Since around the beginning of December, all of the hipsters have been abuzz with their "best of" lists, especially the ones comprised of the albums and singles of 2011. I love reading through them, mostly because as a self-proclaimed music snob it reaffirms my belief that everyone who works in the music industry is secretly twelve years old (two words: Justin Beiber). Anyway, I figure if they can write a "best of" music list, so can I, but hopefully with a bit of a twist.
For me, 2011 was a year of really high highs and really low lows. Music is my safety blanket and always makes me feel better, or lets me know when it's okay to wallow a little (I strongly believe both things are of equal importance). My list is a bit of a cheater list because not everything I loved this year came out in 2011, but what's the point of having your own blog if you can't bend the rules a little?! So instead, my personal "best of" list is a top ten list of all of the songs I loved in 2011 whether they came out this year or not. Take that, Rolling Stone Magazine!
#1: The Healer: Florence and The Machine "Rabbit Heart (Raise It up)"
If you've had a conversation with me about music anytime over the last two years, it's likely I've cornered you and talked your ear off about Florence and The Machine. I absolutely love Florence's voice and writing style and feel like she figured out a way to set herself apart from all of the other female singers (good or bad) that have come out the last couple of years. But my Florence turning point came right after my dad passed away. Driving home from the funeral, I listened to this song over and over. It was so ridiculously fitting to how I felt in that (horrible) moment of my life that I truly felt like the song was written for me and she was reaching out to me personally (cheesy I know, but true). It was one of those rare "okay to wallow" moments that always wind up making you feel a little better.
#2: The Kid's Choice: Fitz And The Tantrums "Don't Gotta Work It Out". I don't know what it is about this song, but Layla and Ben could be in the worst mood ever and this song would make them laugh and dance. We were all instantly hooked and chances are good that if I made you a mix in 2011, this song was on it. (And just a side note, it takes a really good song to almost ignore the fact that the lead singer is a cheese ball in a pink suit...you know, almost...)
#3: The Popular Girl: Adelle "Rumor Has It". Okay, so I didn't go with the obvious Adele choice ("Rolling In The Deep") but nonetheless, Adele is loved by practically everyone I know from Beiber fans to heavy metal enthusiasts. I don't know how she does it, but she really did manage to get to everyone this year. "Rumor Has It" is my personal favorite off of her 2011 album and reminds me of driving to school at 6 AM for my 7 AM math final and not even feeling mad about it. In other words, Adele is a miracle worker.
#4 The Deep Thinkers: Mumford And Sons "The Cave". Josh and I have had countless conversations about how much we love these guys. It's hard to combine self-loathing and unbridled hopefulness on the same album, much less the same song, but they manage to do it and most importantly, to do it brilliantly. These guys are a ray of sunshine in an increasingly dismal music industry and if you don't already have this album, you're seriously missing out. Also, it's nice to see someone finally making the banjo cool.
#5 The One The Magazines And I Can Agree On: Wilco "Whole Love". I've liked Wilco for a long time and then we watched a documentary about them a few months ago that made me officially fall in love. In a time when it seems like everyone is pumping out generic music to make a quick dollar, the fact that there are still bands around that care about the quality of their music and the people who listen to it is amazingly refreshing. And on a completely different note, if you have a minute to waste on Youtube (you know you do!) check out Wilco's lead singer Jeff Tweedy randomly showing up on the Chicago news and doing the weather. It's priceless.
#6: Music's Finest Collaboration: She and Him "In The Sun". 2011 was, without a doubt, the year of Zooey Deschanel. She was in "New Girl" and about sixteen different movies, ads, commercials and so many other things that it felt like no matter where you looked, she was in your face. And somehow, I'm not sick of her in the slightest. In fact, if anything, the Zooey D. saturation of 2011 made her even more adorable. Also, every promotional She and Him performance I watched this year made me realize that M. Ward (aka Him in She and Him) is just too cool for words.
#7 The Cover Boys: Vampire Weekend "Everywhere" (Fleetwood Mac cover). I have a confession to make. I morph into a fire-breathing-music-snob every time someone does a cover. I feel like this is mostly justified because it's just not natural for Beyonce to cover Kings of Leon, but it happened (seriously, google it) and the fact remains that most covers are the cringe-worthy red-headed-stepchildren of the original song. Maybe it's because Vampire Weekend is one of my favorite bands, rendering me completely biased, or because I was having a Fleetwood Mac kind of year, but I love this cover. Ezra (I can practically hear Josh in my head saying "Don't say 'the lead singer' like you don't know their names!")'s voice is perfect for the song and the boys know how to rock.
#8 The One I liked, But Never Fully Understood Until 2011: Fleetwood Mac "Landslide". I love Fleetwood Mac and I have always thought this was a pretty fantastic song, but something in my head clicked this year and this song finally made perfect sense to me. I suspect it's because I'm getting old, but I'll try to leave it open to interpretation.
#9 The Guilty Pleasure: Cee Lo Green "Forget You". I know, I know, but this song is so unbelievably catchy that I defy you not to shake your booty when it comes on. Just finding the video (which is also awesome) guarantees this song will be stuck in my head for at least a week. I don't watch The Voice and I don't even like Cee Lo very much generally (with the exception of a few Gnarles Barkley songs) but I couldn't bring myself to change the station whenever this song came on the radio.
#10: The Summarizer: The Head and The Heart "Lost In My Mind". I obviously didn't write this song and therefore can't say with total certainty what it's about, but to me it feels like a lesson in trudging through the lowest lows and sailing through the highest highs all while trying your best not to lose sight of hope. Which in a nutshell, perfectly sums up my 2011.
Happy New Year Friends...The best is yet to come...
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Twenty Seven Year Awkward Phase
If you've ever realized that the car parked next to you isn't empty as you originally presumed, but in fact full of people that have just spent the last three and a half minutes watching you do the robot to a John Mayer song, then you know exactly what it's like to be me.
If you've ever watched Paul Rudd in "I Love You, Man" (or pretty much another Paul Rudd movie) and cringed at his total all-encompassing awkwardness, how he can't seem to squeak out a coherent sentence much less play it cool, then you can relate to a day in my life.
I'm so embarrassingly awkward. I have a hard time talking to people I don't know well and find myself either completely tongue-tied or talking endlessly about nothing. The awkward thing I'm the most famous for is what Josh refers to as my "fade to black". As in, I'm talking and I realize that: a) I have no idea what I'm talking about, b) that I have been talking entirely too long or c) that the person I'm talking to has absolutely no idea what I'm talking about, so I just sort of mumble something incoherent and stop talking. Just in case you're wondering, this trick never works. People always say "What?" or "I didn't catch that last part" and it takes all of my willpower as an adult not to point over their shoulder and say "What is that?" and run away when they turn to look.
Unfortunately, I'm also physically awkward, which I've always blamed on being tall. I've spent a lifetime not really knowing what to do with my arms and legs and if there's something to trip over, I'll be the first one to do it (even if I'm just tripping over my own feet). Usually, this is where my physical awkwardness and social awkwardness decide to combine forces and I'll say something extra awkward and goofy (like "Whoa, who put my feet there?") to cover up the fact that I tripped. And no, that never works either.
It's a universal truth that everyone in the world goes through an awkward stage. It's also a universal truth that you eventually get over it. But while everyone else seems to have grown out of their awkward stage, me (and Paul Rudd apparently, although I've watched interviews and real-life Paul Rudd is one of the coolest, non-awkward people ever. Jerk.) are stuck in limbo.. Doesn't being an adult automatically make you less awkward? I'm not a skinny thirteen year old with glasses and braces anymore, so why do I still feel like I am? When will it end?!
I wish I was cool and graceful like whatever the female equivalent of Ryan Gosling would be (Olivia Wilde? Emily Blunt?). In the meantime, I'm the person you can always count on for cringe-worthy moments that probably make you glad that you're not me. And if you're a fan of people who do the robot to John Mayer or the running man to Vampire Weekend, then I will never disappoint.
If you've ever watched Paul Rudd in "I Love You, Man" (or pretty much another Paul Rudd movie) and cringed at his total all-encompassing awkwardness, how he can't seem to squeak out a coherent sentence much less play it cool, then you can relate to a day in my life.
I'm so embarrassingly awkward. I have a hard time talking to people I don't know well and find myself either completely tongue-tied or talking endlessly about nothing. The awkward thing I'm the most famous for is what Josh refers to as my "fade to black". As in, I'm talking and I realize that: a) I have no idea what I'm talking about, b) that I have been talking entirely too long or c) that the person I'm talking to has absolutely no idea what I'm talking about, so I just sort of mumble something incoherent and stop talking. Just in case you're wondering, this trick never works. People always say "What?" or "I didn't catch that last part" and it takes all of my willpower as an adult not to point over their shoulder and say "What is that?" and run away when they turn to look.
Unfortunately, I'm also physically awkward, which I've always blamed on being tall. I've spent a lifetime not really knowing what to do with my arms and legs and if there's something to trip over, I'll be the first one to do it (even if I'm just tripping over my own feet). Usually, this is where my physical awkwardness and social awkwardness decide to combine forces and I'll say something extra awkward and goofy (like "Whoa, who put my feet there?") to cover up the fact that I tripped. And no, that never works either.
It's a universal truth that everyone in the world goes through an awkward stage. It's also a universal truth that you eventually get over it. But while everyone else seems to have grown out of their awkward stage, me (and Paul Rudd apparently, although I've watched interviews and real-life Paul Rudd is one of the coolest, non-awkward people ever. Jerk.) are stuck in limbo.. Doesn't being an adult automatically make you less awkward? I'm not a skinny thirteen year old with glasses and braces anymore, so why do I still feel like I am? When will it end?!
I wish I was cool and graceful like whatever the female equivalent of Ryan Gosling would be (Olivia Wilde? Emily Blunt?). In the meantime, I'm the person you can always count on for cringe-worthy moments that probably make you glad that you're not me. And if you're a fan of people who do the robot to John Mayer or the running man to Vampire Weekend, then I will never disappoint.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
You Get What You Give (TOMS Books For Bloggers)
Maybe it's because I'm pushing thirty or because I'm the mother of two children who are becoming increasingly aware of the world around them, but I began to feel like I wasn't doing enough of anything worthwhile with my time. It's what drew to into finding my purpose and in turn what drew me to Blake Mycoskie's book, Start Something That Matters.
By now we have all seen those cute slide-on shoes with TOMS stitched on the back. We know they're simple in design, relatively inexpensive, and somehow always manage to be in style, particularly on college campuses worldwide. Unfortunately, if you're anything like me, that might be just about all that you know. But not for long.
The first thing Start Something That Matters lets you in on is that Toms is not your typical company and wild-haired, board-short-wearing Mycoskie is far from a typical CEO. An acronym for Shoes for Tomorrow (which above all finally solved the mystery as to why a guy named Blake would have a company called Toms), Toms ensures that with every pair of shoes purchased a child in need receives a pair of shoes too. It is instant charity for a generation of people who want to give but usually don’t have the first idea how to go about it. The simplicity of the concept is incredible; one for you, one for me. When you really stop to think about it, it’s amazing that no one thought of it before. What might be more amazing is that Blake Mycoskie doesn’t want to hide his secret to success, but rather he wants to share it in hopes that everyone will be inspired enough to start something of their own that matters. Which brings us to me.
Last summer I decided to start a book club. I realize that this isn’t the world’s most original idea and that on paper a book club might sound boring and old fashioned, but I like to read and frankly I needed some kind of social life in the worst way. To be honest, I tend to join things rather than start them, so even beginning something felt like a huge obstacle. I set up the meetings to be once a month and the first meeting was held in July. Two meetings later and we were up to twenty people. Because of our shared love for books and wine we decided to call ourselves Reading Between The Wines. We are a diverse group of women from all different walks of life, ethnicities, religions and political parties who get along amazingly. That might not sound like that big of a deal, but the thing is, typically women aren’t very kind to each other. The sad reality is that movies like “Mean Girls” are more fact than fiction and all you have to do is turn on any reality TV show to see the image of women as catty backstabbers, who see each other as competition rather than friends. Women have fought long and hard for so many years for equalization and to be seen as being just as intelligent as men, but turn on the TV and it’s hard to find anything other than Kardashians or The Real Housewives of Wherever displaying not much more than woman-on-woman hate. And yet, once a month I sit in a room full of women who could have easily let their differences get between them but instead chose to focus on what they have in common, in our case a love of great books and great wine. It gives me hope that together we can change the grotesquely inaccurate stereotype of women and bring the importance of intelligence and friendship to the forefront.
I don’t have a product to sell or give away (at least not right now), it’s attitudes and prejudices that I want to change. We have big plans for the coming year, including a book drive in January with all books to be donated to the library at the Women’s correctional facility, because women should be kind to each other no matter what their situation in life is. In addition to our New Mexico branch, we have expanded to Georgia, Ohio, Iowa, and Oregon with hopes of more branches in the future. It’s still pretty fresh, but I already owe much of my inspiration (as well as figuring out the practicalities of a non-profit) to Start Something That Matters.
Start Something That Matters is enlightening and informative, and my only complaint is that it has a tendency to drag at times. Mycoskie recounts the start-ups that inspired him and cites quotes and passages in a way that can often read a lot like a college term paper. If you’re expecting a biography of a man, Mycoskie is quick to let you know that this is the story behind the company, not the story behind the story. In fact, very little of his personal life is revealed at all, aside from an occasional short, well-placed anecdote.
Whether you want to start a for-profit business like Toms or change the world in whatever way you choose, Start Something That Matters is worth a read. Mycoskie offers up so much information, advice, and even free sites to get you started that literally all that’s missing from the book is his hand reaching out to physically shove you in the right direction. This isn’t taking business advice from Donald Trump or any of the hundreds of questionable CEOs of questionable companies, this is taking advice from someone who is truly practicing what they preach (so much so that he recently trimmed down the unnecessary excess in his own life and now lives in a two hundred square foot sailboat. Can you picture Donald Trump living on a tiny boat? Yeah, me neither). Start Something That Matters is equal parts refreshing and inspiring and will undoubtedly leave all aspiring entrepreneurs shaking in their Toms.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Thank You
I don't know about you guys, but sometimes I get so caught up in all of the day-to-day madness that I turn into a giant ball of stress and forget that I have a lot to be thankful for in my life. Since it's Thanksgiving, the national day of stuffing your face and remembering what you're grateful for, I thought I'd share a bit of what I'm grateful for with all of you.
First and foremost, I'm grateful that I married such a great guy who is willing to put up with me, because ten out of ten ex-boyfriends will all agree that I'm a giant pain in the butt. Someone loving you for exactly who you are with no exceptions is something no one should ever take for granted, even though I know I sometimes do. I like to think that if Josh and I were a celebrity couple, we'd be Marge and Homer Simpson. It's not always perfect. We get annoyed with each other sometimes, but at the end of the day (whether that day was good or bad) we're still a team. And, like Homer, Josh can always get out of trouble by making me laugh. He's the guy I've loved for a decade plus one, and it doesn't get much better than that, kids.
I don't know if there will ever be words to properly describe how incredibly thankful I am for Ben and Layla. They are the reason why I work hard, strive for more, and try to be the best possible version of myself. They've taught me a lot so far, the most important being how to love completely unconditionally. It will be a long time before I can sleep in, travel lightly, be spontaneous, go to the movies to see something other than a cartoon, or sit on the couch without being climbed on, and I am one hundred percent okay with that. I'm thankful that I'm lucky enough to spend every day with them, watching them grow in every way possible. My only complaint is that they are both growing up way too fast.
I'm thankful this year to have such an amazing family and family-in-law. I lost my dad this year, but I gained a little brother and a sweet little nephew. I had a lot of ups and downs this year but I always felt like I had my families to help me through. Thank you for all of the support. I love you guys!
Happy Thanksgiving.
First and foremost, I'm grateful that I married such a great guy who is willing to put up with me, because ten out of ten ex-boyfriends will all agree that I'm a giant pain in the butt. Someone loving you for exactly who you are with no exceptions is something no one should ever take for granted, even though I know I sometimes do. I like to think that if Josh and I were a celebrity couple, we'd be Marge and Homer Simpson. It's not always perfect. We get annoyed with each other sometimes, but at the end of the day (whether that day was good or bad) we're still a team. And, like Homer, Josh can always get out of trouble by making me laugh. He's the guy I've loved for a decade plus one, and it doesn't get much better than that, kids.
I don't know if there will ever be words to properly describe how incredibly thankful I am for Ben and Layla. They are the reason why I work hard, strive for more, and try to be the best possible version of myself. They've taught me a lot so far, the most important being how to love completely unconditionally. It will be a long time before I can sleep in, travel lightly, be spontaneous, go to the movies to see something other than a cartoon, or sit on the couch without being climbed on, and I am one hundred percent okay with that. I'm thankful that I'm lucky enough to spend every day with them, watching them grow in every way possible. My only complaint is that they are both growing up way too fast.
Last, but certainly not least, I'm thankful for all of the great friends I've made and all of the old friends I've reconnected with this year. I went from being isolated on Mom Island to having a really amazing group of friends. I've spent a lot of my life feeling like I was more of a guy's girl than a girl's girl and I really feel like I'm appreciating women's friendship for the first time in my life. I'm also thankful for the book club (and all of its wonderful potential) for providing me with a cause to strive for and further direction in my life. I love the unwavering enthusiasm of all of the members and how quick they are to not only support the cause, but to make sure we all have more fun than any book club before. You rock, ladies!!
Husband, kids, family, friends...I may not have the most creative list of things to be thankful for, but I'm incredibly thankful nonetheless. This has been a year of love, friendship, and opportunity, and in many ways it's also been a year of struggle and loss. But good or bad, I wouldn't trade my life for anything in the world.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Stairway To Heaven
Last night I had one of the craziest, scariest, most realistic dreams I have ever had.
In the dream, I was in the middle of a big open field that was completely empty except for a single flight of stairs going up. Naturally, a mysterious flight of stairs in the middle of nowhere is too tempting for someone as nosy as me to resist, so I started climbing up. I climbed and climbed until the railings disappeared and I was just surrounded by clouds. I looked further up and saw that the stairs led to a giant slide even higher up in the sky. Like the stairs, it had no railing and was surrounded by nothing but clouds, nothing to protect you from falling right off. It was at that moment that I realized I wasn't the only one there. I was surrounded by people and they were all falling off, either on the stairs or the slide. People fell right past me and I could actually hear the woosh sound they made as they passed by my ears and a sickening thud as they hit the ground. Terrified, I decided I wasn't curious about the stairs anymore and I wanted to turn around and climb back down. But I couldn't. As I had climbed up each stair it disappeared, leaving me with a steep drop-off and absolutely no way to back down. As it continued to rain people around me, I sat down the step I was on, paralyzed with fear. Do I give up? Do I risk climbing all the way up only to fall off?
Luckily, my alarm woke me up before I had to make the decision, my jaw aching and my mouth covered in gritty tooth fragments, a sure sign I'd been grinding my teeth in my sleep yet again. My stomach was still in knots and my mind was still just as full of "what ifs" as it had been when I went to bed. The question in my head remained; How can I possibly pull this off?
But, as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself, so let's back up a bit.
A few weeks ago I was on Facebook and I noticed that TOMS shoes was holding a contest called Books For Bloggers. Their Chief Shoe Giver (AKA founder) Blake Mycoskie recently wrote a book called "Start Something That Matters" and they wanted someone to review it, someone who not only blogged, but was also trying to start something of their own (be it a business, organization, non-profit or whatever). To enter, I had to write about what it was I was trying to create as well as why my blog would be a good place to post the review. So not only did I have to articulate what it was I was trying to accomplish (when I'm still not entirely sure what it is) but I also had to talk myself up. A lot. And for someone who has a blog dedicated to basically writing about their life, I really, really suck at talking about myself.
Not only that, but I'm really picky about what I have to say and how I choose to say it. I edit and revise to the point of driving myself insane. In fact, the very words you are reading right now have been read over and over until I was practically cross-eyed. I really can't say why, but the day I decided to enter the TOMS contest, I just sat down and wrote. And wrote and wrote. I didn't create a word document to save and revise (and obsess over). For once in my life I just wrote without consciously thinking about what I was writing, like my fingers on the keyboard were a separate entity from the rest of my body. I was inspired, sure, but I somehow managed to get out of my own head for a change, and if you've known me for longer than five minutes, you know what an amazing thing that is.
But here's the thing. Everyone and their mother is on Facebook holding different contests every day, and they all manage to fly under my radar. This one felt like a hand reached out of my computer and slapped me across the face. Not to sound like a total crazy person, but it felt like it was created to motivate me.
As you might recall, in my last blog, I wrote about our book club and how, while it's a really fun, social thing to do, I want to turn it into something bigger and more meaningful and I've spent the last few weeks obsessing over how to do that. The contest caught my attention because I love the story behind TOMS shoes, love that it was created by a young college dropout who yes, wanted to start a successful business, but also genuinely wanted to help out others. At the core of my motivation to enter was pure curiosity at how this guy managed to pull it all off. In other words, I probably would have bought the book anyway, but the contest gave one away for free, and free is always good. Plus, if I won, it might be good publicity for both my cause and blog. I figured I had nothing to lose except actually losing the contest and since I didn't even tell anyone I entered, no one would know I lost.
And then, amazingly, I won.
My first reaction was to say "I never win anything!" which is true, technically, but the truth is, I never win anything because I never enter anything. That's right, you heard it here first. I'm a big fat chicken.
Which brings us back to the dream. How lame am I that I freeze up with fear in my own dream? I mean come on, we can do anything in our dreams. We can fly in our dreams if we wanted to. So why didn't I? Generally, I try not to read too much into dreams, but this one feels different. I've already mentioned that I tend to let fear get the best of me (see above re: big fat chicken) and I don't want to (and can't) let it get the best of me now.
Winning this contest is a huge eye-opener for me. I want to be a writer and this project has great potential for exposure to my blog, but even more than that it's motivated me keep trying to find my greater purpose in life, which I've blogged about a lot this past year. I feel like I have great ideas, I just need the courage to share them. More than that, I need the courage to realize that not everything I do has to be perfect and not everyone will like whatever it is I hope to accomplish. Not being liked is inevitable, but it's so much easier in theory than when someone isn't liking something you believe in. Failure is always an option, lurking in the dark corners of my brain with its buddy Fear, and the two of them constantly team up to try to tell me that I can't do this. I don't have time. I don't have resources. I have no clue what I'm doing. There are a million other things I should be focusing on. It doesn't help that all of these things are true.
I have no idea to overcome fear. Like grinding my teeth at night, it's something that I really don't want to be doing, but have no clue about how to stop. I guess for now I can only hope that, unlike my dream, I don't freeze up in real life. All I know right now is that I have to keep climbing the stairs even when, especially when, I feel like I'm about to fall off.
In the dream, I was in the middle of a big open field that was completely empty except for a single flight of stairs going up. Naturally, a mysterious flight of stairs in the middle of nowhere is too tempting for someone as nosy as me to resist, so I started climbing up. I climbed and climbed until the railings disappeared and I was just surrounded by clouds. I looked further up and saw that the stairs led to a giant slide even higher up in the sky. Like the stairs, it had no railing and was surrounded by nothing but clouds, nothing to protect you from falling right off. It was at that moment that I realized I wasn't the only one there. I was surrounded by people and they were all falling off, either on the stairs or the slide. People fell right past me and I could actually hear the woosh sound they made as they passed by my ears and a sickening thud as they hit the ground. Terrified, I decided I wasn't curious about the stairs anymore and I wanted to turn around and climb back down. But I couldn't. As I had climbed up each stair it disappeared, leaving me with a steep drop-off and absolutely no way to back down. As it continued to rain people around me, I sat down the step I was on, paralyzed with fear. Do I give up? Do I risk climbing all the way up only to fall off?
Luckily, my alarm woke me up before I had to make the decision, my jaw aching and my mouth covered in gritty tooth fragments, a sure sign I'd been grinding my teeth in my sleep yet again. My stomach was still in knots and my mind was still just as full of "what ifs" as it had been when I went to bed. The question in my head remained; How can I possibly pull this off?
But, as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself, so let's back up a bit.
A few weeks ago I was on Facebook and I noticed that TOMS shoes was holding a contest called Books For Bloggers. Their Chief Shoe Giver (AKA founder) Blake Mycoskie recently wrote a book called "Start Something That Matters" and they wanted someone to review it, someone who not only blogged, but was also trying to start something of their own (be it a business, organization, non-profit or whatever). To enter, I had to write about what it was I was trying to create as well as why my blog would be a good place to post the review. So not only did I have to articulate what it was I was trying to accomplish (when I'm still not entirely sure what it is) but I also had to talk myself up. A lot. And for someone who has a blog dedicated to basically writing about their life, I really, really suck at talking about myself.
Not only that, but I'm really picky about what I have to say and how I choose to say it. I edit and revise to the point of driving myself insane. In fact, the very words you are reading right now have been read over and over until I was practically cross-eyed. I really can't say why, but the day I decided to enter the TOMS contest, I just sat down and wrote. And wrote and wrote. I didn't create a word document to save and revise (and obsess over). For once in my life I just wrote without consciously thinking about what I was writing, like my fingers on the keyboard were a separate entity from the rest of my body. I was inspired, sure, but I somehow managed to get out of my own head for a change, and if you've known me for longer than five minutes, you know what an amazing thing that is.
But here's the thing. Everyone and their mother is on Facebook holding different contests every day, and they all manage to fly under my radar. This one felt like a hand reached out of my computer and slapped me across the face. Not to sound like a total crazy person, but it felt like it was created to motivate me.
As you might recall, in my last blog, I wrote about our book club and how, while it's a really fun, social thing to do, I want to turn it into something bigger and more meaningful and I've spent the last few weeks obsessing over how to do that. The contest caught my attention because I love the story behind TOMS shoes, love that it was created by a young college dropout who yes, wanted to start a successful business, but also genuinely wanted to help out others. At the core of my motivation to enter was pure curiosity at how this guy managed to pull it all off. In other words, I probably would have bought the book anyway, but the contest gave one away for free, and free is always good. Plus, if I won, it might be good publicity for both my cause and blog. I figured I had nothing to lose except actually losing the contest and since I didn't even tell anyone I entered, no one would know I lost.
And then, amazingly, I won.
My first reaction was to say "I never win anything!" which is true, technically, but the truth is, I never win anything because I never enter anything. That's right, you heard it here first. I'm a big fat chicken.
Which brings us back to the dream. How lame am I that I freeze up with fear in my own dream? I mean come on, we can do anything in our dreams. We can fly in our dreams if we wanted to. So why didn't I? Generally, I try not to read too much into dreams, but this one feels different. I've already mentioned that I tend to let fear get the best of me (see above re: big fat chicken) and I don't want to (and can't) let it get the best of me now.
Winning this contest is a huge eye-opener for me. I want to be a writer and this project has great potential for exposure to my blog, but even more than that it's motivated me keep trying to find my greater purpose in life, which I've blogged about a lot this past year. I feel like I have great ideas, I just need the courage to share them. More than that, I need the courage to realize that not everything I do has to be perfect and not everyone will like whatever it is I hope to accomplish. Not being liked is inevitable, but it's so much easier in theory than when someone isn't liking something you believe in. Failure is always an option, lurking in the dark corners of my brain with its buddy Fear, and the two of them constantly team up to try to tell me that I can't do this. I don't have time. I don't have resources. I have no clue what I'm doing. There are a million other things I should be focusing on. It doesn't help that all of these things are true.
I have no idea to overcome fear. Like grinding my teeth at night, it's something that I really don't want to be doing, but have no clue about how to stop. I guess for now I can only hope that, unlike my dream, I don't freeze up in real life. All I know right now is that I have to keep climbing the stairs even when, especially when, I feel like I'm about to fall off.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Reading Between The Wines
Last summer it dawned on me; I have no social life.
It's not surprising when you think about it. I'm a wife, mother of two, and full-time student. But it wasn't the absence of free time that bothered me, it was more about what I did in the precious free time I actually did have, which was absolutely nothing. Somewhere along the line I became ship-wrecked on Mom Island. Don't get me wrong, my family is the most important part of my life, but I wasn't even making an effort to have a life outside of them. Even all of my classes at the time were online. I was becoming a Grade A hermit, and it was staring to show. And not in a good way. I had less patience than usual (which is scary because I have so little to begin with!), little things bugged me more and I just had an overall aura of irritation. I was not very popular at my house, to say the least. When I began this blog, it was intended to be the hobby that I needed (and in a lot of ways it is) but it was still something I could do within the four walls of my house. I needed to get out.
For as long as I can remember, I have always loved to read. I love the idea of traveling to another place or time period within a book. I love getting lost in a really great book, when all you want to do all day long is to pick that book back up. I love to write because I love to read. With the exception of my sister-in-law (who can literally read a book a day), I didn't know if there was anyone else out there who felt the same way I did. But I knew I was willing to find out. So I started a book club.
To call it a book club right off the bat would be generous. What it was initially was an unnamed Facebook group comprised of myself, three friends I thought might actually be interested, and about ten other people, basically chosen at random, in hopes that at least one or two of them may be interested in joining. To be social, but remain responsible to my family and school priorities, I decided that the book club would meet monthly and try to accommodate as many schedules as possible. I assigned the first book, "Julie and Julia" by Julie Powell because I had read it for a class and was really inspired by it. And also, to be honest, since I had never organized or hosted a book club before, I wanted to be able to focus on planning for it instead of worrying about finishing the book on time. Five people had RSVP'd yes to the meeting and I was beginning to get nervous. What would we talk about? What if people didn't get along?
As it turns out, I needn't have worried. No, not because everyone showed up and had a blast, but because thirty minutes until go time, my phone started to ring off the hook with everyone saying they couldn't make it. I was crushed, to say the least. There's nothing that makes you feel more pathetic than sitting in your house fully prepared to host a book club when it was evident that that book club isn't going to happen. It;s the party-hosting equivalent to being all dressed up with nowhere to go. Then, just when I was really beginning to wallow in being a book club failure, there was a knock on the door. It was my high school French class friend, Marla, out of breath and an hour late, but there nonetheless.
The funny thing is, I hadn't actually seen Marla in about ten years. As I mentioned, we became friends in high school French class and I adored her back then, but, like most people after high school, we fell out of touch. So in addition to being the first book club meeting, this was our first time being face-to-face in about a decade, although to be honest, it only felt that way for the first ten seconds. Marla is the same sweet, strong and hilarious person she was in high school, only even better. She's Marla 2.0 and I think we've made up for ten years worth of time in just the last four months (but more on that later!). We wound up spending hours catching up, and of course, talking about "Julie and Julia", which she loved and was equally inspired by. That night Marla became my partner-in-crime and official co-founder of the book club (and we decided that if our book club remained a book club of two, that was just fine with us!). I consider Marla the co-founder because if she hadn't come that night, it's highly likely that I would have given up on the idea of a book club entirely and gone back to being Crabby Hermit Mom. There would never have been a second meeting (or third, forth, five, and so on) without Marla.
We regrouped, licked our wounds from the first meeting, and set about organizing the second. Our second meeting went much better. We had a group of five and it turned out that people really did have legitimate reasons for not making it to the first meeting. By the third, we really hit our stride. Our book club is equal parts intelligent conversation, side-splitting laughter, and group therapy. We enjoy our books, our wine, and each others company. After only a couple of months, the book club was snowballing. I had other friends emailing me wanting to join and out-of-town friends who wanted to start their own book clubs. We began talking about possible names and prospective members. About this time Marla and I began the first in a series of endless conversations about accomplishing something important in life (thanks to Julie Powell and "Julie and Julia") how well the book club was going and where it had the potential to go.
Here's the thing: I hate the image of women right now. It's all about Snookie-style drunken cat fights, talking behind each others backs, and an overall focus on being hot, sexy, scandalous, blah blah blah. This isn't news to anyone, myself included, but for some reason, the image has effected me more in my twenties than any other time in my life. Maybe it's because I have a daughter and she is getting old enough to really take notice of the world around her, and it's becoming clear to me that it's just not enough to not fall into the stereotype of women myself. I want her to see an emphasis on intelligent women and for her to learn that putting women from different backgrounds with different beliefs in the same room does not have to result in a vodka-infused hair-pulling contest. Long story short, the growing, fun, diverse book club was beginning to run parallel with the incorrect image of female friendship. That's when we realized that this could be more than reading a book and drinking wine with friends once a month.
We want every woman to have a positive image of not only herself, but other women in general. Every time I leave a meeting, my sides hurt and my outlook on the world is a little brighter, and I want every woman to experience that. We don't have to be part of what we see on TV; we can be better. We can all be different people and have intelligent conversations but we can also joke around and enjoy our wine. No one is out to impress anyone else, so we can let our guards down be exactly who we are.
What began as a hobby in an attempt to regain a social life has evolved into something that feels like it could be a whole lot more. I don't want to come across as cheesy (although it may be too late for that!) but I think the world is only as good as what you contribute to it, and fighting the negative image of women with a positive one (even if it's only within our own community) feels proactive. We are encouraging anyone who is interested to join our chapter locally, or start a chapter in their area, wherever that may be.
I truly believe that together we can change the world, one book at a time.
It's not surprising when you think about it. I'm a wife, mother of two, and full-time student. But it wasn't the absence of free time that bothered me, it was more about what I did in the precious free time I actually did have, which was absolutely nothing. Somewhere along the line I became ship-wrecked on Mom Island. Don't get me wrong, my family is the most important part of my life, but I wasn't even making an effort to have a life outside of them. Even all of my classes at the time were online. I was becoming a Grade A hermit, and it was staring to show. And not in a good way. I had less patience than usual (which is scary because I have so little to begin with!), little things bugged me more and I just had an overall aura of irritation. I was not very popular at my house, to say the least. When I began this blog, it was intended to be the hobby that I needed (and in a lot of ways it is) but it was still something I could do within the four walls of my house. I needed to get out.
For as long as I can remember, I have always loved to read. I love the idea of traveling to another place or time period within a book. I love getting lost in a really great book, when all you want to do all day long is to pick that book back up. I love to write because I love to read. With the exception of my sister-in-law (who can literally read a book a day), I didn't know if there was anyone else out there who felt the same way I did. But I knew I was willing to find out. So I started a book club.
To call it a book club right off the bat would be generous. What it was initially was an unnamed Facebook group comprised of myself, three friends I thought might actually be interested, and about ten other people, basically chosen at random, in hopes that at least one or two of them may be interested in joining. To be social, but remain responsible to my family and school priorities, I decided that the book club would meet monthly and try to accommodate as many schedules as possible. I assigned the first book, "Julie and Julia" by Julie Powell because I had read it for a class and was really inspired by it. And also, to be honest, since I had never organized or hosted a book club before, I wanted to be able to focus on planning for it instead of worrying about finishing the book on time. Five people had RSVP'd yes to the meeting and I was beginning to get nervous. What would we talk about? What if people didn't get along?
As it turns out, I needn't have worried. No, not because everyone showed up and had a blast, but because thirty minutes until go time, my phone started to ring off the hook with everyone saying they couldn't make it. I was crushed, to say the least. There's nothing that makes you feel more pathetic than sitting in your house fully prepared to host a book club when it was evident that that book club isn't going to happen. It;s the party-hosting equivalent to being all dressed up with nowhere to go. Then, just when I was really beginning to wallow in being a book club failure, there was a knock on the door. It was my high school French class friend, Marla, out of breath and an hour late, but there nonetheless.
The funny thing is, I hadn't actually seen Marla in about ten years. As I mentioned, we became friends in high school French class and I adored her back then, but, like most people after high school, we fell out of touch. So in addition to being the first book club meeting, this was our first time being face-to-face in about a decade, although to be honest, it only felt that way for the first ten seconds. Marla is the same sweet, strong and hilarious person she was in high school, only even better. She's Marla 2.0 and I think we've made up for ten years worth of time in just the last four months (but more on that later!). We wound up spending hours catching up, and of course, talking about "Julie and Julia", which she loved and was equally inspired by. That night Marla became my partner-in-crime and official co-founder of the book club (and we decided that if our book club remained a book club of two, that was just fine with us!). I consider Marla the co-founder because if she hadn't come that night, it's highly likely that I would have given up on the idea of a book club entirely and gone back to being Crabby Hermit Mom. There would never have been a second meeting (or third, forth, five, and so on) without Marla.
We regrouped, licked our wounds from the first meeting, and set about organizing the second. Our second meeting went much better. We had a group of five and it turned out that people really did have legitimate reasons for not making it to the first meeting. By the third, we really hit our stride. Our book club is equal parts intelligent conversation, side-splitting laughter, and group therapy. We enjoy our books, our wine, and each others company. After only a couple of months, the book club was snowballing. I had other friends emailing me wanting to join and out-of-town friends who wanted to start their own book clubs. We began talking about possible names and prospective members. About this time Marla and I began the first in a series of endless conversations about accomplishing something important in life (thanks to Julie Powell and "Julie and Julia") how well the book club was going and where it had the potential to go.
Here's the thing: I hate the image of women right now. It's all about Snookie-style drunken cat fights, talking behind each others backs, and an overall focus on being hot, sexy, scandalous, blah blah blah. This isn't news to anyone, myself included, but for some reason, the image has effected me more in my twenties than any other time in my life. Maybe it's because I have a daughter and she is getting old enough to really take notice of the world around her, and it's becoming clear to me that it's just not enough to not fall into the stereotype of women myself. I want her to see an emphasis on intelligent women and for her to learn that putting women from different backgrounds with different beliefs in the same room does not have to result in a vodka-infused hair-pulling contest. Long story short, the growing, fun, diverse book club was beginning to run parallel with the incorrect image of female friendship. That's when we realized that this could be more than reading a book and drinking wine with friends once a month.
We want every woman to have a positive image of not only herself, but other women in general. Every time I leave a meeting, my sides hurt and my outlook on the world is a little brighter, and I want every woman to experience that. We don't have to be part of what we see on TV; we can be better. We can all be different people and have intelligent conversations but we can also joke around and enjoy our wine. No one is out to impress anyone else, so we can let our guards down be exactly who we are.
What began as a hobby in an attempt to regain a social life has evolved into something that feels like it could be a whole lot more. I don't want to come across as cheesy (although it may be too late for that!) but I think the world is only as good as what you contribute to it, and fighting the negative image of women with a positive one (even if it's only within our own community) feels proactive. We are encouraging anyone who is interested to join our chapter locally, or start a chapter in their area, wherever that may be.
I truly believe that together we can change the world, one book at a time.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
They Say It's Your Birthday
The night Ben was born, he didn't cry. Layla came out screaming her head off, but Ben didn't make a peep. He just looked around at everything with his big eyes, yawning contentedly. When the nurse handed him to me, he looked at me like he knew exactly who I was and why we were there, reached out and grabbed my finger with his chubby hand, and squeezed. I swear I looked into his eyes and saw his soul.
Of course, that could have just been the drugs talking.
Tomorrow is Ben's second birthday and I can't shake the feeling that he's somehow lying about his age. In other words, to say that the last two years of my life (and the first two of his) have flown by would be an understatement of epic proportions. It's more like they passed like the speed of light. One day I was finding out I was pregnant, and the very next day I had a walking, talking, Toy Story-loving, block-building actual human being. He's a funny, sweet, occasionally obnoxious, always cuddly, little boy.
My baby's not a baby anymore.*
(*I feel it's necessary to the story to tell you guys that after I typed that sentence I stared at it for a few seconds, then proceeded to bawl my eyes out for the next ten minutes while cradling a visibly terrified Ben and whimpering "My baby, my baaaaby" over and over. I'm okay now.)
Don't get me wrong, Layla has grown up fast too, but for some reason, Ben feels faster. I think it was because she was first and I worried about things like hurting her when I changed her diaper, and obsessed over every milestone. The first time she farted, I wrote about it in her baby book. True story. It felt like there wasn't time or need to obsess over little things with Ben as much. By the time he came around I knew that putting a onesie on a baby in no way hurts them, and I understood that milestones are just basic guidelines, not set in stone as the name suggests. I loved him just as much, but worried so much less. Also, when someone would ask how old Layla was, I would always have a really specific "Three months, 2 weeks, and three days" kind of answer. Ben was plain ol' three months. The second I stopped functioning as a human calendar, the faster time seemed to go.
And now I find myself the day before his second birthday, watching him "fix" the case of the second season of Entourage with his red plastic hammer, occasionally running over to the window to yell "Mama! Look! Balloons!" as colorful hot air balloons float lazily by. His bright eyes are so full of wonder and curiosity and looking at him I can't imagine him ever encountering an obstacle he can't overcome. He's the perfect man, and all I had to do was give birth to him.
Happy Birthday, Benny.
Of course, that could have just been the drugs talking.
Tomorrow is Ben's second birthday and I can't shake the feeling that he's somehow lying about his age. In other words, to say that the last two years of my life (and the first two of his) have flown by would be an understatement of epic proportions. It's more like they passed like the speed of light. One day I was finding out I was pregnant, and the very next day I had a walking, talking, Toy Story-loving, block-building actual human being. He's a funny, sweet, occasionally obnoxious, always cuddly, little boy.
My baby's not a baby anymore.*
(*I feel it's necessary to the story to tell you guys that after I typed that sentence I stared at it for a few seconds, then proceeded to bawl my eyes out for the next ten minutes while cradling a visibly terrified Ben and whimpering "My baby, my baaaaby" over and over. I'm okay now.)
Don't get me wrong, Layla has grown up fast too, but for some reason, Ben feels faster. I think it was because she was first and I worried about things like hurting her when I changed her diaper, and obsessed over every milestone. The first time she farted, I wrote about it in her baby book. True story. It felt like there wasn't time or need to obsess over little things with Ben as much. By the time he came around I knew that putting a onesie on a baby in no way hurts them, and I understood that milestones are just basic guidelines, not set in stone as the name suggests. I loved him just as much, but worried so much less. Also, when someone would ask how old Layla was, I would always have a really specific "Three months, 2 weeks, and three days" kind of answer. Ben was plain ol' three months. The second I stopped functioning as a human calendar, the faster time seemed to go.
And now I find myself the day before his second birthday, watching him "fix" the case of the second season of Entourage with his red plastic hammer, occasionally running over to the window to yell "Mama! Look! Balloons!" as colorful hot air balloons float lazily by. His bright eyes are so full of wonder and curiosity and looking at him I can't imagine him ever encountering an obstacle he can't overcome. He's the perfect man, and all I had to do was give birth to him.
Happy Birthday, Benny.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Good Day Sunshine
People will tell you that the first year of marriage is the hardest, but that's a lie.
The first year of marriage is unbelievably awesome. You spend the entire first year not being able to get over how cool it is to say "husband" and "wife". Everything they do is adorable and you can't contemplate how couples will nag each other about tiny little things like leaving dirty socks on the floor. But the truth is that beyond that first year, little, insignificant things will bother you too, no matter how much you try to fight it.
And so, the following is my little, insignificant thing.
I love Josh, I really do. But he is such a relentlessly sunny morning person that so often my very first thought in the morning is, "Must. Kill. Husband" (in case you're not picking up on the obvious here, I am not a relentlessly sunny morning person). He whistles while he shaves and hums while he irons, whereas I need a good 45 minutes and two cups of strong coffee before I can stammer out a coherent sentence.The most annoying part is that I pretty much have to suck it up and deal with it, because what could I possibly say? "Stop being so cheerful"? or "Knock it off with the good mood!"? I'm the grumpy one! He should be annoyed with me! He's not, of course, but then how can he be annoyed when he's practically spinning around our room being dressed by songbirds like a Disney princess? Josh, however, claims he's not really that much of a morning person. He says he's not a morning person, he just "see's every morning as a new possibility".
Gaaaaah.
If you're thinking right about now that I should find something legitimate to complain about, you're not alone; I think so too. We have our pointless little fights and sometimes more meaningful fights just like every couple I know, but at the end of the day, Josh could teach a class in what it means to be a great husband. Especially considering the fact that he's a great husband to the great big old mess that is his wife. I recently read a hilarious quote (and I'm sorry to say I don't remember who said it, so let's all hope I don't get sued for repeating it uncredited!) that said "I don't have to smoke weed to eat an entire box of Triscits and worry about whether or not people like me", which I feel sums me up pretty well. And Josh just rolls with it. And I complain about him being a morning person. Anyone feel sorry for Josh yet?
The point is that no matter how much you love someone, they're not above annoying you, whether your annoyance is legitimate or not. Right now, I can admit that the fact that Josh is a morning person is actually pretty admirable and even a little sweet. But it's nighttime right now. When the alarm goes off in the morning, I'm sure I'll feel differently.
The first year of marriage is unbelievably awesome. You spend the entire first year not being able to get over how cool it is to say "husband" and "wife". Everything they do is adorable and you can't contemplate how couples will nag each other about tiny little things like leaving dirty socks on the floor. But the truth is that beyond that first year, little, insignificant things will bother you too, no matter how much you try to fight it.
And so, the following is my little, insignificant thing.
I love Josh, I really do. But he is such a relentlessly sunny morning person that so often my very first thought in the morning is, "Must. Kill. Husband" (in case you're not picking up on the obvious here, I am not a relentlessly sunny morning person). He whistles while he shaves and hums while he irons, whereas I need a good 45 minutes and two cups of strong coffee before I can stammer out a coherent sentence.The most annoying part is that I pretty much have to suck it up and deal with it, because what could I possibly say? "Stop being so cheerful"? or "Knock it off with the good mood!"? I'm the grumpy one! He should be annoyed with me! He's not, of course, but then how can he be annoyed when he's practically spinning around our room being dressed by songbirds like a Disney princess? Josh, however, claims he's not really that much of a morning person. He says he's not a morning person, he just "see's every morning as a new possibility".
Gaaaaah.
If you're thinking right about now that I should find something legitimate to complain about, you're not alone; I think so too. We have our pointless little fights and sometimes more meaningful fights just like every couple I know, but at the end of the day, Josh could teach a class in what it means to be a great husband. Especially considering the fact that he's a great husband to the great big old mess that is his wife. I recently read a hilarious quote (and I'm sorry to say I don't remember who said it, so let's all hope I don't get sued for repeating it uncredited!) that said "I don't have to smoke weed to eat an entire box of Triscits and worry about whether or not people like me", which I feel sums me up pretty well. And Josh just rolls with it. And I complain about him being a morning person. Anyone feel sorry for Josh yet?
The point is that no matter how much you love someone, they're not above annoying you, whether your annoyance is legitimate or not. Right now, I can admit that the fact that Josh is a morning person is actually pretty admirable and even a little sweet. But it's nighttime right now. When the alarm goes off in the morning, I'm sure I'll feel differently.
Monday, September 19, 2011
(Please Don't) Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman
A friend of mine recently wrote a really great blog about childbirth and what people consider "right" and "wrong". It got me thinking and I thought I'd throw my two cents in.
In my limited birthing experience of two, I had one child completely drug-free and the other completely drug-full, and the differences between the two experiences are incalculable. When I was pregnant with Layla I read all the books just like everyone else, and decided that I wanted to have a completely drug-free experience. The idea of bringing my baby into the world in a calm, chemical-free manor was hugely appealing to me. But here's the thing: There's an enormous difference between theory and actuality, and about forty-five seconds into the very real pain of labor, I changed my mind. I wanted drugs, lots of them, preferably waiting in the parking lot for me when I got to the hospital. Only, when I got to the hospital, I was initially refused drugs because my "birth plan" indicated that I wanted a natural childbirth. By the time I finally convinced the doctors that I was out of my mind when I settled on my birth plan, it was too late and I had to forgo a natural childbirth whether I wanted it or not. I'll spare you all the gory details, but because Layla was a huge baby (9 lbs 12 oz) the birth was not only hard on me, but it was hard on her too, and involved the aid of both a vacuum and forceps just to get her out. My "calm, chemical-free birth" quickly turned into an agonizingly painful experience for both me and my child.
Ben was a different story entirely. I made it clear from day one that I wanted an epidural and that under no circumstances was my child going to be forcibly sucked out of me. Despite the fact that he was also a big baby (8 lbs 12 oz), my experience with Ben was the calm, drama-free birth I had hoped for with Layla. It's amazing the difference that giant needle in your spine can make.
Amazingly, in spite of my horrible experience with Layla, I was credited endlessly for having a natural child birth. I was told I was "brave" and "selfless" and that I had "given my baby what was best". I've never seen those comments as anything other than a total load of crap. I'm not trying to knock natural childbirth at all, but the fact that everyone told me that that was "the right way" and having drugs with Ben was "the wrong way" has always irritated me. Who decides these things?!
"Natural" is such a buzz word. If it's "natural" then it has to be good, right? No! Layla and I both suffered an unecessarily painful experience because "modern medicine hasn't been around forever and women used to just squat behind their wagons to give birth". Yes, they did, and up until the early 1900s, 40% of women died during child birth (seriously, google it), but no one ever mentions that fact in squatting-behind-the-wagon theory. Yes, modern medicine has pumped out its fair share of lemons, but it has also had some amazing advances and personally, I'm sick of hearing nothing but bad about it (I'm not even touching the vaccination issue, that's a whole other tangent that I could easily devote an entire blog to). Think of it this way; if someone told you that you could cure chronic back pain, or cancer, or diabetes by having a single shot in your spine, would you do it? I'm willing to bet that your first instinct would be yes, right? But then this group would come out with a study that says it's bad, and another group would say it's selfish and immoral, and it would be likely that you would seriously question the shot, no matter how credible (or incredible) the studies and theories are.
It's the same with epidurals. Women of the world: it is NOT selfish to have an epidural! It is selfish to put your child and yourself through something that your body can't handle, just because are told that it is the "right" way. There is no right or wrong way. No one is keeping track, or grading you, or handing out brownie points. If you choose to go the natural route, my completely unprofessional and unsolicited advice is to know your body and do your research. Don't do it because society, or your doctor, or your friends are whispering in your ear and if you change your mind, speak up, because those birth plans are practically set in stone. If you go the epidural route, don't let anyone tell you that what you're doing is wrong. At the end of the day, it is your body and your baby and you know what's best for both of them.
I'll leave you with this: as much as you parent with your heart, you also parent with your gut instincts. Listen to them. The only person who knows what's right or wrong for you is you.
If you'd like to read the blog that inspired me, please visit my friend Megan Lewis' blog at Livingthelewislifestyle.blogspot.com.
In my limited birthing experience of two, I had one child completely drug-free and the other completely drug-full, and the differences between the two experiences are incalculable. When I was pregnant with Layla I read all the books just like everyone else, and decided that I wanted to have a completely drug-free experience. The idea of bringing my baby into the world in a calm, chemical-free manor was hugely appealing to me. But here's the thing: There's an enormous difference between theory and actuality, and about forty-five seconds into the very real pain of labor, I changed my mind. I wanted drugs, lots of them, preferably waiting in the parking lot for me when I got to the hospital. Only, when I got to the hospital, I was initially refused drugs because my "birth plan" indicated that I wanted a natural childbirth. By the time I finally convinced the doctors that I was out of my mind when I settled on my birth plan, it was too late and I had to forgo a natural childbirth whether I wanted it or not. I'll spare you all the gory details, but because Layla was a huge baby (9 lbs 12 oz) the birth was not only hard on me, but it was hard on her too, and involved the aid of both a vacuum and forceps just to get her out. My "calm, chemical-free birth" quickly turned into an agonizingly painful experience for both me and my child.
Ben was a different story entirely. I made it clear from day one that I wanted an epidural and that under no circumstances was my child going to be forcibly sucked out of me. Despite the fact that he was also a big baby (8 lbs 12 oz), my experience with Ben was the calm, drama-free birth I had hoped for with Layla. It's amazing the difference that giant needle in your spine can make.
Amazingly, in spite of my horrible experience with Layla, I was credited endlessly for having a natural child birth. I was told I was "brave" and "selfless" and that I had "given my baby what was best". I've never seen those comments as anything other than a total load of crap. I'm not trying to knock natural childbirth at all, but the fact that everyone told me that that was "the right way" and having drugs with Ben was "the wrong way" has always irritated me. Who decides these things?!
"Natural" is such a buzz word. If it's "natural" then it has to be good, right? No! Layla and I both suffered an unecessarily painful experience because "modern medicine hasn't been around forever and women used to just squat behind their wagons to give birth". Yes, they did, and up until the early 1900s, 40% of women died during child birth (seriously, google it), but no one ever mentions that fact in squatting-behind-the-wagon theory. Yes, modern medicine has pumped out its fair share of lemons, but it has also had some amazing advances and personally, I'm sick of hearing nothing but bad about it (I'm not even touching the vaccination issue, that's a whole other tangent that I could easily devote an entire blog to). Think of it this way; if someone told you that you could cure chronic back pain, or cancer, or diabetes by having a single shot in your spine, would you do it? I'm willing to bet that your first instinct would be yes, right? But then this group would come out with a study that says it's bad, and another group would say it's selfish and immoral, and it would be likely that you would seriously question the shot, no matter how credible (or incredible) the studies and theories are.
It's the same with epidurals. Women of the world: it is NOT selfish to have an epidural! It is selfish to put your child and yourself through something that your body can't handle, just because are told that it is the "right" way. There is no right or wrong way. No one is keeping track, or grading you, or handing out brownie points. If you choose to go the natural route, my completely unprofessional and unsolicited advice is to know your body and do your research. Don't do it because society, or your doctor, or your friends are whispering in your ear and if you change your mind, speak up, because those birth plans are practically set in stone. If you go the epidural route, don't let anyone tell you that what you're doing is wrong. At the end of the day, it is your body and your baby and you know what's best for both of them.
I'll leave you with this: as much as you parent with your heart, you also parent with your gut instincts. Listen to them. The only person who knows what's right or wrong for you is you.
If you'd like to read the blog that inspired me, please visit my friend Megan Lewis' blog at Livingthelewislifestyle.blogspot.com.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End
I've spent the last few days in a fog.
Tuesday was the private family viewing for my dad and it was emotional, to say the least. I decided that it would be better if I went rather than if I didn't and despite everything, I'm glad I made the decision. To be honest, driving there I almost turned around a few times. My hands felt numb on the steering wheel and my heart pounded so loud in my chest I was convinced people in other cars could hear it, but in the end, I sucked it up and made it there. Don't ask me why, but for some reason I had assumed that getting up the nerve to go would be the hardest part and it would all be downhill from there.
Unfortunately, I was wrong.
My mistake was assuming that because I hadn't seen my dad in twenty years, seeing him like this would be easier because I didn't really remember what he looked like.Walking into the room, my eyes landed on the man lying there and I immediately felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. Because while I technically hadn't seen this person in two decades, he looked like two of the people I love the most in the world and see every day; my brother and my son. It suddenly felt like all of the air had been sucked out of that tiny room. I couldn't stop staring at him. I don't know why I wasn't expecting to see a resemblance, but I wasn't, and especially not such a strong one. It took every ounce of self-restraint that I posses not to turn around and walk out the door.
On top of this, I learned a few things that day. My dad was a Cowboys fan, liked Hawaiian shirts, and apparently wasn't half the douche bag I had assumed he was, at least not in the later part of his life. In fact, everyone there thought he was a pretty great guy, and everyone was eager to go on and on about it, which was hard to swallow. The service was emotional and confusing and made me cry more than I have in the last year, and there are no words to express how glad I was when it was over.
But there is a silver lining; I have a little half-brother. His name is Josh (ironically) and he looks a lot like my other brother (which is weird to say...) only half Filipino. He's fifteen, funny and sweet and, despite all of the crap that's been going through my head, I liked him immediately. His memories of our dad contrast mine so sharply that I've found myself stopping to wonder if we are talking about the same person. In a way, I'm jealous that he has good memories, but then I stop and remind myself that he lost a dad too, a real dad, and I remember that that's nothing to be jealous of.
For the first few days after the service, I found myself feeling extra snappy and irritated. I went out to get something from our storage and when a box fell I kicked it back into place much longer and harder than necessary. I was angry. I found myself thinking constantly of how someone who could be so awful to me could turn around and get it right the second time. I don't know if I'll ever get over that hurt but the difference between now and a week ago is that I think it's okay if I don't. Also, I've found myself talking about my dad more now that I ever have. I used to feel like him leaving was something I should be ashamed of, but I know for certain now that it's not. And I've discovered that I'm not the only one in this situation, I just never knew because I never really let anyone in on that part of my life. Everyone has been so amazingly supportive.
Above all, I'm more grateful than ever for my big brother Mike. No matter how many blogs I write or stories I tell, no one will ever truly understand this as well as the person who was by my side living through it with me. And I'm grateful to my new little brother Josh too. Not only is he able to tie the bridge between past and present together, he will be a constant reminder that every cloud really does have a silver lining and that when God closes a window, He really does open up a door. I don't have a compartment in my brain or heart yet for the life and passing of my dad, but I already have a place for my new brother. No matter how terrible the circumstances may be, it's comforting to remember that every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.
Tuesday was the private family viewing for my dad and it was emotional, to say the least. I decided that it would be better if I went rather than if I didn't and despite everything, I'm glad I made the decision. To be honest, driving there I almost turned around a few times. My hands felt numb on the steering wheel and my heart pounded so loud in my chest I was convinced people in other cars could hear it, but in the end, I sucked it up and made it there. Don't ask me why, but for some reason I had assumed that getting up the nerve to go would be the hardest part and it would all be downhill from there.
Unfortunately, I was wrong.
My mistake was assuming that because I hadn't seen my dad in twenty years, seeing him like this would be easier because I didn't really remember what he looked like.Walking into the room, my eyes landed on the man lying there and I immediately felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. Because while I technically hadn't seen this person in two decades, he looked like two of the people I love the most in the world and see every day; my brother and my son. It suddenly felt like all of the air had been sucked out of that tiny room. I couldn't stop staring at him. I don't know why I wasn't expecting to see a resemblance, but I wasn't, and especially not such a strong one. It took every ounce of self-restraint that I posses not to turn around and walk out the door.
On top of this, I learned a few things that day. My dad was a Cowboys fan, liked Hawaiian shirts, and apparently wasn't half the douche bag I had assumed he was, at least not in the later part of his life. In fact, everyone there thought he was a pretty great guy, and everyone was eager to go on and on about it, which was hard to swallow. The service was emotional and confusing and made me cry more than I have in the last year, and there are no words to express how glad I was when it was over.
But there is a silver lining; I have a little half-brother. His name is Josh (ironically) and he looks a lot like my other brother (which is weird to say...) only half Filipino. He's fifteen, funny and sweet and, despite all of the crap that's been going through my head, I liked him immediately. His memories of our dad contrast mine so sharply that I've found myself stopping to wonder if we are talking about the same person. In a way, I'm jealous that he has good memories, but then I stop and remind myself that he lost a dad too, a real dad, and I remember that that's nothing to be jealous of.
For the first few days after the service, I found myself feeling extra snappy and irritated. I went out to get something from our storage and when a box fell I kicked it back into place much longer and harder than necessary. I was angry. I found myself thinking constantly of how someone who could be so awful to me could turn around and get it right the second time. I don't know if I'll ever get over that hurt but the difference between now and a week ago is that I think it's okay if I don't. Also, I've found myself talking about my dad more now that I ever have. I used to feel like him leaving was something I should be ashamed of, but I know for certain now that it's not. And I've discovered that I'm not the only one in this situation, I just never knew because I never really let anyone in on that part of my life. Everyone has been so amazingly supportive.
Above all, I'm more grateful than ever for my big brother Mike. No matter how many blogs I write or stories I tell, no one will ever truly understand this as well as the person who was by my side living through it with me. And I'm grateful to my new little brother Josh too. Not only is he able to tie the bridge between past and present together, he will be a constant reminder that every cloud really does have a silver lining and that when God closes a window, He really does open up a door. I don't have a compartment in my brain or heart yet for the life and passing of my dad, but I already have a place for my new brother. No matter how terrible the circumstances may be, it's comforting to remember that every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
I'm So Ugly, That's Okay Cause So Are You
This has been a really weird week. Layla started school and Ben started potty-training and I had a blog that was full of "Oh no, he/she didn't!" anecdotes typed up and ready to go. And then my dad died.
I should back up a bit.
The truth is, I debated about whether or not I should even blog about this, but I thought maybe writing about it might make me feel better, so here goes. I haven't seen my dad in over twenty years. He and my mom split up when I was about Layla's age and I stopped seeing him altogether shortly thereafter. It's a long story, and unfortunately, not an uncommon one. My dad was an educated, charming, personable guy who had a great life, but decided to throw it all away for various stupid reasons, primarily some serious drug and alcohol addictions. So serious that his parental rights were taken away and he wasn't allowed to see or speak to my brother or me for many years. In fact, I didn't hear from him at all until about three years ago, and even then it was through my brother who he had also contacted. My brother chose to see him and try to rebuild some kind of relationship, I chose not to.
Words really can't express how much I struggled with whether or not to establish any kind of relationship with my dad. Partly, it was because of my mom. She never forbid us to contact him or anything ridiculous like that (although now that I'm a mom myself, I can see why someone would) but I feel a loyalty to my mom. She raised us by herself, which I know wasn't the way she envisioned it when she had children. But that's the thing about having kids; it's about sucking it up and doing what's right for your them, not bailing. But like I said, that was only part of the reason.
The main part is that I've spent twenty years of my life wondering where this person was and why his family wasn't important enough to him. He missed everything, birthdays, my high school graduation, my wedding, the birth of my children, everything, every single moment big or small. And the worst part of it all is that I lived so many years of my life thinking that all of that was somehow my fault. I had people around me to tell me that it wasn't, but the only person I would have ever believed it from was the person who left, and he wasn't looking to give me any answers. To top it off, I had really only recently made my final decision not to see him. We were at the wedding of a good friend of ours and at the reception her dad stood up and gave a speech about his daughter before the traditional father/daughter dance. I sat there watching the lovely moment between them and I couldn't help but think that that should have been me too. That should be every daughter. And it turns out that it's not very easy to forgive someone who hurts you in a way that no one or nothing can ever heal. So I chose not to see him and more importantly, I chose not to forgive him.
And then, exactly one month after I made that final decision, my brother called with the news that our dad had died. I didn't know what to do or how to feel. My book club was that night and instead of postponing, I went. And instead of saying something about it to some of the most supportive people I know, I stayed silent. I couldn't talk about it because I didn't know what to say, and I didn't know what to say because I wasn't exactly sure what it was I was feeling.
The thing is, it's hard to lose something that you never really had. The flip side of that is that I could have had whatever it was my dad was willing to give and I chose not to, because it felt like too little too late. It was when this thought kicked in that the full implications of my dad's death kicked in as well. Deciding somewhere down the road that I wanted to talk to my dad was no longer an option. I spent so much of my life thinking he was a terrible person for not wanting to be with us and yet when given the option myself, I turned my back. Some might call it a "taste of his own medicine", but it feels a lot more like "two wrongs don't make a right" to me. No one said I had to forgive him, but I could have heard him out. Does doing the same thing make me just as bad? Because isn't life about forgiving others who have done you wrong or, conversely, are there things that are truly unforgivable?
Either way, I can't fight the overwhelming feeling of guilt. Guilt that I may or may not have made decisions too hastily and guilt that I was able to continue with my day on Saturday at all. Somewhere in a dark corner of the back of my mind, the thought floating around is that if my father-in-law had passed away instead, I would be inconsolable. Forget about the book club being postponed, it would have been cancelled indefinitely. And as much as I love my father-in-law, that thought doesn't make me feel so great.
You only get one dad. And no matter what conclusion I come to with all of this, that thought will always haunt me.
I should back up a bit.
The truth is, I debated about whether or not I should even blog about this, but I thought maybe writing about it might make me feel better, so here goes. I haven't seen my dad in over twenty years. He and my mom split up when I was about Layla's age and I stopped seeing him altogether shortly thereafter. It's a long story, and unfortunately, not an uncommon one. My dad was an educated, charming, personable guy who had a great life, but decided to throw it all away for various stupid reasons, primarily some serious drug and alcohol addictions. So serious that his parental rights were taken away and he wasn't allowed to see or speak to my brother or me for many years. In fact, I didn't hear from him at all until about three years ago, and even then it was through my brother who he had also contacted. My brother chose to see him and try to rebuild some kind of relationship, I chose not to.
Words really can't express how much I struggled with whether or not to establish any kind of relationship with my dad. Partly, it was because of my mom. She never forbid us to contact him or anything ridiculous like that (although now that I'm a mom myself, I can see why someone would) but I feel a loyalty to my mom. She raised us by herself, which I know wasn't the way she envisioned it when she had children. But that's the thing about having kids; it's about sucking it up and doing what's right for your them, not bailing. But like I said, that was only part of the reason.
The main part is that I've spent twenty years of my life wondering where this person was and why his family wasn't important enough to him. He missed everything, birthdays, my high school graduation, my wedding, the birth of my children, everything, every single moment big or small. And the worst part of it all is that I lived so many years of my life thinking that all of that was somehow my fault. I had people around me to tell me that it wasn't, but the only person I would have ever believed it from was the person who left, and he wasn't looking to give me any answers. To top it off, I had really only recently made my final decision not to see him. We were at the wedding of a good friend of ours and at the reception her dad stood up and gave a speech about his daughter before the traditional father/daughter dance. I sat there watching the lovely moment between them and I couldn't help but think that that should have been me too. That should be every daughter. And it turns out that it's not very easy to forgive someone who hurts you in a way that no one or nothing can ever heal. So I chose not to see him and more importantly, I chose not to forgive him.
And then, exactly one month after I made that final decision, my brother called with the news that our dad had died. I didn't know what to do or how to feel. My book club was that night and instead of postponing, I went. And instead of saying something about it to some of the most supportive people I know, I stayed silent. I couldn't talk about it because I didn't know what to say, and I didn't know what to say because I wasn't exactly sure what it was I was feeling.
The thing is, it's hard to lose something that you never really had. The flip side of that is that I could have had whatever it was my dad was willing to give and I chose not to, because it felt like too little too late. It was when this thought kicked in that the full implications of my dad's death kicked in as well. Deciding somewhere down the road that I wanted to talk to my dad was no longer an option. I spent so much of my life thinking he was a terrible person for not wanting to be with us and yet when given the option myself, I turned my back. Some might call it a "taste of his own medicine", but it feels a lot more like "two wrongs don't make a right" to me. No one said I had to forgive him, but I could have heard him out. Does doing the same thing make me just as bad? Because isn't life about forgiving others who have done you wrong or, conversely, are there things that are truly unforgivable?
Either way, I can't fight the overwhelming feeling of guilt. Guilt that I may or may not have made decisions too hastily and guilt that I was able to continue with my day on Saturday at all. Somewhere in a dark corner of the back of my mind, the thought floating around is that if my father-in-law had passed away instead, I would be inconsolable. Forget about the book club being postponed, it would have been cancelled indefinitely. And as much as I love my father-in-law, that thought doesn't make me feel so great.
You only get one dad. And no matter what conclusion I come to with all of this, that thought will always haunt me.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Should I Stay Or Should I Go?
A couple of weeks ago I realized something that shocked me to the very core. Next summer will be my ten -year high school reunion. As I marveled at how fast that one sneaked up on me, I began to wonder whether or not I would go. I went back and forth for days. At first I thought, why not go? I have a great husband, two gorgeous kids, a job I love, school, a blog...in other words, I've accomplished a lot to be proud of in the last ten years. On the other hand, who cares? I am still in contact with anyone from high school that I cared to be in contact with, thanks to the wonder that is Facebook, what was the point in seeing anyone else? Still, I couldn't decide.
Then, a few nights ago I was sitting in a rocking chair in the hospital holding my brand-new nephew and I started to think about something that I don't think about nearly often enough.
I have a great life. I'm crazy about my husband, head-over-heels in love with my kids and I am fortunate enough to belong to two amazing families. I have fantastic friends, the kind of friends who will always listen, help out or just hang out, who don't care if my house is a mess or if my shirt has finger paint all over it. On top of all of that, I am pursuing dreams that I thought I would never have the guts to pursue.
Okay yes, I'm bragging, but my point is that ten years ago when seventeen-year-old Abbey was asked where she thought she would be in ten years, she never thought she'd be lucky enough to be here. Which got me thinking that I wish I could go back in time to seventeen-year-old Abbey and tell her a few things. This is what I'd say:
I'd start by discrediting that horrible rumor that your high school years are the best years of your life. It's a lie. High school is just a test you have to pass and the reward for passing is forgetting all about it. College is where the real fun starts and you'll like it so much that you'll spend the next several years there just learning everything you can about everything you can (after you spend a few years avoiding school...but that's a different lecture). You'll fall in love and get your heart broken. Then you'll fall in love again for the last time with the right guy and realize your heart wasn't so broken after all. You'll get married and your husband will go on to play in a Fantasy Football league with guy number one and be completely cool with it because he's that amazing. You'll have children so breathtakingly beautiful and sweet that being a mother will be your new dream. You and your high school best friend will go from being inseparable to complete strangers, and it's okay to be sad about it sometimes. You'll have friends that will stick around and others will simply fade away. But for every person you lose you'll gain one so amazing you'll forget the other person ever existed. These will be the friends that you love like family. People will love you for you, but more importantly, you will learn to love you for you. Those people that you think matter so much will be the very same people whose pictures you will squint at and not be able to remember them. There will be good times and bad times, but hang in there. The best is yet to come.
In the end I decided to leave seventeen-year-old Abbey where she belongs; in the past. Twenty-seven year old Abbey is in charge now. I'm the same person in the ways that matter, but a stronger, better version. I understand why people would want to go to their high school reunions (seeing people they fell out of touch with, unrequited crushes, and the like) but I'm not one of them. I know that my life is blessed and I don't need to try to impress a roomful of people, half of which probably don't even remember who I am. I survived high school and even managed to have some fun while I was there. And that's good enough for me.
And so, on the night of the reunion for Eldorado High School Class of 2002, you won't find me there. Maybe I'll be having an adventure with my kids, at book club or out with the girls, or just watching TV with Josh. But wherever I am, I'll be exactly where I belong.
Then, a few nights ago I was sitting in a rocking chair in the hospital holding my brand-new nephew and I started to think about something that I don't think about nearly often enough.
I have a great life. I'm crazy about my husband, head-over-heels in love with my kids and I am fortunate enough to belong to two amazing families. I have fantastic friends, the kind of friends who will always listen, help out or just hang out, who don't care if my house is a mess or if my shirt has finger paint all over it. On top of all of that, I am pursuing dreams that I thought I would never have the guts to pursue.
Okay yes, I'm bragging, but my point is that ten years ago when seventeen-year-old Abbey was asked where she thought she would be in ten years, she never thought she'd be lucky enough to be here. Which got me thinking that I wish I could go back in time to seventeen-year-old Abbey and tell her a few things. This is what I'd say:
I'd start by discrediting that horrible rumor that your high school years are the best years of your life. It's a lie. High school is just a test you have to pass and the reward for passing is forgetting all about it. College is where the real fun starts and you'll like it so much that you'll spend the next several years there just learning everything you can about everything you can (after you spend a few years avoiding school...but that's a different lecture). You'll fall in love and get your heart broken. Then you'll fall in love again for the last time with the right guy and realize your heart wasn't so broken after all. You'll get married and your husband will go on to play in a Fantasy Football league with guy number one and be completely cool with it because he's that amazing. You'll have children so breathtakingly beautiful and sweet that being a mother will be your new dream. You and your high school best friend will go from being inseparable to complete strangers, and it's okay to be sad about it sometimes. You'll have friends that will stick around and others will simply fade away. But for every person you lose you'll gain one so amazing you'll forget the other person ever existed. These will be the friends that you love like family. People will love you for you, but more importantly, you will learn to love you for you. Those people that you think matter so much will be the very same people whose pictures you will squint at and not be able to remember them. There will be good times and bad times, but hang in there. The best is yet to come.
In the end I decided to leave seventeen-year-old Abbey where she belongs; in the past. Twenty-seven year old Abbey is in charge now. I'm the same person in the ways that matter, but a stronger, better version. I understand why people would want to go to their high school reunions (seeing people they fell out of touch with, unrequited crushes, and the like) but I'm not one of them. I know that my life is blessed and I don't need to try to impress a roomful of people, half of which probably don't even remember who I am. I survived high school and even managed to have some fun while I was there. And that's good enough for me.
And so, on the night of the reunion for Eldorado High School Class of 2002, you won't find me there. Maybe I'll be having an adventure with my kids, at book club or out with the girls, or just watching TV with Josh. But wherever I am, I'll be exactly where I belong.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
I Guess This Is Growing Up
When my brother and I were kids, we spent a month out of every summer visiting our grandparents in Iowa. Our grandparents, as well as a majority of my mom's family, lived in a tiny little town that felt a whole lot like the middle of nowhere. It's the kind of town where everyone knows everyone, the houses are all adorable and perfect, and everything is green. It's Pleasantville on Prozac.
And we loved every single second of it.
Admittedly, ninety percent of the fun was just spending time with our grandparents. Even as kids we recognized how interesting our grandparents were and were able to witness the saying that "behind every great man is a great woman" in action. My grandma knew everything. Despite having four children and ten grandchildren, she always remembered that my breakfast of choice was Raisin Bran and grape juice (even when I stopped liking grape juice, I never had the heart to tell her just because she always remembered what I liked). She was always so calm (again, despite the four children and ten grandchildren) and could win an argument without raising her voice or dropping a single F-bomb and probably never had a full-scale meltdown in her life (whereas I've had two just since starting this blog...). She and my grandpa raised four kids, ran a successful business together and were always a team. Even hanging out at home with them felt like an adventure.
Speaking of home, my grandparents lived in a great house that always managed to feel homey and like a palace at the same time. I remember the most random things about it. Their breakfast table was a built-in restaurant style booth complete with red vinyl seats that sat in a windowed nook of the kitchen overlooking the wooded backyard. My grandpa was forever claiming he saw a deer out back just to divert our attention so he could snatch something off our plates (I'm sad to say that since my brother and I may actually be the two most gullible people on the planet, it worked like a charm every single time). The kitchen had one wall with about a million little drawers which housed a variety of things, including a candy drawer my grandma kept well-stocked for us, provided we didn't tell my grandpa, the diabetic with a sweet tooth, which drawer was the current candy drawer. When he eventually found it (he always did), my grandma would simply move the candy drawer and fill up the old one with boxes of raisins. It rotated all summer long, like a sugary Russian roulette. Upstairs in the closet of the room my uncles used to share was a narrow crawl space (naturally we preferred to think of it as a secret passageway) which led into the bathroom, one room down. We (my brother particularly) loved to jump out and scare the poor soul who made the catastrophic mistake of occupying the bathroom. My grandparents tried to solve the problem by putting a chest of drawers in front of the trap door, not realizing that popping out of a drawer scares someone even more than popping out of nowhere. The room that my mom and aunt shared had my favorite thing in the house; a window seat overlooking the driveway, which was the perfect place to sit and read while also spying whomever was coming up the driveway. There was an attic and basement for exploring and a great backyard to play in. I don't recall ever being bored in that house.
On weekends, we would travel up to the lake which was our favorite adventure. We spent our days fishing, boating, and hanging out with family. And if that wasn't fun enough, there was an amusement park right on the water, which is basically every kid's dream. One summer there was record rain and flooding in Iowa and we spent almost our entire time up at the lake filling sandbags. And it was awesome because it was an adventure. We never watched TV or complained that we were bored, and the only time we were ever inside was when we were sleeping at night. It's an experience every kid should have and we were lucky to have it every summer of our childhood.
Last summer I went back to Iowa for my cousin's graduation. My grandma passed away four years ago and my grandpa divides his time between Iowa and Arizona, and the town just didn't feel the same to me. I was happy to see family that I hadn't seen in years, but the magic from my childhood had worn off. Where I had once seen a wonderful place with adventures around every corner, I now just saw a town. A nice town, but just a town, a place on a map. And while it was great to reunite with my family, after a few days I was bored out of my skull. It took awhile to dawn on me that the place hadn't changed, I had.
As we get older, do we lose our sense of adventure? At some point in our lives we are young and idealistic, and feel like the whole world is stretched out before us, ours for the taking. Our hearts have never been broken and we don't know the meaning of cynicism or sarcasm. We're so open. We can turn a mundane day into a fun day without even trying. What happens to that?
A few days ago we were out getting ice cream with the kids and a little boy was in the middle of the restaurant dancing wildly to the music playing. It didn't take long before my kids joined him, as well as a few others from surrounding tables. You never see adults do that. We would be too embarrassed to do it and would be quick to judge anyone who did. Adults don't dance in the middle of a restaurant. Adults don't have fun filling sandbags or searching through drawers for the candy drawer. Even the fun adults aren't half as much fun or adventurous as the world's most boring kid.
As they continue to grow up, I want my kids to have adventures like the ones my brother and I had in Iowa. But more importantly, I want to feel like I contribute to their adventurous spirit, not take away from it. As a mom I feel like the thing I say the most after "I love you" is "Be careful" and sometimes I worry about that. I want to have the kids who dance openly in public and scrape their knees, and just stay kids for as long as possible. My grandparents helped instill adventure and humor in me and I want to pass that on to my own kids.
Bottom line: I never want to forget how funny it is to pop out of a drawer and scare the unsuspecting person on the toilet.
And we loved every single second of it.
Admittedly, ninety percent of the fun was just spending time with our grandparents. Even as kids we recognized how interesting our grandparents were and were able to witness the saying that "behind every great man is a great woman" in action. My grandma knew everything. Despite having four children and ten grandchildren, she always remembered that my breakfast of choice was Raisin Bran and grape juice (even when I stopped liking grape juice, I never had the heart to tell her just because she always remembered what I liked). She was always so calm (again, despite the four children and ten grandchildren) and could win an argument without raising her voice or dropping a single F-bomb and probably never had a full-scale meltdown in her life (whereas I've had two just since starting this blog...). She and my grandpa raised four kids, ran a successful business together and were always a team. Even hanging out at home with them felt like an adventure.
Speaking of home, my grandparents lived in a great house that always managed to feel homey and like a palace at the same time. I remember the most random things about it. Their breakfast table was a built-in restaurant style booth complete with red vinyl seats that sat in a windowed nook of the kitchen overlooking the wooded backyard. My grandpa was forever claiming he saw a deer out back just to divert our attention so he could snatch something off our plates (I'm sad to say that since my brother and I may actually be the two most gullible people on the planet, it worked like a charm every single time). The kitchen had one wall with about a million little drawers which housed a variety of things, including a candy drawer my grandma kept well-stocked for us, provided we didn't tell my grandpa, the diabetic with a sweet tooth, which drawer was the current candy drawer. When he eventually found it (he always did), my grandma would simply move the candy drawer and fill up the old one with boxes of raisins. It rotated all summer long, like a sugary Russian roulette. Upstairs in the closet of the room my uncles used to share was a narrow crawl space (naturally we preferred to think of it as a secret passageway) which led into the bathroom, one room down. We (my brother particularly) loved to jump out and scare the poor soul who made the catastrophic mistake of occupying the bathroom. My grandparents tried to solve the problem by putting a chest of drawers in front of the trap door, not realizing that popping out of a drawer scares someone even more than popping out of nowhere. The room that my mom and aunt shared had my favorite thing in the house; a window seat overlooking the driveway, which was the perfect place to sit and read while also spying whomever was coming up the driveway. There was an attic and basement for exploring and a great backyard to play in. I don't recall ever being bored in that house.
On weekends, we would travel up to the lake which was our favorite adventure. We spent our days fishing, boating, and hanging out with family. And if that wasn't fun enough, there was an amusement park right on the water, which is basically every kid's dream. One summer there was record rain and flooding in Iowa and we spent almost our entire time up at the lake filling sandbags. And it was awesome because it was an adventure. We never watched TV or complained that we were bored, and the only time we were ever inside was when we were sleeping at night. It's an experience every kid should have and we were lucky to have it every summer of our childhood.
Last summer I went back to Iowa for my cousin's graduation. My grandma passed away four years ago and my grandpa divides his time between Iowa and Arizona, and the town just didn't feel the same to me. I was happy to see family that I hadn't seen in years, but the magic from my childhood had worn off. Where I had once seen a wonderful place with adventures around every corner, I now just saw a town. A nice town, but just a town, a place on a map. And while it was great to reunite with my family, after a few days I was bored out of my skull. It took awhile to dawn on me that the place hadn't changed, I had.
As we get older, do we lose our sense of adventure? At some point in our lives we are young and idealistic, and feel like the whole world is stretched out before us, ours for the taking. Our hearts have never been broken and we don't know the meaning of cynicism or sarcasm. We're so open. We can turn a mundane day into a fun day without even trying. What happens to that?
A few days ago we were out getting ice cream with the kids and a little boy was in the middle of the restaurant dancing wildly to the music playing. It didn't take long before my kids joined him, as well as a few others from surrounding tables. You never see adults do that. We would be too embarrassed to do it and would be quick to judge anyone who did. Adults don't dance in the middle of a restaurant. Adults don't have fun filling sandbags or searching through drawers for the candy drawer. Even the fun adults aren't half as much fun or adventurous as the world's most boring kid.
As they continue to grow up, I want my kids to have adventures like the ones my brother and I had in Iowa. But more importantly, I want to feel like I contribute to their adventurous spirit, not take away from it. As a mom I feel like the thing I say the most after "I love you" is "Be careful" and sometimes I worry about that. I want to have the kids who dance openly in public and scrape their knees, and just stay kids for as long as possible. My grandparents helped instill adventure and humor in me and I want to pass that on to my own kids.
Bottom line: I never want to forget how funny it is to pop out of a drawer and scare the unsuspecting person on the toilet.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Goverment, If You Don't Stop That, I Will Turn This Car Around RIGHT NOW.
Warning: I'm mad at the government.
This isn't a Democrat versus Republican thing, this is an everyone thing. The people who allegedly run (or in the future, wish to run) our country are acting more like children than my actual children. Everyone is pointing fingers and screaming "I didn't do it!". This debt ceiling fiasco has me feeling like I'm about to go through the ceiling. This person has this plan, but that's not what the other guys want, so this person has another plan, but that's not good enough for the other, other guys. So here we are, trillions of dollars in debt and the most powerful country in the world can't seem to pull its collective head out of its collective behind. Frankly, it's embarrassing and it makes me want to punch Obama in the face while simultaneously kicking John Boehner in the crotch. And that says a lot because I actually like Obama (Boehner is a different story, less for his political slant and more for the fact that I'm not comfortable being "led" by someone who can burst into tears at the drop of a hat). It's unsettling.
So government, here's my completely unsolicited and inexperienced advice:Stop talking about bipartisanship in theory and show us a little in execution. Practice what you preach. If it helps, think of it this way: If half of the workers at McDonald's wanted to make everything one way and the other half wanted to make everything another way, what would happen? They would all be fired. The McDonald's corporation wouldn't shut down, it would just cut out the slackers. Government is a job just like any other job, so get over yourselves and do your job. I know, I know, government would just be the most fun job ever if you didn't have to help all these people. Darn.
Even more so than the debt ceiling situation, I'm sick of hearing every potential presidential candidate trying to win votes by either being adamantly for or against gay marriage (okay, really it's more against than for). I read a really great quote from former New York governor Rudy Giuliani about how politicians need to get out of the bedroom to win an election, and I agree. I get that it's a tricky subject, I get that there are religious aspects and social aspects, and you (as well as every single suit in Washington) have a perfect right to have a problem with it, but you know what I have a problem with? Economic recession. High unemployment rates. Crashing companies. Crappy health care. The fact that the rich keep getting richer and the poor keep getting poorer. Can't we concentrate on that? Or maybe, just for fun, let's look at how underpaid teachers are and how over crowded and generally crappy most schools are and how we continue to cut, cut, cut in what appears to be the places that should matter most. But please, let's worry about who's right or wrong about whether people getting married is right or wrong. Let our actions continue to draw deeper and deeper lines between parties while our mouths talk about working together.
I feel like I used to be able to define myself politically, but I can't anymore. I've always joked that I'm a conservative liberal, but that concept seems to no longer exist. Everything is so black and white, with no middle ground. Republicans against Democrats. This guy against that guy. And anymore, I can't say that I like any of the guys. I'm terrified of the 2012 election because I don't want to vote for anyone. It seems the more I know that more jaded I become. I don't see politicians as people with the ability to lead and change the world. I see politicians as snakes in the grass. They don't want to make the world a better place, they just want to beat the other guy, whomever he or she may be. It's gross.
I love my country and am grateful everyday for the rights I have as an American. There aren't many countries in the world where I could bash the actions of the government and not suffer some really scary consequences. I'm thankful to the people that lose their lives every day protecting our rights. It's actually because of all of this that it makes my blood boil when the government can't get their act together. Did you guys know that Iceland is re-writing their constitution right now? They're using a board of twenty people and an online forum for anyone who may have any additional ideas. I can't honestly say I know much about Iceland beyond Bijork, but the concept seems refreshingly progressive to me and, from what I've read, so far it's going really well. I can't even wrap my head around how badly the shit would hit the fan in America if we tried to re-write our constitution. There would be riots and assassinations, and that would just be when the announcement that we were re-writing the constitution was made. I'm not saying I have a problem with our constitution, but I do have a problem with the fact that our own government could never undertake such an ambitious task, or really even consider undertaking it.
My bottom line is this: Can someone please explain to me why so many Ivy League educated, well-bred, seemingly intelligent people continue to fight like children, make Americans look like idiots, and generally abuse their power?!
I feel much better now, thanks...
This isn't a Democrat versus Republican thing, this is an everyone thing. The people who allegedly run (or in the future, wish to run) our country are acting more like children than my actual children. Everyone is pointing fingers and screaming "I didn't do it!". This debt ceiling fiasco has me feeling like I'm about to go through the ceiling. This person has this plan, but that's not what the other guys want, so this person has another plan, but that's not good enough for the other, other guys. So here we are, trillions of dollars in debt and the most powerful country in the world can't seem to pull its collective head out of its collective behind. Frankly, it's embarrassing and it makes me want to punch Obama in the face while simultaneously kicking John Boehner in the crotch. And that says a lot because I actually like Obama (Boehner is a different story, less for his political slant and more for the fact that I'm not comfortable being "led" by someone who can burst into tears at the drop of a hat). It's unsettling.
So government, here's my completely unsolicited and inexperienced advice:Stop talking about bipartisanship in theory and show us a little in execution. Practice what you preach. If it helps, think of it this way: If half of the workers at McDonald's wanted to make everything one way and the other half wanted to make everything another way, what would happen? They would all be fired. The McDonald's corporation wouldn't shut down, it would just cut out the slackers. Government is a job just like any other job, so get over yourselves and do your job. I know, I know, government would just be the most fun job ever if you didn't have to help all these people. Darn.
Even more so than the debt ceiling situation, I'm sick of hearing every potential presidential candidate trying to win votes by either being adamantly for or against gay marriage (okay, really it's more against than for). I read a really great quote from former New York governor Rudy Giuliani about how politicians need to get out of the bedroom to win an election, and I agree. I get that it's a tricky subject, I get that there are religious aspects and social aspects, and you (as well as every single suit in Washington) have a perfect right to have a problem with it, but you know what I have a problem with? Economic recession. High unemployment rates. Crashing companies. Crappy health care. The fact that the rich keep getting richer and the poor keep getting poorer. Can't we concentrate on that? Or maybe, just for fun, let's look at how underpaid teachers are and how over crowded and generally crappy most schools are and how we continue to cut, cut, cut in what appears to be the places that should matter most. But please, let's worry about who's right or wrong about whether people getting married is right or wrong. Let our actions continue to draw deeper and deeper lines between parties while our mouths talk about working together.
I feel like I used to be able to define myself politically, but I can't anymore. I've always joked that I'm a conservative liberal, but that concept seems to no longer exist. Everything is so black and white, with no middle ground. Republicans against Democrats. This guy against that guy. And anymore, I can't say that I like any of the guys. I'm terrified of the 2012 election because I don't want to vote for anyone. It seems the more I know that more jaded I become. I don't see politicians as people with the ability to lead and change the world. I see politicians as snakes in the grass. They don't want to make the world a better place, they just want to beat the other guy, whomever he or she may be. It's gross.
I love my country and am grateful everyday for the rights I have as an American. There aren't many countries in the world where I could bash the actions of the government and not suffer some really scary consequences. I'm thankful to the people that lose their lives every day protecting our rights. It's actually because of all of this that it makes my blood boil when the government can't get their act together. Did you guys know that Iceland is re-writing their constitution right now? They're using a board of twenty people and an online forum for anyone who may have any additional ideas. I can't honestly say I know much about Iceland beyond Bijork, but the concept seems refreshingly progressive to me and, from what I've read, so far it's going really well. I can't even wrap my head around how badly the shit would hit the fan in America if we tried to re-write our constitution. There would be riots and assassinations, and that would just be when the announcement that we were re-writing the constitution was made. I'm not saying I have a problem with our constitution, but I do have a problem with the fact that our own government could never undertake such an ambitious task, or really even consider undertaking it.
My bottom line is this: Can someone please explain to me why so many Ivy League educated, well-bred, seemingly intelligent people continue to fight like children, make Americans look like idiots, and generally abuse their power?!
I feel much better now, thanks...
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Double-Blogging It
I must be crazy. Or masochistic. Or possibly both, since no sane person would embark on what I'm about to embark on.
Here's the thing. I love this blog, but it's beginning to bore me. Non-fiction isn't really my thing and never really has been. It's not because I feel like I can't do it, but because writing about your life when you feel like you don't have much of a life beyond dirty diapers and temper tantrums can feel tedious. From a purely intellectual standpoint I know that I'm probably (or at least hopefully!) improving my writing skills by writing out of my element, but from a human standpoint, I'm bored to tears. I've received such incredible support with this blog, but I can't imagine that I'm entertaining anyone very much.
A sane person would simply call it a day. A sane person would probably recognize the fact that they have a family, school, friends, and work and would probably just stop blogging all together. A sane person would just let it go.
I wish I was a sane person.
But since I'm clearly not, I've decided to continue this experiment in non-fiction as well as start a more creative, fiction-based blog. Despite the fact that this blog chronicles my life and every anecdote in it is true, it doesn't feel honest to me somehow. The phase "unreliable narrator" keeps popping into my head, a high school English class flashback if there ever was one. And I can't deny the truth behind it; I'm holding back.
But here's a secret: I'm terrified of doing this. I want to be (and in ways, already consider myself to be) a writer, but the idea of people reading anything I write really freaks me out. I am a tense mess after I turn in a paper for school, just waiting in agony until it's graded, completely convinced I blew it. I never ceased to be a amazed when I don't. I nervously pace around after posting a blog, anxiously waiting for the first person who comments on it. My ego isn't necessarily anything I think about in my day-to-day existence, but my writer's ego is as fragile as glass. Which is why putting myself out there completely feels both too terrifying to contemplate and utterly necessary.
I'm not a risk-taker by nature and this feels like jumping out of a plane with an empty backpack instead of a parachute.
Stay tuned....
Here's the thing. I love this blog, but it's beginning to bore me. Non-fiction isn't really my thing and never really has been. It's not because I feel like I can't do it, but because writing about your life when you feel like you don't have much of a life beyond dirty diapers and temper tantrums can feel tedious. From a purely intellectual standpoint I know that I'm probably (or at least hopefully!) improving my writing skills by writing out of my element, but from a human standpoint, I'm bored to tears. I've received such incredible support with this blog, but I can't imagine that I'm entertaining anyone very much.
A sane person would simply call it a day. A sane person would probably recognize the fact that they have a family, school, friends, and work and would probably just stop blogging all together. A sane person would just let it go.
I wish I was a sane person.
But since I'm clearly not, I've decided to continue this experiment in non-fiction as well as start a more creative, fiction-based blog. Despite the fact that this blog chronicles my life and every anecdote in it is true, it doesn't feel honest to me somehow. The phase "unreliable narrator" keeps popping into my head, a high school English class flashback if there ever was one. And I can't deny the truth behind it; I'm holding back.
But here's a secret: I'm terrified of doing this. I want to be (and in ways, already consider myself to be) a writer, but the idea of people reading anything I write really freaks me out. I am a tense mess after I turn in a paper for school, just waiting in agony until it's graded, completely convinced I blew it. I never ceased to be a amazed when I don't. I nervously pace around after posting a blog, anxiously waiting for the first person who comments on it. My ego isn't necessarily anything I think about in my day-to-day existence, but my writer's ego is as fragile as glass. Which is why putting myself out there completely feels both too terrifying to contemplate and utterly necessary.
I'm not a risk-taker by nature and this feels like jumping out of a plane with an empty backpack instead of a parachute.
Stay tuned....
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
I Will Survive...Won't I?!
I think it's time to resign myself to the fact that I'm probably going to be one of those people that puts their kid on a kid leash.
I blame having a girl first. Layla was perfectly content in a stroller. She loved to ride in the shopping cart. She adored her car seat. When she was old enough to walk, she understood (and still understands) to stay right by our side and hold our hands. She was awesome, completely brag-worthy in every way.
So really, I should have seen it coming.
Ben is a human tornado. Do you know why I haven't written a blog in over five weeks? I've literally been chasing Ben the whole time and this is the first chance I've had to sit down. He's nuts. Hates the stroller, will scream absolute bloody murder after spending ten minutes in it. Cannot stand the shopping cart. When's he's done being strapped in, he will simply unstrap himself and start throwing things out. Charming. And the car seat? He figured out how to unstrap it when he was nine months old and subsequently tries to Houdini himself out every time he's in it. And forget putting him down to walk. The second he's down he's off like a shot and I'm chasing after him.
Suffice it to say, it's exhausting and further proof on how girls are so much different than boys. We feel (occasional tantrums aside) that we're cruising through having a girl. The only thing remotely exhausting about Layla is her constant stream of talking that begins roughly thirty seconds before she's awake and ends about an hour after she falls asleep. It's non-stop, but usually highly entertaining. She didn't make us suffer too much through the "terrible two's", the only exception being the time she took off her diaper and used her poop as finger paint, an absolutely revolting act so completely vile we dubbed her "Poocaso"."Terrible Three's" were moderate, the worst being a sassy attitude, and four is shaping up to be the year of talking back. But Layla has never been a human tornado, and even if she was, enough time has passed that the "bad" times seem tame in comparison to Ben. If anything, some of the hardest times (namely the "Poocaso" incident) wound up being the times that turned into the funniest stories.
So far, Ben's "terrible two's" aren't terribly funny.
Not only are Layla and Ben continuous proof of the difference between boys and girls, they also seem to illustrate the glaring difference in personalities between siblings. Ben is an extrovert through and through, which is probably why he can't stand to be strapped into something. Because really, why sit in a stroller when you can tear through the library on foot dispensing slobbery, open-mouthed kisses to everyone in your path (a weekly occurrence for Ben)? Layla is an introvert who needs to observe someone for at least forty-five minutes before she grants you a smile. And that's just the tip of their personality icebergs.
The best way I can think of describing it is that, for me, raising children is like a math class. It's difficult, panic-inducing, and no matter how hard I study, I always feel like I'm on the brink of failing every test. I'm using the same equation with each kid, plugging in the same numbers, but coming up with different answers. Kids are an incredible amount of work and everyone (including me) thinks that they understand that until they actually have kids. "Terrible two's" in theory are much, much different from "terrible two's" in progress.
So for now, while I contemplate a kid leash, I will continue to chase after Ben everywhere we go and continue to apologize to all of the people he tries to make out with. And I will comfort myself with cliches. Some day this will be a funny memory. It's just a stage. This too shall pass. I will survive....
Won't I?!
I blame having a girl first. Layla was perfectly content in a stroller. She loved to ride in the shopping cart. She adored her car seat. When she was old enough to walk, she understood (and still understands) to stay right by our side and hold our hands. She was awesome, completely brag-worthy in every way.
So really, I should have seen it coming.
Ben is a human tornado. Do you know why I haven't written a blog in over five weeks? I've literally been chasing Ben the whole time and this is the first chance I've had to sit down. He's nuts. Hates the stroller, will scream absolute bloody murder after spending ten minutes in it. Cannot stand the shopping cart. When's he's done being strapped in, he will simply unstrap himself and start throwing things out. Charming. And the car seat? He figured out how to unstrap it when he was nine months old and subsequently tries to Houdini himself out every time he's in it. And forget putting him down to walk. The second he's down he's off like a shot and I'm chasing after him.
Suffice it to say, it's exhausting and further proof on how girls are so much different than boys. We feel (occasional tantrums aside) that we're cruising through having a girl. The only thing remotely exhausting about Layla is her constant stream of talking that begins roughly thirty seconds before she's awake and ends about an hour after she falls asleep. It's non-stop, but usually highly entertaining. She didn't make us suffer too much through the "terrible two's", the only exception being the time she took off her diaper and used her poop as finger paint, an absolutely revolting act so completely vile we dubbed her "Poocaso"."Terrible Three's" were moderate, the worst being a sassy attitude, and four is shaping up to be the year of talking back. But Layla has never been a human tornado, and even if she was, enough time has passed that the "bad" times seem tame in comparison to Ben. If anything, some of the hardest times (namely the "Poocaso" incident) wound up being the times that turned into the funniest stories.
So far, Ben's "terrible two's" aren't terribly funny.
Not only are Layla and Ben continuous proof of the difference between boys and girls, they also seem to illustrate the glaring difference in personalities between siblings. Ben is an extrovert through and through, which is probably why he can't stand to be strapped into something. Because really, why sit in a stroller when you can tear through the library on foot dispensing slobbery, open-mouthed kisses to everyone in your path (a weekly occurrence for Ben)? Layla is an introvert who needs to observe someone for at least forty-five minutes before she grants you a smile. And that's just the tip of their personality icebergs.
The best way I can think of describing it is that, for me, raising children is like a math class. It's difficult, panic-inducing, and no matter how hard I study, I always feel like I'm on the brink of failing every test. I'm using the same equation with each kid, plugging in the same numbers, but coming up with different answers. Kids are an incredible amount of work and everyone (including me) thinks that they understand that until they actually have kids. "Terrible two's" in theory are much, much different from "terrible two's" in progress.
So for now, while I contemplate a kid leash, I will continue to chase after Ben everywhere we go and continue to apologize to all of the people he tries to make out with. And I will comfort myself with cliches. Some day this will be a funny memory. It's just a stage. This too shall pass. I will survive....
Won't I?!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Bad Dress Rehearsal, Good Show
Maybe it's just that it's wedding season and our fridge is becoming cluttered with save-the-date magnets and wedding invitations, but I've been thinking a lot about our wedding lately.
It was a disaster.
I'm not being dramatic here either, it was truly an absolute disaster. This past semester I took a creative non-fiction writing class (seriously, seriously ridiculously awesome class with an equally ridiculously awesome professor. I highly recommend it) and we had to write creatively about a memorable event in our life. I wrote about the wedding and my first draft was 27 pages. Single spaced. Seriously. Needless to say, the maximum on the paper was 7 pages, so I had to make a few cuts and I chose to narrow it down to the three worst things that happened. I chose: Our location closing down ten days before the wedding (damn economic recession!), our flower order was lost (that's right. I went to pick up my flowers and there weren't any. Not cool) and the person who's only job was to show up and unlock the church neglected to show up and unlock the church.
This sounds terrible, I know, but it's really only the tip of the iceberg. Here are some honorable mentions that, unfortunately, couldn't make it into my paper:
-The police showed up when they saw a bunch of dudes in tuxes and a girl in a big white dress claiming we all looked "suspicious". When we explained to them why we were loitering in a church parking lot, the officer looked at me and said (I swear), "How do we know you're really here for a wedding?". Uh, really? See above, re: dudes in tuxes and a girl in a big white dress. There's nothing like having the cops crash your wedding to add that little extra something to the festivities.
-My maid-of-honor dropped the wedding cake. Luckily, she dropped it in the lobby of the Embassy Suites (that's right, this is an absolutely shameless plug! They were able to do my wedding in ten days, so I'm dropping their name!) and the chef actually wound up reconstructing it (thankfully it was still in the box when she dropped it). Considering the fact that it was practically flattened, they did a really great job. I probably would have never noticed it was different if Josh hadn't leaned over during our first dance to ask if our cake looked lopsided to me. It did.
-My maid-of-honor (yes, her again!) forgot to bring Josh's wedding ring to the church. She took the matter into her own hands and found a solution that involved briefly bullying and verbally abusing Josh's brother until he surrendered his own ring to use as a stand-in. It may sound like I had the worst maid-of-honor ever, but I completely disagree. She's obviously entertaining as well as an out-of-the-box problem solver, which, if you think about it, are the best qualifications in any maid-of-honor (and best friend, for that matter!).
-The guy who did my hair for the wedding spent the entire hour trying to talk me out of getting married. He said everything going wrong was a sign that I shouldn't get married. The only sign I saw was that I should have gone elsewhere to get my hair done.
However, not everything was bad. Also, lost in the 20 or so pages that I had to cut were some great moments and some incredibly helpful people.
-First, Embassy Suites (endorse, endorse, endorse) totally saved the day. We actually ended up writing a letter to their corporate offices about how great they were and seriously name-dropped our butts off. I really hope some people got the credit they deserved.
-Right after Officer Loitering asked me if we were really there for a wedding, I felt like my head was about to explode (wouldn't you?!). I happened to turn to my future mother-in-law who saw the look on my face and kindly and calmly reminded me that I didn't want to spend my wedding night in jail. Which is always a good lesson. So is remembering to take a second to breathe, which I think was the lesson within the lesson (and something I've never been very good at!).
-The person who failed to unlock the church was neither dead or injured in any way, just so you know. They did, however, get fired. I feel bad that they lost their job (well...sort of. I'm sorry, but they almost ruined our wedding and there was one before us too that they didn't show up for. That's just not okay). The silver lining was watching my mom make approximately two calls and getting the President of UNM (we got married in a really awesome chapel on campus) on the phone, who apologized profusely and promptly someone to unlock the church. My mom is a bad ass. She's practically Chuck Norris in heels.
-My brother, circling the church in his tux contemplating any kind of post-life ramifications we may have to deal with if we broke into the church, while at the same time expertly surveying which window would be best to throw something at, to break into the church. Actually, now that I think about it, it's no wonder the cops came.
-My other best friend (not the scrappy cake-dropper, but a dude who we'll call Foster) said the one thing that he knew would calm me down. In high school, we were theater geeks and there's a theory that when you have a really terrible dress rehearsal, instead of being freaked out, you know that all the mistakes came out in rehearsal and now the show will be great. So, bad rehearsal, good show. Disastrous wedding, good marriage. It was the perfect thing to say and he completely saved my sanity by saying it.
Clearly, I had far from a fairytale wedding. But you know what? What's life without a little disaster? Boring. Disaster can be the glue that holds us together. It makes things interesting. We think our wedding story is hilarious and not because time has passed and we can look back on it with a few years of marriage under our belts and blah blah blah. We thought it was hilarious while it was happening. We wound up having an amazing ceremony performed by my fantastic father-in-law (who was so fantastic that he's a hot commodity within our group of friends! Everyone wants to be married by him!) and a really fun reception. And most importantly, at the end of the day, we were married. Which was all we wanted. Who cares about a wedding, really? It's one day. Marriage is the rest of your life.
And the rest of our life started with laughter. You just can't ask for more than that.
It was a disaster.
I'm not being dramatic here either, it was truly an absolute disaster. This past semester I took a creative non-fiction writing class (seriously, seriously ridiculously awesome class with an equally ridiculously awesome professor. I highly recommend it) and we had to write creatively about a memorable event in our life. I wrote about the wedding and my first draft was 27 pages. Single spaced. Seriously. Needless to say, the maximum on the paper was 7 pages, so I had to make a few cuts and I chose to narrow it down to the three worst things that happened. I chose: Our location closing down ten days before the wedding (damn economic recession!), our flower order was lost (that's right. I went to pick up my flowers and there weren't any. Not cool) and the person who's only job was to show up and unlock the church neglected to show up and unlock the church.
This sounds terrible, I know, but it's really only the tip of the iceberg. Here are some honorable mentions that, unfortunately, couldn't make it into my paper:
-The police showed up when they saw a bunch of dudes in tuxes and a girl in a big white dress claiming we all looked "suspicious". When we explained to them why we were loitering in a church parking lot, the officer looked at me and said (I swear), "How do we know you're really here for a wedding?". Uh, really? See above, re: dudes in tuxes and a girl in a big white dress. There's nothing like having the cops crash your wedding to add that little extra something to the festivities.
-My maid-of-honor dropped the wedding cake. Luckily, she dropped it in the lobby of the Embassy Suites (that's right, this is an absolutely shameless plug! They were able to do my wedding in ten days, so I'm dropping their name!) and the chef actually wound up reconstructing it (thankfully it was still in the box when she dropped it). Considering the fact that it was practically flattened, they did a really great job. I probably would have never noticed it was different if Josh hadn't leaned over during our first dance to ask if our cake looked lopsided to me. It did.
-My maid-of-honor (yes, her again!) forgot to bring Josh's wedding ring to the church. She took the matter into her own hands and found a solution that involved briefly bullying and verbally abusing Josh's brother until he surrendered his own ring to use as a stand-in. It may sound like I had the worst maid-of-honor ever, but I completely disagree. She's obviously entertaining as well as an out-of-the-box problem solver, which, if you think about it, are the best qualifications in any maid-of-honor (and best friend, for that matter!).
-The guy who did my hair for the wedding spent the entire hour trying to talk me out of getting married. He said everything going wrong was a sign that I shouldn't get married. The only sign I saw was that I should have gone elsewhere to get my hair done.
However, not everything was bad. Also, lost in the 20 or so pages that I had to cut were some great moments and some incredibly helpful people.
-First, Embassy Suites (endorse, endorse, endorse) totally saved the day. We actually ended up writing a letter to their corporate offices about how great they were and seriously name-dropped our butts off. I really hope some people got the credit they deserved.
-Right after Officer Loitering asked me if we were really there for a wedding, I felt like my head was about to explode (wouldn't you?!). I happened to turn to my future mother-in-law who saw the look on my face and kindly and calmly reminded me that I didn't want to spend my wedding night in jail. Which is always a good lesson. So is remembering to take a second to breathe, which I think was the lesson within the lesson (and something I've never been very good at!).
-The person who failed to unlock the church was neither dead or injured in any way, just so you know. They did, however, get fired. I feel bad that they lost their job (well...sort of. I'm sorry, but they almost ruined our wedding and there was one before us too that they didn't show up for. That's just not okay). The silver lining was watching my mom make approximately two calls and getting the President of UNM (we got married in a really awesome chapel on campus) on the phone, who apologized profusely and promptly someone to unlock the church. My mom is a bad ass. She's practically Chuck Norris in heels.
-My brother, circling the church in his tux contemplating any kind of post-life ramifications we may have to deal with if we broke into the church, while at the same time expertly surveying which window would be best to throw something at, to break into the church. Actually, now that I think about it, it's no wonder the cops came.
-My other best friend (not the scrappy cake-dropper, but a dude who we'll call Foster) said the one thing that he knew would calm me down. In high school, we were theater geeks and there's a theory that when you have a really terrible dress rehearsal, instead of being freaked out, you know that all the mistakes came out in rehearsal and now the show will be great. So, bad rehearsal, good show. Disastrous wedding, good marriage. It was the perfect thing to say and he completely saved my sanity by saying it.
Clearly, I had far from a fairytale wedding. But you know what? What's life without a little disaster? Boring. Disaster can be the glue that holds us together. It makes things interesting. We think our wedding story is hilarious and not because time has passed and we can look back on it with a few years of marriage under our belts and blah blah blah. We thought it was hilarious while it was happening. We wound up having an amazing ceremony performed by my fantastic father-in-law (who was so fantastic that he's a hot commodity within our group of friends! Everyone wants to be married by him!) and a really fun reception. And most importantly, at the end of the day, we were married. Which was all we wanted. Who cares about a wedding, really? It's one day. Marriage is the rest of your life.
And the rest of our life started with laughter. You just can't ask for more than that.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Post-Semester Stress Disorder
Well, I'm back. I finished up my semester, better known in my house as the semester that Almost Killed Mommy. Okay, don't worry, I'm the only one who actually calls it that. The kids just think of it as the semester they Saw A Lot More of Daddy (Dear, sweet, awesome-at-talking-his-wife-off-of-the-proverbial-ledge-at-zero-hour, Daddy. If you listen hard enough you can probably hear me swoon). But no harm, no foul, no permanent damage done. At least, for them. There's a reason I think of it as the semester that Almost Killed Mommy.
Oh well, what's done is done. And I would love to tell you that I'll never, ever do that to myself again, but I know myself and myself will probably do it again somewhere down the road. You can all feel free to say "I told you so" when it happens. I might not even punch you in the face for saying it. But we'll see. People under loads of stress are capable of utter craziness like punching people at random or willingly listening to Justin Bieber. Believe me, I know (But we'll get to that...). And anyway, I have to admit that as hard as the semester was, I loved that nice part at the end where all my hard work paid off.
So, the semester has ended but unfortunately the stress from it is still lingering a bit and causing what I like to think of as post-semester stress disorder. I'm still finding Josh's cheerfulness in the morning practically intolerable as I still only want to pull the covers back over my head and sleep for a month every morning. For example. The overwhelming feeling that I'm forgetting to do something really important that is due this instant every time I sit down to watch Mad Men with Josh, for another example (That one is because I had thought a paper due at the end of the semester was due at 12 AM and it turned out to be due at 12 PM. I didn't even lose any points off of the paper, but it's still haunting me...). It's bad. But don't worry, the FDA will probably make a pill for PSSD soon.
Just in case you couldn't already tell, I'm still feeling a bit rough around the edges and failing at my every attempt to wake up in the morning and vow that today will be the day that I stop stressing out about something that is already over and start acting like a civilized member of society.
Unfortunately, yesterday was not that day.
So yesterday I was at the grocery store with the kids and as we were walking through the parking lot with our cart, this woman (I can think of another word I'd like to use here, but I won't because I honestly think that women already put other women down way too much. And also, my Grandpa reads this.) peels out of her parking space. Layla was walking next to the cart, holding onto it, like the good girl she is, and I (With frankly much more coordination than I ever thought I would be capable of) put my foot on the cart so Ben wouldn't roll away, snatched Layla back with one hand, and whacked this woman's back window so hard that I now have a little bruise on my palm (I can not tell you how much I wish I had broken the glass. I would have seemed like the craziest person ever and it would have been totally worth it). That's how close she was though. Within hitting range. I literally watched her tire go over the space where Layla's foot had been about a second before. It was terrifying, to say the least. Anyway, this woman started to get out of her car and I opened Ben's door and shoved both kids inside. I had a hunch this wasn't going to be a conversation I wanted them hearing (Or repeating. They're two and four. Kids their age practically live to repeat conversations like this) and also, I would rather not claw at someone like a crazed, recently-booted Bachelor contestant in front of my children.
At this point I feel it's very necessary to tell you something about me. I am the absolute worst at confrontation of any kind. I never know what to say or do and many times in my life I have gone to confront someone who did me wrong and wound up apologizing to them. I'm the soul-sucking worst at confrontation, no joke. If that woman had nearly run over my foot, you know what I would have done? That's right. Absolutely nothing and then kicked myself later, thinking of all of the things that I should have said. So it's not exactly typical behavior for me to actually start a confrontation when I'm usually the one trying to avoid them. I guess I can only say it's because no one has ever tried to mess with my kids before. Hello Maternal Instincts! There you are!
Anyway, this woman gets out of her car and asks if there's a problem. Some words are exchanged, which I won't repeat word-for-word because, like I said, my Grandpa reads this. The short version is that she basically flew out of her car and rather than apologize for her inept driving and near dismemberment of my daughter, tried to accuse me of not watching my kids. Let's just say, I told her what was what. For the first time, possibly ever in my life, I knew exactly what to say and I said it. By the end of the conversation, she was apologizing and scrambling to get away from me. It rocked. When she was gone and I was opening the door to buckle the kids in, I found that Layla (Who can buckle herself into her own car seat) had gone ahead and buckled Ben up too. I think she sensed that we might need a quick getaway. So I sat in the car and shook with adrenaline for a few minutes before I called Josh and told him what happened. Luckily, he was happy that I confronted the wannabe Indy 500 contestant and in no way thought that I had behaved like crazed, recently-booted Bachelor contestant (Score one for Team Prentice!). And then when I turned on the car, this song (Yes, that one down there) came on and for some reason it felt so delightfully appropriate that we played it twice.
So yes, you could say that I've been a little out of character lately. Sure, I was protecting my daughter, but I'm usually the one getting on Josh for his road rage because "someone might have a gun" or something. I'm never, ever the instigator. I don't plan on making a habit out of it, but acting and speaking on my toes really did pretty good. That in itself makes me feel like I've gone completely crazy, which I sincerely hope I haven't. If nothing else, clearly it's a fair statement to say that I have a little extra stress left to shake off.
And that's why I'm going to go play outside with my awesome, unharmed kids and my husband, whose cheerfulness, by the way, is much easier to tolerate in the afternoon.
Oh well, what's done is done. And I would love to tell you that I'll never, ever do that to myself again, but I know myself and myself will probably do it again somewhere down the road. You can all feel free to say "I told you so" when it happens. I might not even punch you in the face for saying it. But we'll see. People under loads of stress are capable of utter craziness like punching people at random or willingly listening to Justin Bieber. Believe me, I know (But we'll get to that...). And anyway, I have to admit that as hard as the semester was, I loved that nice part at the end where all my hard work paid off.
So, the semester has ended but unfortunately the stress from it is still lingering a bit and causing what I like to think of as post-semester stress disorder. I'm still finding Josh's cheerfulness in the morning practically intolerable as I still only want to pull the covers back over my head and sleep for a month every morning. For example. The overwhelming feeling that I'm forgetting to do something really important that is due this instant every time I sit down to watch Mad Men with Josh, for another example (That one is because I had thought a paper due at the end of the semester was due at 12 AM and it turned out to be due at 12 PM. I didn't even lose any points off of the paper, but it's still haunting me...). It's bad. But don't worry, the FDA will probably make a pill for PSSD soon.
Just in case you couldn't already tell, I'm still feeling a bit rough around the edges and failing at my every attempt to wake up in the morning and vow that today will be the day that I stop stressing out about something that is already over and start acting like a civilized member of society.
Unfortunately, yesterday was not that day.
So yesterday I was at the grocery store with the kids and as we were walking through the parking lot with our cart, this woman (I can think of another word I'd like to use here, but I won't because I honestly think that women already put other women down way too much. And also, my Grandpa reads this.) peels out of her parking space. Layla was walking next to the cart, holding onto it, like the good girl she is, and I (With frankly much more coordination than I ever thought I would be capable of) put my foot on the cart so Ben wouldn't roll away, snatched Layla back with one hand, and whacked this woman's back window so hard that I now have a little bruise on my palm (I can not tell you how much I wish I had broken the glass. I would have seemed like the craziest person ever and it would have been totally worth it). That's how close she was though. Within hitting range. I literally watched her tire go over the space where Layla's foot had been about a second before. It was terrifying, to say the least. Anyway, this woman started to get out of her car and I opened Ben's door and shoved both kids inside. I had a hunch this wasn't going to be a conversation I wanted them hearing (Or repeating. They're two and four. Kids their age practically live to repeat conversations like this) and also, I would rather not claw at someone like a crazed, recently-booted Bachelor contestant in front of my children.
At this point I feel it's very necessary to tell you something about me. I am the absolute worst at confrontation of any kind. I never know what to say or do and many times in my life I have gone to confront someone who did me wrong and wound up apologizing to them. I'm the soul-sucking worst at confrontation, no joke. If that woman had nearly run over my foot, you know what I would have done? That's right. Absolutely nothing and then kicked myself later, thinking of all of the things that I should have said. So it's not exactly typical behavior for me to actually start a confrontation when I'm usually the one trying to avoid them. I guess I can only say it's because no one has ever tried to mess with my kids before. Hello Maternal Instincts! There you are!
Anyway, this woman gets out of her car and asks if there's a problem. Some words are exchanged, which I won't repeat word-for-word because, like I said, my Grandpa reads this. The short version is that she basically flew out of her car and rather than apologize for her inept driving and near dismemberment of my daughter, tried to accuse me of not watching my kids. Let's just say, I told her what was what. For the first time, possibly ever in my life, I knew exactly what to say and I said it. By the end of the conversation, she was apologizing and scrambling to get away from me. It rocked. When she was gone and I was opening the door to buckle the kids in, I found that Layla (Who can buckle herself into her own car seat) had gone ahead and buckled Ben up too. I think she sensed that we might need a quick getaway. So I sat in the car and shook with adrenaline for a few minutes before I called Josh and told him what happened. Luckily, he was happy that I confronted the wannabe Indy 500 contestant and in no way thought that I had behaved like crazed, recently-booted Bachelor contestant (Score one for Team Prentice!). And then when I turned on the car, this song (Yes, that one down there) came on and for some reason it felt so delightfully appropriate that we played it twice.
So yes, you could say that I've been a little out of character lately. Sure, I was protecting my daughter, but I'm usually the one getting on Josh for his road rage because "someone might have a gun" or something. I'm never, ever the instigator. I don't plan on making a habit out of it, but acting and speaking on my toes really did pretty good. That in itself makes me feel like I've gone completely crazy, which I sincerely hope I haven't. If nothing else, clearly it's a fair statement to say that I have a little extra stress left to shake off.
And that's why I'm going to go play outside with my awesome, unharmed kids and my husband, whose cheerfulness, by the way, is much easier to tolerate in the afternoon.
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