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.
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