Catching my breath

Posted on May 16, 2012 by admin

Have you ever choked? Like, legitimately began choking on something where for a second (which feels like several minutes) you were certain death was imminent?

The summer I was 15, I remember vividly sitting on a bar stool right next to my very best friend, eating dinner at my dad’s house in Chattanooga and choking on a piece of bread while no one noticed. Of course I couldn’t make a single noise as it was blocking my airway and I was far too panicked to think of physically grabbing my friend not six inches to my right and making her take notice so I sat there and awaited death.

Somehow I survived, the bread dislodging itself from my throat and me then furiously trying to relay the fact that I had just been suffocating and not a single one of the five people in the room even realized it.

I read something recently that resonated with me – and uncomfortably so. This woman, a very well-to-do, intelligent, charismatic lady, wrote about how she had been a stay-at-home-mom for 26 years and never got used to it. She couldn’t even bring herself to use that ‘SAHM’ title so when she was surrounded by others she would make sure to deflect the inevitable question of “What do you do for a living?” Feeling as though her 26 years of being a SAHM wasn’t, well, enough; as though being ‘just’ a stay at home mom was an inadequate job amongst those who “worked” a more traditional office job. Of course she knew the value in being a SAHM, it just wasn’t enough for her.

I could have totally written that. Word for word, each letter, each pause in each comma – it was like YES. THIS. UH-HUH. HEAD NOD.

Now I have that office job. A job that is perfectly suited for me and a job that I really love. I am no longer ‘just’ a stay at home mom; I am a mom and I am also out there just like I wanted to be, working really hard to provide for my kids and, better yet, I’m lucky to be doing something I enjoy.

Win-win.

Except.

Now I feel like where I ‘failed’ at being a successful woman in the working world before, I now fail at being the super mom everyone expects I should also be. The guilt has not gone away; it’s simply shifted. While I once would have wished I could have brought in an income, I now feel like a failure for missing school activities. Now working isn’t a choice but a reality. Attending school activities are no longer my main job – they are what I do in my free time. And I have very little of that these days.

Finding a balance between the work that I love and being with my boys who I work so hard for is incredibly difficult. I can’t keep up. I can’t maintain that SAHM persona they’re used to and provide for them like I have to. And the stress is sometimes suffocating.

Last week, I worked a ton of extra hours to bring to fruition a site I’m really proud of. GUILT. My oldest gave me a note for Mother’s Day warning me he will forget about me if I send him to daytime summer camp when school’s out. GUILT. He’s being bullied again. GUILT. My mom called to let me know she thinks he could really use a little one-on-one time with me – if I have time. GUILT. My 5 year old reminded me I haven’t answered his mail. GUILT. There’s no way I can make it home in time for their Open House next week. GUILT. Tonight, my ex asked me if I could take the boys for a little while because I was home earlier than normal and I said I needed to work. GUILT.

And I feel like an asshole. Especially over that last one. But I just need a second. A minute. For air. Because between the work, the parenting and the guilt – oh my god the guilt – it’s like I’m standing here, in a room full of people, choking and no one has noticed. And I just need to catch my breath. For just a second.

The way it was

Posted on May 7, 2012 by admin

Have you ever stared at a photograph remembering a time when life was so much better only to realize it never was?

. . . !

Posted on April 19, 2012 by admin

This song always chokes me up – that’s just who I am and what I believe in. But watching my son and 119 other Kindergarteners sing and sign* it, well, excuse me while I get the dust out of my eyes.
__________

*They signed all 8 songs they sang. His school is also a dedicated special needs school and therefore teaches sign language to all students so every child there can converse with one another regardless of how each communicates.

Windows

Posted on April 4, 2012 by admin

I drove with the window down tonight for the first time in as long as I can remember, my hair damp with sweat from working out, my shoulders cinching upward, shivering in the breeze that was sweeping my neck and creeping up my sleeves.

It’s the first thing I’ve felt in I don’t know how long.

So I just let myself feel it – the wind whipping, the chill of fresh air in an indifferent, dark nighttime sky, the discomfort of being cold – breathing in deeply like I had just emerged from under water for a record breaking amount of time; gasping for any feeling to see if, in fact, I could still feel at all.

I’ve started working out again, vigorously, to train for my first 5k – a bucket list item. I’m not a runner but there’s something in me that just wants to run. Far. And I’m afraid it has little to do with exercise.

My body is sore and I can hardly move. Getting back into a routine of training regularly is hard. I’m tired. I don’t have time. So many excuses. Lactic acid build-up, bruises, tight muscles – it’s enough to make any person want to stop as soon as they begin.

But the truth is, the more I keep at it – the more I strain and try and work through the pain, forcing myself to do it, the easier it gets and the stronger I become. So I’m forcing myself to keep at it. The exercise, yes. But the rolling down of windows too.

Next time do it better, faulty salad and bad drivers

Posted on March 25, 2012 by admin

Story of my life.

If I were to write a Dr. Seuss-esque book it would be called “The Weeks Are Long, The Weekends Are Short.” Followed by the line, “My eyes are red, I have nothing to report.”

I’ve been up to my eyeballs in work, commuting and work with a side of commuting and everywhere you look around here is the sight of pure neglect. *blows dust off blog*

A few completely random thoughts (they wouldn’t be mine if they were organized) I’ve collected somewhere in the empties of my brain over the last week or two:

If there’s ever a shortage of salad (not lettuce mind you, but salad as a whole) you can, with clear conscience, blame Santa Monica. I’m on a steady diet of salad from This Place or salad from That Place because apparently all there is to eat in Santa Monica is salad. Even when the company orders in pizza for everyone, there it is: SALAD! and everyone, brainwashed to gravitate toward the green stuff is like OOOOH! I’ll take some of that SALAD! Oh and there’s pizza? That’s cool. I guess.

But no, I’m not any skinnier so… yeah. Um. What the hell? FAULTY SALAD. That’s what.

I drive 51 miles to work and 51 miles back home. In traffic. In – essentially – Los Angeles. This is the equivalent of your dad telling you he had to walk to and from school every day, barefoot, in the snow, uphill. For 51 miles. It’s a gorgeous, photogenic coastal drive but the amount stupid driving on the road is insurmountable. Through my extensive research I can tell you the pricier the car, the dumber the driver in this particular area. But get behind a work truck or a bus and you’re golden. I know the rhythms. Got them down pat. But when someone, usually a tourist who’s gawking at the ocean like “Oooh! Water! It’s wet! Soooo prettttty! I’ll just drive by really sllooowwwllly rather than pull the fuck over and actually touch it!” decides to cruise instead of drive and messes up the commuters’ patterns, god help them.

I need a megaphone – please and thank you. Have you any idea how many times a day I have to tell someone they’re the worst driver EVER? Huh, son?

But I’m not an angry driver. I’m just a vocal one. Ahem.

In other random news, the boys begged me to add “Draw Something” to their iPads. So if you’re one of the lucky ones receiving random, fucked up drawings of “fog,” I’m sorry and you’re welcome. At least they’re not one of those assholes who just write the answer and submit it to you. (WHAT’S WRONG WITH THOSE PEOPLE?)

At first this was so much work, playing this game with the boys. ["Mom, how do you spell 'pregnant'?" Um... *shifty eyes*] But now it’s our cool little way of staying in touch when they’re not with me. We pass loving notes back-and-forth before each drawing like the one above from my 9 year old. *cough* And, I have the added benefit of knowing when certain little shits have taken their iPads to bed with them when they weren’t supposed to. Oh, I have a particular little 7 year old who’s waiting on my drawing at 11 pm? GUESS WHO IS LOSING THEIR PRIVILEGES?

This is parenting in twenty-twelve, people.

Pimpin’ ain’t easy… for a 5 year old

Posted on February 11, 2012 by admin

The five year old is having girl problems at school. As in, too many “grills” are chasing him around at recess. “They won’t weave me awone.”

Shoot me now.

At first, as a parent, you selfishly smile as though this – this Kindergarten dilemma as told by a five year old – means something big and telling, like your kid who you always knew was handsome as hell MUST REALLY BE – like, in the eyes of others.

Fine, in the eyes of other five year olds.

Big T wasn’t convinced we were receptive to his angsty problem so he got on my level by dropping a Jay-Z lyric to relate. You know the one. Let’s just say if he finds one more of these little problems to chase him around at lunch, I won’t need to provide 100 of something on the hundredth day celebration at school.

Apparently the problem is real though. A little girl has allegedly gone all Axe-commercial on my son, pushing him up against a wall. (Damn, girl. What’s high school gonna be like for you?) Parents and teachers have gotten involved and I am like HOLY FUCKING KINDERGARTEN, this is ridiculous, but yes, he is cute, isn’t he?

Last night, Big T broke it down, explaining why his problem is all because of us, his parents. “It’s because you make me shower every night and I just. smell. so. good.”

Huh.

So the moral of the story is mommas don’t bathe your sons? Or have I simply learned that my son is the second coming of the Old Spice Man? [I'm on the slide. Now I'm on the monkey bars. WITHOUT USING MY HANDS!] I’d like to think the latter.

No matter, let’s be honest: the important thing is that Big T has learned early on that pimpin’ ain’t easy. Now to teach him how it sho’ can be fun….

HEY. Sometimes we relate better via Jay-Z lyrics. You stick with your duct-tape parenting methods and I’ll go with mine, ok?

Measuring success.

Posted on February 6, 2012 by admin

At different times in my life I have measured success in varying ways. A good grade in school, seeing my writing published, a win on eBay, getting married, getting divorced, the fire department arriving in time, having healthy children, an interview gone well, buying a home, finding the perfect gift for someone, hearing the word “benign,” not throwing up when I was thisclose, finding the little black dress…

I told you it has varied.

I have made lists to add up my successes and lists to cross them off. I’ve celebrated them quietly and sometimes alone and also loudly and pompously with friends. I have prematurely claimed success when it wasn’t success at all and I have completely failed to note successes when they have sat right here beside me; their legs intertwined with mine.

Lately, with even more change on the horizon, I’m trying to re-examine what success means for me. I am reminding myself to find success in smaller moments too; to allow myself that sense of accomplishment in the finer chunks of time that, in hindsight, carry just as much importance.

If not more.

A little over a week ago, success was in the face of my nine year old son who saw his Pac-Man cake for the first time. This past week, it was managing to take care of very sick boys while being sick myself. Saturday night, it was having the boys sit on the couch and over-analyze the UFC fights with me. Today, it won’t only be in starting a new job, but in letting go of the guilt that goes with it.

There is so much change. And for someone who struggles with the very idea of change, I will count each and every one of my accomplishments – huge and ridiculously small – giving myself credit for every moment I acknowledge and embrace as I face each new thing that comes our way.

This, I hope, is success.

Nine.

Posted on January 25, 2012 by admin

Nine years ago you changed my life completely. Nine. I choke on that word. I can’t believe how grown up you are.

Nine years ago, you gave my life an entirely new purpose, filled it with meaning that has kept me strong in weaker times and began teaching me the difference between what’s important and what can wait. I realize it’s my job to teach you, but the truth is, you’ve taught me even more. You’ve taught me about love and gratitude, about Japanese Zeroes and the solar system, about building forts, beating Mario Bros. levels and compassion.

I keep telling people that you’re really coming into your own lately. But that’s not true. You’ve always known who you are – even at a very young age. You’re stubborn, incredibly smart, logical, have a sarcastic wit about you, the gears always turning, a fantastic brother, a natural leader and a sweet, old soul who is wise beyond your years. But lately, you’ve grown more sure of yourself, gained a bit of much needed confidence and the dimples that have returned to your cheeks make me so very proud.

I am extremely proud of you.

I know. It’s not cool for me to say it. You don’t like to hear it. But it’s important that I tell you anyway.

And E, I know this has been a rough year or so. You have been so strong and helpful and honest. I love that. I owe you the same. So just know that while I can’t always get you everything you want, I promise to give you everything you need.

I love you E-man. Happy, happy birthday.

Love,
Mom

______________________
*Song: The White Buffalo’s “The Pilot”

2012: Facing the front

Posted on December 29, 2011 by admin

photo credit

I don’t particularly care to look back on this past year and recollect or reminisce about the good and the bad. In brief, I had hoped for better and I’m grateful it wasn’t worse. And while the weather, in general, was great — it was a hell of a storm.

I don’t know if I’m just that hopeful about 2012 or if it’s that I just need to have hope in 2012, but thank god 2011 is over and the feeling of starting anew is here – even if it is more symbolic than tangible.

Normally I’m not one to set concrete resolutions but I’ll admit to having a few for this coming year. Nothing too lofty; just a few items I would love to check off for me.

_ learn to skateboard with my boys
_ go back to Manhattan
_ learn Russian fluently
_ visit Savannah again
_ learn to play the guitar
_ land a great job
_ learn to dance in the rain

I know. The last one is incredibly cheesy. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read the quote: “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.” and thought “yeah, yeah, yeah” while rolling my eyes, heavy with cynicism and ill with cliche.

Then, after coming across it for the eleventy billionth time the other day, after having a hard day of trying – and failing miserably – to suck it up, it sunk in. The words actually meant something. The quote finally and suddenly resonated and I realized how much it pertained to me right now, in this very moment in my life.

This – right now – is my storm. But I’m no longer bunkering down or looking for a place to hide from the ominous clouds. I refuse to stay inside where it’s easy and safe any longer. Instead, I’m going to face the front. I’m going to seek out the puddles and splash though them. I’m going to get my feet wet, let my mascara run and learn to love to dance in the rain.

And play guitar. And learn Russian fluently. And a number of other things.

And I’m ready.

Two places to call home

Posted on December 16, 2011 by admin

“Never worry about the size of your Christmas tree. In the eyes of children, they are all 30 feet tall.” — Larry Wilde

I’ll be honest. I kind of fretted over this Charlie Brown-sized Christmas tree. I fret over a lot of things these days – some warranted, but most things not so much. In all honestly, this little three-and-a-half-foot tree was what the boys wanted. It’s what they picked out. They were proud that they could pick it up themselves. (“See?! I can lift it!” Followed immediately by demonstrating their ability to throw it too.)

Well, okay. If that’s what they really wanted.

Truthfully, it would be easier for me too. It would fit better in the apartment, it would be easier to keep from falling and it would be easier to haul out to the trash the day after. So we bought it. They decorated it in two minutes flat. One box of lights was enough to light it up. And, embarrassingly, it wouldn’t take eight thousand gifts beneath it to make it look like the Christmases they are used to. “You know, when you guys weren’t divorced and everything was still normal” as they often reference.

It stings.

For the first time since the separation my youngest screamed and cried to go to his dad’s house instead of stay with me. Arms straight out, crying for his dad not to leave him, me trying to put him back in his bed and not be completely broken right then, right there in front of him, so incredibly hurt as his father reassured him that he would get to come ‘home’ in two days.

But this is his home too, I thought. This apartment, a fucking nice apartment at that, is his home too. They have beds and books and toys and clothes and everything they need here. They live here too.

After finally getting him settled down and asleep I padded back out to the living room, feeling completely shattered, only to see that little Christmas tree still cheerfully lit. I wanted to throw it away. Just pick it up and throw it as far as I could. I shook my head, the lights blurring. Was it just an apartment-sized Christmas tree and not a home-sized one? Is that why the boys wanted a little one? Because they would have a ‘real’ one at ‘home?’ I yanked the plug from the wall and the lights went dim.

A day or two later I came across a quote I’d seen years ago about not worrying about the size of your Christmas tree because in the eyes of children, they are all 30 feet tall. I looked back at the photos I took of them choosing their tree. They were so proud to pick out that tree; it was all theirs to decorate and do as they pleased with it. And I realized that this apartment is no different. It might not be where they started out their childhood, but it’s where they’re also growing up and it is their home. It’s theirs to live in and play in. They got to help pick it out and decorate it and make it their own too. And it’s just going to take a little while for them to see how lucky they are to have two places to call home.