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.

Friends with Benefits – The real life ending

Posted on December 13, 2011 by admin

Did you see the movie Friends with Benefits? (It’s the one with Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis, not to be confused with the very similar movie No Strings Attached with Ashton Kutcher and Natalie Portman – a That 70s Show one-up-man-ship of movies with almost identical plots. To save you time, I will say that in my opinion, FWB clearly outshines NSA in humor, setting and helllllo! MILA KUNIS! Can you say girl crush? Rawrrrr!) This is where I should be like “Hey! Spoiler alert if you haven’t already seen FWB,” but honestly, if you can’t guess how this movie ends, well, REALLY?

I loved FWB. It was funny, it was set in Manhattan and you wanted to be Mila’s character, Jamie – strong, I-don’t-need-no-man attitude, successful, sexy and able to effectively manage a friends with benefits scenario and without coming off slutty. The chemistry between Mila and Justin was intense and the no bullshit beauty of “Jamie” and “Dylan’s” arrangement would have any audience convinced that a friends with benefits situation just may be worth a shot in real life.

It was like for once the producers got it right.

Except. Oh wait. No they didn’t.

Because what’s a perfect Yes! This! movie without a Hollywood ending that immediately ruins everything that had you nodding in agreement before it? Where I was once hallelujah-ing and amen-ing, I was suddenly what-the-fucking and scrunching up my nose and shaking my damn head. Seriously? The cheesiest of all Oh-My-God-I-Really-Do-Love-You-After-All endings was before me.

Ugh.

Dear Hollywood,

For once, get it right. Don’t give us the ending we’re rooting for; the ending we wish we could have. Give us the ending we know too well. The ending we can expect. The only reason we hope for these bullshit Grand Central embraces and firework explosions is because YOU make us think it happens that way. And not just sometimes, but every time. Just one time, show us a friends with benefits scenario where the girl starts to have feelings for the guy and he freaks because, uh, that was never the deal. Or where a guy and girl are BFFs, that’s all, and suddenly the guy has feelings for the girl and she doesn’t feel the same and it makes her back off. Sure, you’re in the MOVIE business. But that’s LIFE. And? It’s never being accurately portrayed on the big screen. Hell, call it a documentary if you want.

Love,
Me

‘Cause here’s the deal. Ever since I saw FWB I’ve interrogated my friends in their various life scenarios (married, single, divorced, everywhere in-between) about it – the whole idea of a friends with benefits scenario leading up to that damned perfect ending… and you know what? We call bullshit. Because when is that ever the ending? That’s the dream.

You want to know why ‘casual’ has a ridiculously amazing fail rate? Here it is: Because 90 percent of girls, 90 percent of the time, are only willing to sleep with a guy they have at least some sort of feelings for. Maybe it’s just an initial attraction. Maybe it’s things in common. Whatever. And for most women, sex has intimacy ties. Therefore, thereby, howto, forego, those slight feelings for Mr. Casual are only going to be amplified when you bring sex into the equation. [Sure, I'm making up the percentages, but trust me, they're not that far off.]

Now scientists, researchers, every day women have long surmised that men, on the other hand, are better at compartmentalizing things in their brain. Sex can just be sex without co-mingling those damned emotions. So when a guy says ‘just sex’ he actually means it. A woman may want to mean it but can’t always help but feel more. [We don't compartmentalize; we tangle everything together. If you bought us a dress and it's too big it's because you think we're fat because the other night you turned the lights off before coming to bed to have sex doggy-style so you didn't have to look at our face. See?]

So guess which sex ends up feeling burned in the end? Yeah.

Wake up, Hollywood. Not every romantic comedy should end Happily Ever After. That’s what fairy tales are for.

Letting go of what could have been

Posted on December 9, 2011 by admin

It took a while but I finally put all those things away. The things that reminded me of him. Of us. I put them in a box and inched it up on a shelf, standing barefooted and on tip-toes, pushing the memories of him and I up out of reach; finally out of sight from every day glances.

I should have thrown them away – those little nothings that I still hold onto – rather than put them somewhere for me to stumble upon on some unsuspecting day. But something about them – something about him – keeps me hostage and I find myself hanging on still.

I can’t seem to let go of what could have been; the proof in that box up in the closet – rather than the dumpster – and I make a promise to myself that I won’t sift through the sadness and buy into the blissfully blind beginnings that are captured in there but instead learn from them. They are tangible pieces of a time that was never real – as though I’d dreamt of the sea only to wake up smelling of the ocean; a mirage so vivid that on some days I still can’t discern whether it ever actually happened or not.

Where pictures of Then were once pinned against the wall, new squared photographs of memories with no bitter aftertastes now stare back at me from behind my computer; symbolic four-by-four inch infomercials promising happier outcomes are possible! But I shrug at them dejectedly. Gorgeous sunsets and significant places, my favorite things in snapshots, and my face falls, defeated. Because it’s not the same. It’s not then. It’s not there. It’s not him. It’s not now.

It’s over.

Channeling Eleanor Roosevelt

Posted on November 30, 2011 by admin

I’ll be honest: I clearly had no idea what I was getting into when I threw out the Operation Eleanor 30 Day Challenge. And that’s probably a good thing because had I any idea of how hard those thirty days would be, I don’t know that I would have had the courage to take them on. But then, that’s kind of the whole idea of OpEleanor now isn’t it?

Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” And I was tired of living in fear. Tired of taking the easy way out. Tired of not trying new things and avoiding the more difficult scenarios in life if there was a way to duck out. So it was on. I was going to do this. Bring it, Eleanor.

Then I casually threw out the challenge to you. And to my surprise, you showed up and you did so in a big way. Suddenly this personal little challenge became something more; something very meaningful to not just me – but to many – and it took on a life of its own. Wildly inspiring #OpEleanor tweets were coming and going, courageous blog posts and ping-backs were floating around, motivational quotes were everywhere, and, best yet, a small community of people sprouted, encouraging and congratulating one another on accomplishments big and small.

And while it may have started with an inspirational quote by Ms. Roosevelt, in the end, it was you who gave me courage, made me rethink what I did, kept me going when I wanted to hesitate and got me through thirty amazingly terrifying yet liberating days.

So, thank you. More than you’ll ever know.

In the month of November, I:

asked for help from family
applied for jobs
confronted someone who had hurt me
got back to baking fondant cakes
returned to the bank where my sister was held-up
stuck-it-out though an evening I desperately wanted to flee
flew on an airplane
took a trip on tight budget and stuck to it
jumped a fence at a brewery to get a photo I really wanted
asked for assistance from a stranger
admitted a humbling truth to myself
said everything without holding back in case it was my only chance to do so
talked about the skeletons in my closet
got out of bed and faced a horrible reality
networked with friends
said the things you’re not supposed to say out loud on my blog
held my ground even when I didn’t want to
got over my fear of doing holiday cards & took the boys’ photographs
stopped avoiding my friends who cared and sat down & talked with them again
let the boys go to Disneyland with my parents without me
sent a total shot-in-the-dark email for something I desperately wanted
finally moved my blog to wordpress, without worrying about losing 4+ yrs of posts
started MMA classes for me
tackled a touchy topic with family
went on my 1st job interview in forever
faced the infamous Hill in MMA – the only girl – and didn’t quit
returned the stuff I bought for a trip that was, apparently, never meant to be
agreed to run a Ragnar marathon in October – a bucket list item!
let someone back into my life
‘blegged’ for a good cause
did bench presses at MMA – a huge fear of mine because of my aneurysm
went out with new people instead of waiting around for someone else to not show
cooked my own Thanksgiving dinner for the first time ever
faced my ex-extended family for the 1st time in over a year
had a frank conversation with a friend, realizing it’s “gut-check time”
set boundaries and stuck to them
rehearsed what I need to say, even though I wish I didn’t have to say it
applied for my passport
finally asked the name of someone I speak to every day
decided I have nothing left to say to someone who can’t hear it anyway
started xmas shopping even though I am having a hard time getting in the spirit
pushed myself harder than ever physically
inquiring minds asked a friend to find out more
put my own ideas out there with enthusiasm and confidence

What’s weird is that prior to November 1st, I had made a list of a few ideas for fears I could attempt to tackle during OpEleanor. But you know what? Almost none of them made this list of what I accomplished because, as it turns out, life had its own challenges planned for me. I still haven’t learned to ride a bike (soon!) and I didn’t go out to lunch by myself just because and I still have never had Thai food or tried a Zumba class. But this is the lesson, at least for me, in all this. This, is life. You don’t get to pick what scares you; what challenges you on a daily basis. But you do have the ability to pick and choose how you handle those fears. And I know for me, this Operation Eleanor 30 Day Challenge will forever change the way I make decisions. I can no longer hesitate and go the other way; instead I pause and a voice inside my head taunts me “Yeah but… OpEleanor!” And there we go, it’s on. All over again.

Thank you, Eleanor.

You, who couldn’t love me

Posted on November 9, 2011 by admin

I'll admit, for a long time I waited for you to call. I checked my phone for missed calls when I knew it hadn't rang. Because my phone never left my pocket. For weeks I held my breath at the sound of footsteps outside my window even though I knew they weren't yours; I knew better than to think you were coming back. Yet I would close my eyes and wait anyway for the doorbell to not ring. I watched the clock for more minutes, hours, days than I care to confess for your call to never come. For closure, I told myself. But really, I just wanted to hear your voice.

I would have taken you back.

I shouldn't have, but I would have.

I reasoned that you were busy working. You were probably tired. But you probably missed me. Maybe you missed me? Maybe you were thinking of me? Maybe I wasn't out of sight, out of mind. You might not have called that night but the next night? You would. And when you didn't, I was certain you would tomorrow. Because of all the things I knew that I knew, it was that you were better than that.

I was certain you were better than that.

In the wee hours of the morning, when I would finally give in that this night was not the night you were going to come through, I intentionally avoided my own reflection in the mirror knowing I would only see the epitome of pathetic looking back at me.

I couldn't stand to look at me anymore.

Finally, after weeks of that song on repeat, I turned it off. It was like pulling the plug on everything that had sparked life in me for that little while. Lying awake in the dark, the irony still singing, "You. You bring me to my knees in spite of all these lies that I would just love to believe…" The words haunting me.

I wanted to be angry at you. Look at what you had done to me. Look at who I had become. Mad at you for turning me into the girl who sits and waits and watches the phone and looks through the peephole and what the fuck? repeatedly allows herself to be hurt and sad and miserable and chalks it up to 'worth it' just to be with you.

Angry at you for being someone I thought I could trust and open up to, for saying those things – those things you just don't say to a girl unless you mean them – and then disappearing. Furious at you for making me feel so worthwhile and then so worthless – like everything and nothing – in such a short period of time.

But the truth is, I'm just mad at me for loving you, who couldn't love me.

Skeletons in the closet

Posted on November 7, 2011 by admin

I only deep-clean when I'm angry. And I was angry. Rather than be spending time cleaning out a closet and re-organizing purses, wallets, clothes, shoes and every accessory I own by color, style and length I would have preferred to be seeking revenge. That kind of angry.

It's a damn good thing I chose the closet.

Or so I thought.

Inside that closet I didn't just come face to face with bad fashion choices and ill-fated purchases; I ended up confronting my past. Notes from a marital counseling session found in an old purse. God. My wedding ring which no longer fits. Fitting. The Hawaiian carving from our Maui trip that was supposed to bring us good luck. Right. An entire box of momentos from that trip. We were already having trouble.

I was only trying to clean out the closet.

See? THIS is why I don't clean.

Perched up on one of the shelves sat my old jewelry box which, in reality, became more of a keepsake box, having never been one to wear jewelry, even my wedding ring. I got it down, curious what memories might lie in it. Definitely handmade macaroni bracelets and necklaces from the boys, that much I could count on.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw.

The bracelet my Dad gave me at my eighth grade graduation. The purple bow I wore at Maddie's service. The visitor badges I saved from Big T's plastic surgery. The cigar my Dad and I were supposed to smoke together on his 50th birthday and never got around to it.

And then that tongue depressor my sister made me that night in the ER. Dated and everything.

I started crying. Hard. There, on the floor in my closet I cried out loud, for no one to hear, mascara burning my eyes, letting go of I don't know what.

Everything.

Something.

Anything.

All of it.

So much has been welling up in me the last few weeks and I've complained and joked and rationalized and refused to stop and feel any of it. My past has been haunting me more than usual and in more ways than one and in my typical keep-my-head-up-high demeanor, I've carried on with a la-la-la-I-can't-hear-you-life! attitude.

It catches up with you.

It caught up with me.

People ask why I'm doing this 30 day challenge Operation Eleanor. Some have even suggested I seem so 'fearless' they are curious what my fears could possibly be. The truth is? I'm afraid of everything. Everything. And it's exhausting. It's exhausting to be constantly afraid and it's exhausting to not live the life you want to live because you're too afraid.

It's time for me to get rid of the skeletons in my closet. Or at least face them. And it's harder than I could have ever imagined.