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.

Two points

Posted on February 26, 2012 by admin

He made his first basket at the very last game of the season. It happened so fast I couldn’t even register what was happening until it had already happened and before the cheering and the yelling and the “YEAH BUDDY’s” could escape me, the tears already were.

I’m not ashamed to be that mom. I’m lucky to be her.

Those two points rippled through that gym, sending a wave of emotion through parents and teammates who hardly know him. Strangers on their feet screaming. The assistant coach, already limping from an injury, ran up and down the court high-fiving anyone and everyone, screaming like it were his own son. The ref who had spent the entire season blowing the whistle at traveling, calling fouls and trying to get the boys to stay out of the key for too long came over to tell him how proud he was of him.

It was never about being the best; it was about getting his moment.

He got his moment. And he was at his very best.

I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with pride. Not just by his two points but by the boy who gets teased for being the short guy on the court. For the boy who understands his position in the game better than anyone but doesn’t always get passed the ball. For the boy who, when I asked later “Are you proud of yourself?” replied humbly, “Maybe.”

Be proud, dude. For this, for everything, for being who you are.

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.

Undomestic Diva

Doin' the best I can… When I feel like it

Category Archives: Why So Serious

Two points