Day 25: Beauty And The Mom

Before I begin with today's blog, I just want to say thank you. After yesterday's blog, so many of you reached out to me, offering kind words and well wishes for my big reunion with my little brother. I'm happy to report that everything went well beyond my best expectations. My little brother turned out to another slightly varying version of me and my older brother. Within ten minutes I felt like I had known him my whole life. Turns out I'm not so unlovable, and thanks to all of you who were kind enough to take the time to remind me of that. I've got nothing but love for each and every one of you.

We look so much better when we're not all crying our eyes out!

 Now, back to business.

As I have mentioned (many times over), I am a Twitter fiend. As far as I'm concerned, social media is a disease for which there is no cure. And even if there was a cure, I wouldn't want to be treated. I would be crawling under the barbed wire fence of Twitter rehab, desperate to escape.  I don't want to quit! And  you can't make me!

A pleasant side effect of my addiction, however, is that I have discovered some incredibly interesting people and things that I may not have ever discovered here on Mom Island, where I typically reside. But out of everything I've been exposed to, I've surprised myself by liking beauty blogs the best.

It's not because I'm particularly into fashion, trends or keeping up with a strict beauty regime, but for almost the opposite reason. Maybe once upon a time, back in a life that doesn't really feel like it was ever mine now, I was moderately concerned with being stylish, but now I'm mostly just concerned with being clean and awake. Mine is almost a scientific fascination that stems from looking at things that I can't possible comprehend or figure out how to fit into my own life. I'm a mom. And while that doesn't make a difference for a lot of people, for me it does. I have approximately thirteen seconds to myself everyday and if I'm not hastily trying to scrape out a blog or emptying a dishwasher that is somehow, inexplicably, always full, I'm sleeping. Beauty tends to rank pretty low on the list. False eyelashes? Lip stains? Make-up primer? Ain't nobody got no time for that. But cargo pants and strawberry chapstick? I'm all over it. My utter lack of glamor isn't depressing so much as it is a simple fact of life. I wouldn't know how to look pulled-together if pulled-together smacked me upside the head. Sad, but true.

And yet here I am, completely obsessed with beauty blogs.Yeah, I guess I don't really get  it either.

My favorite beauty blog (there are many, many to chose from) is a great little nugget of joy called Into The Gloss.If you've never checked it out before, what are you waiting for? I highly recommend it. It's a beautiful blog (sounds like a no-brainer considering it's almost exclusively about beauty and beauty-related things, but you'd be surprised by how many ugly ones are out there) but the best part about Into The Gloss is the writing. Words can't express (ironically) how great the writing is. It manages to be relevant and informative, but also hilarious and...human. And really, the thing that's held me back from liking beauty blogs all this time (aside from my aforementioned momness) has been the writing. A majority of beauty columns, blogs, or articles have always seemed rather dry and humorless to me. Not to mention mind-numbingly boring.  Do I want to read a dry, mechanical twenty-two step process  to get your nail polish to dry faster? Not especially. Do I want to hear about how a famous NBA player is oddly, inexplicably, obsessed with a ridiculously expensive face cream usually reserved for people like Sharon Stone? You bet I do. You'd be amazed by the things I'm willing to read about, if they're well-written. All of the lovely people at Into the Gloss seem to realize and embrace this fact. It's obvious that they are people who love the beauty and fashion industry while at the same time not taking themselves too seriously when it comes to the things that they write about. It's a beauty blog, not a cure for cancer, but it's fun and feel-good. Two things that we could all use a little bit more of sometimes, in my humble opinion. Even the sloppy, slightly out-of-touch mamas of the world.

And who knows, maybe I'll read enough of it so that some rubs off on me but if not, that's cool too. In the romantic comedy of life, I'm more of the funny, slightly frumpy best friend than the dazzling, stylish Kate Hudson-esque protagonist. But don't worry, that's completely fine with me.

Cargo pants are wicked comfortable.

Day 24: Second Chances

I'm having a really hard time concentrating today. This wouldn't be unusual for me on a typical day, except the thing that's distracting me today kid, husband or social media related. And it's making me buzz with the nervous energy of a two-year old after six cups of coffee. That thing is my little brother.

Almost two years ago my dad, who I had never really known, passed away. I'll spare you the emotional roller coaster portion of the story (though if you're really that interested you can read all about it right here) and get straight to the silver lining. At the funeral (AKA the absolute worst day of my life so far) I met my half-brother and despite the darkness of the day, I saw a bright spark of hope. Discovering something joyful in the midst of devastation made the day feel like the world's saddest Christmas. I've always loved my brother, and now I had two. And finally, a logical explanation for why I've always felt like I have Middle Child Syndrome. It doesn't get much better than that.

After the funeral, we all separated and crawled into the safe little corners of our lives until we could heal and move on. My little brother and his mom moved to Las Vegas while my older brother and I stayed here and focused on our families and work. Then somehow, two years passed. But thanks to the power of Facebook (this is exactly why I always defend social  media to social media haters) we reconnected. And now he's coming town to visit. Today, in fact. Hence the nervousness.

As ridiculous or childish as this may sound, I'm scared that once my brother meets me under more normal circumstances, he won't like me. I'm more the kind of person who grows on you eventually as opposed to the kind of person you love instantly. That fact doesn't usually bother me (I've had a lifetime to come around to it), but in this case it worries me. I wish I could skip ahead to the tenth time that I meet a person, when I start coming across as nice or friendly, the point where I finally stop cracking borderline inappropriate jokes to cover up how nervous I am. The truth is, I'm the worst.

My only hope at this point is to pray that that's a genetic trait that my brother happens to share with me.

I don't think that life affords us many second chances or opportunities to right the things that we've wronged. I made the mistake of letting my pride and hurt get in the way of forgiving my dad, and that's something that I can never erase from my life, no matter how much I want to. I know that that's never going to change. But I can move on from here and embrace the next best (and maybe even better) thing. I want to give my brother the chance he deserves.

I just hope I can manage not to screw it up.

My brothers and I at my Dad's funeral. Proof that when you're part of generation selfie you take pictures everywhere, no matter who's crying.

Day 23: Hashtag Royal Baby!

Yesterday afternoon, right around the time that the rest of the world was obsessing about whether England's future heir would be a boy or a girl, my phone started convulsing violently as texts from my best friend began pouring in. It turned out that as hard as he tried, he couldn't seem to get as psyched up about the imminent birth of the Royal baby as the rest of the world and he couldn't for the life of him understand why people were so interested.

"I think you should do a blog about why a lot of people get so caught up in stuff like the Royal wedding or Royal Baby. It's fascinating me" He wrote, his messages reverberating like tiny, angry machine gun blasts, illuminating his genuine confusion. "These people are so excited for people that they don't know to have a future king for a country that isn't theirs. Why?"

Why indeed. Well, I have a few theories.

First, we can look at it from a scientific, demographic point of view (don't worry, I only took one sociology class, but I got an A in it, so I know what I'm doing). It seems to me that the people who are the most Royal-obsessed all fit rather neatly into the 25-55 age demographic. Essentially what that means is that all of the women who loved Diana (the o.g. commoner turned princess) have, over the years, remained relatively invested in the lives of Diana's children because they not only liked her, but remember Diana's big, glitzy Royal wedding so many years ago. The other group consists of women in my generation, who feel that they grew up with Prince William in a small, weird way, who were all equal parts in love with him and dismissive of freckly little Harry (how were we supposed to know he'd turn out to be the hot one?? I, for one, did not see that coming). We (yes we, I am definitely in this group) feel that because we're basically the same age as the Prince, we lived parallel lives, as crazy as that might sound. In other words, even though I like to joke that every girl and her mother love Prince Freakin' William, but it looks like every girl and her mother really DO love Prince Freakin' William. Demographically speaking. 

Amateur sociological studies aside, I think that we're also fascinated by the Royal couple because we are so  accustomed to a completely different kind of celebrity in America. Our celebrities throw bongs out windows, punch out the paparazzi, and have Kanye's baby. While there are a lot of very normal celebrities out there, a majority of America's most famous are straight up nut jobs who are engaged in a vicious cycle of "What came first, the crazy or the demand for the crazy". For us, the Royal couple represents something drastically different: Two attractive people (seriously, go Google Kate Middleton and try to tell me she's taken a bad picture in her life because she hasn't), who genuinely seem to enjoy each other, who fell in love, got married, and had a child. There's not a scandalous arrest, failed clothing line, or botched boob job in sight. Actually, it would probably be a relatively chaste and unremarkable story if they weren't so...Royal.

And maybe that's all any of this is really about: Royalty. Let's face it, the only thing that red-blooded Americans love more than a Honey Boo-Boo marathon is classic Disney-esque princess story. Think about it: Handsome Prince meets a beautiful, graceful commoner and after a few "will they or won't they" years, they finally get married (in a castle!). And after a pregnancy where the Princess actually glowed in that mythical stereotypical pregnant lady way that I refused to believe actually existed when I was pregnant myself and roughly the size and consistency of a jelly doughnut, an equally beautiful baby was born. And now they'll all live happily ever after. There's even a dead mom and a questionable step-mother in this story, all that's missing is talking candlesticks or people randomly breaking into song.  In fact, f I didn't know better I'd think that someone cryogenically unfroze Walt Disney so that he could write it himself. It's textbook fairy tale. And frankly, as much as we might hate to admit it, we love all that fairy tale crap. We eat it up.

I guess in the end that I can't really answer my friend's question, at least not definitively. Maybe we all just really love royalty, normalcy, and happily-ever-afters. Does any of that mean that I want to know the intimate details of how quickly Kate dilated or whether her placenta was dark or light red? No. No, it absolutely doesn't. Does it mean that I'm happy that two seemingly nice people (who happen to be the future leaders of a country that my country emancipated itself from like an angry little Macaulay Culkin) had a baby? Absolutely. Even if I can't exactly nail down why.

Day 22: Mini-Mean Girls

This past year, I volunteered twice a month in Layla's kindergarten class. For the most part, it was a great experience. I got to know (really know) Layla's teachers and when she would come home from school, bursting with stories from her day, I was able to put a face with all of the people she was talking about. The kids in her class knew me and would talk to me openly (sometimes too openly, there's nothing a five-year old loves more than an audience). Most of the kids were sweet, adorable, and innocent, textbook kindergartners.

But the more I saw around these kids the more I noticed that there were little cliques amongst them; The girly girls played with the other girly girls, the athletic girls with athletic girls, quiet girls with quiet girls. And then I noticed that the boys play with anyone, they have no preference for who they sneak up behind and scare. They're equal-opportunity crazy. It was the girls that divided. As the school year went on, the girls continued to divide into smaller, more particular groups. For example, my daughter was part of the " Artistic Girly Girls Who Are All Begging Their Parents To Let Them Pierce Their Ears" group (they might be cliquey but they're highly organized). But because my daughter's three closest friends are all slightly varying versions of her, I adore them all and pretty much think they're the best little girls ever. But they are definitely their own little group, one of many. Including one group I had hoped my daughter wouldn't have to face until at least middle school, if ever.

Mean girls.

Back when I was in kindergarten (insert "when dinosaurs roamed the Earth" joke here), I don't remember mean girls. At least, not like these mean girls. These are some full-on, eye rolling, bad attitude, high school quality mean girls, the likes of which would put Lindsey Lohan to shame. And they were only five years old.

There was one girl in particular who seemed especially hostile towards the other girls and served as their unofficial Queen bee. I spent the entire year trying to figure out why all of the little girls in the class (my daughter included) flocked to this girl. There was nothing especially remarkable about her (if she had been, say, half-unicorn and half famous trapeze artist then I would understand the fascination) but she wielded an amazing amount of power over all of the other girls. At first I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, thinking that maybe all of the girls wanted to be her friend because she was just really nice and had a....quiet way of showing it, but I quickly learned that wasn't the case. For someone so young, she was surprisingly cold and almost menacing. I would watch her perform a move that I've always referred to as a "Down and up" where she would make eye contact with another little girl then slowly rake her eyes down the other girl, taking her in and as her eyes made their way back up, she would look into the other girl's eyes and smirk, letting her know she was neither intimidated nor particularly impressed by her. At 29 years old, I have never personally been able to master this look with as much detachment or venom as this little girl already could. Actually, I might be impressed if she wasn't giving her own special brand of stank eye to my daughter, who was one of her frequent "down and up" recipients. She would tease Layla about things, small things usually, but enough to upset an already sensitive child. Poor Layla, sweet, sweet Layla, who was used to everyone liking her had no idea how to handle this girl. It upset her and for awhile, I was at a loss over what to do about it. All I know is that no one ever told me that parenthood would include cultivating enough gumption to tell my daughter to carry on, to not only not let the mean girls bother her, but to be nice to the mean girls, whether they deserve her kindness or not. All I really want to tell her is to knock some sense into that silly girl, but I know that ultimately that won't solve anything. Two mean girls does not equal a nice girl.

I wish I could tell my daughter that it will get easier as she gets older. That eventually people grow up and "mean girls" cease to exist. But that, of course, would be a lie. Mean girls will always exist and some people never grow up and, unfortunately, I don't mean that in a fun, Peter Pan kind of way. Instead, mean girls  just produce more mean girls in an endless loop of bad attitudes and hurt feelings. As a parent, you hear a lot about bullying and mean kids in school, but you assume that that sort of thing starts later on as kids get older. It's a mistake to think this. It starts as young as these kids. I can only assume that by the time my daughter has a daughter (in 50 years, minimum) there will be mean girl cliques in the hospital nurseries.

What a scary thought.

Day 21: There's No Loathing Like Self-Loathing

Well, here we are. It's day 21 of my 31 day challenge. I have a scant ten days left.  I'm so close and yet so very, very far.

I'm beginning to realize (belatedly, as usual) that I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into when I decided to write something substantial every day for a month. I know that it's not supposed to be easy (hence why it's called a challenge) but I think I truly underestimated just how much of a challenge it would be. It's unbelievably time-consuming. When I'm not writing, I'm thinking about what I'm going to write about next, actively (read: frantically) searching for my next topic, trying to stay somewhat interesting and engaging. I have a very small window of relief when I post every day, knowing that I'm just going to have to turn around and start thinking about or writing tomorrow's blog. I've become obsessed with numbers; Page views, traffic, retweets, comments...things that never even mildly interested me before are eating at me constantly. I'm starting to kind of hate the thing that I have always loved to do.

But believe it or not, that's not the worst part.

The worst part is, I'm beginning to seriously question myself. As a person and as a writer. What is it that I'm trying to say, exactly? What's the point of all of this? Of any of this? My confidence in myself and my abilities is waning quickly. Everything I write feels frivolous, pointless. I'm putting every last bit of myself and my (already limited) energy into this, and for what purpose? And furthermore, if I was going to torture myself, why couldn't I have picked a shorter month? February would have been nice. I'd only have seven more days if I had picked February! Damn me and my stupid short-sightedness!

I realize, of course,  that no one is forcing me to do anything, this is all my choice. I could quit any time I want, it's just my own bull-headed stubbornness that's keeping me going. As someone who has never kept a New Year's resolution past the first week of January, I maintain that self-discipline is something that I lack and need desperately. I'm just so sick of myself. I had no idea how annoying I could be on a day-to-day basis. Seriously. My poor, poor husband. That guy must be a freakin' saint.

Anyway, the point of all of this seemingly pointless blabbering is that I'm feeling down, exhausted, and like I could complain for days. I'm beating myself up. And you know what they say: There's no loathing like self-loathing.

But I'll be back tomorrow. And for the nine days following that. And then I'll probably disappear from the blog world, at least temporarily, if only to remember for awhile that there's a world that exists outside of all of this.

I hear it's nice. They have ice cream there.

Day 20: Time Passes, But What Changes?

I was in the middle of writing about something completely different for today's blog when it dawned on me: Today is the one year anniversary of the horrific movie theater shootings in Aurora, Colorado.

My first reaction was disbelief; There's no way that it's been a year already. It seems like so many bad things have happened in the last year, tragedies layered upon tragedies. The US suffered Sandy Hook, The Boston Massacre, Trayvon Martin, and numerous other life-changing events that were either overdone or completely ignored by the media. Around the world there were uprisings in Syria, Egypt, and Libya, genocide, suffering, car bombs, and no real end to the wars that two Presidents have now claimed are long over. Some days it feels like a huge, cold shadow has been cast over the whole world.

A year ago, I wrote about the Aurora shootings as a shell-shocked mom who couldn't believe that something so unspeakable could happen in such an ordinary, innocuous place. I was convinced that this tragedy would serve as a wake-up call for us to step back and look at our violent tendencies, inconsistent gun laws, and mental illness stigmas. I had faith that humanity would persevere. While I couldn't justify the deaths of innocent people, I believed in silver linings. I thought that everything happened for a reason and believed in the power of people to band together to make something positive come out of something so unspeakable.

But as time marches on, I'm less sure of my convictions. Twelve months have passed, and yet othing has really changed. Instead of banding together against the craziness in the world, everyone just writes angry tweets (myself included) and we grow further and further divided on every issue. Events like Aurora are becoming the norm rather than the exception. Violence is everywhere and our eyes and hearts are becoming indifferent to it all. Personally, my wells of hope and positivity are waning. My silver linings have become tarnished and grey.

Today, I don't care if you're Republican or Democrat. I don't care if you're pro-life or pro-choice, for or against gay marriage, or a Lady Gaga fan. All I ask is that when we're all fighting with each other from behind the safety of our computer screens about issues that we really don't know a thing about, we remember the people we have lost. Honor them in any way you can. Honor them by being nice to a stranger or by not making a nasty comment on a gun control article on Facebook. It's a small step, but the world isn't going to clean itself up. That much is obvious.

Day 19: The Dirty Thirty

In almost exactly six months, I will be thirty. And I'm not really sure how I feel about that.

On one hand, I'm pretty optimistic. In many ways, I don't feel too terrible about it at all. I don't feel like I come with the usual stereotypical turning thirty woes, the worry over finding the right guy (done) or panic over a clicking biological clock counting down my last days of fertility because I already have two great kids (and my biological clock is currently residing at the very back of my mind, smashed to pieces). For someone is highly prone to procrastination, this whole feeling like some key parts in my life are running smoothly thing is actually pretty pleasant. Not only that, but I've realized this year that twenty-nine is actually a really weird age. It feels like I'm sitting on the cusp of true adulthood, realizing that there actually are things that I'm too old for, but still being a little fuzzy on what exactly those things are. It's a purgatory age, actually. Any time I'm asked my age (which is admittedly rarer these days), I always feel like I'm lying, which is weird because I'm actually not. If I was going to lie, I'd go really unrealistic and tell people I was seventeen, just to see if they would question it. See? How can I be old if I still want to pull immature stunts like that? I'm fine. Thirty is nothing.

On the other hand...thirty is half-way to sixty. Women in my family generally don't live very long, so I'm facing more of a mid-life crisis that a quarter-life crisis right now. Which is an interesting predicament. What is one supposed to do when facing a premature mid-life crisis? The typical things like buying a flashy convertible seem out of the question (no room for car seats) and I have no desire to play golf or take a mistress. Those going through simple quarter-life crisis's right now are draping themselves in yards of scarves and ironic glasses. And those kinds of shenanigans simply won't cut it for a mid-life crisis (premature or otherwise), which is just as well since scarves make me feel like I'm choking and as lucky would have it,  I actually need my glasses. To see. Talk about irony.

I don't really want to have one of those "Last Birthday's I'll ever willingly celebrate" attitudes as I approach my birthday, but I can both and appreciate understand how some people get into that frame of mind. After thirty, what is there to celebrate, really? I mean, what's next? We spend a lot of our lives trying to hit milestones, but what do you do when you run out of milestones to hit? I'm of legal age to do absolutely everything. I can buy beer and rent a car, so what else is there? All I really have to look forward to is a senior discount at Denny's. And, you know. Death.

Okay, that was probably melodramatic. But you get what I'm trying to say.

What if all of the fun things already happened in my life? Will my thirties lead to new adventures or will they be the official kick-start of my painful decline into eventual hermithood? What if half of my life is already over? Maybe I should buy a Porsche!

Okay, maybe I'm more freaked out by the Dirty Thirty than I originally thought.