
Finally, you seem to indicate that the fact that the mistress became pregnant makes Mr. Edwards mistake worse. From a moral standpoint, I disagree. Was it wrong to participate in an extra marital affair? Of course. Is it worse because the mistress became pregnant? Again, morally, I don't think so. While it is true that an additional mistake was made by not using adequate birth control, Senator Edwards was not alone in this mistake either. Ultimately, what will be challenging for the Edwards' is that they will have an ongoing reminder of this mistake. They will have to find a loving way to treat this child and each other as they move forward.
Please move on. I find it painful to listen to your criticism of the Edwards'. Your reaction seems very extreme, perhaps indicating that your strong feelings have more to do with your pain. As an Edwards supporter, I feel sad. I always feel sad when a marriage is threatened because I believe in marriage. I feel sad that we get into situations where the pain is so great that we make mistakes. My own marriage was put to the test due to illness and grief that led to mistrust. While there was no affair, my husband and I have had to go to great lengths together to set things on a loving path. I am madly in love with my husband today, but I can also see how easy it would be for folks to make mistakes similar to the Edwards'. We all have to continue to learn new ways of being kind and loving with each other.
I would gladly vote for Mr. Edwards if he can demonstrate thoughtful attention to the situation. I believe he and his wife are as capable of self-searching as anyone. I want a person of humility in leadership position because I admire the strength it takes to overcome ones own humanity. It inspires me. Also, a person with humility will have enough self-honesty and perspective to be effective when making decisions because this person has enough compassion to understand how his choices deeply affect others. If John Edwards is the leader that I believe him to be, he will rise to this situation and transform it. We will all benefit.
July 29, 2008
I Was Wrong About Play Dates
Last week, I walked into the preschool room to pick up the kid. Kiddo greeted me at the door and asked me, "Please, Momma, can my friend come over today? What time can my friend come today?"
"Sure," I said, "let's ask. Where's your friend?"
We walked over to the friend and friend's mother. I introduced myself and asked if they would like to come over and play. "Being an only child," I explained, "the kiddo gets kind of lonely. We really would love to have you come to our house or we could go to the pool at the park in our neighborhood."
The mother looked stunned for a moment and said, "No one has ever asked my child for a play date." She seemed surprised since no one had ever asked them to play. Her kiddo has special needs.
At their preschool all the classes have a blend of children with typical needs as well as those with special needs. All the children do their thing, learning to work with what's happening. They interact and treat each other with kindness and respect. They are happy.
I wanted that for kiddo. We look different, but we're all the same. I want my child to see the person, what we share as beings, instead of his or her disability or whatever seems to separate us.
I looked at her and thought, I know how it feels not to be included. I also know how it feels to think you are going to be left out and then you get an invitation anyway. It's tender, the feeling of the heart opening, just as it is about to close.
"Oh, well, we have swings or we have a sandbox and pool in the backyard. What does your child like to do?"
Meanwhile, the kiddo was bouncing up and down my leg and saying, "Today, Mommy, can my friend come today? Today Mommy?"
They had plans on that day, but we agreed to speak later and work out the details.
Our new friends left. The teachers stared at my kid with big moist eyes, smiled and told me that the kiddo had approached the mom before I got there and told her, "[Your kid] really likes me, can you come play at my house today?" They told me that the mom just kept saying no one ever asked her before.
I squeezed my kiddo, my child of the light, and cried on the way home. God put this strong desire on the heart of a 4 year old and the love touched open our hearts.
We are all children of the light. We transmit grace and our hearts are healed.
I was wrong about play dates. I thought they were for the kids. Turns out, they are for the parents.
"Sure," I said, "let's ask. Where's your friend?"
We walked over to the friend and friend's mother. I introduced myself and asked if they would like to come over and play. "Being an only child," I explained, "the kiddo gets kind of lonely. We really would love to have you come to our house or we could go to the pool at the park in our neighborhood."
The mother looked stunned for a moment and said, "No one has ever asked my child for a play date." She seemed surprised since no one had ever asked them to play. Her kiddo has special needs.
At their preschool all the classes have a blend of children with typical needs as well as those with special needs. All the children do their thing, learning to work with what's happening. They interact and treat each other with kindness and respect. They are happy.
I wanted that for kiddo. We look different, but we're all the same. I want my child to see the person, what we share as beings, instead of his or her disability or whatever seems to separate us.
I looked at her and thought, I know how it feels not to be included. I also know how it feels to think you are going to be left out and then you get an invitation anyway. It's tender, the feeling of the heart opening, just as it is about to close.
"Oh, well, we have swings or we have a sandbox and pool in the backyard. What does your child like to do?"
Meanwhile, the kiddo was bouncing up and down my leg and saying, "Today, Mommy, can my friend come today? Today Mommy?"
They had plans on that day, but we agreed to speak later and work out the details.
Our new friends left. The teachers stared at my kid with big moist eyes, smiled and told me that the kiddo had approached the mom before I got there and told her, "[Your kid] really likes me, can you come play at my house today?" They told me that the mom just kept saying no one ever asked her before.
I squeezed my kiddo, my child of the light, and cried on the way home. God put this strong desire on the heart of a 4 year old and the love touched open our hearts.
We are all children of the light. We transmit grace and our hearts are healed.
I was wrong about play dates. I thought they were for the kids. Turns out, they are for the parents.
July 22, 2008
Bored in Minneapolis
My whole philosophy about boredom is that if you feel bored, you must be boring. Most of the time, I can think of tons of stuff to do. I consider rest an appropriate action as well.
I also thought that boring was the opposite of stimulated. Again, there is much in my world that I find interesting. My preferred type of stimulation is usually mental, emotional or spiritual. Conversations about emotions or spiritual things when there is a sense of shared adventure rate highest, but I also love books, TV and movies. Most recently, I discovered the miniseries, John Adams. I also find the AMC channel's Mad Men compelling. In both cases, the characters are complicated with flaws and ego demands. I can relate. It's fascinating to watch my inner experience outside of myself.
Stuff that has obvious meaning is most interesting to me. Activities such as weeding and housework mostly have little meaning for me; thus, I don't like doing them. I am still praying to experience the meaning in these things.
I have fought the idea that mothering and homemaking is boring because thinking of my jobs in those terms seems unbearable. Why would I spend my day doing something that in the end is just boring?
Yes, I know that raising a healthy, functional grown-up who is spiritually aware is important, but I find it hard to maintain this attitude in moments say, when the kid calls out, "Mommy, wipe my bottom, please." The larger intention gets muddied.
In my search for meaning in my relatively new job, I started this blog. Writing about the adventure of being a mindful mother who is seeking unconditional serenity helps keep my focus on what it means to be of service in this job. When I start to think that I work for the kid, I can return to the truth that my true boss is a loving God. God thought I was up for the job so I was hired.
A few nights ago, we joined some friends for dinner. I realized, this stuff is boring, truly mundane. It's not them, it's the stuff. So, now I have to admit that yes, I feel bored; therefore, I must be boring. I really don't find typical discussions of helpful hints for child rearing interesting. I mean, I could get those answers from a number of sources at the library or the internet.
I want to know, how does it feel to be a mom? What is it like for you at 3:00 a.m. when the kid wakes up? How do you know when you need to take a break? How do you take care of yourself? How do you show up as an example for your family? How do you nurture your marriage in the middle of all the to do's?
My favorite part of the entire dinner conversation had to do with sex toys. I have some knowledge of the such things. Quality is essential. The cheap ones are made with the same unregulated, toxic plastic that they make fake worm fishing lures. Those worms turn into a ball of melted chemicals after a while and so do the cheap sex toys. We don't want that poison in any environment.
When the topic of sex came up, I perked up. Sex is interesting and important. Staying satisfied as a human being at all levels is crucial for this mom. This topic feels a little edgier than the merits of stainless steel v. plastic water containers.
The rest of the conversation was pretty forgettable. The saving grace was that we were together. Somehow, the boring stuff is workable when it is shared. Working in the yard, cleaning the house, tending to that which needs care is best shared. When I feel I have to do it all myself, want to run screaming.
Finding a way to do these chores with love may be the answer. When I start to feel like this maxed out Swamp Mother, I have lost perspective. I need a break.
The kid's grandparents are taking her to the zoo on Thursday. God bless grandparents and anyone who is willing to love my kid enough to give me a chance to catch my breath and gain some perspective. I bet the same old will seem a lot less boring.
I have a feeling I just getting started on working with boredom.
I also thought that boring was the opposite of stimulated. Again, there is much in my world that I find interesting. My preferred type of stimulation is usually mental, emotional or spiritual. Conversations about emotions or spiritual things when there is a sense of shared adventure rate highest, but I also love books, TV and movies. Most recently, I discovered the miniseries, John Adams. I also find the AMC channel's Mad Men compelling. In both cases, the characters are complicated with flaws and ego demands. I can relate. It's fascinating to watch my inner experience outside of myself.
Stuff that has obvious meaning is most interesting to me. Activities such as weeding and housework mostly have little meaning for me; thus, I don't like doing them. I am still praying to experience the meaning in these things.
I have fought the idea that mothering and homemaking is boring because thinking of my jobs in those terms seems unbearable. Why would I spend my day doing something that in the end is just boring?
Yes, I know that raising a healthy, functional grown-up who is spiritually aware is important, but I find it hard to maintain this attitude in moments say, when the kid calls out, "Mommy, wipe my bottom, please." The larger intention gets muddied.
In my search for meaning in my relatively new job, I started this blog. Writing about the adventure of being a mindful mother who is seeking unconditional serenity helps keep my focus on what it means to be of service in this job. When I start to think that I work for the kid, I can return to the truth that my true boss is a loving God. God thought I was up for the job so I was hired.
A few nights ago, we joined some friends for dinner. I realized, this stuff is boring, truly mundane. It's not them, it's the stuff. So, now I have to admit that yes, I feel bored; therefore, I must be boring. I really don't find typical discussions of helpful hints for child rearing interesting. I mean, I could get those answers from a number of sources at the library or the internet.
I want to know, how does it feel to be a mom? What is it like for you at 3:00 a.m. when the kid wakes up? How do you know when you need to take a break? How do you take care of yourself? How do you show up as an example for your family? How do you nurture your marriage in the middle of all the to do's?
My favorite part of the entire dinner conversation had to do with sex toys. I have some knowledge of the such things. Quality is essential. The cheap ones are made with the same unregulated, toxic plastic that they make fake worm fishing lures. Those worms turn into a ball of melted chemicals after a while and so do the cheap sex toys. We don't want that poison in any environment.
When the topic of sex came up, I perked up. Sex is interesting and important. Staying satisfied as a human being at all levels is crucial for this mom. This topic feels a little edgier than the merits of stainless steel v. plastic water containers.
The rest of the conversation was pretty forgettable. The saving grace was that we were together. Somehow, the boring stuff is workable when it is shared. Working in the yard, cleaning the house, tending to that which needs care is best shared. When I feel I have to do it all myself, want to run screaming.
Finding a way to do these chores with love may be the answer. When I start to feel like this maxed out Swamp Mother, I have lost perspective. I need a break.
The kid's grandparents are taking her to the zoo on Thursday. God bless grandparents and anyone who is willing to love my kid enough to give me a chance to catch my breath and gain some perspective. I bet the same old will seem a lot less boring.
I have a feeling I just getting started on working with boredom.
July 21, 2008
There Is No Such Thing as Balance
I hate when these moms talk about balancing their lives, like we ever do. Just when I get into a nice groove, the seasons change or my grocery deliver service closes. Or, I get excited about writing and stay up too late blogging.
I think balance is too strong a word. At it's most centered, my life is a plane. It goes up or down, and then seeks to level off. Whenever I fly, be it in a small engine plane or a large passenger plane, I usually fall asleep on take off. I can't help it. Usually, by the time I get to the plane, I am so exhausted from planning and packing for the trip that I just pass out as soon as we start to taxi.
Perhaps I have body memories of my hours on the commuter trains in Southeastern Pennsylvania. The R5 would rock me to sleep in less than 10 minutes. I always checked to made sure there were no greasy head prints on the window from earlier passengers. Once the window checked out, I'd wedge my bag between me and the side of the train as a softer arm rest, and zonk out for an hour. I am all in favor of public transportation.
Another reason that I sleep on takeoff is that I find it really stressful. I dont' like to surrender my liberty of movement. Being plastered against the seat barely able to move my head or my arms with ears popping during the thrust of liftoff is just too much for this control freak. Further, the thought of being hurled off of the big, blue marble in space makes a blackout seem very attractive. Finally, the plane is too loud and I always end up on the wing.
I used to create chemically induced blackouts, but I had even less control over that state of being than flying. Blackouts whilst flying are a sure introduction to the air marshall. It's easier to clutch the armrests and pray, until sleep overtakes me.
I always come to when I feel the plane start to level off to it's cruising altitude. Flying becomes civilized with drinks and snacks, even if I have to bring my own. I find it incredibly reassuring to have a bathroom available to me within a few steps.
Same is true for my life. When in the process of change, I start grasping at tangibles. For this reason, keeping the kid in same preschool schedule during the week is crucial for both of us. We otherwise have general schedule with flexibility. We do it in one or two hour blocks. Meals and snacks usually break it up.
Oddly enough, every major change in my life has yielded terrific results, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. Yet, I am trembling during takeoff thinking, this change is going to launch me into a state from which I shall never return and it's going to be bad. If I don't acknowledge this line of thinking in the presence of a sane friend, it gets louder and louder. Eventually, the fear seems like absolute truth.
I have seen this drama more than the sum total of episodes of the Monkees, Gilligan's Island, The Brady Bunch and Bewitched put together. I never seem to tire of any of these.
Somehow, every time things begin to level off, I remember the truth. Oh yeah, all is well. I forgot. Again.
I suspect the kid is going to have this same drama. I hope I can be more patient and reassuring for her than I usually am with myself.
The only reason "fasten yourself in you're in for a bumpy ride" is at all comforting is knowing that the other passengers are sitting right with you. Usually, there is at least one person on the plane who has kept the peace for the rest of us. Occasionally, that person is me. But not, as yet, today. Luckily, I have six workable hours left.
I think balance is too strong a word. At it's most centered, my life is a plane. It goes up or down, and then seeks to level off. Whenever I fly, be it in a small engine plane or a large passenger plane, I usually fall asleep on take off. I can't help it. Usually, by the time I get to the plane, I am so exhausted from planning and packing for the trip that I just pass out as soon as we start to taxi.
Perhaps I have body memories of my hours on the commuter trains in Southeastern Pennsylvania. The R5 would rock me to sleep in less than 10 minutes. I always checked to made sure there were no greasy head prints on the window from earlier passengers. Once the window checked out, I'd wedge my bag between me and the side of the train as a softer arm rest, and zonk out for an hour. I am all in favor of public transportation.
Another reason that I sleep on takeoff is that I find it really stressful. I dont' like to surrender my liberty of movement. Being plastered against the seat barely able to move my head or my arms with ears popping during the thrust of liftoff is just too much for this control freak. Further, the thought of being hurled off of the big, blue marble in space makes a blackout seem very attractive. Finally, the plane is too loud and I always end up on the wing.
I used to create chemically induced blackouts, but I had even less control over that state of being than flying. Blackouts whilst flying are a sure introduction to the air marshall. It's easier to clutch the armrests and pray, until sleep overtakes me.
I always come to when I feel the plane start to level off to it's cruising altitude. Flying becomes civilized with drinks and snacks, even if I have to bring my own. I find it incredibly reassuring to have a bathroom available to me within a few steps.
Same is true for my life. When in the process of change, I start grasping at tangibles. For this reason, keeping the kid in same preschool schedule during the week is crucial for both of us. We otherwise have general schedule with flexibility. We do it in one or two hour blocks. Meals and snacks usually break it up.
Oddly enough, every major change in my life has yielded terrific results, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. Yet, I am trembling during takeoff thinking, this change is going to launch me into a state from which I shall never return and it's going to be bad. If I don't acknowledge this line of thinking in the presence of a sane friend, it gets louder and louder. Eventually, the fear seems like absolute truth.
I have seen this drama more than the sum total of episodes of the Monkees, Gilligan's Island, The Brady Bunch and Bewitched put together. I never seem to tire of any of these.
Somehow, every time things begin to level off, I remember the truth. Oh yeah, all is well. I forgot. Again.
I suspect the kid is going to have this same drama. I hope I can be more patient and reassuring for her than I usually am with myself.
The only reason "fasten yourself in you're in for a bumpy ride" is at all comforting is knowing that the other passengers are sitting right with you. Usually, there is at least one person on the plane who has kept the peace for the rest of us. Occasionally, that person is me. But not, as yet, today. Luckily, I have six workable hours left.
July 19, 2008
My House is Just Fine, June
My new barometer for cleanliness and order in the home is "as long as there is no trash lying around it's fine." I am quoting a very sensible friend of mine who has an extraordinary gift for not giving a rip what anyone thinks of her. I covet this attitude. Since I have very little experience with this way of being in the world, I will throw little scenarios by her just to hear how a sane person would respond.
For example, I said, "You know, I don't know one mother who is comfortable with the state of her home. It's like we all think our homes should look exactly how our friends homes look when they are having a party. It's just impossible. I mean, if you are at home, it's just gonna be a mess. My husband calls me the hurricane."
Instead of giving me tips about organization or describing how her house was worse, she served up the aforementioned ideal.
I love this. House fine.
I have spent years making a mental house scorecard. Actually, it's more like a list of reasons why I suck as a homemaker. Of course, the homemaker's main function is to create a perfect environment for a family to enjoy their being. I will walk through my home on the lookout for any home detail that doesn't meet the "ready for an open house" standard. Each infraction is carefully logged in my brain.
The end result is that I feel totally overwhelmed, and, perform thusly. I don't do anything. I feel victimized by my own home. I have occasionally allowed this morbid reflection to escalate to the point that the only solution available to me is to move. But then you have to really clean. There is no escape to this insanity. It's an infinite loop of unkindness toward self.
If I am really gone mentally, I'll decide that this critical voice in my head sounds a remarkably lot like whomever. Whomever is anyone who might have made one critical comment to me that I have played over and over in my head until I have convinced myself that whomever never, ever said anything nice to me. Therefore, whomever is to blame for my low self-esteem. It's their fault I have messy home.
For the last two days, I scan my home and repeat the question, "Is there any trash laying around?" No? House fine.
It is rarely that simple. What is trash exactly? I have had to define trash as anything that belongs in the garbage, that is, something I won't need later.
Scattered library books are not trash unless they have been read or overdue.
Opened mail is not trash if I think I might need it later, but the envelopes from which the mail came, that's always trash.
Is a half drunk glass of water trash? Not if it is in the kitchen by the sink. I might use it to take a vitamin or something. If it is in the living room, well, that is disgusting.
I am puzzled over how to categorize the kid's "bug home." A bug home is a styrofoam cup filled with old, dead leaves and decorated with foam art and glitter. Evidently, this setup is the bug home is the insect equivalent of the Taj Mahal. Okay, it's not trash - my baby made it - but do I really want to encourage bugs to settle in and enjoy the view from the coffee table?
You'd think this new low standard I have set for my home would otherwise be easily met. Alas, just one hour ago, I sat down to write, gazed out my front window and noticed two mood rings in the shade of happy and relaxed. Then I realized they were two grapes, half eaten, and deposited by the kid. No, really. It wasn't me.
I used this discovery as a teachable moment. I told the kid to throw them out. I am so proud. I am teaching the kiddo the meaning of House fine.
There certainly are some kinks to this new way of taking the cleanliness temperature of my home, but so far the best thing is how quickly I can return to acceptable status. Grapes on the window sill? Throw them out. House fine. Junk mail on the table? Toss it. House fine.
I like this kinder, gentler way of relating to my home and my homemaker status. House fine. What a concept. Take that Mrs. Cleaver. There is a new homemaker in town, and her house is just fine.
For example, I said, "You know, I don't know one mother who is comfortable with the state of her home. It's like we all think our homes should look exactly how our friends homes look when they are having a party. It's just impossible. I mean, if you are at home, it's just gonna be a mess. My husband calls me the hurricane."
Instead of giving me tips about organization or describing how her house was worse, she served up the aforementioned ideal.
I love this. House fine.
I have spent years making a mental house scorecard. Actually, it's more like a list of reasons why I suck as a homemaker. Of course, the homemaker's main function is to create a perfect environment for a family to enjoy their being. I will walk through my home on the lookout for any home detail that doesn't meet the "ready for an open house" standard. Each infraction is carefully logged in my brain.
The end result is that I feel totally overwhelmed, and, perform thusly. I don't do anything. I feel victimized by my own home. I have occasionally allowed this morbid reflection to escalate to the point that the only solution available to me is to move. But then you have to really clean. There is no escape to this insanity. It's an infinite loop of unkindness toward self.
If I am really gone mentally, I'll decide that this critical voice in my head sounds a remarkably lot like whomever. Whomever is anyone who might have made one critical comment to me that I have played over and over in my head until I have convinced myself that whomever never, ever said anything nice to me. Therefore, whomever is to blame for my low self-esteem. It's their fault I have messy home.
For the last two days, I scan my home and repeat the question, "Is there any trash laying around?" No? House fine.
It is rarely that simple. What is trash exactly? I have had to define trash as anything that belongs in the garbage, that is, something I won't need later.
Scattered library books are not trash unless they have been read or overdue.
Opened mail is not trash if I think I might need it later, but the envelopes from which the mail came, that's always trash.
Is a half drunk glass of water trash? Not if it is in the kitchen by the sink. I might use it to take a vitamin or something. If it is in the living room, well, that is disgusting.
I am puzzled over how to categorize the kid's "bug home." A bug home is a styrofoam cup filled with old, dead leaves and decorated with foam art and glitter. Evidently, this setup is the bug home is the insect equivalent of the Taj Mahal. Okay, it's not trash - my baby made it - but do I really want to encourage bugs to settle in and enjoy the view from the coffee table?
You'd think this new low standard I have set for my home would otherwise be easily met. Alas, just one hour ago, I sat down to write, gazed out my front window and noticed two mood rings in the shade of happy and relaxed. Then I realized they were two grapes, half eaten, and deposited by the kid. No, really. It wasn't me.
I used this discovery as a teachable moment. I told the kid to throw them out. I am so proud. I am teaching the kiddo the meaning of House fine.
There certainly are some kinks to this new way of taking the cleanliness temperature of my home, but so far the best thing is how quickly I can return to acceptable status. Grapes on the window sill? Throw them out. House fine. Junk mail on the table? Toss it. House fine.
I like this kinder, gentler way of relating to my home and my homemaker status. House fine. What a concept. Take that Mrs. Cleaver. There is a new homemaker in town, and her house is just fine.
July 18, 2008
I Don't Have Erectile Dysfunction
If I had erectile dysfunction, all of my medical problems would be solved. Doesn't it seem that the medical community nipped that whole mess in the bud while other public health concerns go unattended. Makes you wonder what the priorities are.
For years I have held the naive belief that if you didn't feel good, you could go to the doctor and they would fix it. Not so much.
A while back, I had unexplained, chronic low-grade fevers for a year. I dragged myself to doctor's offices alternately dripping with sweat or trembling with chills. I went to specialist after specialist. They would read my questionnaire, look at my throat and listen to my heart and say, "We can't help you. It must be your mental illness."
Finally, in desperation, I went to see the doctor who took care of me when I was 7 years old. When I met him, he was the young hotshot just out of Yale. He had kids younger than me. Now he is bald and his kids are out of college. He looked at all of my labs and said, "You have too much thyroid hormone. Your body has corrected the thyroid problem and you no longer need to take it. Stop the synthroid. That should take care of it."
It did.
After 1 year of all these genius specialists telling me that the problem was in my head, a simple General Practitioner got it - without blaming me.
I wish that experience had been isolated, but no.
I went to see another sleep doctor today. I had really hoped that she would shed some light on my situation and offer me some alternatives. She didn't. Instead, she stomped out of the room. When she returned, she sketched a simple chart for me, which she wrote upside down, of what the possible causes of my fatigue could be. You don't have this or that or that or that. She basically told me how wrong I was because I didn't fit into her lab normal diagnostic tools. Plus, she didn't come close to listing all the possible causes of fatigue that I know about.
I got the distinct impression that she felt powerless to help me so she blamed me for it. She also blamed my doctor for not knowing how to help me and then, in her opinion, pushing me off onto her. She said that all of my future sleep needs should be addressed with my psychiatrist. The one she just said doesn't know how to help me.
Once when I was upset with someone else's behavior, a wise person asked me, "Why did you pick up the lizard?" He explained. A person has a lizard, a really heavy, stinky one. Not a nice lizard. She looks around, asking herself, "Who could I get to take this lizard so I don't have to deal with it?"
She approaches her target. "I have this horrible lizard. I can't take it. I don't know what to do. Here, you take it."
Or she says, "Would you hold this lizard for me please?"
Another variation: "This lizard is so great, I couldn't possibly share it with you."
The target takes the lizard. She doesn't know she has a choice. She picks up the lizard because she thinks that if someone offers you a stinky lizard, you always have to take it.
I left the sleep doc's office pretty shaken up. Here we go again. I was about to jump off of the ledge of sanity into my own litany of blame and unfairness. I reached inside myself to look for the lizard that lives inside of me.
Then I thought about it. Even though the information was presented in a way which I found condescending and rude, the news was good. Most of Western medicine seeks to rule things out. I don't have narcolepsy, or restless leg syndrome. I don't have hepatitis. I don't have AIDS. I don't have chicken pox. I don't have tuberculosis. I don't have halitosis. I don't have ring-worm. I don't have athlete's foot. I don't have lice. I don't have mange. I don't have erectile dysfunction.What a relief. What a blessing to not have those things. I don't need to pull a lizard out of my butt and carry it around all weekend.
Nor do I have to pick up a lizard from anyone else. That doctor was carrying the lizard of frustration over her own powerlessness. She obviously doesn't deal well with not knowing what to do. She tried to hand her powerlessness, frustration and pain over to me.
I will not carry it. I do not have to pick up that smelly, heavy lizard she drags around to throw at folks that she says she can't help - folks who are already hurting.
I will deal with my own sense of powerlessness and frustration. God has given me all the tools necessary to sit with not knowing. I don't have to like it, but I don't need to force a solution, even though I sometimes wish I could.
On the drive home, I called a friend. She listened. It didn't take away the discomfort, but I knew I wasn't alone. I got home, took a nap, and made dinner. Then the family headed out to Liberty Custard for dessert. I had black cherry Italian ice which turned my tongue black, no foolin'. I hit a couple really solid line drives in the back yard with my husband. Hit a couple foul balls into the neighbor's yard too.
I reviewed a couple things that I do know.
Specialists are great and even necessary, but, the body doesn't know that it's systems are separate and specialized. A girl's got to have someone who can see the big picture too, like my wise old doc from elementary school.
I know that prayer and meditation sustain me even when I can't sleep. I can be serene and happy even when I don't feel good.
I know that my current supplements have allowed me to be productive all day long. What proof? I'm writing at 11:00 at night.
Exercise makes me feel strong and confident. It also clears my mind.
I feel more rested when I use my oral appliance at night.
Writing works. Friends help.
God loves me like I am an only child. God loves everybody else as if they were only children too.
I don't know why I never feel truly rested and refreshed. But I do know I don't have erectile dysfunction, and neither does my husband. We are richly blessed indeed.
For years I have held the naive belief that if you didn't feel good, you could go to the doctor and they would fix it. Not so much.
A while back, I had unexplained, chronic low-grade fevers for a year. I dragged myself to doctor's offices alternately dripping with sweat or trembling with chills. I went to specialist after specialist. They would read my questionnaire, look at my throat and listen to my heart and say, "We can't help you. It must be your mental illness."
Finally, in desperation, I went to see the doctor who took care of me when I was 7 years old. When I met him, he was the young hotshot just out of Yale. He had kids younger than me. Now he is bald and his kids are out of college. He looked at all of my labs and said, "You have too much thyroid hormone. Your body has corrected the thyroid problem and you no longer need to take it. Stop the synthroid. That should take care of it."
It did.
After 1 year of all these genius specialists telling me that the problem was in my head, a simple General Practitioner got it - without blaming me.
I wish that experience had been isolated, but no.
I went to see another sleep doctor today. I had really hoped that she would shed some light on my situation and offer me some alternatives. She didn't. Instead, she stomped out of the room. When she returned, she sketched a simple chart for me, which she wrote upside down, of what the possible causes of my fatigue could be. You don't have this or that or that or that. She basically told me how wrong I was because I didn't fit into her lab normal diagnostic tools. Plus, she didn't come close to listing all the possible causes of fatigue that I know about.
I got the distinct impression that she felt powerless to help me so she blamed me for it. She also blamed my doctor for not knowing how to help me and then, in her opinion, pushing me off onto her. She said that all of my future sleep needs should be addressed with my psychiatrist. The one she just said doesn't know how to help me.
Once when I was upset with someone else's behavior, a wise person asked me, "Why did you pick up the lizard?" He explained. A person has a lizard, a really heavy, stinky one. Not a nice lizard. She looks around, asking herself, "Who could I get to take this lizard so I don't have to deal with it?"
She approaches her target. "I have this horrible lizard. I can't take it. I don't know what to do. Here, you take it."
Or she says, "Would you hold this lizard for me please?"
Another variation: "This lizard is so great, I couldn't possibly share it with you."
The target takes the lizard. She doesn't know she has a choice. She picks up the lizard because she thinks that if someone offers you a stinky lizard, you always have to take it.
I left the sleep doc's office pretty shaken up. Here we go again. I was about to jump off of the ledge of sanity into my own litany of blame and unfairness. I reached inside myself to look for the lizard that lives inside of me.
Then I thought about it. Even though the information was presented in a way which I found condescending and rude, the news was good. Most of Western medicine seeks to rule things out. I don't have narcolepsy, or restless leg syndrome. I don't have hepatitis. I don't have AIDS. I don't have chicken pox. I don't have tuberculosis. I don't have halitosis. I don't have ring-worm. I don't have athlete's foot. I don't have lice. I don't have mange. I don't have erectile dysfunction.What a relief. What a blessing to not have those things. I don't need to pull a lizard out of my butt and carry it around all weekend.
Nor do I have to pick up a lizard from anyone else. That doctor was carrying the lizard of frustration over her own powerlessness. She obviously doesn't deal well with not knowing what to do. She tried to hand her powerlessness, frustration and pain over to me.
I will not carry it. I do not have to pick up that smelly, heavy lizard she drags around to throw at folks that she says she can't help - folks who are already hurting.
I will deal with my own sense of powerlessness and frustration. God has given me all the tools necessary to sit with not knowing. I don't have to like it, but I don't need to force a solution, even though I sometimes wish I could.
On the drive home, I called a friend. She listened. It didn't take away the discomfort, but I knew I wasn't alone. I got home, took a nap, and made dinner. Then the family headed out to Liberty Custard for dessert. I had black cherry Italian ice which turned my tongue black, no foolin'. I hit a couple really solid line drives in the back yard with my husband. Hit a couple foul balls into the neighbor's yard too.
I reviewed a couple things that I do know.
Specialists are great and even necessary, but, the body doesn't know that it's systems are separate and specialized. A girl's got to have someone who can see the big picture too, like my wise old doc from elementary school.
I know that prayer and meditation sustain me even when I can't sleep. I can be serene and happy even when I don't feel good.
I know that my current supplements have allowed me to be productive all day long. What proof? I'm writing at 11:00 at night.
Exercise makes me feel strong and confident. It also clears my mind.
I feel more rested when I use my oral appliance at night.
Writing works. Friends help.
God loves me like I am an only child. God loves everybody else as if they were only children too.
I don't know why I never feel truly rested and refreshed. But I do know I don't have erectile dysfunction, and neither does my husband. We are richly blessed indeed.
July 16, 2008
Slurring My Words
I had a smallish car accident yesterday. A spacey 20-year old hit me in the dietician's parking lot. Kiddo wasn't in the car, thank God. My back is sore so I am taking a muscle relaxant for a few days plus ice and physical therapy.
Due to the medicine, I am prone to unplanned naps and slurring S's. My goal is to have enough clarity tomorrow to write.
I am told that if I can't clean the house in 8 days, the insurance company will send someone over here to help me. This idea had never occurred to me. Have a car accident = someone to clean my house. Blessings abound.
Due to the medicine, I am prone to unplanned naps and slurring S's. My goal is to have enough clarity tomorrow to write.
I am told that if I can't clean the house in 8 days, the insurance company will send someone over here to help me. This idea had never occurred to me. Have a car accident = someone to clean my house. Blessings abound.
July 12, 2008
You Can't Save Your Face & Your Ass at the Same Time
We were running late for my then 2 year old's movement class at the community center.
We ran out the door, and I tossed the kid into the car seat. I couldn't wear gloves because you can't secure the car seat with gloves. It takes too long. Better to freeze your hand for a couple minutes than stand in the cold for several.
I slipped around to the driver's side, and flung open the door. I turned my back to the car. In a move carefully choreographed by my physical therapist, I fell backside first into the seat, and scissor-stepped over the ice that had caked under the door of the car.
As my body made contact with the seat, I heard a squeak. What was that? I asked myself. The car seat must be frozen.
I surfed through the snow drifts that had yet to be cleared from our neighborhood streets until I got to the community center parking lot. I got out of the car, grabbing the kid. We skated into the main area of the building to wait for class to start. I took off our coats, hats, and the kid's gloves, and set them on a sofa.
As we walked around the crowded room, I pointed out what was going on. "Oh look! The big kids are playing foosball. Do you want to watch?" In a few minutes, the teacher showed up and let us into the classroom. We took off boots and put on dance shoes. I encouraged kiddo to stand next to the teacher until the rest of the class arrived.
I confidently nodded and smiled at the other parents as I found my seat on the sofa next to the crowded foosball table.
I was ready for some adult conversation. I was about to say hello to one of the mom's when I felt something scratchy on my seat. I was wearing my favorite jeans. These were the only ones that fit me since having the kid so they were soft and comfy, almost like sweatpants.
I reached around to my left side. I felt a slit. I thought I should assess the damage before I blacked out, so I just barely leaned over to follow the length of the tear. I continued to lean farther and farther as my fingers traced the split down to my leg. Then, I backtracked all the way up to the bottom of my pocket.
Oh my God. There was a spit in my pants big enough to put my head through.
Worse, since I was in a rush to get to class, I had traded the pajamas that I had been wearing all day for the sweatpant-like jeans. I had forgotten my underwear.
A woman approached me and said, "I think there is something wrong with your pants."
"I know," I said, cell phone in hand.
I called my friend and whispered, "I just mooned the entire community center, including 10 teenagers, countless adults, and 2 babies."
He howled loud and long. I laughed so hard that I cried.
After class, I put my coat on seated. I walked into the classroom, and helped the kid switch the dance shoes for boots without bending over. I casually mentioned to the teacher, as if I was in on the joke, "I split my pants."
"I know," she said.
I had mooned not only every parent and teenager in the community center, but also twelve 2 year olds and their dance teacher. The humiliation was complete.
After that, the kid switched to circus class in St. Paul.
This story was answer to today's class assignment: tell a story about something that evoked a strong reaction in you. I did work on some fiction, but that's not ready yet.
We ran out the door, and I tossed the kid into the car seat. I couldn't wear gloves because you can't secure the car seat with gloves. It takes too long. Better to freeze your hand for a couple minutes than stand in the cold for several.
I slipped around to the driver's side, and flung open the door. I turned my back to the car. In a move carefully choreographed by my physical therapist, I fell backside first into the seat, and scissor-stepped over the ice that had caked under the door of the car.
As my body made contact with the seat, I heard a squeak. What was that? I asked myself. The car seat must be frozen.
I surfed through the snow drifts that had yet to be cleared from our neighborhood streets until I got to the community center parking lot. I got out of the car, grabbing the kid. We skated into the main area of the building to wait for class to start. I took off our coats, hats, and the kid's gloves, and set them on a sofa.
As we walked around the crowded room, I pointed out what was going on. "Oh look! The big kids are playing foosball. Do you want to watch?" In a few minutes, the teacher showed up and let us into the classroom. We took off boots and put on dance shoes. I encouraged kiddo to stand next to the teacher until the rest of the class arrived.
I confidently nodded and smiled at the other parents as I found my seat on the sofa next to the crowded foosball table.
I was ready for some adult conversation. I was about to say hello to one of the mom's when I felt something scratchy on my seat. I was wearing my favorite jeans. These were the only ones that fit me since having the kid so they were soft and comfy, almost like sweatpants.
I reached around to my left side. I felt a slit. I thought I should assess the damage before I blacked out, so I just barely leaned over to follow the length of the tear. I continued to lean farther and farther as my fingers traced the split down to my leg. Then, I backtracked all the way up to the bottom of my pocket.
Oh my God. There was a spit in my pants big enough to put my head through.
Worse, since I was in a rush to get to class, I had traded the pajamas that I had been wearing all day for the sweatpant-like jeans. I had forgotten my underwear.
A woman approached me and said, "I think there is something wrong with your pants."
"I know," I said, cell phone in hand.
I called my friend and whispered, "I just mooned the entire community center, including 10 teenagers, countless adults, and 2 babies."
He howled loud and long. I laughed so hard that I cried.
After class, I put my coat on seated. I walked into the classroom, and helped the kid switch the dance shoes for boots without bending over. I casually mentioned to the teacher, as if I was in on the joke, "I split my pants."
"I know," she said.
I had mooned not only every parent and teenager in the community center, but also twelve 2 year olds and their dance teacher. The humiliation was complete.
After that, the kid switched to circus class in St. Paul.
This story was answer to today's class assignment: tell a story about something that evoked a strong reaction in you. I did work on some fiction, but that's not ready yet.
July 11, 2008
Puking Cheap Drama
Gather enough cheap drama and puke it on the page. This has been my approach to living the writer's life for the last 30 years. To give myself credibility, I fully committed myself to living intensely with as many people as possible. Then I'd understand myself and others and really write some juicy stuff. Tomorrow I will write the way I want.
But I have to write. It just has to come out. I gathered all of these memories, bits of dialog, threads of stories and kept them in my head. I was waiting until I was ready. But stuff would slip out. I wasted some of my most inspired material in long conversations with people who didn't get it. I created a test. If my friends and family didn't think I was funny, clever, etc. Why would strangers?
When they wouldn't get it, I would use this evidence to reinforce my frightened story. Since I wasn't writing stuff down, I started writing a story in my head about not writing. It was a long and elaborate tale, a story that had neither a beginning nor an end.
For example, I told myself that I didn't write anything down because I didn't want to waste it, a writer's version of pre-ejaculation. Tomorrow I will write.
I believed it was arrogant to think that I had something to say in my 20's. Who am I to think I know anything? In this drama, I'm unworthy, worthless. Tomorrow I will write.
The reverse was also true. I also thought I had to be recognized as the best at whatever I am doing. So, I usually didn't do what I really wanted to do. When I tried, the fear gripped me. I just couldn't deal with being a mediocre writer. It would kill me. What if I really can't write? What if God gave me passion to do something and then I sucked at it? I'll write tomorrow.
Enough. I could spend the next 50 years working with my fear and never write a word that really meant something to me.
The thought occurred to me, maybe if I could write fiction, I wouldn't have to create such an intense life. I could just make it up and not go through all of the exhaustion of actually living the whole thing. Maybe I could stop writing this awfully boring story about my writing career that was going to being tomorrow.
On Saturday morning, I will be attending a writer's workshop for beginning fiction. Even though I know I can make up a story about not writing, I don't know if I can create a story that does not revolve around me. Tomorrow will soon be today.
I'm writing this blog to empty my mind. Maybe God has something else to say. I want to find out. My plan is to be a new student. I'm gonna be a 2nd grader. I plan to show up the way my friend the 2nd grade teacher tells his class every morning, "Sharpen your pencils and use the bathroom so we can get to work."
But I have to write. It just has to come out. I gathered all of these memories, bits of dialog, threads of stories and kept them in my head. I was waiting until I was ready. But stuff would slip out. I wasted some of my most inspired material in long conversations with people who didn't get it. I created a test. If my friends and family didn't think I was funny, clever, etc. Why would strangers?
When they wouldn't get it, I would use this evidence to reinforce my frightened story. Since I wasn't writing stuff down, I started writing a story in my head about not writing. It was a long and elaborate tale, a story that had neither a beginning nor an end.
For example, I told myself that I didn't write anything down because I didn't want to waste it, a writer's version of pre-ejaculation. Tomorrow I will write.
I believed it was arrogant to think that I had something to say in my 20's. Who am I to think I know anything? In this drama, I'm unworthy, worthless. Tomorrow I will write.
The reverse was also true. I also thought I had to be recognized as the best at whatever I am doing. So, I usually didn't do what I really wanted to do. When I tried, the fear gripped me. I just couldn't deal with being a mediocre writer. It would kill me. What if I really can't write? What if God gave me passion to do something and then I sucked at it? I'll write tomorrow.
Enough. I could spend the next 50 years working with my fear and never write a word that really meant something to me.
The thought occurred to me, maybe if I could write fiction, I wouldn't have to create such an intense life. I could just make it up and not go through all of the exhaustion of actually living the whole thing. Maybe I could stop writing this awfully boring story about my writing career that was going to being tomorrow.
On Saturday morning, I will be attending a writer's workshop for beginning fiction. Even though I know I can make up a story about not writing, I don't know if I can create a story that does not revolve around me. Tomorrow will soon be today.
I'm writing this blog to empty my mind. Maybe God has something else to say. I want to find out. My plan is to be a new student. I'm gonna be a 2nd grader. I plan to show up the way my friend the 2nd grade teacher tells his class every morning, "Sharpen your pencils and use the bathroom so we can get to work."
July 10, 2008
Dear Gentle Readers
I am so grateful to you for taking time out of your busy day to read my blog. I changed my settings so you can leave a comment anonymously, whenever you like.
jodysatva
jodysatva
Quantity Time in the Swampy Marsh
Everybody talks about having quality time with their kids. When Al Franken talks about his childhood, he says that he didn't have quality time with his dad, he had quantity time. They did everything together. They did nothing together. His point was that he didn't have ski trips or any elaborately planned quality time with his dad. He and his dad did stuff like watching comedians on TV. No big plans. Just time together. Being together. A lot.
I liked that when I heard it. First, you never know when your kid is going to want to actually talk to you. He might not want to talk during quality time. But, eventually, with quantity time, he'll have to talk to you.
I also like the idea that parents don't have to create a festival of stimulation every day. Seems like kids don't get much time seeing dragons in the clouds. I think everybody has to figure out their own answer to realization, I'm bored.
Okay. That's the theory.
In the last few weeks, my husband, kiddo and I have spent 11 glorious, quantity time days which included a 9 hour one way trip to a lovely wedding. When not with relatives, we were together, just the 3 of us, all weekend and then 9 hours home in the car, all day long.
Yes, quantity time.
After that, kiddo had preschool for 4 hours and the remaining 6 days were, you guessed it, quantity time. Just the three of us, with no real plans. 6 days of virtually unstructured time with a preschooler.
This quantity time sounded really great in theory. Time to do whatever we wanted. Time to enjoy ourselves, relax after the trip. Be tourists in our own town.
By day 8.5, I started to smell a swamp or what we would call in Minnesota, a marsh. In the summer, not too deep water that stands around in the sun with stuff growing in it, starts to smell. More fuzzy stuff grows. You can't drink this water. Nothing moves but the birds and the bugs, maybe a fish. If you get near the marsh, grateful, blood-starved mosquitos will feast on your flesh through your clothes. Fresh water might get added, but nothing is taken away. It just sits there, cooking like a stew in the hot summer sun.
I never understood why Minnesotans would call a swamp, a marsh, and think it was cool. They study them, watch the sun rise and set over them. We even have a fancy health club called The Marsh.
I assume the swamp, I mean marsh, becomes an important body of water when the ocean is half way across the country, either direction. For Minnesotans, marsh is the glass half full version of swamp.
We do have Lake Superior which is the largest lake in the world. You can't see across it so it feels like the ocean. However, the rest of the lakes and swamps have that same water standing around problem, if you ask me. Here, also, the mosquito issue.
So, my life is starting to smell like swamp. Things are getting added, but nothing is circulating. We are all just together most of the time. We did some fun things, and I think this sort of schedule is really terrific when you are vacation or staying somewhere different, a new pond. But, when you are going back to the same old marsh, day after day, even though you got a break, you're still going home to the place where this is nothing really circulating, the old swamp.
This is why God invented grandparents or babysitters or cousins. Crucial ecosystem stimulation to make quantity time, better quality.
Stay at home moms need to get out by themselves, even if it's just to go to the gas station. I forgot. I was having a lot of distracting feelings. I just forgot. For a week.
I didn't really just forget. All of the grandparents were out of town. All of the babysitters were out of town. Everyone went to visit someone else, somewhere else. I was grieving. I didn't really want to be in a crowd. I didn't realize it, but all of the conditions were right for seriously stinky swamp water. This was no marsh.
Today, kid and I went to visit the cousins. We had a ball, not doing anything special. Quantity time with some healthy supplements. We laughed, hugged, and kissed. The cousins rode bikes. I showed them my "Around the World" trick with the yo-yo. We told stories from when my brothers and I were growing up. My kid got to play with some different toys. At one point, kiddo dressed up like a priest in a white pillowcase and vestments and offered us all communion. Body of Christ, Mommy?
Amen.
I liked that when I heard it. First, you never know when your kid is going to want to actually talk to you. He might not want to talk during quality time. But, eventually, with quantity time, he'll have to talk to you.
I also like the idea that parents don't have to create a festival of stimulation every day. Seems like kids don't get much time seeing dragons in the clouds. I think everybody has to figure out their own answer to realization, I'm bored.
Okay. That's the theory.
In the last few weeks, my husband, kiddo and I have spent 11 glorious, quantity time days which included a 9 hour one way trip to a lovely wedding. When not with relatives, we were together, just the 3 of us, all weekend and then 9 hours home in the car, all day long.
Yes, quantity time.
After that, kiddo had preschool for 4 hours and the remaining 6 days were, you guessed it, quantity time. Just the three of us, with no real plans. 6 days of virtually unstructured time with a preschooler.
This quantity time sounded really great in theory. Time to do whatever we wanted. Time to enjoy ourselves, relax after the trip. Be tourists in our own town.
By day 8.5, I started to smell a swamp or what we would call in Minnesota, a marsh. In the summer, not too deep water that stands around in the sun with stuff growing in it, starts to smell. More fuzzy stuff grows. You can't drink this water. Nothing moves but the birds and the bugs, maybe a fish. If you get near the marsh, grateful, blood-starved mosquitos will feast on your flesh through your clothes. Fresh water might get added, but nothing is taken away. It just sits there, cooking like a stew in the hot summer sun.
I never understood why Minnesotans would call a swamp, a marsh, and think it was cool. They study them, watch the sun rise and set over them. We even have a fancy health club called The Marsh.
I assume the swamp, I mean marsh, becomes an important body of water when the ocean is half way across the country, either direction. For Minnesotans, marsh is the glass half full version of swamp.
We do have Lake Superior which is the largest lake in the world. You can't see across it so it feels like the ocean. However, the rest of the lakes and swamps have that same water standing around problem, if you ask me. Here, also, the mosquito issue.
So, my life is starting to smell like swamp. Things are getting added, but nothing is circulating. We are all just together most of the time. We did some fun things, and I think this sort of schedule is really terrific when you are vacation or staying somewhere different, a new pond. But, when you are going back to the same old marsh, day after day, even though you got a break, you're still going home to the place where this is nothing really circulating, the old swamp.
This is why God invented grandparents or babysitters or cousins. Crucial ecosystem stimulation to make quantity time, better quality.
Stay at home moms need to get out by themselves, even if it's just to go to the gas station. I forgot. I was having a lot of distracting feelings. I just forgot. For a week.
I didn't really just forget. All of the grandparents were out of town. All of the babysitters were out of town. Everyone went to visit someone else, somewhere else. I was grieving. I didn't really want to be in a crowd. I didn't realize it, but all of the conditions were right for seriously stinky swamp water. This was no marsh.
Today, kid and I went to visit the cousins. We had a ball, not doing anything special. Quantity time with some healthy supplements. We laughed, hugged, and kissed. The cousins rode bikes. I showed them my "Around the World" trick with the yo-yo. We told stories from when my brothers and I were growing up. My kid got to play with some different toys. At one point, kiddo dressed up like a priest in a white pillowcase and vestments and offered us all communion. Body of Christ, Mommy?
Amen.
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