Act As If

 

There is something that I want. I mean really bad. Or is it badly? No, it’s not badly because that would mean I was bad at wanting the thing. No, I want it bad. I can’t say what it is yet but I’m operating under the assumption that it’s going to happen. I have to; I want it that much. It’s within my grasp—actually our grasp because this is a family thing.

I remember when I decided I wanted to move to Seattle. It’s that kind of wanting. I was living in Philadelphia and had just split up with a boyfriend. It was the epitome of amicable as break-ups go. I was mid-twenties, ready for graduate school and our goals, once in sync, had diverged.  When I realized I wanted an MBA, I initially thought Temple University. It’s in Philly and it’s not Wharton. I didn’t think I could get in to Wharton let alone pay for it. And there was Chris to consider. But then I stopped considering Chris. We stopped considering each other. What did I want? It wasn’t Philly anymore, not for school and not for living. And I love Philly. My bones are steeped in Philly but I needed a change.

As I researched schools, I came up with a few. I can’t recall all of them. Penn State was my safety school but I didn’t want that either. Washington University in St. Louis appealed to me; it seemed a kinder, gentler MBA program if you will. One that stressed teamwork. One that was known to be financially sound, flush even. One that would likely give a lot of financial aid to a twenty-something financially independent marketing gopher with a BA in English. But the University of Washington, Seattle. That was my Promised Land. I was sold on the program and affordable tuition. And then there was the city, the long-term prospects, and strange how that came to be. I had never been to Seattle nor did I visit before I made my choice. I was convinced it was where I’d want to live. I felt it. I wasn’t interested in doing graduate work without putting down long-term roots at the same time. I was making two decisions in one. Where did I want to get my MBA and where did I want to live as a young adult, create community, make lasting friendships, get married someday. Seattle beckoned. And Seattle teased.

I got my rejections from some and acceptances from others far in advance of any word from Seattle. I got a generous aid package from Washington University in St. Louis. It would have been a good choice. But I wanted Seattle. And I still felt the University of Washington was the best place for me.  And I believe I did think it so. It was right. It felt right and true, so much so that I waited to accept anywhere else. I put off choosing, I pushed deadlines. Anyone who knows me at all knows this is atypical. I’m a “do it now” person, sometimes to a fault. But I waited. 

One early summer afternoon I came home from work to my tiny stinky little sublet on the University of Pennsylvania campus—when Chris and I split, my ability to pay for a nice apartment split too, and I was saving for grad school—it was May or June I think and the phone rang. If I had dawdled from Center City across the Spring Garden Street Bridge I’d have missed it.  It was the University of Washington calling and I was in. I’m sure it was a routine call for the Business School office, one of many made that day. But for me it was life changing. I can still hear that phone ringing. It was just a ringing phone. No ring tones or volume options, no cordless extension, just a brrring piercing the stuffy summer air. I can still feel myself walking across the creaky hardwood floor to a standard black corded phone, solid square base, beveled—it could double as a weapon if you clocked someone in the head just so—and I picked it up and it was the call. And that was 1991. Here I am today. Home in Seattle almost two decades later. Think it so. Act as if.

Time Out

 

I need a time out. Athletes get them. Misbehaving or overtired children get them. I need one. I need one that lasts a week. I won’t get that but I better do something. And fast. 

I’m out of balance again, still. OK, so today I am and have been for over two weeks. Losing my balance this time was a cumulative thing. First a kid got sick then I did, then and during it was Halloween, there were social events, things at school, life decisions looming, computers were acting up so I wasn’t writing regularly—in fact, I’m writing this first draft long-hand—then there was a weekend of one thing after another. Monday rolled around and my husband was out one night and then had late afternoon work emergencies so I’ve been on kid duty, bedtime, baths for days in a row. I’m whining, I know. I’m venting, yes. Starting to feel free, that too.

Let’s not dramatize—feelings are not forever things. They ebb and flow and the sooner I internalize that the easier it will be to go with the feeling and not frantically try to make it go away. That frantic need to get past a feeling prevents me from moving through it. What better way to ensure feeling-acid-reflux than a half-assed pass at it in the first place? So, I’m off kilter and I’m having trouble being there. I need to feel it.

So it has been acknowledged, I need a time out. One thing I have kept up on is exercise, my usual saving grace. But I need a break from that too. Desperate times and all that—my body aches for a break. I have a chronic health problem and I can easily overdo it. I’m there now. My body, mind, soul all need to regenerate and if I continue to push, I will be even sorrier than I am tonight. When I get to this point I need rest and alone time. Quiet and calm.

I have missed writing but I have been thinking about it for days and have been resisting because I knew I couldn’t take a lot of time for it.  My computer has been acting up so I’m now writing this blog post as an email to myself. It’s not my preferred method of writing, transcribing from long-hand, emailing myself, but it is still writing. And it is working. I’m tipping the scales back slowly, gently and with creativity rather than throwing up my hands and saying “I can’t, it’s too hard.” Because that’s crap. It’s hard yes, but I can handle it. Sometimes things fall off the priority list. My kids aren’t going to swimming lessons tonight because I am so incredibly exhausted that if I take them, I will not only tip my scales further, I will bitch at them the whole time. So instead, they are watching the TV version of the “Olivia” books. Thirty minutes of bliss both for me and for them.

And now it’s post macaroni and cheese dinner, still no husband and my four year old wants to play blocks so I will do that and cobble this post together later and know that I am on the road to getting my time out. I will feel better soon. Early to bed and tomorrow after school drop-offs, the house is mine. I will put my lists aside. I will leave the dishes in the sink and I will put myself in “time out.” And I will like it.

Heed The Call

 

It’s been over a week since I have written and I feel it. I have good reasons for the hiatus: my kids were sick then I caught it; life happens. When we were sick it was crunch time. I was in lowest common denominator mode and simply didn’t notice the void of not writing. I do now. I do so much that I need a nap and yet I am sit here sketching an outline, at least, of this post because my soul needs it. I may have to pick this thread up later because my intellect is at battle with my body and right now my body is winning. I need a nap. But my internal red flags, those signs that tell me something is wrong, have been flapping like a hurricane’s a brewing. And perhaps it is.

When my balance is skewed, I have the reserves to power through. A sick child, for example, makes other priorities fall lower on the list, and some things simply fall away never to return. That’s life but I can only sustain that imbalance for so long before my “self” cries out for attention. If I’m listening well, the cries don’t have to be loud; they don’t have to sound over and over and over like a snooze alarm that just won’t quit. But other times I forget to listen, to plug in to the cues and before I know it I’m anxious, I’m bitchy, I’m not getting enough sleep, I’m craving cookies—whatever it is, it’s time for a re-direct and baby I’m there. First thing I do to re-direct is this. I sit down and pound out a few hundred words. It’s usually not my best writing and it doesn’t need to be much but it gets the ball rolling. I often come back to the topic later, but it’s a start. Sometimes a nap is what I need, a day in bed with a book. I’ve written some variation of these words before—it’s all about self-care. And on that note, I hear my pillow calling.

Just Hang Up And Breathe

 

I am in the middle of a boil right now and it’s time to start breathing and let go. An unpleasant interaction with a service provider and I’ve resorted to some old ways—I’m furious. And I need to let it go because it’s just not important and my time is. The more time I spend on this issue, the angrier I become and it’s not about this. I resolved the minor issue—not entirely to my satisfaction—but my service is up and running again. So what if I paid $20 more than it costs today. So what if I lost a few days of downtime due to a clerical error with no notification from the provider. It’s now done. That’s in the past. I’m in the present.

And this is not what is really bothering me. I’m not sure why, but I’m just not having a good day. I’m sad, out of sorts, it happens. But it’s my perception at this point rather than what is actually going on that matters. Demanding that a customer service representative provide me with real customer service—rather than excuses—is not going to heal me today. At this point, continued suffering is optional and I am choosing to stop.

I took a huge leap today. As I started writing this, I was on hold for a supervisor. I can be tenacious to the point of exhaustion. But not today. As I listened to the annoying hold-speak—not music but ads for other “services” from this provider—I actually hung up. Enough. I’m taking a deep breath. And another. It’s all about choices. I can choose to stay in that boil, hold on to that anger, feel the victim, or I can hang up. Just hang up. And breathe.

Pillow Talk

 

“Mom, when you were a girl, did you have toys?”

My four year old asked me this a few nights ago and thus began a new ritual: talking about my childhood. He asks questions. I tell stories. We do this after we read books, cuddled together at bedtime. Pillow talk is my new favorite time of the day. Inhibitions are gone; we are close and warm. The air is palpably sweet and ripe like before a good summer rain. We’re one in a semi-dark room, shadows cast by a night light and I’m falling in love with him over and over again, each night in a new way as he changes, grows, asks questions, shows himself to me.

I smiled and said “Yes, sweetie. I had toys.”

“Like Spiderman?”

“I didn’t have Spiderman but I had dolls and a doll house. I had blocks. Oh, and I had a little oven that made tiny cakes. Real cakes.”

“I want to make tiny cakes, Mom. I want that oven.” I want that oven again too; my Easy Bake Oven—a truly prized possession.

As we talk I stumble, struggling to remember. But he is patient. He is still against me, thumb poised to go back in his mouth after he finishes talking, blanket in hand, stuffed elephant snuggled against his shoulder. And it helps me to remember, the stillness of being with him, watching him, fascinated by his interest.

“I had a quilt,” I tell him. “A blanket like yours that I slept with and it always cheered me up when I was sad.” I’d forgotten about that quilt but can now literally feel the cool weight of it against my body. I buried that quilt with my cat Dante. He died three weeks before my first child was born.

My older son asks me questions too but it’s very different. They are so different, my boys. I have spent so much (good) energy on my older son, getting to know him, watching him as his personality sharpens, that I am now in awe of the process happening in my younger boy—almost as if I forgot it would. At just over four years old, he is becoming himself in a new and beautiful way. 

Sometimes the thought of putting my kids to bed is daunting. By the time I get to 7:30 I am so drained I cannot imagine giving another ounce of myself. And then they surprise me. It is they who do the giving. It is my four year old who, completely unbidden, said as I tucked him in one night, “Momma, I love ya’ love ya’ love ya’.” And that has become our new catch phrase. It is my seven year old who wants to cuddle every night and who is so tall that I end up with my head on his chest as we settle in to sleep. “I just love you so much, Mom and I love to cuddle with you,” he routinely says to me. “I’m so happy.”

My younger boy and I have talked a lot these past few nights. I told him about the different cats I had growing up and tried to explain why he couldn’t meet them. He asked where I lived and went to school and when I said “Philadelphia.” He said, “That’s far far away,” trying to fit me in his world today and now, to imagine me doing the things that he does.

So now when I struggle to get them motivated to brush teeth, do PJs, get moving for cryin’ out loud, I will think ahead just a few minutes to the ultimate gift I am about to get. The gift they will give me of love, curiosity, thanks, love, appreciation, memory, joy, and oh, did I mention it already—love?

Lucky Me

 

Being a mom is exhausting. And I’m a lucky mom. My kids are wonderful. My kids are healthy. My husband is supportive, hands-on, engaged. And he works hard. His job is demanding and stressful and it makes our choice possible; the choice we made when we had children that I would stay home. This was a surprise to both of us. I was a career woman. And I don’t miss it for a second. Because while I believe that you can have it all, I’m not so sure you can have it all at the same time. At least, that wouldn’t work for us. Having one stay-at-home parent works for us and for me. And by taking a break from “it all,” whatever that means, new doors have opened, new opportunities came. And it’s about luck but it’s also about good choices.

But sometimes, even now with hours in my day that are technically “free,” I feel overwhelmed. I say “technically” because there is always something to be done to manage the house, to clean, shop for, cook, launder, volunteer for, sew bat wings on. There is always something to do for others. And this is why I have come to look at my work day differently. For two to three hours in the morning I am on. And I mean on full-blast, no holds barred on. Making breakfast, beds, feeding cats, drying tears, driving to school, walking to school, waiting for the school bus, doing whatever needs to be done for others as is humanly possible by one human. And then from after school until 8:30 or 9 p.m., I am on again in the same way, cooking, making lunches, having family dinner, chauffeuring to swimming or art class, dealing with grouchiness, homework, bathing, playing, reading stories, holding, talking to, cuddling, doing whatever needs to be done. That’s about nine very solid and exhausting hours. And no, I don’t sit on the couch and eat bon-bons in between. I still do errands, laundry, cooking, bills, taxes and other such household duties during my day, but I am doing less of that and more for me during those off hours and everyone benefits. It’s hard for me. I get anxious and want to cross things off my list. Just one more thing, just one more errand. And then I pay and then everyone pays.

When I look at my day and my needs on a given day and I listen to my inner voice, I have so much more to give. I have come to guard my time with great care. And so what if the house is a little messy. I want my kids to see a mommy who is fulfilled and happy and not always maxed out by a life that she is, quite frankly, incredibly lucky to be living. So I go to the gym. I take walks. I meet friends for coffee or lunch. I write. I take naps. I read. Sometimes I watch crappy TV and drink hot cocoa in bed and then I take a nap. That’s a banner day. And typically, it’s the only time I get for me. Sometimes it’s an hour. Sometimes it’s two. Then at 7 p.m. when I’m doing dinner dishes and simultaneously helping with math homework and running a bath and realizing that I have to pee and have had to for an hour, I can tap in to the time I gave myself in the middle of the day and try to find balance amid the craziness. And realize just how lucky I truly am.

Protect Yourself

 

This is not a blog about safe sex. But, you should do it. Be safe I mean. And have sex.

Think about all the ways we protect ourselves. Safe sex is certainly one of them. Umbrellas and Gore-tex are useful—today it is raining buckets. When I went out this morning to Pilates I had the wrong coat—fleece. Not protected. Then in class, my lower back screamed at me “no thank you, not this move” so I eased off and stretched instead. Protected. Later, going to Costco with every other Saturday morning errand-runner, I had my Gore-tex. I was ready. But this is all basic stuff. Condoms, raincoats, listening to our bodies, it’s physical and tangible. Easy. Sometimes, the need for emotional protection is the toughest to recognize, the hardest to do and yet the most critical. I’d rather get soaked in a rainstorm than have my heart stomped on for no reason. Mind you, I’m not talking about being closed off to emotional intimacy which can lead to pain and growth, but rather of recognizing emotional toxicity and of running for cover, putting up the drawbridge, doing what it takes to protect yourself.

Author Cheryl Richardson uses the term “protect your sensitivity” and I like it. She talks about knowing what your hot buttons are and of proactively making sure they don’t get pushed. And why not? At a recent seminar I attended, she talked about a speech she gave after which she was mobbed by the audience with accolades. As she saw a lone woman approach her with a forceful stride and a frown, her hackles went up and when the woman said to her “I need to give you some constructive criticism,” Cheryl said “I don’t want to hear it.” She was protecting herself. She knew that even with the hundreds of people who had loved her talk; the so-called constructive criticism from this woman would hurt. It would be destructive. I am like this too. I am working on it, but I know myself well enough to know I can hear between lines that aren’t there. I can take heaps of praise and an ounce of criticism and like a dog with a bone, fixate on that criticism no matter the source or the validity. No matter what.

So in protecting myself, I also get to celebrate my sensitivity. Rather than de-sensitize myself, to stop seeing the nuance in relationships, perceive the subtlest of clues about what might be going on with myself and others, I chose to be sensitive. Sensitivity serves me well. I use it to be a better listener, friend, parent, wife, member of a larger community. But, I also get my feelings hurt easily. I am out there and sometimes being out there, I get hurt. So, I’m working on seeing the warning signs. My instinct is powerful if I listen to it and when something doesn’t feel right, when I feel worse rather than better after an event or an interaction, I’m going to protect myself.

Let’s all protect ourselves. Go out in the rain but wear a raincoat. Exercise but listen to your body. Have sex, damn it, but be safe. And open your heart but listen to your instinct. Protect your sensitivity. I know I will.

Patience My Little Pretty

 

 

Remember in “When Harry Met Sally” when Billy Crystal’s character finally steps up? He gives the famous speech that ends with “I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” I know that feeling. Impatience. The feeling of impending change for the good, a decision made well, a time for new beginnings and of having to wait for that change. Some things are out of my hands. (A lot of things are out of my hands. But that’s another blog post. Note to self: write a blog on control.) Harry took over a decade to come to that decision but when he knew, he went for it.

Not all decisions can be executed like that. There’s the making of a decision and then there’s the implementation. Some things take time. I don’t wait well. I want to move, change, do. A lot of the time that serves me well. My husband calls me a “thing-doer.” I know it sounds dorky but it’s really very sweet and came about, if I remember correctly, many years ago when we were planning a trip to Greece and Austria using frequent flier miles. I don’t remember specifics, what I do remember is that I scored round-trip Business Class seats during peak travel season. I’m not even sure how many miles we had to “pay” for the trip, but we got there in style. I could list countless things, discounts, rebates, tickets, refunds, extensions of contracts, exceptions to policies I have procured simply by doing the research, by being persistent, thorough and let’s not forget, kind to customer service people.

Persistence and attention to detail serve me well in many ways. What I have a hard time with, what I am working on now, is being able to sit with a decision well-made but not yet implemented. Some things just take time. Selling a house takes time, changing jobs takes time, writing a novel takes time. Deciding to do something and seeing said thing done are not always simultaneous. And sometimes the process can serve. Until you’re in it or on the other side of it, it’s hard to see how but I am going to sit back and just be. I am going to know that life does not always have to be a process of transition and change. It can sometimes be a period of being. Of just sitting with whatever is even if you know that in six months or a year, it won’t be. I am going to be where I am and do what I’m doing and be present. I know this lesson is here for me, and for me to teach my kids, that hurrying up life means you miss things. Whatever that may be, it’s all learning. I’m all for getting the hell out of a bad situation, pulling out all the stops and creating a shit-storm if need be. But, I’m also going to learn that if we are safe, if we are simply discovering and growing and moving toward new things, we can learn from where we are, and move forward with grace and with patience.

Those Crazy Kids!

 

Driving home this morning after a back-and-forth crazy race of pre-dawn Pilates, getting kids fed, watered, dressed, soothed due to a missing plastic crocodile, then preschool drop-off, school bus hand-off, swim lesson registration, traffic, breakfast in the car and the realization that I would need to do some deep breathing to settle myself calmly in to the day, I saw something that made me laugh out loud. Alone in the car thinking about more coffee I saw a mother pushing a jogging stroller, dog leash in hand, child in tow. And said child was wearing neon green-and-black plastic swim flippers. I’m guessing his age at two or three and plain as day he shouted “I am making my own choices and I feel great about it!” He sat in his stroller and the flippers stuck straight up in the air. And it made me laugh and it warmed my heart.

I can imagine the scene as he, his mother and the dog prepared for their morning walk. Perhaps the flippers are new, perhaps flipper-wearing is an everyday thing. Who knows. What is clear is that he wanted to wear his flippers and so he did. Of course he doesn’t need them, likely not even in the water, in a swimsuit, in the summer. This child probably cannot swim. But, he has a flipper fetish. And so what. And that’s what’s great about it. His mother is giving him the greatest gift we can give our children: the freedom to be who they are, to experiment with what they want and to make their own choices when it empowers them and doesn’t risk their safety. If my kid wanted to put his finger in a light socket or run naked (or clothed) in traffic, I would say “no.” And it would be an emphatic “no.” But flipper choices do no harm. In fact, they help. They teach children that it’s OK to be yourself. Experiment, try new things, show yourself to the world no matter what.  

This morning my four-year old didn’t want to get dressed. So, I suggested he wear his favorite comfy outfit. His face lit up. Picture a pair of green-and-blue camouflage fleece pants and a green fleece shirt with a giant dinosaur on it. Now picture it three sizes too small. He calls this outfit his “comfy PJs.” It’s actually a pseudo sweat-suit. It was a gift to his older brother from my mother-in-law and I instantly didn’t like it. I was being a snob. But to my partial credit then, I knew the shirt would be a hit; it’s the dinosaur factor and the fleece factor. Pretty much a slam dunk when it comes to a little boy; comfy and fierce. My older son never wore the pants though. I kept them in the back of his drawer. And, they are a small enough size that I was still dressing him when they would have fit. No son of mine, and blah blah blah . . . well who did I think I was?

Fast forward and the pants went in to my younger son’s cubby at preschool as back-up pants. He wore them once and there was no turning back. He glommed on to that outfit and he won’t let go. But I have let go. Who cares as long as it’s not twenty degrees and he wants to go out in a wife-beater? Camo-Capris? Why not? Flippers? Go for it. My son puts on those ridiculous pants and smiles as broad as the midday sun. He doesn’t care that his ankles (and shins) are in the breeze. He’s comfortable and feels good about himself and I can’t bring myself to disappear that Glamour Don’t. Soon we will have to, the shirt is hard to get on—it’s just too small. He sees this. The other day he said “Mom, soon we have to send this to Baby Benjamin.” (Benjamin is his three-year old cousin and I fear it may be too small for him already.)  But, unless and until he says otherwise, he can wear his pilling-green-and-blue-fleece-dinosaur-camouflage-comfy PJ-Capri pants-outfit whenever he wants. It hurts no one and it makes him feel good. My work here is done.

What’s Real

 

If I’ve learned anything so far as a blogger—and I’m wet behind the ears by any stretch of the imagination—it’s to be honest. And I don’t mean brutally honest; I mean openness of heart and spirit. Truth. Saying what’s real—being kind about it, but being honest.

My last blog post was about the end of a friendship. I was amazed and honored by the responses. Many shared similar stories.  Many simply thanked me for being real, for digging deeper. One friend asked if I was worried the subject of the post would read it. I had considered that but dismissed it because 1) I didn’t think she wanted to be in my life anymore so why would she read my blog and 2) I didn’t write it for her, I wrote it for me. Writing that piece, sorting through those feelings, was a healing process for me. I was able to remember and to store away the best of that friendship and to let go of the pain, jealousy and feelings of not being good enough it fueled. I was able to let go.

Systems, friendships, marriages, homes, governments, religions, they all need care and feeding. They need flexibility; they are organisms, they change. When they fall apart or begin to crack they need to be put back together, perhaps in different form, or they need to be put away. Maybe they don’t serve anymore. Maybe you, we, need something else.

Several days after I posted “Let It Be” the subject of the post sent me an email. Bottom line, we have drifted apart. For her, time and distance were the driving forces. What’s real is that I was honest. What’s real is that our friendship meant to her what it meant to me. It was real. It was true. I don’t expect a reincarnation of what we had. And I didn’t expect to hear from her; it was icing on the cake. (And by the way, icing is my favorite part.) The point is, had I not been true and real, we’d both be in our worlds with our safety and our stuff and none the wiser.

Our lives on this earth represent a shared experience and yet we spend so much time and energy filtering what we share. Being real gets you closer. It’s uncomfortable at times but it is worth it. Think about this mystical truth. We all breathe together. Take a deep breath and feel the rest of the earth breathe with you and know that we all share the same experience on this earth. No one experience is identical to another, but it is shared.

When I write a blog and comments come from near and far, from friends I haven’t connected with in years, or friends I thought of as mere acquaintances or friends I thought I’d lost, that mystical truth shouts from the rooftops. We all breathe together. And if we all go deeper together to share more with each other we all win. Don’t get me wrong. There’s a place to shoot the shit, to not talk about your feelings or how your father never showed affection. There’s a place to hang out, have a beer, watch “Entourage.” Yes. But, I don’t want to live there all the time. Where I live, I want to be real and honest. It’s frightening, but I’m going there. When I do, I get so much in return. We all walk around covered up, afraid to share and be real and to tell our truths. But the truth is we share even that. We are all afraid of not being good enough, of disappointing a friend, of losing a family member, of death, of not being loved. Let’s just admit it. Because you know what, when you are true, you heal. When you are honest, you’re free.