TREAT YO'SELF, ALL THE TIME

It's Mother's Day, the day that women who often go unacknowledged receive a lot of praise and gifts. I'm a big fan. The thing that makes me twitchy is the idea that Mother's Day hooplah should be reserved for one day a year. Mother's Day type of gratitude is a pretty regular thing around here. I think that's come from a rather long lesson I've learned (and am still learning) about self-care and the balance of being a mother and being a person. Being a person is first and, dare I say it on this sacred day, more important. Being a mother is a huge piece of how I expend my time, energy and resources. It undoubtedly is one of my greatest sources of joy and feelings of accomplishment. It has fundamentally affected my self-concept. And I am so proud to be a mother. HOWEVER, I am a person. I am a woman. I am an artist. I am. 

In an attempt that is in no way meant to be an act of rebellion against a day that many oft-overworked women get their one morning a year in bed, I would like to say that we need to stop acting like women are only good mothers if they don't take care of themselves. Memes and cards are full of praising mothers for giving up everything, doing everything for others, not once thinking of themselves, yada, yada, yada. And most definitely, there are seasons in life, in trauma, in physical and emotional development of little humans, in great adversity where mothers choose their children over themselves. You better believe it takes sacrifice to get up to a crying infant all through the night to share not just your sleep, but your very breast. No Doubt. 

And yet. Are we being good mothers if we teach our children that being a good mother means not giving yourself, your talents, your dreams, your very humanity, a voice? What are children learning from mothers who do nothing but care for their every need? Now this has nothing to do with whether you're a "working" mom or not (that's in quotes because every mom is a working mom whether she has an employer or not). I know plenty of working women neglecting their dreams and plenty of stay-at-home women kicking ass at pursuing their passions. I just want to say, sometimes the moms who are out in the world pushing themselves to do things that scare them, to create moments to shine bright might be the very women we're telling aren't doing enough for their children and families. Maybe the bravest women among us are the most wracked with guilt? That is a travesty.

I'd like to say that being a mother is whatever you make it to be. Being a mother is being yourself with little people in tow. Do not lose yourself. Yes, take on the beautiful identity of mother. Bask in the glory that is both late night snuggles and vomit on your carpet. Motherhood is to be embraced. But motherhood is defined by you. Because you're the mother. Don't let someone else tell you how to mother. And don't listen when someone tries to tell you how to be yourself and live in your world because you're a mother. If you're a mother, be yourself as a mother. Whether that involves Pinterest or vodka. Be a mom. Be there for your kids and be there for yourself. These things are not mutually exclusive. No doubt, there are moments when they are. But those moments are not lifetimes. Don't let your life pass you by in a haze of diapers and painstakingly planned birthday parties. Enjoy yourself. Right now.

Motherhood involves sacrifice. But I would like to say that we get a say in how that manifests. We get to decide how motherhood edits, demolishes, delays, accelerates and even motivates the pursuits of our dreams. There are women who pride themselves on giving up everything for their children. They deserve all the handprint clay wall-hangings in the world and I will not take them away from them. But that is not the only way to mother. And if I'm being honest, I believe it could be a one-dimensional way to be one. What if our kids saw us kicking ass in the world from the audience, paving the way before them to do big scary things. Yes, I will be in the audience of my children's lives. But I will also forge the path in front of them, clearing away the brush in the wilderness. Their story, their courageous adventures will be theirs. But I will show them how to do that. I will show them my way of doing that. And if that isn't mothering, I don't know how to be a mother. 

So let's stop acting like one day of appreciation hits the snooze button for the next 364 days. Let's stop immortalizing mothers for being so giving and never taking care of themselves. I'd like to see more cards that say, you taught me how to be a person who loves herself, who cares for her body, mind and soul, who invests in her relationships with her partner, with her girl friends, with her family. You taught me how to think big and take risks and to love my body in all its beautiful complexity. You taught me to live in the moment and laugh when things get messy. 

Ladies, we don't have to wait to be appreciated. We can also show our own self-appreciation all year round. Would you like a massage, schedule it! Would you like to get away with a friend? Book it! Would you like to be alone with your significant other, call a sitter! Don't wait for or feel guilty for having needs. Living a life of sustained unmet needs is not what being a mother is about. If we are to teach our children how to live, let's start by living. 

Resilience

One of the fun things about being self-employed and having no overhead is that I have many other people in my life who provide various services with whom I can trade. One of those people is the gal who does my hair (and the kids). We've been friends for years and she has a son my age so there's a fun inter-generational, sisterhood vibe between us. She's very spiritual and political and we have a great time talking about everything. We had a moment yesterday that cemented another connection between us in my mind that I hadn't quite pieced together in the past. 

She had just finished coloring my hair and I was in the chair. Penny was on my lap having just fallen and cried. Penny was right up against the hair-washing sink with the big cool hose. Of course, she turned it on, full blast. It was a wildly rainy Northwest spring day and I arrived at Lesli's house damp an hour previously. This did not help. Mind you, we were inside Lesli's actual home and my child turned a hose on! You know what we did? We laughed. We turned off the hose. But we laughed. And I went home a little more damp than when I arrived. 

The impulse to laugh when a "stressful", unexpected moment happens could be tied to many things: having a good sense of humor, being too stifled to feel comfortable showing anger; but in this case, I think it highlighted the resilience that she and I both possess. I don't say this to brag, in fact, my resilience has been a source of resentment for me in the past. When you are resilient, life has a way of creating dependence on you in a way that can be unfair. 

But laughing in that chair with a friend who has had her resilience tested many times in her life, thinking about how many times I've laughed rather than cried when my back has been to the wall (crying is ok too and definitely an appropriate response), I recognized our kindred spirit-ness a la Anne of Green Gables and it felt like a moment. Like, the sun came out and shone upon us and reminded me that life is about finding the laughter in the panic, that friends are more important than perfection and that having kids provides a regular opportunity to look in the mirror and see what you're made of. 

Misplaced Guilt in a New Presidency

I don't really subscribe too much to "mommy guilt." I believe my kids are their own people and it's my job to get them ready for adulthood. I think I'm doing a pretty good job, mostly because I really, really give a shit. So even when people mess up, if they care, that counts for a lot, in my opinion. I read. I listen. I care about my kids. I raise them with intention and I try to do right by them.

And then Penny got her first ear infection. She's 3 and a half, so that's actually really good. But, as I said in my Dirty Little Secret post, I'm in the Health and Wellness business. I've grown up in it and am a big proponent of preventative, natural medicine. Don't worry: I go to the doctor, vaccinate, and still feed my children chicken nuggets. I'm not a robot!!! (Love all my gals who don't do those things too - no judgment here ladies!) But one of the problems with having a natural solution to every problem is that you live in a way where you feel more in control. While that sounds awesome (and it is!) it can be easy to forget that none of us have actual, total control. I don't have control over the cold Penny got a week ago that I just cannot shake. That child has been so dosed with nutrients and essential oils and every possible solution and guess what? She got an ear infection. I'm sad.

And I've done a lot to feel in control of the terrible things happening in the world. I've marched. I've gone to racial justice training and meetings. I've advocated for people. I've read. I'm working on dismantling my blind spots (privilege). But, Donald Trump is still president. And he just cut the EPA's budget by $1 billion. Among A LOT of other HORRIFYING things.

I sell green cleaners. It makes the world a better place. I've been doing that for 12 years, helping families lower their carbon footprint, lower their toxic exposure and save money. But in one fell swoop, with one swipe of that pen, I feel like the environment (and all the humans he's targeting specifically in other news) is going to shit anyway. 

There's nothing I can do about that. And I'm grieving. Because I really, really care. I care about the planet. I care about my kids. I care about illegal immigrants. I care about people of color and police brutality. I care. I care. I care. And that pen is killing me. 

Okay. Time to sell some more green cleaners. Who's in?

Let the Transition Begin!

Our 2+ weeks with Tim and the kids off from work and school is coming to a close tonight. Everyone is in bed early in hopes that the magical fakeout will result in a good nights rest, but we all know better. That alarm is going to hurt in the morning and we'll be rushed for the first time in weeks. I'm one of those weird people who loves it when my family is home. Don't get me wrong - I love routine and there will be a moment tomorrow after the strangeness of being separated settles that will feel right and normal and good. But this time together also made me realize how glorious it is when my husband isn't working. It's not the same as the weekend where it takes awhile to really check out of office life, sometimes even requiring him to work an extra day. His head isn't fully here sometimes. When you have 2 full weeks at home when no one else is in the office and you're actually expected to hang out with your family (thank you holidays), it is its own deal. And as the quality time person, I could not be more chuffed (as my Irish friends like to say).

When we're in a good place and Tim isn't overwhelmed with work, I am in a special kind of bliss. Everything is easier when he's home. All my responsibilities get cut in half, which makes us both more rested and happy because he's set his aside stuff completely. So we're just hanging out, feeding the kids, taking turns sleeping in and catching up on much needed rest whether that's actual sleep or relaxation (I've probably read 10 books in 14 days and no, I'm not exaggerating). We spend extra money on quality time with the kids (ice skating, movies, sushi) and just get to be together. I know a lot of people love their spouses but also like having separate days. And my introverted husband might be one of those (like I'm dumb enough to ask!) But I could go on like this forever. It's made me want to crank things up a notch with my business and just keep him on hand all the time. 

Savoring this moment for just a bit longer. 

Anticipation is My Favorite

I'm sitting in my living room on Christmas morning. It's almost 6am. Santa has come and my whole household is asleep except for me. I went to bed at 10:30 so I'm not still up from last night dealing with tiny screwdrivers and AAA batteries. I'm awake in the stillness, in the tension of great household anticipation because the quiet calls to me. Drawn out of bed around 4:30 for no other reason than I just want to soak up the magic. It was funny when I pulled up my browser to write because I was processing the value and existence magic in my last post. My feeling was that because there is so much darkness in the world, magic can no longer be truly pure, but lived alongside the dark and though that's more real, it's kinda sad too. And yet why am I awake? I want to soak up the magic.

I'm drinking the instant Peruvian coffee my incredible brother-in-law Sol brought to share. It's sweetened with the homemade (allergen-free!) caramel one of my best friends made me for Christmas. The tree is lit. I can hear the clock ticking behind me, the morn of Christmas just waiting to dawn. It's glorious. This tension. This wonder. The thrill of waiting to see my children experience the magic I was grieving the loss of just a few weeks ago. Maybe that's why parents cling so hard to giving their children magic. It's a way to revisit childhood and carry forward the beauty of a perfect day.  

I love anticipation. I always have. I love surprises. I love waiting (remind me of this next time I'm driving). There's something so beautiful about the tension in creates, like the giving of the gift is more savored when anticipated. Maybe I'm turned off by things that are cheap. If it's worthy, it can wait until the proper time. When something is rushed, it feels squandered, like some sort of distraction from the true value and meaning of things worth waiting for, working for. Maybe this is just my purity culture baggage talking.

I remember a house full of people on Christmas Eve growing up. My parents house is currently full to the brim. But I got to have them here for Thanksgiving so this holiday is about my little family and my sister-in-laws. It's so sweet and simple and fun. Three little girls are currently dreaming of toys and candy canes and the thrill of not knowing but hoping for something wonderful to happen. Maybe that's what's so appealing about this holiday. Hope. I'm obsessed with it (maybe this is a truly appropriate time to say "thanks Obama.") As a child, nothing comes close to the gift haul of the year and time holed up with your extended family. You hope; you wish; you dream. And I know this is speaking from a position of privilege because I have no memories of being disappointed on Christmas and that is a very special gift I was given as a child. But as we grow older, experience Advent and the beauty of counting down, waiting and wonder, that hope becomes something more. Hope in the relief that the birth of Jesus brought. Not in that moment, necessarily. There was so much chaos surrounding Jesus' life from fleeing Egypt all the way to his eventual death. But on a global scale, for all time, this baby brings eternal peace. And I believe not only that He died for all but that all were saved. I don't believe in eternal teams. I believe in peace. Restoration. Grace. I believe all things will be made new, put right, tied up in the end. And because of that, I can look at my little glass baby Jesus figure while I wait for little racing footsteps and truly say THANKS BE TO GOD.

Misogyny Hurts All of Us

It comes as no surprise to anyone that Donald J. Trump is a misogynist. With recent recordings of him bragging about sexual assault once again as if he's God's gift to women, there is more than enough proof (there was way before this but ok) to give him this title. And normally, I'm able to distance myself from the horror because I have no intention of voting for this guy and almost every single person I know feels the same way as I do. But for many reasons today, all the crazy made it through my filters and I am genuinely, palpably upset. His statements don't shock me. In fact, I'm sad to admit that when I heard them, I wasn't even all that offended. Not because what he said isn't offensive, but because it's something I've heard before and his voice is typically the worst and loudest in the crowd. I don't put a lot of stock in anything he has to say, especially about me. 

The thing that really upsets me is that no one gives a fuck that this man is who he is. I know that's not true. There are so many people, myself included, who would rather surrender their citizenship than make this guy our leader. And yet, there seems to be no way to knock this guy off the evangelical, conservative pedestal, half of the population be damned. How is it that we don't have a problem with a candidate for presidency who brags about assaulting women? I just don't get it. What makes it personal is that I am in the process of raising two future women and he could be their president. He could be the man they grow up remembering. Giving speeches, representing them, showing them what it means to be an American - I can't handle it. Macy's 8 and Penny's 3. If he's elected and has 2 terms, he will be the leader of their nation until they're 16 and 11, respectively. That is an incredibly formative time in their lives. 

And I know, that just reading this far, someone has brushed him off again because there are people who are worse. There are men who are more sick, more proud, more shocking. And there are women who do horrible things too. I get it. But what does it say about us that we can only justify our vote when we compare our candidates to relatively evil people? I want my children's president to hold his/her head high, show them what leadership, compromise, stewardship and diplomacy look like. I want my children to be proud to be Americans, to work to make this place better than it is now - more tolerant, more diverse, more fair, more stable. Why is it that we don't see a bright future for ourselves? I want a brighter future - for me and for my daughters. I want more. And you should too. 

When the Daughter Becomes the Mommy

It's a running joke in our little family that my oldest daughter, Macy, and I are pretty much the same person. Obviously, I understand that we're not but our temperaments only differ in one area that we can see (I'm organized; she's not). And while being so similar seems like a bomb waiting to explode (who knows), for the most part it's been fun and fine. The weird thing I hadn't quite put together until today was that her difficult experiences would potentially trigger my difficult experiences because she's more likely to process them the same way I did as a child only now I'm the mother. It's giving me a new way to see my own mother and re-process my childhood through the eyes of the mom versus the little girl. So, so strange. And humbling. And sad. And triggering. 

This morning we got to revisit one of my most upsetting childhood memories - when I found out that Santa wasn't real. Most kids are bummed or angry when they find out. I was devastated. I felt betrayed, like I couldn't believe my family willingly deceived me. I found out on Christmas Eve when my older brother wasn't quite thrilled enough about Santa and I could tell he was summoning enthusiasm for my benefit. So I asked the questions and I got the answers. And while I knew in my heart there was doubt lurking there about flying reindeer and black coal, I was honestly totally shocked. It had become a fundamental truth to me that those things existed. And so to find out that the magic of Christmas was basically contrived, the world became a place where sometimes my favorite things are actually charades. 

Macy lost her 7th tooth last night. So I got out the glitter and replied to her note and snuck in her room for the 7th time. And when she woke up, I asked how it went and if she heard back from the Tooth Fairy. This was on the way to school this morning (first Macy, then Penny on preschool days). I had a migraine and had had to get both kids out the door in 30 minutes flat so I wasn't exactly on my A game. I believe this is why it did not occur to me to tell her we should talk about it with Daddy later that evening. And so when she asked me if I was the Tooth Fairy, I asked her if she wanted me to answer that question. Sometimes kids throw questions out there (with devastating answers) but they don't really want to know yet. And Macy, like me, loves fantasy and enjoys the benefits of belief to the highest level. I figured she had suspicions but that at 8, she had chosen to believe this far and maybe didn't want to let go of that. I fully support that as a viable choice with belief. 

Apparently today was the day she wanted to cold hard truth and as I got her consent and verified she really did want to know, I told her. I didn't want to deny her the truth when she said she wanted it and I was unwilling to lie to her. That was always the distinction for me, that I could encourage a fantasy for fun, but that when my kids asked me point blank and it was evident they really wanted the truth for themselves, I would not deny them that. At this point, we were in the car drop off line and the tears started to roll. It was not ideal, to say the least. So we decided to drop Penny off on time and I would bring Macy back to school afterwards so she would be late. That decision afforded us 30 more minutes to process, discuss and get her head and heart in a place where she could go have a good day at school. She's been reading a 150 book series on fairies and for some reason, I thought she already knew that fairies weren't real. Apparently not. So not only did she find out that it was her mother sneaking in her room with glittery money, but she also found out that all the woodland creatures she's fallen in love with through the joy of reading are also not real. Shit. So I stepped in a bit of a landmine there. I felt really bad about that. She was crushed about the Tooth Fairy because that was the only fairy that she knew personally. How sweet is that? 

And so we began a conversation about how technically, I can't definitively say fairies aren't real just because no one has ever seen them, how I'd never lived in the forest, and that maybe humans are shielded from that reality. I was totally on board for that. So she decided she still wanted to believe in the existence of fairies. Cool. She got to keep that one. The other massive fuck-up was that she then came to the question of the Easter Bunny and Santa and while I thought I'd gotten her consent to answer that question honestly, apparently her asking twice was still her version of musing and I answered it when she wasn't ready. Damn. So then we unpacked that and we discussed my experience at her age with finding out. She became angry with me and I told her that was okay. I was willing to be the problem in her process. We talked about her feelings of sadness and her shock that we had all done these things under the guise of it being Santa. She wondered if Santa was in fact real and we were just getting in his way. Maybe. We talked about the inspiration for Santa and that Saint Nick himself was a real person and that what he represents (generosity of spirit, kindness) was still very much real in how we celebrate Christmas. We talked about the magic of childhood and how Dad and I believe in the value of infusing magic into her experience and all the beautiful memories she has of that time of belief (hello church baggage!) And we talked about how she could still choose to believe, pretend to believe, participate, not participate, join us in our role with her sister or any combination of these things. That was her decision and she gets to decide what to do with her new information. We talked about the value of hard conversations and our willingness to pull back that fantasy veil as she gave us her consent to do so. That we believe in sitting in those painful realities and that not every family does that. That's why we talk about sex and changing bodies and death and belief and loss of belief openly. We talked about there being space for her anger and grief. We talked about growing up and the process of lifting veils and how the world becomes bigger and smaller, more real and less fantastic. We talked about her choices and her ability to guard her beliefs as she sees fit. We talked about being stewards of other children and not intercepting their process by shouting these new truths from the rooftops. She talked about her desire to be the one to tell her sister when the time came because "sisters give the best snuggles." And by the time we pulled back into her school parking lot, the tears had dried and she hopped out. 

And that's when mommy called daddy and felt a little teary and decided to write it all out. 

Vaguebooking

I found myself vaguebooking after a difficult incident this evening and figured that type of behavior in me is indicative of a very real need to write. As a mother, I do a pretty awkward dance with protecting my children's childhood and giving them an appropriate level of street smarts. Growing up in the 80's with a mom who had legitimate fears for her children, I was possibly overly made aware of the dangers of being a vulnerable child in the big, bad world. The 80's seemed to be a time for well-publicized, freak kidnapping stories that terrified mothers nationwide, and for good reason. This is where the "stranger danger" campaign came from as well as the ransacking of your children's Halloween candy for drugs and needles. 

For me, I tend to lean too far the other way, possibly as an overcompensation, and more than likely, because I'm not much of a worrier. I'm really not. I realized recently that I live my life like I expect things to go well. That is what led me to travel all over the world by the time I was 19, largely unattended by "adults" with little to no fear for my safety. Let me tell you - it was awesome. I'm not reckless with what I would have constituted as "moral risks". I was a virgin when I got married (I know!); I've never done drugs or even been drunk. But hop on a train to a foreign company with no place to stay for the night? Sure!

So, I don't spend my days following my children around with band-aids and tissues. I try to evaluate the worst possible outcome of the choices I witness them making, recognize that their likelihood is slim and hope for the best. So far, that's worked for me. Tim is the more reasonable one, sending them to the doctor, not allowing them to climb all over everything, not wanting them to eat snow, etc. So here's my problem: apparently, my oldest has no concept that she is in danger when she has given me the slip in public. She has no idea the sheer terror that courses through my veins when I can't for the life of me find her. Three times this has happened this summer and tonight took the cake.

We were in the 5 story public library when she asked to go ahead of Penny and I down the concrete stairs. I said sure, but you must stay inside the building. She ran down the stairs while Penny carefully took the 3 stories one step at a time. When we got to the bottom, Macy wasn't "hiding" under the stairs like she usually is. The librarian at the bottom hadn't seen her. The story in between the children's floor and the bottom floor is administrative, so I knew she wasn't there. I scoured the bottom floor carrying a very heavy library bag, my purse and bumping into Penny at every turn. We were on our way down the block to the movies so I was also on a time crunch. 

I went to the lobby area to set down the bag and glance outside on the off chance she'd stepped just outside the door. Nothing. Suddenly, I see two men of color and a young boy gesturing me outside. I had seen them when Penny and I were on the stairs. I run out and they ask me, are you looking for your daughter? Yes, I exhale and try to inhale. Purple dress? Yes, she just went down the street and got into a car. Oh shit. Meanwhile, Penny is trapped in that damn circular door, gotta run back and free her while she's screaming. I pick her up and race down the street where I know my car is parked. And what do I see? Macy sitting in her booster seat reading. I thank the men, put Penny in her carseat and just shake. And shake. And shake. With rage. With relief. With terror. With all the curse words I'm not saying but must be screaming from my pores. What the hell were you thinking? I actually say. I pull back up to the 5 min parking at the library to run in and grab the giant pile of books I had discarded. I call Tim frantically. He doesn't pick up the phone. I stop and start angry sentences all the way home at my ignorant child. No, we're not going to the movies. Yes, this isn't fair to your sister who did nothing wrong. No, I was very clear you were not to leave the building. Yes, this is serious and you will be spending the evening in your room. 

I came home, woke up poor sick Tim from his nap and vented all my fears and anger at the situation while he nodded in his poor, sick stupor. He agrees 100%. He's in there to talk to her through his strep throat, swollen vocal chords. I'm trying to calm down. No, I can't see her face until I calm down. Yes, I need to eat so badly. Fattening comfort food ensues. TV turns on as Penny is suddenly very interested in interacting with me. My muscles slowly start to uncurl. And here I am.

Here's the thing: risk-taking is a critical life skill. I feel really strongly that children need to not be afraid of everything, that the best experiences in life involve an element of risk (falling in love, finding personal success, choosing to be vulnerable, starting over...) And yet, my kid has no idea why her lack of listening in these situations puts her at risk. So now my child has shown me that she must be told that while the world is a beautiful place full of incredible people, it also has a lot of really terrible realities of which she knows nothing. Things like kidnapping. That there are people in the world who take pleasure in hurting others, particularly the most vulnerable, innocent people. I hate this. I feel like the loss of innocence is a bad thing. I know when it's torn from someone it is a bad thing. I know that's not what this is. This isn't trauma; it's education. But it feels bad, like I'm losing something and that it's hurting her. Perhaps I am losing something - I'm losing my "little" girl. 

I mentioned in my blog post about "clumsy advocacy" that I recently joined a #blacklivesmatter moms group. And one of the things we're looking to explore as a group is how to expose our children to the racial realities in this country. How do we begin to explain systemic racism, white privilege and the school to prison pipeline? There's a mama bear in me that wants so desperately to keep my little kids little. And yet, how do I raise ethically-minded children unless I mold their developing minds toward these realities? Children understand certain things (like injustice) way more deeply and easily than many adults, so it's a wonderful time to plant moral seeds. I guess as Macy's growing up, I have to incrementally help her grow up, into these difficult realities, whether I want to or not. Because she needs to be aware for her own safety and hopefully, in order to advocate on behalf of others. Sometimes parenting is a punch in the gut.